Page 86 of Dream a Little Dream

“It wasn’t Aaron.”

Jack looked at him.

“Jack, listen to me. You are wasting your time. I’ve already told you the killer will be midlife, at the very least. A seasoned, well-rehearsed killer. He isn’t a nineteen-year-old.”

“Aaron might not have committed the murder, but he could have lured the poor lad to it. We need to question him.”

Kenny shook his head, blood boiling. Jack had to be barking up the wrong tree.Hadto. Because there was no way Kenny was fooling around with a fuckingsuspect. No way.

“You can observe, if you like?” Jack said, cutting into Kenny’s thoughts. “I did a PNC check. You were right. Couldn’t get anything pre-sixteen. But he pops up for violent incidents between sixteen and eighteen. Mostly with blokes. You know what that probably means.”

“You’re wrong.”

“About which part? That he’s more than likely in witness protection? If he is, they’d already know I searched him.”

“About him being involved in this.”

“How am I wrong, Kenny?” Jack tightened his grip on the wheel. “I’m following a lead. It’s there. In black and white. Aaron Jones contacted the deceased hours before he was killed.Andhe has a record. Like you fucking told us the killer would.”

“He said he put his number under Rahul’s door and he never responded. Did you find it?”

“Yes. That was found.”

“There you go.”

“There’s no telling when that number was pushed under the door. And, anyway, this wasn’t through his number. It was Instagram messaging.” Jack gave him a look. “Clever kid. Looks like he knows a thing or two about evading detection. Wonder what he’s being protected from.”

“You’re still wrong.”

“Then you’ll have great joy when you tell me ‘I told you so’, won’t you?”

“Not if someone else is killed while you’re questioning the wrong person.”

“Why are you so sure about this?”

“I’m fuckingtrainedto be sure about this. It’s the very reason you lot call me in. Because I’ve spent the past two decades getting inside killers’ heads. Aaronisn’ta killer.”

At least Kenny fucking hoped not.

No. He wasn’t. Kenny was certain of it. He had flaws. Big, huge ones. And trauma. Deep-seated issues. But he wasn’t akiller.

“Speaking of killers…” Jack nudged his head toward the huge black gates of their final destination.

Well, hopefully notfinalfinal.

Ashbridge Women’s Correctional Facility loomed on the outskirts of a desolate moor. With its grey stone walls stained from the harsh winds and relentless rain that swept through thecountryside, the building itself was a relic from the Victorian era. A towering fortress-like structure surrounded by rustic barbed wire fences and patrolled by watchtowers. Time stopped still here. And the walls meant to contain the chaos inside had long swallowed all, or indeed any, hope for its inmates.

Like one of the most prolific female serial killers of recent times.

Roisin Howell.

Aaron’s mother.

Kenny inhaled a fortifying breath as Jack liaised with the security at the welcome post, then drove through the gates to the car park. Kenny had been here a few times. Mostly immediately after Roisin and Frank’s incarceration, when he’d wanted to understand them. Research them. He’d written extensive academic materials on them both, mostly Roisin, which were now used to teach those coming up the ranks of profiling psychopathic killers. Roisin was still an enigma. She kept a lot behind a winning smile and a radiant personality. Whereas Kenny was over ninety-nine percent sure she was the criminal mastermind and orchestrating puppeteer of the entire Howell murder spree. Despite what she claimed to be the contrary. Exceptionally convincingly, too. Kenny had feared she’d convince the jury she was a battered woman, abused by her husband and oblivious to his deeds. It had been his testimony to her state of mind that had swayed the twelve to convict her. Otherwise, she might have got away with it.

A very dangerous woman.

A very dangerous woman, indeed.

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