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the two South London victims today. That’s Abbie Greene, the last to be killed, and Gabriel Patterson, the second victim. The rest are North London and I’ll do them tomorrow.’
    ‘Sounds like a plan. But what about the rest of our cases?’
    ‘We’ve nothing urgent,’ said Nightingale. ‘Everything can certainly hold fire until Monday by which time we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.’
    ‘Does Chalmers think that the killers will strike again?’
    ‘I guess so. There hasn’t been an attack for over a week, though. So maybe they’ve stopped. The five murders took place over ten days, so it was rush rush rush. It could be that the police activity has persuaded them to go to ground.’ He sipped his coffee.
    ‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ said Jenny.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Being a detective again. Come on, admit it. You’re as pleased as Punch that Chalmers has brought you in on this case.’
    ‘To be fair, Jenny, five people have been murdered. It’s not about me, it’s about them.’
    ‘I get that, of course I get that, but let’s not forget that we’ve got a business to run.’
    Nightingale held up a hand. ‘Speaking as CEO and MD and VIP of Nightingale Investigations, I can assure you that I’m very well aware of that.’ He grinned. ‘Seriously, kid, just a few days and then we’ll see where we stand. And let’s not forget that if we do crack this case, the publicity will mean we’ll have clients lined up down the street.’
    ‘Assuming that Chalmers allows you to take the credit.’
    Nightingale looked at her over the top of his coffee mug. ‘You think he won’t?’
    ‘I think you can trust him about as far as you can throw him,’ said Jenny. ‘And the state you’re in, that’s not too far.’
    ‘I’m offended,’ said Nightingale. He patted his stomach. ‘It might not be a six-pack but I’m not fat.’
    ‘It’s not about fat, Jack. You don’t eat enough to get fat. It’s about smoking and drinking and your complete lack of interest in sport.’
    ‘I watch football,’ said Nightingale. ‘And rugby. And I was cheering with everyone else at the Olympics.’
    ‘You know what I mean. The only exercise you get is a bit of walking.’
    ‘And you do what? Hunting, shooting and fishing on your parents’ estate?’
    ‘I could outrun you, any day of the week.’
    He grinned. ‘Are you challenging me to a race?’
    She laughed. ‘Any time, anywhere.’
    Nightingale looked her up and down. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on Jenny McLean; she was as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog. She stood waiting for his answer, her hands on her hips and an amused smile on her face. ‘There’d have to be some sort of handicap, you being younger,’ he said.
    ‘You’re taller. But okay, I’ll give you a ten per cent start over whatever distance you want.’
    He stood up and swung his arms around. ‘Ten per cent?’ He jogged on the spot.
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘And the winner gets what?’
    ‘How about the loser agrees to get the coffee for the next six months?’
    He jogged around his desk and stood in front of her. He held out his hand. ‘It’s a bet,’ he said.
    She shook his hand. ‘It’s a bet,’ she repeated. ‘When do we do it?’
    ‘Now,’ he said, turning and running through to her office. ‘First one to your desk wins!’ He reached her desk, slapped his hands down on it and then raised his arms in a Usain Bolt victory pose.
    Jenny glared at him in disgust. ‘What are you, twelve?’
    ‘Milk and one sugar, please,’ he laughed, in between gasping for breath. ‘Then I’ll go and talk to Mrs Patterson.’

4
    L isa Patterson was in her early twenties, her face pale and drawn, her hair dry and lifeless, frizzy at the ends and flecked with dandruff. She held a baby boy in her arms, less than a year old and oblivious to the fact that his father had been skinned alive. She sat on the sofa and did her best to stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks.