He shook his head. ‘There’s no forensic evidence to match Andy Cassidy, Den Harvey or Ian Zepper to the crime scenes. I’m beginning to wonder whether the killer’s invisible. There’s nothing on CCTV or . . .’

‘He’ll slip up sooner or later.’

‘You don’t think he’s going to stop now he’s got a taste for it, do you?’

When Emily didn’t answer he picked up a sheet of paper Jamilla had just left on his desk. It was a list of past staff at a firm called Harby’s, one of the letting agents Helen Ferribie had dealt with. When he scanned the list of names, he saw one he recognized. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he handed the sheet to Emily.

‘Look at this. Barry Jenks. Managing Director. This was in the days before he stood for parliament.’

‘So he could have shown Helen Ferribie round properties?’

‘If he was the boss he probably would have delegated but it’s possible. Shall we get him in again?’

Emily nodded. ‘Tomorrow, eh.’

Joe was about to say that if Jenks was the killer he should be locked up before he had a chance to strike again. But the fact that he was in charge of a letting agent used by a woman who may or may not have been a victim of crime was hardly evidence. Perhaps his instinctive dislike of the man was shading his judgement. He had helped cover up a crime when he hadn’t called the police upon discovering Nerys’s body, but that didn’t mean he was a murderer.

Emily was about to return to her office when she spotted the blown up photograph, now stacked neatly into sections in his in tray. She picked the photos up and began to look through them. ‘Any luck?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so. But it was worth a try.’

Suddenly she froze. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen one of these lads before but I can’t remember where. Of course he’s much older now but . . .’ She leaned over and pointed out a figure, a boy in shorts and T-shirt who was standing a few yards away from the main group posing for the camera.

Joe frowned. ‘Yes, you’re right. Of course it might not be him. Maybe if we had another word with Andy Cassidy . . .’

As soon as he put the phone down it rang again and he picked it up, hoping that it was Cassidy. But instead he heard an unfamiliar voice.

‘Hello, this is Victor Smith from the Cosy Carpet Warehouse. Someone was in asking whether we’d fitted any blue and red wool mix carpet recently in the city centre.’

Suddenly Joe felt a thrill of hope.

‘It’s just that somebody bought a roll end of that carpet recently. It wasn’t on our fitting records because she took it away with her in a van, said she’d get it fitted herself.’

Joe’s heart was beating a little faster now. ‘It was a woman?’

‘That’s right. Very smartly dressed.’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Yes. There’s a signature on our copy of the receipt.’ He paused. Joe could just see him squinting at the handwriting, trying to make out the name. ‘It looks like Carla Vernon. And there’s an address. Do you want it?’

‘Please.’ Joe sat with his pen poised over his note book. When he’d written it down he thanked Victor Smith profusely and rushed to Emily’s office.

But before he could get there he was waylaid by Jamilla who had yet another list in her hand. ‘One of the house agents Helen Ferribie used was called Duttons. I thought you’d be interested in this.’ She handed the sheet of paper to Joe and he read it with a smile.

‘Thanks, Jamilla,’ he said before resuming his journey to Emily’s office. Then he turned back and picked up one of the blown up sections of the YSY photograph on his desk: the one featuring the unknown but familiar boy. ‘Jamilla, can you keep trying Cassidy’s and Harvey’s numbers, then can you show whichever one you get hold of first this picture and ask them if they know who it is?’

He strolled away from the woodland and down the narrow alleyway at the side of the house. The rotting wooden gate leading to the small back garden of number thirteen was the way Jacob Caddy would have gained access all those years ago. It was more than a hundred years since Obediah Shrowton had been hanged for those murders he didn’t commit. Caddy was a humble butcher but he’d been so clever – a genius – and nobody had suspected his guilt for a moment. And even though Shrowton knew the truth, nobody had believed him. Caddy had written down the story for his son who had passed it on to his son and so on, until this dark flame had been passed on to Death. Until Death had sat senseless in that blackened cupboard, conscious only of that terrible, triumphant story pouring into his brain.

As he walked down the alley and out into Torland Place, he passed a man out walking his dog but he didn’t give Death a second look. Then he saw his quarry, strolling with a young man by her side, one of her housemates – the one called Matt. They were walking close to each other in silence as if they were trying hard to avoid any kind of physical or social contact. But from what Death had heard that house affected people like that, setting friend against friend, husband against wife and brother against brother.

Matt’s presence meant that Caro was out of reach for now. But there’d be other nights, other times. And, besides, it might be an ideal opportunity to put the alternative plan into operation.

When Death walked past them they didn’t even notice. But why should they?

The mask of normality had always served him well. And now it was time to go home and consider the next move in the game. The greater challenge. Kissing the demons.