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time selling his story to the tabloids.’
    ‘That was probably the grandmother,’ says Cray, ‘but I’m not underestimating the kid’s potential.’
    I look at a rectangle of sandy sunlight on the worn floorboards. ‘You said Elizabeth was divorced.’
    ‘Eight months ago,’ replies Cray.
    ‘Her ex?’
    ‘Dominic Crowe is a local builder. They were married twenty-four years. About a decade ago Crowe set up a development company with his best friend, an architect called Jeremy Egan, but Dominic had to sell his stake during the GFC. Elizabeth bought him out. She had family money. Insisted the company be put in her name. Then she divorced him and took the lot.’
    ‘That must have been galling.’
    ‘He’s suspect number two,’ says Monk.
    At the far end of the hallway I can see a large open plan kitchen. Immediately to my left is a dining room with a polished mahogany table and matching chairs. The mantelpiece has framed photographs and a bronze statue of a fox. Several watercolours are hanging on the wall: landscapes and coastal scenes.
    Cray hands me two photographs. The first shows an attractive blonde of middle years with hair just brushing her shoulders. She has a slightly crooked smile and blue eyes beneath thinly plucked eyebrows. The second image is of her daughter, Harper, whose eyes are more grey than blue and her darker hair is pulled into a ponytail. Pretty and athletic, her smile exposes a narrow gap between her two front teeth.
    ‘Harper was found upstairs in bed, suffocated, most likely with a pillow. No sign of sexual assault. Minimal disturbance. The mother was found here.’
    Turning right, I step into the sitting room. The atmosphere suddenly changes. It’s as though someone has opened a door or window, subtly altering the air pressure or temperature. My eyes are drawn to the smeared reddish brown symbol above the fireplace – a five-pointed star framed by a circle – whose lower edges seem to be seeping out of the plasterwork as if the wall were bleeding.
    Certain symbols evoke a visceral response – triggering reactions before we even have thoughts. The pentagram is one of them. Regarded as a pagan sign, it dates back much further, to ancient Mesopotamia. Over the millennia it has been an emblem of Freemasonry, a knight’s insignia, a protection against evil, a badge of royalty and a Christian symbol representing the five wounds of Christ. I don’t know what it represents in this context – something twisted and vile, a calling card or statement of intent.
    Elsewhere in the room the furniture has been pushed back. The sofa is against the main wall and twin armchairs are on either side of the window. Candles have been placed around the room and I notice a Bible open on the coffee table. The pages are covered in fingerprint dust.
    ‘I took the liberty,’ says Cray, opening a folder of crime scene photographs. Despite the markings on the wall, I’m not prepared for the visual impact of the images. At first glance they look like staged publicity shots from some Hollywood B-grade horror movie where buckets of blood have been thrown around. A woman’s body is lying on the floor, her arms and legs outspread, her palms facing upwards in supplication. Her semi-naked body has been butchered. Violated. Insulted. Defiled.
    I have seen death before. I have seen autopsies and accident victims and the remains of children, yet nothing can desensitise a person to a scene such as this – the sheer horror, sadness, disbelief, puzzlement and anger, the senseless brutality and the sick display of artistry.
    ‘She was stabbed thirty-six times,’ says Cray, ‘most of them after death. You can see he focused on her genitals, but the post mortem found no evidence of a sexual assault either before or after.’
    Another image shows the victim’s face. Her eyes are open, but there is no evidence of pain or horror on her face. I hope she died quickly. I hope she didn’t suffer.
    ‘I don’t think I can