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The letter was on her desk when she arrived. She knew what it was immediately. Plain A4 envelope, printed address, her name on top.

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE

She left it there while she went to get some gloves and an evidence bag. She doubted there was any forensic evidence to be had, but it paid to take care. There’d be some DNA on the envelope belonging to whoever had picked it up and posted it, but that was no use. It was possible they would get a match – two years previously they had matched the DNA to a woman who had been convicted of killing a swan in Lincoln – but all that told them was who had put the letter into the postal system, not who had written it.

For a moment she considered throwing it away. It was the last thing she needed; three days earlier a local magistrate had come across the body of a woman in her late twenties who had been burned to death and then left in a field.

It was the second such murder and it seemed there might be some ritualistic element. The press were all over it; there was near hysteria in the town. She did not need any distractions.

But she had no choice. She snapped on the gloves and picked it up. She slit the top and pulled out the letter.

DEAR DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE:

SO, IT’S BEEN TWELVE YEARS. YOU MUST BE GETTING USED TO YOUR FAILURE BY NOW? I NOTICE YOU HAVE ANOTHER FAILURE ON YOUR HANDS. SOMEONE BURNING YOUNG WOMEN? IT’S AWFUL. GOOD LUCK CATCHING THEM. I SUSPECT YOU’LL NEED IT, IF YOUR PERFORMANCE IN FINDING MAGGIE COOPER IS ANYTHING TO GO BY, BUT I WISH YOU WELL ALL THE SAME. YOU MIGHT FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE, BUT I THINK IT’S APPALLING THAT SOMEONE IS KILLING THESE POOR GIRLS. IT’S WANTON DESTRUCTION OF BEAUTY OF A TYPE I ABHOR.

I ALSO – IN A STRANGE WAY – WANT YOU TO HAVE SOME SUCCESS. I’VE GROWN QUITE FOND OF YOU OVER THE YEARS AND I CAN SEE THAT IT MUST BE HARD TO HAVE TO LIVE WITH A CASE LIKE MAGGIE HANGING OVER YOU. I SUPPOSE IT’S STILL OPEN, WHICH PROBABLY MAKES IT EVEN WORSE. YOU POLICE LIKE CERTAINTY. YOU LIKE TO STAMP ‘CASE CLOSED’ ON YOUR FILES. WELL, YOU CAN DO THAT ON THIS ONE. YOU MIGHT AS WELL. YOU’LL NEVER FIND HER. I’VE THOUGHT THROUGH ALL THE WAYS YOU COULD, AND THEY’RE ALL IMPOSSIBLE.

SO, GOOD LUCK, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR. AS USUAL, I’LL BE RAISING A GLASS TONIGHT!

YOURS SINCERELY,

???

It was different in tone to the previous years. Chatty, friendly almost. Was that because it had been more than a decade? Or was he simply getting complacent, and, as a result, careless? And that Maggie – it was so familiar, like he knew her. Like she was there, still alive.

Wynne read it again, slowly.

One sentence stood out.

IT’S WANTON DESTRUCTION OF BEAUTY OF A TYPE I ABHOR.

Which suggested that whoever it was had not killed Maggie. That would be wanton destruction of beauty.

And if he abhorred its wanton destruction, might he not want to preserve it? Keep it safe?

Which meant Maggie was alive, and in captivity somewhere. That had always been a possibility, but so too had murder. They had nothing to point them in either direction.

Until this letter. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Wynne to be convinced that this was a kidnapping and captivity case, which meant that she wasn’t dealing with a crime that had taken place ten years ago. She was dealing with a crime that was still going on.

And that meant they needed to keep looking for Maggie.

Sandra

Sandra sat in the waiting room. She felt nauseous, sick with anxiety.

A few days back, she had started to have stomach pains. They were different to the first time around but, understandably, she was very sensitive to any kind of stomach issue, so she went straight to her doctor, and she booked her in for another colonoscopy.

She was under no illusions about what might happen. She had been through this before. The first time she had cancer the treatment – chemotherapy, followed by surgery to remove the tumour from her upper colon, followed by more chemotherapy – had seemed to work. But then, at her six-month check-up, the doctors had bad news.

It was back. Not as bad as the first time, but back none the less.

Which meant a whole new round of treatment.

That too, had worked.

Ironically, the stomach pain was gone. After she got back from the doctor’s office she’d had diarrhoea and now everything seemed normal. But she had learned the hard way that that meant nothing.

Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Martin.