reading

1.

The bathroom door burst open as she lunged through.

She slumped against the thin laminate, hearing it crackle against her weight until she became still. The room was quiet now, save for her short, snatched breaths. But DCI Antonia Hawkins was still desperately willing herself not to throw up.

She took off her jacket and draped it over the edge of the bath.

Breathe.

But the text message loomed again in her mind, and she felt her stomach tighten. She stumbled forwards, tripping over the towel she had left on the bathmat earlier, dropping her mobile. It clattered to the floor, skidding into the corner out of sight.

Hawkins reached the toilet, bracing herself with a hand either side of the bowl. Two strings of saliva hung from her mouth. She fought another urge to heave, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the water below, diluted mascara already running down reddened cheeks.

Do not be sick.

She slumped against the bath, resting her head on the toilet seat, still breathing in quick, shallow bursts. She brought a hand to her face, pinching her temples, swallowing between breaths. Then she caught a sour lungful of rim block. Her senses sharpened and the urge to vomit left her at last.

Hawkins heaved herself up onto her knees and sat back on her heels, breathing more slowly now, wiping her mouth with her palm.

One week until Christmas.

She tore off a piece of toilet paper and stood up shakily to see into the mirror above the sink, dabbing at her make-up.

Fair enough, she reasoned with her reflection: an experienced Met Police detective – supposedly used to dealing with the ridiculous pressures of homicide investigation – should not have been reduced to this pitiful state by a simple text message. But sod’s law was currently doing a fantastic job of turning her first case in charge as acting Chief Inspector into her worst nightmare.

She fought down the fear that she was completely out of her depth.

She could do this: she had to. Her career depended on it.

Hawkins bent down to grope in the corner behind the toilet, locating the stray handset and dragging it out. She wiped the dust off it and pressed the home button to illuminate the screen, relieved to find it crack-free. But the preview of the text was still there, beside the missed call icon.

Her phone had been on silent when it rang earlier, before she noticed the text that had sent her, reeling, towards the bathroom.

They’ve found number three.

She paused, unable to tell from the preview whether the text contained any further information; unsure whether she wanted to know even if it did. Apprehension flared as she began swiping the screen to unlock the phone.

Then it rang.

She jumped, almost dropping it again, cursing herself for being so tense.

The number was withheld, but Hawkins knew who it was before she answered. ‘Hello?’

‘Hawkins.’ There were never pleasantries with Chief Superintendent Kirby-Jones. ‘I hope you’ve heard from Barclay.’

She cringed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I was forced to contact your subordinates because I couldn’t reach you directly. Your trainee detective constable was the only one who answered.’

As far as Hawkins was aware, it was still acceptable for her to have her phone on silent in her own time. She made an attempt at an apology, anyway, but he cut her off. ‘As you’re aware, we have a third victim.’

‘Sir.’ She paused, uncertain if she wanted the inevitable answer. ‘Is it him?’

‘The body was found two hours ago by a cleaner, so details are light, but all the preliminaries match – lone female, at home, approximate time of death, method of incapacitation. There’s room for error, but do you doubt it?’

She didn’t want to respond. ‘No, sir.’

‘If this one links with the first two, your investigation will be upgraded to serious incident status, code name Operation Charter.’

Hawkins closed her eyes. Three victims; one assassin. Which meant the perpetrator had just bagged the official designation reserved for the truly psychopathic fruit-loop elite.

Serial killer.

As soon as the press got hold of information like that, media scrutiny would turn, full beam, on those leading the investigation.

And she was in charge.

Hawkins was fighting back fresh bile as Kirby-Jones continued, and she tried to focus on what the DCS was saying.

‘I’ve instructed Barclay to collect you, plus reinforcements, on the way to the scene. He has directions and basic information, and he’ll be with you any minute. You’ll need to contact the rest of your team on the way. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She began frantically trying to repair her make-up in the mirror with her free hand.

‘Remember, Detective, the public is watching.’

The line went dead.

Hawkins stood, looking at her patchwork foundation in the mirror, with the words chief investigating officer repeating over and over in her mind.

After a moment, she lowered the phone and quickly finished her make-up.

She rattled downstairs just in time to see an unmarked Vauxhall pull up outside.

Shit.

She walked into the hall and checked herself in the mirror, pausing to wrestle her dark brown mane into a clip.

The car’s horn sounded outside, and Hawkins moved to the door, taking a deep breath and smoothing her crumpled suit. She picked up her bag. Vanity would have to wait. Right now, she had the biggest case of her career to deal with.

