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pick him out in a crowd. A taxi in the Streamline livery suddenly pulled away from the kerb a hundred yards or so to her left.
    Was he in that?
    Or had she imagined this?
    No, she was certain, she had not. He was clever, wearing a hoodie so she could not recognize him clearly. But then he had always been clever. If only he used his brain for something constructive, instead of just finding endless – and sometimes ingenious – ways to make her life hell, he might be a happier person himself.
    But as her father, a retired solicitor, told her, someone like Bryce would never change. Which meant she would have to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.
    And through windows.

11
    Thursday midday, 24 October
    Bryce Laurent yawned. He was so excited by the successful activities of last night that he’d barely slept a wink, and his breakfast shift here in the kitchen doing the laundry had started at 5 a.m. He didn’t need the money and he loathed the work, but he had a very definite purpose. It was physical, hot, and the smell and chemicals were not pleasant. Several times since starting here he had gone home with a raw throat and a headache from the fumes.
    But not for much longer, if all went to plan. And he had every reason to believe all would go to plan. He’d practised in his workshop several times, simulating the same conditions, and he had prepared for today with fastidious care. He was looking forward to it a lot.
    The thought made him smile, and not a huge amount had done since . . .
    He winced.
    Sometimes it was just too painful to think about. In his mind, his life was carved up into three distinct segments. The years which it seemed, in retrospect, he had sleepwalked through before he had met Red. Then with Red he had come alive, truly alive. It had been the most intense, magical, thrilling time ever. And now this kind of colourless, angry half-life. This unbearable segment of his life – post-Red. The endgame. The closing weeks of her life, and his.
    There were big lessons to teach her and her nasty parents before it was over for them all. Before she would be ready to say the words he now wanted to hear so much. The last words she would ever utter:
    I’m sorry.

12
    Thursday midday, 24 October
    A fire engine, two police cars and a paramedic’s car were parked on the grass on the third fairway of Haywards Heath Golf Club.
    Roy Grace radioed the local DI, Paul Hazeldine, who had requested his attendance and, accompanied by newly promoted Detective Inspector Glenn Branson, followed the agitated Club Secretary on foot. Ahead, he could see a strip of blue and white crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze, with a uniformed PCSO scene guard standing in front, and a small Crime Scene Investigators’ changing tent nearby. The tall figure of Detective Inspector Hazeldine appeared, in a protective oversuit, and ducked under the tape.
    The smell of burnt human flesh messed with your mind, Roy Grace thought. It reminded you of roast pork, which made you feel hungry, until you saw the human cadaver. Then it twisted your mind inside out, making you feel guilty at such a terrible thought. Yet still hungry at the same time.
    They passed a group of golfers standing with their bags and trolleys by the clubhouse, and Grace heard an indignant voice.
    ‘Look at the bloody ruts! Did they have to drive over the fairway? What if a ball lands there? And when the hell are they going to let us back on the course?’
    Resisting the temptation to turn and give the man a piece of his mind, they walked across to the DI, who greeted them with a grim expression and brought them up to speed.
    Hazeldine had urbane good looks, and normally an irrepressibly cheery demeanour. Roy Grace had once crewed with him in a Response car in Brighton way back when they had been uniformed PCs.
    ‘Good to see you, Roy, and thanks for coming out.’
    ‘Good to see you, too, Paul.’
    Hazeldine peeled off a glove and shook hands with both