Donald May studied the enlarged copies of the six letters as if they might move if he blinked.

Samson had laid them out in a neat line across the conference table, numbered in pencil, oldest to latest. The originals had already been through the full forensic wash: prints, DNA, fibres, even analysis of the paper stock. Nothing. Clean as if they’d come from a lab.

But the words were filthy with knowledge.

Each envelope had been hand-delivered to Jean Samson’s house. No postmarks. No CCTV sightings worth a damn. And every single letter contained details about the Towpath Murders the public had never known.

“What do you think, Don?” Samson asked quietly.

He looked up at her. No rank between them in that moment—just two people staring at the sam...

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