could hear it ringing inside the house. No-one came. She pressed it again.
Upstairs in the bedroom, the man with the knife smiled to himself and patiently waited.
Monday morning shift
Rain slashed across the windows blurring the view of the dreary houses on the opposite side of the street. Liz Gilmore, kneeling on the settee, stared out moodily. It hadn’t stopped raining since they moved into this poky little house two days ago. Married three years and all they’d ever lived in was a succession of rented police accommodation. ‘I hate this lousy town,’ she announced. She had never wanted to come to Denton. When the promotion came through she was hoping he’d be posted to somewhere exciting, somewhere with a bit of life – theatres, clubs, decent shops . . . not this boring little backwater.
Her husband, Detective Sergeant Frank Gilmore, twenty-four, stockily built with dark, close-cropped hair, checked his watch for the eighth time. He wished Liz would stop her moaning. He had so much on his mind. 8.45. In a quarter of an hour he would be meeting his new Divisional Commander to take up his first assignment as a newly promoted detective sergeant. He wanted to keep his mind clear. First impressions were important. Denton was a one-eyed town, but it was the first step on the ladder leading to dizzy heights. ‘It won’t be for long, Liz.’
She flicked back her blonde hair and picked up the local newspaper, the Denton Echo. The front page was dominated by a photograph of upturned, smashed and graffiti-desecrated headstones. Graveyard Vandals Strike Again, screamed the headline. Vicar Suspects Black Magic Coven. ‘Black magic coven,’ she muttered. ‘If I knew where it was, I’d join it. Probably the only bit of excitement in this dead-and-alive hole.’
He faked a smile. Liz seemed to delight in shocking people with her outrageous remarks. ‘Any other news?’
‘“Denton crippled by flu epidemic”,’ she read, then tossed the paper to one side. ‘Graveyards, flu, poky rooms and non-stop rain. This town is just one bag of laughs!’
Again he consulted his watch. Timing was important. He didn’t want to turn up too early. That smacked of insecurity. A newly promoted detective sergeant shouldn’t appear insecure. He wanted to breeze in at a minute to nine and be shown directly to the Divisional Commander’s office. ‘I’ll have to leave soon.’
‘Let’s have a look at you.’ She stood up and studied him, removing an imaginary speck of fluff from his new charcoal grey Marks and Spencer’s suit. An approving nod. ‘You’ll pass.’ And then she was the old Liz, pressing close to him, her arms holding him tight. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a bitch sometimes.’
‘You’re not!’ he assured her, his arms round her.
She winced. ‘Your pen is sticking in me.’ She unbuttoned his jacket and he could feel her hot, burning body and the arousing smell of her perfume. Good old Liz. Her timing lousy as always.
‘You smell nice,’ she purred, nuzzling her nose against his chin.
He frowned uneasily. At her insistence he had put on that expensive Chanel aftershave she had bought him for Christmas, but he knew it was the wrong thing. He pulled away. ‘I really must go. I’ll be late.’
‘And you will be back at six? None of this working all the hours God sends stuff?’
He smiled. He was now on surer ground. The Denton Divisional Commander’s office had sent him an itemized timetable, detailing almost minute by minute his itinerary for the coming week. Denton was clearly a well organized, efficiently run station. Today, after his meeting with the Divisional Commander, he was to be taken around the station and introduced to the personnel and the various departments. Then his new boss, Detective Inspector Allen, was taking him on a tour of the district to familiarize him with the area. After lunch in the canteen (1.15-2.15) he was off to visit the local Forensic Laboratory. At 5.30 precisely, a car would collect him up and return him to his home (e.t.a. 5.55 p.m.). ‘I’ll be back by six,’ he assured her.
One last lingering kiss and he put on his mac and dashed through the rain to his car. Liz flopped back on the settee and flicked through the paper again. She barely gave a glance to the item at the bottom of the front page: Hope Dies For Missing News Girl.
Denton Police Station didn’t look the model of efficiency Gilmore had been led to expect. The lobby was unattended, the floor wet from a hasty mopping