But she surprised herself with a smile as she stepped around the boxes Paul had left behind when he’d moved out a few months earlier.

They were the least of her worries.

2.

DCI Hawkins closed her front door and stood under the porch, digging in her bag for her umbrella. It was only fifteen yards to the car, thanks to a patch of communal grass outside her house, but the rain was horrendous.

She angled her brolly into the downpour and headed for the dark blue Insignia idling beside the pavement. The wind was bitter, and she opened the passenger door with relief.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ Hawkins dropped into the seat, dumping her umbrella in the foot well and yanking on her seatbelt. ‘You know where we’re going, right?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ DC John Barclay revved the engine as they roared away from the kerb, tyres fighting for grip. ‘Hampstead.’

‘Very upmarket.’ She glanced at her wiry young driver, deciding against asking him to slow down as they slewed onto the main road. Traffic was light and they needed to get there.

She was relieved to note that the trainee detective constable looked a little overwhelmed, too: his shirt collar was rucked up, and he had a thin, white line around his mouth.

She wasn’t the only one who left home in a hurry.

‘John.’ She indicated the same area on her own face. ‘You’ve got some toothpaste …’

‘Oh.’ He licked a finger and began wiping. ‘Gone?’

‘Yeah.’ Hawkins edged away when his hand brushed her leg as he changed gear exiting a bend. He probably hadn’t intended it.

They rode for a few seconds in silence before Hawkins produced her mobile. ‘I’m just going to call Frank and Amala.’

‘Already taken care of.’ Barclay tapped his earpiece. ‘They’re meeting us there.’

‘Great.’ Hawkins rebagged the phone. His proaction meant she’d have her full unit at the murder scene early on: essential to secure the maximum number of witnesses. Instead she found her notepad and started making an investigation plan, resting on her knee.

‘So,’ she breezed, stoking the positive atmosphere, still writing, ‘I hear you got a call from the chief super.’

‘Yes.’ Barclay said as they idled at some lights, the rhythmic thump of the windscreen wipers compounding his lack of elaboration.

She annotated a couple of tasks on her pad before glancing at him, ‘What did he say?’

John looked over, almost as if he’d forgotten about her. ‘There’s another body, ma’am. According to early reports from Scenes of Crime, she died at some point yesterday morning.’

Sunday. Just like the others.

The lights changed and they moved off.

‘So who was she?’

Barclay coughed. ‘Ever heard of Jessica Anderton?’

‘The politician’s wife?’

Of course she knew of Jessica Anderton, and her husband, Charles. The charismatic people’s champion of the Labour party and his stunning young socialite, ex-model wife were never far from the headlines. A celebrity-obsessed public had battled recently to buy the Gucci handbag Jessica had donated to a charity auction; they’d queued for hours to buy Hello magazine when it ran exclusive photos and an interview with the couple prior to their wedding. Even the opposition’s repeated allegations that the Andertons’ marriage was a poll-friendly sham had tailed off in recent months.

‘Blimey.’ Hawkins tried to hide the trepidation in her voice. ‘What about MO?’

‘That’s him.’

Hawkins looked across to see Barclay pointing ahead. Then she remembered Kirby-Jones’ instruction to collect reinforcements on their way to the scene.

Barclay pulled over to the kerb. ‘Just like the DCS said – thirties, slim, unnecessary facial hair.’

Hawkins squinted through the rain bouncing off the windscreen, trying to get a look at her newest team member. A man waved and jogged out from under the cover of a bus shelter, holding a newspaper above his head and a mobile to his ear, weaving his way through the sea of suited nine-to-fivers.

He finished his call and slipped the phone inside his suede jacket as he pulled open the rear door of the car and got in.

‘DCI Hawkins?’ His accent was clipped, Belfast probably. ‘DS Eddie Connor.’

‘Call me Antonia.’ They shook hands between the seats. ‘And this is our trainee, DC John Barclay. Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

‘Well, your man didn’t disappoint the press, anyway.’ Connor pulled the rear door shut as he held up a moist copy of the Daily Mail.

Hawkins twisted in her seat. ‘Will Killer Strike Again?’ She read the headline aloud in her best movie-trailer voice, feigning nonchalance. ‘Where would we be without the great British press to stir up some decent, nationwide panic? Can’t wait to see what happens when those arseholes hear about our latest.’

‘They already know,’ Connor said. ‘I just spoke to a friend of mine in Scenes of Crime. The media were there before him.’

