She laid the torn photo fragments on the table and adjusted the spotlight. More parts of the jigsaw. Mocking breadcrumbs, almost like he wants to be caught. It’s the familiar scene, always shot from a different angle. She moves the magnifying glass, searching. There he is, a tiny red-hooded figure, his face as always lost in shadow. But she knows he’s grinning.

How many victims lay silent out on those moors? Would they find a lunchbox within each tor? And within each box the signature photo fragments and stale crumbs, a memento of each unthinkable terrible act? The thought turned her stomach.

She carefully sellotaped the torn fragments back together and pinned the photo in its place on the wall. A sickening panorama, and there in each that hooded fiend, his hand pointing to a different peak. He’d planned each atrocity with meticulous detail and he wanted her to know that. No one saw him come or go, he was a ghost, how did he move around? Only a ghost wouldn’t leave teeth marks in its victims.

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