He thought of Emily with her chaotic home life. She moaned about it sometimes, saying that juggling her priorities left her exhausted. But as he entered his narrow hallway, he would have done anything to exchange places with her.

He heard the phone ring and he froze for a few seconds before picking up the receiver.

It was her. But some instinct had told him that already.

He took a deep breath. ‘Kirsten. What can I do for you this time?’

‘I’m in Devon.’

‘And?’

‘I’m going to ask the police down here to reopen the case.’

‘You need evidence to do that.’

‘I’ll get it. I hear that you’ve been living with another woman. You never mentioned her.’

‘That’s because it’s none of your business.’ He suddenly realized that he sounded too defensive – as though he had something to hide.

‘You haven’t killed her as well, have you?’

‘We decided to go our separate ways and she’s in London now. And I’ve never killed anyone.’

‘That’s a lie.’

‘What do you want? I’m busy.’

‘I think I’ve found a witness.’

‘A witness to what?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know? I’ll be in touch.’

He stood there listening to the dialling tone and wondering whether, if Kirsten had been standing there in front of him, he’d be tempted to commit murder. Are we all capable of the ultimate act of violence, given the right provocation? He’d known the answer once in his seminary days. Original sin. But now he lived in a world of doubts and he sometimes longed for the old certainties.

He needed to get Kirsten out of his head so once he’d eaten he took out his laptop. Before her call something had been nagging at the back of his mind and when he typed in the name Obediah Shrowton he was surprised by the number of sites dedicated to famous killers. The poor old policemen who brought them to justice didn’t seem to be afforded any similar immortality, which struck him as rather unfair.

There were pages dedicated to Obediah and his dreadful deed but Joe clicked straight on to an account of the trial. He needed the facts without sensational additions.

Obediah Shrowton had been a devout and upright man and in that courtroom he had sworn on the Bible that he was innocent of all the charges laid against him. He never wavered from his story that he’d arrived home to find a dreadful scene of carnage and that he’d collapsed with shock after trying to revive the blood-covered victims, hoping one or more of them might still be alive.

But the thing that caught his attention particularly was Shrowton’s assertion that before the murders he’d been receiving threats which he hadn’t taken seriously. He also named the culprit in court: a young butcher called Jacob Caddy who had harassed his wife after she’d rejected his advances. Caddy, however, had been given an alibi by his mother and the police found no evidence against him. But then any potential witnesses to his alleged harassment had been hacked to death at number thirteen Valediction Street.

She peeled another potato for that night’s meal, comforting herself with various scenarios of revenge. She could steal his credit cards and take the train to Leeds where she could hit Harvey Nichols before he’d even know she’d gone.

Or, alternatively, she could make a bit of trouble for him. She’d seen him with the murdered girl, Pet. He had taken her into the drawing room, closing the door so that she couldn’t overhear what they were saying or doing. She knew that he hadn’t mentioned the girl’s visit to the police, just as he hadn’t told them about that man who sometimes called – the scruffy one who worked at the leisure centre where the girl’s body had been found. There was a lot she could tell the police about Cassidy. But first she needed to check something out.

She abandoned the potatoes and helped herself to a glass of wine from the open bottle on the worktop. If Andy was arrested and put in prison, would she have this lovely house all to herself? She would have to use all her cunning but she was sure that she could manage it. After all, she’d be doing him a favour . . . looking after his property while he served a life sentence.

Jason had merely smiled that maddening, superior smile of his before accusing Matt of being scared of what Pet might say. Maybe he was the killer and he didn’t want the truth to come out. Matt hadn’t dignified this with a reply. But the fury he felt had surprised him. Perhaps he was capable of murder after all. He’d certainly felt like killing Jason that evening and the realization disturbed him. Then Jason had gone out with his guitar, saying he was going to do a bit of late night busking. Maybe he knew he’d pushed things too far.

Now it was almost eleven and Matt sat in bed; but he knew he wouldn’t sleep because it was bound to begin again at any moment. The footsteps, the dragging, the hint of voices which could be the wind in the chimney. It would be there above his head. He held his breath and waited.

There it was. Tap tap tap. Then a dragging sound. Then silence again.

Matt hugged the duvet around him and suddenly felt a desperate need to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge him . . . who wouldn’t call him stupid. He found the card George Merryweather had left and picked up his mobile phone off the bedside table. He knew it was late but he needed help.

‘George,’ he said when he heard a voice on the other end. ‘It’s Matt Bawtry from Torland Place.’

‘You sound worried,’ said George. ‘I’m listening. Take your time.’

‘There are noises . . . above my room. In the attic.’

‘Have you had a look up there?’

‘It’s sealed off.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be some simple explanation but if it’s worrying you I’ll call in again if you like.’

Matt could feel his heart beating fast. ‘Can you come now?’

George hesitated. ‘Can it wait till tomorrow? I’ll call first thing. Then perhaps we can take more . . . more drastic measures to sort out your little problem. And I assure you that even if there is a restless presence, it’s unlikely to do you or your friends any harm.’

That was it. He’d have to wait there in that room overlooking the woods until the morning with God knows what going on above him. He lay down in the bed, keeping his bedside light on, and shut out the world by pulling the duvet over his head.

She felt a little nervous now as she walked through the darkened, winding streets. Eborby seemed to have a strange atmosphere at night, as though there was something there beyond what she could see; as though the air was filled with all those busy ghosts from the city’s past, going about their business like their mortal counterparts.

There was a chill in the air and she pulled her coat tightly around her as she passed an open pub door, catching a whiff of stale beer and fried food mingled with the stronger smell of tobacco smoke from the huddle of smokers gathered outside the front door, puffing away with intense concentration.

She reached the end of Pottergate and found herself in Queen’s Square. A busker, a slender boy with a beautiful face and dark curls, was singing beneath the trees in the centre of the square while passing tourists, mellowed by wine, threw coins into his guitar case. Anna watched him for a while before hurrying past. He was good but she was too concerned with her own problems to be generous.

The narrow mouth of the Fleshambles was directly in front of her. The top storeys of the buildings there almost met above the street and as she walked past the wide windowsills where the city’s butchers had once displayed their bloody wares, the street felt like a tunnel. There were still tourists about, lapping up the quaintness, but none of them noticed Anna slipping down a narrow snickleway between two shops. She could see the market square at the end of the passage but instead of walking on she turned right and stopped. Although everywhere was in darkness she knew this was it.

She pushed the door and it swung open silently to reveal a flight of narrow stairs. She climbed them slowly and when she reached the top she heard the front door behind her open and bang shut.

And when she turned round she gave the newcomer a tentative smile.