‘Fantastic.’ Hawkins looked at Barclay, about to suggest they shouldn’t hang around, but there was no need. He opened the throttle and accelerated back into the flow of early morning London traffic.

‘So where have you joined us from?’ Hawkins said over her shoulder, bracing herself between floor and armrest as Barclay swung out to overtake a meandering waste-disposal lorry.

‘CID.’ Connor raised his voice over the din of the worsening thunderstorm hammering the Vauxhall’s roof. ‘Flying Squad. I put in a transfer request ages ago, but nothing happened until your chief super rang me this morning. I’m on your team until further notice. Apparently my application only just got to him, but I think it’s more to do with the shit that’s about to hit the fan in Downing Street.’ He laughed. ‘In fact, things happened so fast that nobody’s asked for my gun back yet.’

‘You’re a specialist firearms officer?’ Barclay looked around.

‘Murder, shooters and fast cars,’ Connor said. ‘Everything a boy dreams of when he joins the force.’

Hawkins caught his grin and returned it. Having an armed SFO on the team would be a definite bonus if and when they caught up with the killer.

‘This a pool car, is it?’ Connor waited for confirmation before he began brushing the water out of his hair onto the upholstery. ‘So, tell me what the Daily Mail doesn’t know.’

‘Two previous victims,’ Hawkins explained over her shoulder. ‘Both female, both killed at home on consecutive Sunday mornings. First was sixty-three-year-old Glenis Ward, who drowned in her bath. We thought it was suicide initially as there were no superficial signs of foul play. Glenis’ alcoholism was common knowledge – it was why she had to “retire” from her job as a cook – and the recent diagnosis of bowel cancer was considered depressing enough to have pushed her over the edge. Turns out she was attacked in her hallway before being dragged upstairs to the bathroom.’

Hawkins caught a sign for Belgravia as it flashed past. They were close. ‘Then, exactly seven days later, a forty-eight-year-old former care-worker called Tess Underwood was beaten to death with a baseball bat. And when I say beaten to death, think major bones being systematically broken one by one from her shins upwards. The coroner said she didn’t die until the killer reached her head, and even then only thanks to an intracranial haemorrhage caused by a direct blow to the face, which rammed a shard of skull into her cortex.’

‘Nice.’ Connor’s tone was suitably disgusted.

Hawkins registered it, pleased with his reaction to gruesome details too familiar to raise eyebrows among the existing members of her murder investigation team.

They hit traffic at the Royal Thames Yacht Club, and Barclay looked at her for approval to use the lights. She nodded, flicking the switch for him. The Vauxhall’s siren attacked the air and Barclay kept going, swerving into the empty oncoming lane to clear the jam.

‘Proper fucking action at last.’ Connor’s head appeared between the front seats, like a kid arriving at Disney World. ‘So, what’s he done to this latest girl?’

‘I think,’ Hawkins turned to Barclay, ‘we’re about to find out.’

3.

Oblivious to the elegant living room around them, Hawkins peered into the gaping cavity that had, until the previous morning, contained Jessica Anderton’s heart. It looked as though a small volcano had erupted inside the young woman’s chest, leaving folds of tattered skin splayed back on themselves all around the wound’s edge. The blood pooled in the bottom of the hole had long since formed a crust.

The body was naked from the waist up. The only visible form of restraint that had been used was the black, heavy-duty tape, several layers of which were wound tightly around the victim’s head, covering her mouth.

Hawkins inhaled without thinking and caught a lungful of death through her paper facemask. A deceased human starts to smell pretty bad pretty fast, and the intense odour of shit emanating from this one meant the killer had probably ruptured his victim’s intestine.

She grimaced and moved back, adjusting her feet in their clumsy overshoes mid-step to avoid the spattered blood patterns on the floorboards.

She stumbled. ‘Bollocks.’

Why hadn’t she gone with flat heels?

‘Careful.’ Connor crouched opposite her. ‘This is a goddamn work of art. You OK?’

‘Yeah.’ She rubbed her neck through the crinkly anti-contamination romper suit. ‘Tip top.’

Hawkins wasn’t the squeamish type, having become immune to the gore of murder scenes early in her career. It was imagining how the event had unfolded that she could never relax with.

And, more importantly, how she was going to prevent the next.

The muted clamour of half a dozen Scenes of Crime officers efficiently dissecting the lavish room around them had faded the moment she and Connor had seen what occupied centre stage. She was glad they’d left Barclay in the other room with the cleaning lady who found the body. He’d looked about ready to puke after seeing Tess Underwood. And next to this, the previous two incidents had been nothing more than tender warm-up acts.

