Page 88 of The Unforgiven

“Through ways I shouldn’t go down, but it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, his hair seeming longer than the last time I’d seen him, thick dark curls that made him look exotic, despite his Mancunian accent.

“Are you a hacker?” Which would make sense. The information and pictures he’d found suggested he had access to databases and information we couldn’t get to without a warrant and a really good reason.

“I suppose so, but it’s not my main job.”

“Why are you interested in this case?” Maybe I should’ve been more cautious, walking down a street shrouded in stillness with a man I didn’t know, but there was something about him that didn’t set any red flags speeding up a pole.

He shrugged, glancing at me as we walked. “I have a vested interest in the police solving the case. You’ll find out more in the next few months. I can promise you that I haven’t been spying on you; I really was in the area and thought I'd see you and find out if you’ve dumped the wanker of a boyfriend yet?”

“How did you know he was my boyfriend?”

He stopped walking, turning around. “I’ve been around the area for a bit. I’m good at noticing things.” He took his phone out of his pocket and answered it.

I listened to what he said, wishing I could hear the other half of the conversation.

“What’s the problem? Really?” A pause. “No, I’m covered. I have an excuse.” He looked at me. “Thanks for the heads up.” He ended the call, stuffing the phone in his pocket and walked back to me, coming closer than he had before. “I need you to do me a favour.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me take a selfie of us. I need cover as to where I’ve been.” He pulled out a phone, a different one this time.

I never trusted anyone with more than one phone.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Nothing. It’ll stay on my phone, but if anyone checks what’s on it, they’ll see us, and it’ll be timestamped. Put your head on my shoulder, and let your hair fall over your face, so you’ll be difficult to identify.” His tone had changed, demanding, instructional, someone who was used to giving orders.

“We’ll already be seen on a camera somewhere.”

“Not on this road, Mia. The only cameras are on people’s front doors.”

“How do I know you’re not going to attack me?” I didn’t for one minute think he was.

“You don’t. But I won’t.”

I moved closer, awkwardness stiffening every muscle. He put an arm around my shoulders, holding the phone with his other hand. I rested my head against his shoulders, still tense, my hand clenched in a fist, a plan of what to do if my instincts were wrong.

Atlas smelled of cologne, a scent that reminded me of spices and oud, rich and exotic, which suited how he looked. I relaxed a little, moving my head so my hair partially covered my face.

“Am I pretending to be your girlfriend?”

“Yes.” He grinned, cockiness and charm blended into a smile and then he let me go. “Be careful, Mia Mac. This killer’s not stupid. And I still think it’s a woman.”

“I do too.” I was fast beginning to see the early roots of a link, tenuous and fragile, and it was leading to our killer not being a man in this case, even though statistics suggested otherwise.

What the statistics didn’t recognise was how cruel human beings – regardless of their gender – could be. Men might physically act out more, but women could be just as lethal – just in different ways. Brutal words and painful silences, laughter when backs were turned, and whispers that were meant to be caught.

Atlas nodded, then left me, heading down an alleyway and into the rest of the night.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Sleep was a ghost that didn’t visit me during the night. I tossed and turned in bed, thinking about Daniel and Cavan, the Aberwyn girls and knives with serrated blades. I slipped into that purgatory between sleep and restlessness, where dreams are too real and slip into the realm of reality, the brain processing pieces of a jigsaw but unable to fit them together.

At five o’clock, I was out running, a quick five kilometres before a hot shower, then the drive into work. I was in the office before six-thirty, sat before a monitor with a coffee that was lacking on the counts of both heat and caffeine. I dropped Vinny a text, asking him to pick me up something decent from the coffee shop round the corner on his way in, knowing he’d comply else he’d have the day from hell.

I’d passed on the information Atlas had provided about Sophie Linwood, and we already had an address. A patrol car had gone past her house a couple of times during the night, noting no disturbances, and Wrigley had made the decision that we’d wait until morning to speak to her.

Vinny brought coffee and few words, for which I was grateful. He’d not slept well either, but that was because his neighbourshad spent the night arguing, and the walls were single brick and cut out nothing.