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  “That call’s not my job. It’s yours,” she said. “I’m here to give you the scientific facts only, but you’ve known me a long time, and you know I’m not shy about voicing my opinion. In the absence of any forensic evidence left on the victim’s bodies, it’s hard to say, scientifically, that they were definitely killed by the same person.”

  She paused for a moment and gently placed the strip of linen back over the corpse’s neck. Fenton was unsure whether she had finished but kept quiet to give her the opportunity to say more. She gave him a sideways look and took his silence as an invitation to carry on.

  “Having said all that, the method of killing was the same, the knives used must have been almost identical, and the sheer randomness of the murders tells you even more. If you want my honest opinion, and don’t tell me you’re surprised by this, both murders are the work of the same person.”

  Fenton took a long, deep breath, compressed his lips, and let the air out slowly through his nose. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not surprised.”

  Fifteen

  The drive back to New Scotland Yard was less than two miles, but the heavy rain slowed the midmorning traffic on Victoria Embankment to a crawl. They had been traveling for fifteen minutes and still hadn’t reached Parliament Square.

  Whistling under his breath, Ince drummed the steering wheel with his fingers in time with the squeak of the windshield wipers as he edged the car forward a few feet before applying the brakes.

  Fenton glanced across at the detective constable. “Do you have to do that?” he asked. “I can’t hear myself think.”

  Ince raised his eyebrows and wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel to keep them still. “Sorry, Boss.”

  “What are you so cheerful about anyway? You’ve just seen your second dead body, it’s pissing down with rain, and we’re stuck in a traffic jam.”

  The car ahead moved off slowly, and Ince concentrated on following it until the traffic rolled to a halt again. “I enjoyed it, to be honest. Educational. You’ve probably been to dozens, hundreds maybe. Surely you’re used to them by now?”

  Fenton raised a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t like them. I’ll never get used to them. They’re people. I mean they were people. Sons and daughters, someone’s mother or father, brother or sister, wife or husband. I can’t see them any other way.”

  Ince took his eyes off the traffic for a moment and looked across at his passenger, a half smile on his pale face. “I get that, sir,” he said. “But the wounds, the way the victims were killed, where they were killed, must tell us something.”

  Fenton sighed. He found Ince’s lack of empathy depressing. “So tell me, hotshot,” he said. “Sum up for me what the bodies of the victims say about the killer or killers.”

  Ince’s smile widened, and his fingers resumed their drumming. “Well, from the line of the initial neck wounds, we can say both were killed by a left-hander. From the speed and strength needed to inflict the fatal wounds cleanly, without a struggle, I think we can assume the killer is a man. A tall, athletic man.” He shot a glance at his boss in search of reassurance.

  Fenton gave nothing away.

  Ince focused on the chrome bumper of the car ahead and carried on. “The two victims are almost certainly unconnected, so we can say they were selected randomly. The killer targets the arteries in the neck. Maybe he has a blood fetish. He likes killing, enjoys it. It probably turns him on even.”

  The rain stopped, and Ince flicked the windshield wipers off. “How am I doing?”

  The traffic was moving faster now. By the time Fenton spoke, they had reached Westminster Bridge.

  “I think you’ve been watching too many TV police dramas; that’s what I think. You’re making too many assumptions. Never assume anything. It’s a surefire way to screw up.”

  Ince swung the car right toward Parliament Square. “I don’t know. You tell me,” he said. “Teach me the error of my ways. I’m always keen to learn from people who’ve done it all before.”

  It sounded like a compliment, but Fenton suspected otherwise. “Well, after what we’ve seen and heard today, there is one thing I can tell you. Something I’d stake my reputation on.”

  Ince kept his eyes on the road as a set of traffic lights ahead turned red. “Go on,” he said.

  “There’s going to be a third murder, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

  Five minutes later, they pulled up outside New Scotland Yard, and Fenton’s heart sank. Close to twenty photographers and reporters milled around the entrance. Behind them, two television news vans topped with satellite dishes were parked hood to hood at the curb. Standing in front of the reporters, Partington appeared to be doing his best to field their questions.

  Fenton gestured at Ince to drive on to the parking lot barrier. He had no intention of running the gauntlet of a ravenous press pack.

  He found Daly in the incident room, busy issuing instructions to half a dozen detective constables. She spotted Fenton standing in the doorway, broke off, and followed him into his office.

  He perched on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. “Any progress?”

  Daly shook her head and lifted a hand to straighten her ponytail. “The Twitter account has been taken down, but there’s nothing to stop the killer from setting up another one.”

  “We need to check all the CCTV footage from cameras in the area around Blackfriars Bridge.”

  Daly nodded. “It’s being done.”

  Fenton walked around behind his desk, gesturing for Daly to take a seat. “I saw Partington fending off a bunch of reporters out front,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  Daly pulled a strand of hair from over her left eye. “Apparently, some of the papers are planning to use tomorrow’s editions to call for the officers leading the investigation to be replaced.”