She swore quietly at the damaged corpse, wishing herself away.

Anywhere but here.

‘He must have three hands or something, assuming it’s just one guy,’ Connor continued. ‘Hardly spilled a drop.’ He motioned to the cup and two large saucepans full of blood on the floor. ‘Must have used the mug to scoop the blood out of the chest cavity as he worked. Think it’s the same killer?’

‘Yep, and I’m beginning to think it might be better for everyone that way. One person doing stuff like this is plenty, if you ask me.’

‘Too right.’

Hawkins shook her head, asking under her breath, ‘but why remove the heart?’

Connor shrugged, ‘Who knows with sick bastards like this? It’s probably in a jar in his basement so he can sing to it every night before he has sex with his dog. Did we get much from the first two scenes?’

Hawkins snorted mock amusement, ‘Fuck-all forensically, although that’s not surprising. These days, anyone who watches enough detective drama on TV has a reasonable grip of basic anti-contamination. We’ve got some low-res CCTV of a single male leaving the first scene, but he knows what he’s doing there, too. Plain, dark clothing and a baseball cap. Keeps his head down, avoids streetlamps. It could be Prince Charles and we wouldn’t be able to tell.’

Connor frowned. ‘Weapons?’

‘No. Whatever he used on the first two he brought and took with him. If he’s left anything here, I’ll be mighty surprised.’

The Irishman had run out of questions for now, and returned to studying the corpse as nonchalantly as if it were a part-finished jigsaw puzzle, fingers pinching at the neatly trimmed clump of hair beneath his lower lip.

Hawkins’ attention also shifted back to the body as she observed, ‘you’re clearly used to appraising this type of masterpiece.’

Connor didn’t look up, ‘worked homicide in Belfast for six years before moving to London. But this is the tidiest hack-job I’ve ever seen.’

‘He’s no professional, but his techniques are well considered and highly effective.’

Hawkins would have known that adenoidal voice anywhere. She turned to see Gerald Pritchard, the Home Office pathologist, dressed, as ever, the only way she ever pictured him: anti-contamination overalls zipped down just enough to display the top of an immaculately pressed shirt and tie. The combination of nasal tone and conservative dress-sense had long since earned him the nickname Mr Bean.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Detective,’ Pritchard waved his mobile phone at her, ‘I just stepped out to prime the lab for our pending arrival. But I bumped into your young constable out in the corridor, and he mentioned you’d arrived.’

Hawkins nodded, acknowledging Barclay’s atypically composed presence at Pritchard’s shoulder, before introducing the Pathologist to Connor.

‘These morning conferences are beginning to feel uncomfortably familiar,’ she said. ‘Any revelations so far?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Pritchard replied, ‘although that only reinforces the notion that we’re dealing with the same individual.’ He gestured at the corpse. ‘As you can see, the lower half of the body is still clothed, and I suspect forensic examination will demonstrate that, as with the previous two victims, there was no sexual assault or molestation. Also as before, there are no signs of forced entry to the residence itself, indicating either that Mrs Anderton knew her attacker, or that he’s capable of bypassing modern security mechanisms, such as they are.’

Connor wore a lop-sided grin. ‘Well, at least if we don’t get him soon, he’ll be enough of a celebrity that Heat magazine will track him down for an interview.’

Pritchard ignored the joke, but turned to face the DS. ‘Let me show you something.’ He crouched beside the body, indicating a particular spot on the torso with a nitrile-gloved finger. ‘See the discolouration?’

The mark he referred to looked like a small love-bite, almost hidden against the purple-grey remains of Jessica’s chest.

‘Do you recognize this?’ Pritchard looked up at Connor. ‘Sergeant?’

The Irishman stayed silent.

‘You should.’ Pritchard teased back a flap of skin at the edge of the cavity, moving it into what would have been its original position. ‘How about now?’

They all leaned in, staring at the newly exposed detail.

A second mark.

‘Jesus.’ Connor got it. ‘A Taser.’

Hawkins nodded. It was merely confirmation of the fact that: in the last three weeks, serial killing had received a twenty-first-century make-over. Somehow, their quarry had obtained an electrostatic stun gun, currently legal only in the hands of qualified firearms officers like Connor.

