"Tell me about it," Tony said softly, praying that his hard-earned techniques weren't going to fail him now.
"Tell me about it."
"Why should I?" she shouted, stepping forward and slapping him so hard he tasted blood as his cheek impacted against his teeth.
"You're no better than them. What about that slag? That blonde bitch, that fucking plonk you've been giving one to?"
Tony swallowed the warm salty blood that filled his mouth.
"You mean Carol Jordan?" he said, playing for time. How should he play this? Should he lie or tell the truth?
"You know full well who I mean. I know you've been with her, don't fucking try lying to me," she hissed, raising her hand again.
"You treacherous, faithless bastard." Her hand cracked him across the face again, so hard he heard his neck crick under the force of it.
Tears sprang to his eyes involuntarily. The truth wasn't going to work. It would only earn him more punishment. Praying he could lie with conviction. Tony pleaded, "Angelica, she was just a fuck, just someone to scratch the itch. You'd got me so horny with your phone calls. I didn't know when you were going to call again, or even if you were." He allowed anger to creep into his voice.
"I wanted you and you didn't tell me how I could get hold of you. Angelica, it's like you with the other ones. I was filling in time, waiting for my equal. You can't believe that a mere cop would answer my fantasies, do you? You should know, you've had one too."
Angelica stepped back, shock on her face. Sensing he had made some kind of a breakthrough. Tony pursued her with his words.
"We were different, you and me. They weren't worthy of you. But we were special. You must know that, from our phone calls. Didn't you sense that we had something extraordinary? That this time it would be different? Isn't that what you really want? You don't want the killing. Not really. The killing only happened because they weren't worthy, because they let you down. What you really want is a worthy partner. What you want is love. Angelica, what you want is me."
For a long moment she stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open. Then confusion took over, as obvious to Tony as a hooker's come-on.
"Don't use that word to me, you worthless scum bag she stuttered.
"Don't fucking say it!" Her voice was a low, throaty scream. Suddenly, she turned on her heel and ran from the room, her heels clattering up the stairs.
"I love you, Angelica," Tony shouted desperately after her retreating footsteps.
"I love you."
Carol and DC Morris stood on the doorstep of the small terraced house in Gregory Street. She didn't need to be a psychologist to read his body language. Morris was fed up at trailing round pursuing Carol's daft hunch.
"They must be out at work," he remarked after their fourth assault on the doorbell.
"Looks that way," Carol agreed.
"Shall we come back later?"
"Let's go on the knocker," Carol suggested.
"See if any of the neighbours are around. Maybe they can tell us when the Thorpes get back from work."
Morris looked as if he'd rather be on crowd control at a student demo.
"Yes, ma'am," he said in a bored voice.
"You take across the street, I'll go for this side." Carol watched him trudge across the street as wearily as a miner at the end of his shift, shook her head with a sigh and turned her attention to number twelve. This was much more the kind of territory Tony had suggested for their killer. Thinking of Tony just made Carol cross again.
Where the hell was he? She really needed his input today, not to mention a bit of support for an idea that everybody else seemed to think was a complete waste of time. He couldn't have picked a worse moment to go on the missing list. It was unforgivable. At least he could have phoned his secretary and not left her having to field his calls and make excuses for him.
There was no bell on the door of number twelve, so Carol bruised her knuckles on the solid wood. The woman who opened it looked like a caricature from a soap opera. In her forties, her make-up would have been over the top for dinner in LA, never mind mid-afternoon in a Bradfield back street. Her dyed platinum blonde hair was piled high in a lopsided beehive. She wore a tight black sweater with a scoop