  Fenton sat down and swiveled his chair, swinging his knees from side to side. After a few seconds, he stopped. “Tell me truthfully,” he said. “Just between you and me. If you weren’t a police officer, say you were employed in a bank or a real estate agency, when you got home from work, would you go online to search out the terrified face of a woman who knows she’s about to die?”

  Daly glanced briefly over her shoulder at her colleagues in the squad room. “I hope not,” she said.

  Sixteen

  I couldn’t help myself. I should have taken more care selecting the victim, but he served a purpose. I have to keep the momentum going. My followers need to be entertained.

  The human psyche has a dark, primitive side. Most people cower in the comfort of the light. I am not most people. Don’t think that those who fear their darkness are superior human beings to those who embrace it. They are not better. They are weaker.

  But they can’t stop themselves from taking a sneaky peek into the shadows. I invite them into my world, and they follow. From a safe distance, of course. At least that’s what they think.

  From here on, my prey must be worthy. Planning and selection are the key to satisfaction. This one pleased my public but didn’t satisfy my hunger. Not like the first time.

  Should I worry about the police? Not too much. The press conference was a farce, though the sister was interesting.

  The police are still appealing for witnesses. What does that tell me? It tells me that they haven’t got a clue what to do next. They will, of course, already have their computer experts trying to track me down. Yeah, good luck with that. No doubt they’ll also be consulting criminal psychologists. All psychologists are criminal in my mind. Let me guess what they’ll come up with.

  This guy has killed at least two people, so he must be a raving psychopath. His internet activity shows he’s obsessed with fame. He’s a narcissistic manipulator, charming and intelligent, can’t empathize with other huma
n beings, and is a sexual pervert who gets his thrills by spilling blood.

  Predictably predictable. They’re not equipped to outthink someone like me. I’m capable of things they wouldn’t understand. Each of my kills is a step along a path I have plotted for a while now, but killing has always been part of my nature. The strongest, deepest, purest part.

  Knowing is everything. I know my prey. I know myself. Self-knowledge is the only true freedom. If you know what you’re doing is insane, you must be sane, right?

  Seventeen

  Blake sat in the consulting room, his arms folded across his chest. The woman on the other side of the desk pursed her lips. They stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an age but was probably no more than a minute. The woman cracked first.

  “We’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t speak.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “What do you want to say?”

  Blake tilted his head back and examined an ornate floral molding in the center of the ceiling. Two large cracks crisscrossed the decaying Victorian plasterwork. He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure what I want to say, but when I do know, I’m going to need help to say it.”

  To Blake’s surprise, the woman smiled, displaying a set of white, perfectly straight teeth. “Well, that’s as good a place to start as any.”

  Looking at Belinda Vale, Blake felt decidedly underdressed. Maybe, he thought, she had a date at an expensive restaurant after work.

  The psychologist tilted her head to one side, making her brown bangs slant across her forehead. “Shall we move on, Mr. Blake? Is Mr. Blake okay, or would you prefer Adam?”

  Blake shrugged. “Whatever you want. Most people call me Blake.”

  “Good. I’ll go with Blake then.” Twisting in her chair, she reached into the top desk drawer and pulled out a blue folder. She dropped it in front of her, flipped it open, and scanned the first page. Her slender fingers were bare except for a single gold band on the third finger of her right hand.

  She looked up from the file, nodding as if what she had read confirmed something she suspected. “Why now?” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why have you decided to come for therapy now? After all this time. You were referred to me almost a year ago. You never showed up.”

  Blake frowned. “Are you saying there’s a time limit or something?”

  “Of course not. I’m simply pointing out that something must have changed. I assume you’re here because you want help. You didn’t want it eleven months ago. So tell me what’s different.”

  Blake wondered if she was genuinely interested or simply saying what she thought she needed to say to get him to talk. He gave her the benefit of the doubt. “I think maybe it’s time. Maybe I should have done this before, but I didn’t.”

  Vale nodded encouragement, hoping Blake would say more, but he stayed silent and took another long look at the ceiling.

  “We don’t have to talk about what happened in Iraq,” she said. “Not this time. But if we can talk more about why you think you’re ready for this, I think that would be useful.”

  Blake’s jaw muscles flexed. “Useful to who? I’m regretting coming here already.”

  A flicker of irritation crossed Vale’s face. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep this up,” she said. “If you’re here because you want things to change, you need to ditch the attitude.”

  Part of Blake wanted to spill his guts, vomit out the poison. A bigger part wanted to keep it hidden. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said.

  Vale looked down at the file and turned over a page. “I tell you what. Let’s try simple questions and answers. I’ll ask, and you respond. How about that?”

  Blake nodded his assent.