The marks denoted points where the Taser’s twin projectile electrodes had lodged close to the skin before delivering a massive electric shock, temporarily shutting down the target’s central nervous system. Similar marks had been present on Glenis Ward’s back: one of the details that had come to light once she’d been removed from the bathwater, and that had led to the revelation she hadn’t killed herself after all.

The Taser connection hadn’t been established until now, however, because similar marks found on Tess Underwood’s corpse had been rendered inconclusive by the horrific destruction of the skin’s surface caused during her sustained beating. But the ones here on Jessica Anderton’s chest vastly increased the chances that the same weapon had been deployed on all three.

‘Why the excess charring?’ Barclay asked.

‘Good question.’ Pritchard cast an avuncular glance in the trainee’s direction before addressing the group. ‘Mr Barclay has shrewdly observed auxiliary cauterization around the contact points, exceeding the levels observed on the first victim.’

There were blank stares.

Pritchard indicated the blackened edge of the first mark with a finger. ‘This could suggest the use of a more powerful Taser weapon than before, but even in that case I wouldn’t expect to see such distinct carbon residue. Standard Tasers have built-in five-second timers, purely to protect the target from overexposure, but many have the option to override.’ He stood. ‘My professional opinion is that this victim was subjected to a vastly extended electric shock, sufficient to incapacitate for fifteen or twenty minutes; also increasing the risk of heart attack by about forty per cent, incidentally.’

Hawkins swallowed, the nightmare scenario forming itself in her mind. She opened her mouth to speak, but Pritchard continued, his tone solemn.

‘Yes, Detective, I believe that Mrs Anderton was cut open while she was not only alive, but conscious as well.’

4.

The silence that followed Pritchard’s statement stretched as they all stood looking down at Jessica Anderton’s mutilated form.

At that moment, the pathologist was called away by one of the SOCOs, who was on all fours by an ornate marble fireplace. Pritchard made his apologies and moved off.

Hawkins took the opportunity to make some notes, glad to see Connor and Barclay doing the same thing. At least this murder focused their investigation by confirming the consistencies between the first two.

At the top of her page in capitals she wrote SUNDAY MORNING and TASER. Hawkins’ knowledge of such things wasn’t extensive, but she could recognize a body in the stage between rigor mortis, which abated around three hours after death, and bacterial growth that started turning the skin on a dead body green after about three days. Which put this murder into the right time bracket.

In all likelihood Jessica would have died at the same time as the others: One a.m. They’d know more after the post mortem, of course, but if confirmed this would show the killer had put effort into synchronizing all three deaths. So the time itself obviously held some significance for him, while the source of something as arcane as a Taser might be traceable.

Then she began sketching the room. The forensic scene manager would provide detailed assessments of the crime scene, but Hawkins always found her own rough drawings of more use. There was something clinical and cold about the snow-white, inch-perfect printouts provided by forensics, which somehow made it easier to overlook things that may have seemed obvious in the flesh; things that might be rendered more apparent six weeks down the line by a small detail like, for example, being underlined.

She glanced towards the door, just as a man she didn’t recognize entered. He looked vaguely Italian, the wrong side of forty, with wire-rimmed glasses and a black shock of a haircut, most of which was stuffed into a mobcap. She watched his gloved hands searching the outside of his anti-contamination suit for pockets rendered temporarily inaccessible, before settling on being clasped together behind his back.

But those details weren’t what drew Hawkins towards him, or what made her suspect he wasn’t meant to be there.

He wasn’t wearing a crime-scene tag.

She strode over, placing herself between him and Jessica Anderton, cutting off his view. ‘Who are you?’

He squinted at her from behind his glasses. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘This is my crime scene. How did you get in here without ID?’

‘Oh.’ He unzipped his anti-contamination suit, reaching inside. ‘You mean this thing?’ He handed her a worn plastic sheath. ‘Damned clip fell off ages ago, but all the SOCO guys know me, so I don’t usually need it. You’re acting DCI Antonia Hawkins?’

Hawkins looked at the tag.

She’d just accosted Simon Hunter, one of the Met’s top criminologists, a man she’d never met before because, while he was a regular at high-profile crime scenes like this one, she wasn’t.

He should have been asking her for credentials.

‘Oh.’ She handed back the tag. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK, really.’ Hunter replaced the tag inside his suit. ‘You have an eye for detail. In this line of work, that’s never a bad thing.’ He held out his hand. ‘Simon Hunter – I’ll be your psychological profiler.’

She shook it, noticing that despite a voice like gravel and crow’s feet like crazy paving, he had the demeanour of a much younger man.

