Sitting on a bench, watching the ferries sailing back and forth across the Channel, Ward allowed the weak heat of the sun to slightly warm his pale face. Less than twenty-four hours earlier he had killed a thirteen-year-old girl. Killing the child had been a quick and violent act, and her death was of no consequence to him. For Ward, the pleasure in killing someone came from the pain and suffering he caused the parents, relatives and close friends of his victims. He knew, as a stray dog ran past him, that right then, somewhere in Canterbury, the parents of Melissa Hall would be sick with worry, not knowing if their little angel was alive or dead.
Ward pulled from his pocket a telephone. It was Melissa Hall's telephone – the telephone she had dropped when he had attacked her from behind, before throwing her into the sea. He had, wisely, turned the telephone off after he had murdered the girl, for he knew that when a mobile telephone is switched on, it is quite possible for the location of the telephone to be detected by satellites. But now he had to switch the phone on, because he wanted to play a very sick game with Melissa Hall's parents.