  “Right then, where shall we begin? Are you in a relationship at the moment?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “It gives me an idea where you are emotionally. Helps build up a picture.”

  “No, there’s no one.”

  “Have you been on your own since coming back?”

  “There was somebody. We broke up. It didn’t work out.”

  Vale glanced down at the file again. “Post-traumatic stress disorder can be a difficult burden for a partner to cope with.”

  “She tried her best.”

  Vale picked up a pen and scribbled in the file. Blake strained his eyes to try to read the note.

  “How serious was this relationship?”

  “We lived together for a while. She moved into my apartment. Then moved out.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  Blake shook his head. “That’s a dumb question.”

  The psychologist made another note.

  “How the hell do you think I felt? I didn’t want her to leave, but I understood.”

  Vale shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. “Would you consider resuming this relationship if the opportunity presented itself?”

  “It won’t.”

  “It may not be out of the question.”

  “It is.”

  “PTSD can be treated successfully. You’ve taken the first step by coming here. If we sort out your issues, she might be willing to give you another chance.”

  “She won’t.”

  “I understand it’s difficult not to be negative in your situation, but why are you so adamant this relationship can’t be mended?”

  “Because she’s dead.”

  Vale’s eyes widened, but she kept the rest of her face neutral. She picked up her pen, rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, and put it down again. Blake admired her self-control but wasn’t going to make it easy for her. If she wanted to know, she’d have to ask.

  “I’m so sorry. Is this why you’re here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is this why you changed your mind about getting help?”

  Blake shook his head. “I don’t think so. I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

  “Do you want to talk about her death?”

  Blake linked his fingers and stared at his hands.

  Vale gave him a moment to think. “Emotional avoidance is a common symptom of PTSD. Unfortunately, burying your feelings is unhealthy.”

  Blake snapped his head up. “I can do without the jargon. I feel like I’m being lectured.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I meant what I said. It would be a good idea to explore your grief.”

  “Not this time.”

  “There’s going to be a next time then?”

  Blake thought for a few seconds. “Maybe.”

  Eighteen

  After leaving Vale’s clinic, Blake headed east along High Holborn, a bustling thoroughfare linking the West End with London’s financial district. The late afternoon sun slanted its rays under a blanket of cloud, gilding the skyline.

  The session hadn’t been as bad as he had feared. Vale’s professionalism impressed him. It was a start, and that was all he’d been hoping for. What did he ultimately want to achieve? He wasn’t sure.

  He’d been walking for about thirty minutes when his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his jacket pocket and checked the caller ID. An unknown number.

  He answered the call with a cursory “Yes.”

  “Hello, Blake, can you hear me?”

  He recognized the voice straightaway. He covered his free ear with the palm of his hand. “The traffic’s noisy, but I can hear.”

  “It’s Leah Bishop. Are you free to meet? I need to talk to you.”

  Blake hesitated. “How did you get my number?” he said.

  “How do you think? I’m Lauren’s sister. You know, Lauren, your former girlfriend?”

  Blake considered pretending that he was losing signal and cutting her off. “Wha
t’s this about? I told you I’m not coming to the funeral and gave you my reasons. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  “I’m not calling about that. Can you make Spitalfields Market in an hour? Please. It’s important.”

  Blake cursed himself for answering the call. “Where do you want to meet?”

  Leah sighed. “Thank you,” she said. “There are lots of pubs and bars around there. I’ll choose one and send you a text.” She ended the call before he had time to say anything else.

  It took him forty-five minutes to get to the Red Lion. The exterior promised a traditional East End pub, but inside, the owners had gone for the shabby chic look. He spotted Leah in the main bar, a cavernous room with a high ceiling and a dark, pitted wooden floor.

  Blake weaved his way through the standing drinkers to where Leah sat on a Chesterfield-style sofa, a glass of white wine in her hand. She looked smaller somehow, crushed by the weight of grief. He sat beside her without waiting for an invitation.

  She nodded at a pint of beer on the table in front of them. “That’s yours.”

  Blake picked up the beer and took a sip. “Good choice.” The two of them locked gazes. Blake was the first to look away, unwilling to acknowledge the hope that flared in her eyes—the hope that he might be able to help her.

  She placed her glass on the table. Blake noticed her hand trembling.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to meet me?” she said.

  Blake stayed silent. It wasn’t a real question.

  Leah dipped her head. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Lauren.”

  Blake took another small sip of beer. “I think about her too.”

  “We have to do something,” Leah said. Her eyes were dry, but her voice shook. “The man who killed Lauren is walking the streets, bragging about what he’s done on the internet. We can’t sit around doing nothing.”

  Blake raised a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. Did he hear right? Did she say we? He wasn’t sure. “What else can you do?”

  Leah coughed, wrapped her fingers around the stem of her wine glass, slid it a couple of inches to the right, and pulled it back again. “I want to hire you to help me catch her killer.”