Hunter moved into the room, glancing around at the beautifully co-ordinated seasonal decorations, before shuffling aside to allow a team of six to heave the immense Christmas tree past them and out into the hall. Then he resumed his silent assessment, taking in the corpse before them.

A few seconds later his eyebrows twitched, as if he’d reached whatever conclusion he had been looking for.

‘So.’ He turned to Hawkins. ‘Who else am I talking to here?’

She called Connor and Barclay over and introduced them.

‘Hunter,’ Connor commented, ‘I know that name. You were involved in taking down the Boom Crew gang in Birmingham last year, right?’

Hunter said yes, and they chatted for a few moments about backgrounds and mutual colleagues. The profiler definitely had pedigree.

His profession was largely derided among the Met’s ranks as nonsense that earned a disproportionate wage for those sufficiently flagrant to peddle it. But with a strike rate like Hunter’s, you had to wonder. He was modest, but Hawkins was already familiar with rumours about the pivotal roles he’d played in several high-profile cases.

‘I’ve been reading the case notes,’ Hunter said afterwards, using fingertips to adjust his glasses on his nose. ‘Mrs Anderton’s demise gives us a bona-fide serial killer which means, I’m afraid, that you get me.’

‘Any help gratefully received.’ Hawkins nodded towards Jessica’s sullied form. ‘What do you make of our lunatic?’

‘Well,’ Hunter replied, his enthusiasm going up a notch. ‘Killers like this man are rare, but they do pop up from time to time, and there tend to be common themes within their particular psychological range. Often they choose their victims at random, but there’ll be a unifying thread there, somewhere. Most tend to have a specific focus or obsession: it can be anything from religious extremism to emulation of prolific, real-life psychopaths like Hindley or West. This guy hasn’t really nailed his colours to the mast yet, but each murder so far seems to have been considerably more violent than its predecessor.’

Connor leaned in. ‘What does that tell us?’

‘I call it “the gore escalator”,’ Hunter said, matter of fact. ‘It’s not the behaviour of your average practising psychopath, but it does happen. So, say you ride the world’s fifth largest roller coaster. You probably wouldn’t then bother riding the sixth or seventh largest, because after the fifth they’d disappoint. The only way you can replicate the thrill is by riding the fourth biggest, then the third, and so on.’ Hunter’s glasses caught the light as he looked round at them all. ‘Well, the same principle can apply to serial murder, and it looks like this guy agrees. What was probably his first time involved placing someone in mortal danger, then simply standing back and watching her drown. He didn’t physically take that life; he just chose, at the crucial moment, not to save it. For number two he wants a more visceral experience, hence the increased physical nature of his next attack. Unfortunately for number three here, he’s progressing quickly. Anyway, however detached and merciless his actions, you have to admit that his impulses are still undeniably human. We all need a thrill from time to time.’

‘Endearing,’ Hawkins wasn’t convinced. ‘but I still don’t understand the need for this variety in how he kills them? Why risk changing methods every time, when he could just stick to one?’

The profiler cocked his head, ‘Have you considered that he might be experimenting to keep himself interested?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got this friend who’s an actor,’ Hunter said pensively, ‘does theatre. Goes on stage every single night, repeats the same actions time and again. But each day he finds some way to change his performance, just enough to stop himself from going mad. The outcome is always the same, but the intricate details are unique. I know our killer’s an extreme example, but I think the comparison stands.’

‘Okay,’ Hawkins considered his answer briefly, ‘but what bothers me is that it’s all so precise. Why remove somebody’s heart, why use the Taser; why such a definite time? Surely the details mean something.’

Hunter frowned, ‘they’ll have significance, of course they will, but you have to remember the type of mind you’re dealing with here. Importance is such a personal thing; it’s like trying to fathom someone’s superstitions. An obsessive compulsive disorder can make a person switch the light on and off any number of times when they leave a room, but the fear they have of what’ll happen if they don’t is entirely their own. I don’t doubt he does these things because they make sense to him, but those explanations wouldn’t necessarily translate to you or me. One a.m. might be the time he lost his virginity, or the moment he found God.’

‘So what are you saying: don’t bother with specifics?’

‘Not at all. I’m saying that we need to find a starting point; a solid piece of information about this man beyond his actions. Something factual. Everything will grow from there; but until we have that, we’re drifting.’

Hawkins looked around at the others, realizing that she now appeared to be hounding the man.

She opted to move on, ‘So how do we catch the bastard?’

