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The field was mucky rather than muddy by the time Boyd arrived. He’d checked in with McKeown, who had nothing new to report on the Laura Nolan murder investigation.

He fetched a pair of wellingtons from the car boot and put them on. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he walked on the steel plates that led to the tent covering the body. The state pathologist was just finishing up her visual examination.

‘Detective Sergeant Boyd,’ Jane said, formally. She removed her mask outside the tent. Her face was grave. ‘Female, mid twenties, single stab wound to the chest. Severely malnourished. Signs of incarceration.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. There’s some sort of residue around her mouth. I’d hazard a guess at duct tape, but don’t quote me until I run tests. It’s possible that the tape was wound around her head. There are clumps of hair missing at the back of her head and behind her ears.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘As I said, I’ll know more later. It could be tomorrow morning before I get to do her post-mortem.’

‘Can you tell me anything about the wound?’

‘Not much. It’s a single stab. If I was pushed, I’d say the killer knew what he was doing. Like Laura’s. But you need to wait until you get my preliminary report before broadcasting that nugget to one and all.’

Jane whipped off her protective suit and made her way down the steel plates. He watched her leave before ducking his head inside the tent.

The dead woman was definitely not Shannon Kenny. He recalled the photo supplied by her brother and compared this mental image with the body on the ground. Maybe if she wasn’t so emaciated, the victim would have some similarities to the Kenny girl. They were both Caucasian, about the same height, age and hair colour. But there the similarities ended. This poor unfortunate had been badly treated. By whom and where, he had to find out, and he hoped that in doing so, he would find her killer.

Shannon had no idea where she was or how she’d got here. Her head throbbed with pain and her memory was hazy. She’d been out in town. Hadn’t she? Waiting around outside Danny’s. Why? Her date hadn’t shown up? She couldn’t recall. Then she’d been walking. Yes, something about walking home. Damn. It was too fuzzy. Was she stoned, or drunk? George is going to kill me, she thought with a cry of shame.

Shivering, she felt as if she had a fever. She was on fire. She tried again to see where she was, but there wasn’t a chink of light getting in anywhere. A well of horror swirled in her stomach and she felt she was going to be sick. She tried to turn on her side but couldn’t.

A cough wrinkled its way up her throat, but it couldn’t come out. It was stuck there in her mouth, choking her. Swallowing it, she breathed through her nose. She realised that her lips were tightly secured. Were they taped shut? What the fuck?

Must get it off, she thought, but she couldn’t move her hands. With rising trepidation, she found they were bound, as were her feet. Where the fuck was she?

As her fever raged, she was certain she was hallucinating. It was all a nightmare. She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them again, she’d wake up in her own bed.

Her inner voice told her that the nightmare was real.

And worse still, it had only just begun.

He’d done what she’d asked. And she still wasn’t happy. Was she ever? Giving out like a woman possessed. Maybe she was possessed.

This morning she’d slapped Magenta and caught her by the ear, almost severing the lobe from the soft flesh on her neck. He normally bore the brunt of her anger, both verbally and physically. This was a new level of violence. She’d noticed spots on Magenta’s neck and threw a fit about her having to miss school the next day. After she’d gone out, he’d told the little girl to go to bed and he’d check on her later.

Hugging his arms around his body, he rocked as he sat on the upturned flowerpot. His safe haven didn’t feel particularly safe today. What had he done wrong? Where had he slipped up? He had to have done something erroneous (another word from his beloved dictionary) for her to be so annoyed. Maybe it had to do with the woman’s kid. The boy he’d seen with her in the park. Did she find out about the brat? No way. There was nothing on the news yet about them. Not even about the latest body. He’d been clever dumping her in a field, and it’d probably be days before she was found. He’d spied the crows in the trees and knew they wouldn’t take long getting fed.

It all provided some breathing space, though he had no space or peace in his head. His brain was clouded over with the fear that he’d done something wrong. What could it be? And how had she found out?

Retracing his steps in his head, he was certain he’d been careful. Avoided areas with CCTV and traffic cams. Lurked in the darkest corners. Even where he picked her up was a security camera blackspot. If his abduction of Shannon was without errors, was it to do with the disposal of the other one?

He stood and began potting seeds, but it was pointless. He itched to make a weapon, to find something to strike her . She kept the knife sheathed and hidden, only taking it out when he was on a mission for her. He’d have to think of something.

He wanted to talk to Shannon. Such a gorgeous name. Like the river, fast-flowing and free. But he could not be caught. She could return and surprise him. He had to allow more time to elapse.

Waiting and sweating, he counted down the minutes. Then he locked his shed and went into the house.