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drawn, lived in, and the sharp blue eyes were rimmed red. Fatigue, Croft guessed. He re-appraised the man’s age as late forties, not mid-fifties, but the frown of worry would lead anyone to conclude he was much older. When the newcomer first entered the room, Croft had registered a pair of sensible, brown brogues that were spattered with mud, as if they had just trodden the patchy grass of Scarbeck Point.
    “This, Mr Croft,” said Millie, “is Superintendent Ernest Shannon, Head of Scarbeck CID.”
    Croft gave the man a brief nod of greeting.
    “Right, Mr Croft, we’re about to start the recorders,” said Shannon. “Inspector Matthews and I will identify ourselves and I will then ask you to state your name and address for the purposes of the recording. All right?”
    Again Croft nodded and Millie started the recordings, allowing Shannon to identify himself first, before she did likewise. When they were done, Shannon nodded at Croft.
    “My name is Felix Croft, address, Oaklands, Allington Lane, Allington village, near Scarbeck.”
    “You came into the station of your own free will?” Shannon asked.
    “I came to the station because I had received a curious letter that I believed warranted police attention,” Croft corrected him.
    “Please answer the question, Mr Croft,” Shannon insisted. “You came to the station of your own free will?”
    Croft shrugged. “I did.”
    Shannon was satisfied. “And you have been advised of your right to have your legal advisor present, and you have waived that right?”
    “I have reserved the right,” Croft was pleased with his ability to meet them head on, a stark contrast to the near-panic of his earlier exchanges with Millie. As if to reinforce his confidence, he went on, “if the tide turns against me, I may insist on my solicitor being called.”
    Shannon reached into the top drawer of the interview table, took out two pairs of forensic gloves and put a pair on, passing the other to Millie. With his hands protected, he picked up the enveloped, popped it, and allowed the single sheet of A4 paper to fall out. He unfolded it, read it, and passed it Millie.
    With a gleam of inquisitiveness in his eyes, he addressed Croft. “Two sets of dates?”
    Croft nodded. “The first dates may mean nothing to you but they speak volumes to me, which is why I brought the letter here. And I must say, after what your inspector has just told me, I think I was right to do so.”
    “I see.” Shannon appeared to ignore most of Croft’s words when he asked, “You’re a historian, are you, specialising in pre-war Germany?”
    “No. I’m a hypnotist and paranormal researcher and I head the parapsychology research unit at University of North West England.” Croft pointed to the note, and as he did so, he noticed that his hand was rock steady. Better. More like the real Felix Croft. “The Heidelberg reference indicates a crime with paranormal overtones. One that I happen to specialise in. It’s known simply as The Heidelberg Case, and it occurred to me that the writer of this note, who Inspector Matthews believes may be The Handshaker, is hinting that a similar crime has been taking place here in Scarbeck for the last two years.”
    “Does he?” With every response Shannon sounded more and more sceptical.
    The superintendent left a silence hanging in the air, clearly placing the ball in Croft’s court, and Croft wondered what he was supposed to say next. The alarm he had felt on learning that the note could have been from The Handshaker returned, but now it was mixed with fresh insecurity. He tried to place himself in Shannon’s position to see how he would react to the situation, but he found it impossible. All that ran through his mind was a spurious triangle between himself, one of his pet research projects and a serial killer. He wished now that he had read the press reports of The Handshaker crimes more closely, learned something of the man’s methodology. At least it might