‘Let’s look at that.’ Hunter cast an arm at the room. ‘You’re finding zero traces at the scenes. That doesn’t happen by accident. Also, each murder appears to have been flawlessly planned and – if you’ll excuse the phrase – executed. That means you’re dealing with an intelligent individual who knows his surroundings. He feels comfortable and confident here, so I’d restrict your search to London, initially at least. And the lack of an obvious connection between the victims doesn’t necessarily mean there isn’t one. Very few people kill without what they consider to be a damn good reason, no matter how detached from reality their motives might be. So my advice would be to find that reason. Then you’ll have a better chance of finding your killer.’

‘What do you mean by reason?’ Connor asked.

‘You need to work out why he’s doing this.’ Hunter responded, ‘Are his victims random – irrelevant except as some sort of message to the rest of us – or does he have a list of specific people he wants to kill? Put simply, what’s his problem? Until you find out, it’ll be impossible to call his rationale.’

Connor stared at him, ‘and then?’

‘Then we communicate.’

‘Communicate,’ Connor repeated playfully, ‘how? Look for bumper stickers with a mobile number and a message that says “How’s my murdering?”’

Hunter laughed without conviction. ‘Not exactly. Granted he won’t be in the phonebook, but I promise you he’s watching the news. I don’t think our friend is finished killing yet and, if he wants to maintain the freedom to carry on, he’ll be keeping a very close eye on you detective types. His main source of information will almost certainly be the media, thereby giving you, detective Connor, an open line of communication.’

‘OK.’ Hawkins cut in, hiding her relief that Connor had asked the question before she had, ‘Let’s say you’re a genius. Tell us why he went for these particular women. Even if they are random, he’s choosing them somehow. And how about predicting the next?’

Hunter didn’t bite, except to catch her look and return it. ‘I’m here to speculate on how, rather than what your killer might be thinking, and to predict behaviour given precise future circumstances. As for specifics, Detective, surely that’s your department.’

There were uncomfortable seconds of silence as they traded intent.

‘Touché,’ Hawkins submitted eventually, deciding it was best not to fall out with the profiler on their first meeting.

‘Sorry about that,’ Pritchard re-joined them, greeting Hunter with the nod of a familiar and respectful colleague.

Hawkins addressed the pathologist: ‘Found something?’

‘Unfortunately not.’ He frowned over at the line of SOCOs slowly disappearing behind the sofa. ‘We still haven’t established DNA or prints common to both previous scenes, so there’s no reason to expect anything different here. We’ll keep looking, of course, but none of the genetic evidence so far matches anything on record. So until you can provide us with a suspect, its use is limited.’

‘Thanks for the reminder.’ Hawkins was well aware that while modern DNA identification could link someone to a crime scene using even the most miniscule trace, you still needed a host to match it with.

She scanned the Andertons’ front room. As usual, the place had changed dramatically since Scenes of Crime had arrived. It looked like a second-rate TV make-over show had invaded: great chunks of wallpaper had been torn away, plastic markers had been used to section off search zones, while small pipes protruded through the wooden floorboards, identifying the former positions of two small radiators.

If the killer had left any trace at all, these people would find it.

Connor asked, ‘So what are the chances he’s just some burn-out we’ll find next week in a bed-sit somewhere, having topped himself?’

‘Sorry, Sergeant.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘His mental state appears quite stable. Anyone who can create three scenes like this without leaving traces or getting caught in the process is no candidate for an impending schizophrenic episode.’ He brightened. ‘But, like I said, once you find that reason …’

Hawkins wished she could share his enthusiasm.

After a few minutes discussing the more tedious aspects of investigative bureaucracy, their meeting had finished. Hunter asked for copies of the updated case notes once they were ready, and left, handing out cards on the way. Connor moved across and began talking to his friend from SOC, while Barclay went outside to start doorstepping the neighbours for contact details. Hopefully one of them would know the whereabouts of the victim’s husband. So far their attempts to contact the politician had failed. His mobile was unobtainable; his Westminster office unmanned. At least they should be able to get an answer now that business hours had resumed. If the couple’s affectionate public image was genuine, he’d be distraught, so they needed to find him before news of his wife’s death leaked through other channels. Or before he had too great a head-start.

Hawkins thanked Pritchard, watching him retreat towards a huddle of his colleagues in the far corner. She recognized some of them, like the scientific support officer whose name escaped her, and Pete Munford, one of their regular crime scene photographers. A third man was probably the new public relations official.

Pritchard positioned himself on the far side of the group and glanced over at her.

Hawkins’ anti-contamination suit was two sizes too large and hardly flattering, but at least it would prevent Pritchard from indulging his regular habit of staring at her legs. She smiled to herself, resisting the urge to go over and expose his lecherous tendencies in front of his peers. Instead, she turned and walked over to the tall bay window, staring down at an ever-expanding crowd of hacks, neighbours and passers-by drawn like flies to dog shit by the SOCO van blocking the road. She glanced at the sky, annoyed that for the first time that day the downpour had stopped.

Nothing like a bit of rain to dampen people’s enthusiasm for rubber-necking.

Amid the onlookers, Hawkins picked out Frank Todd and Amala Yasir as they moved slowly from face to face: Did you know the occupants; were you witness to any unusual events here?

The trick was to gather information without imparting any in return, but those in the crowd who didn’t already know who lived there soon would.

And suddenly the nerves were there again.

Hawkins’ mind jumped back to her first appearance in a primary school play, watching the audience from the wings, waiting for her cue. She’d just been able to make out faces in the front row, among them her parents: Dad beaming from ear to ear; Mum stoic, so often short of anything that resembled a compliment. Yet she knew, deep down, it was her mother she wanted to impress the most. And she was still having trouble with that line.

Hawkins shook her head, evicting the memory. There was no time.

She remembered Kirby-Jones’ words from two weeks before: ‘… good opportunity to make a name for yourself on this one, Hawkins. As senior investigating officer, you’ll be responsible for getting results. Can your team handle it? Can you?’

Lawrence Kirby-Jones had several dog-eared speeches about equality and developing those he deemed credible. Others might have been fooled, but Hawkins knew a closet misogynist when she saw one. If this investigation wasn’t a resounding success, his report would say: ‘Secondment fluffed. Do not promote beyond DI level again.’

What annoyed her most was that Kirby-Jones must have known the lack of available resources when he’d offered her the case, but only when the fan had been truly coated had she been informed. So far, the investigation had gone from suspected suicide, to murder, to multiple homicide; and now they were looking at a savoir-faire serial killer with the apparent ability to butcher half of London, and scare the other half to death, completely unimpeded by anything the Met tried to do about it.

Her first case as SIO was turning out to be a real banana skin, especially as she was lumbered with a makeshift team. Her four current subordinates included a trainee, and someone from the Irish Flying Squad who apparently hadn’t been deemed good enough until the situation became desperate.

Until then, Hawkins had believed that developments in the case had taken her boss as much by surprise as they had everybody else. But what if that wasn’t true? She’d wondered at the time why no existing DCI had offered to take on this allegedly simple investigation; there were those who could have stretched it to fill two personal development reviews and a bid for promotion.

So had Kirby-Jones warned them off?

Hawkins pushed the thought away: paranoia wouldn’t help matters.

She refocused on the case. Inquiries into the first two murders were still underway. Telephone records and interview tapes of family, friends and any potential witnesses were being analysed, and the Police National Computer database was being scoured for the slightest similarities to past murders. Even the Family Liaison officers dealing with the bereaved were on alert for any piece of useful information, however small, that a friend or relative might happen to regurgitate.

Unfortunately, television appeals for witnesses and the interviews had produced few leads, and even fewer potential suspects, although they were still trying to trace a couple of the victims’ ex-boyfriends. So far they had nothing.

But the worst part was that this jigsaw still lacked its most crucial piece: motive.

The guy popped up out of nowhere, created his gruesome calling cards, and evaporated.

These murders were far beyond anything Hawkins had experienced. In the past she and Mike had worked on cases involving rival gangs, where games of revenge killing tennis just ran and ran, sending the body count skywards. But for a lone individual to execute a string of apparently unconnected women, in such diverse but clinical ways, was almost unrecognizable as human behaviour. With each attack the killer became more inexplicable to Hawkins.

Her team’s ongoing research into his methods was looking more and more futile. They’d already been reduced to trying different combinations of letters in the victims’ names, to see if a hidden message might emerge.

Nothing had.

And now the case had escalated around her, along with the need for a sacrificial lamb if Operation Charter wasn’t a success.

At one a week, bodies were appearing faster than they could be processed and, unlike other serial homicide cases, they knew almost for certain when the next one would arrive. Sunday – Christmas Day. Less than a week from now.

They needed an arrest. Fast.

Hawkins’ attention returned to the crowd outside. An elderly woman had appeared and started shouting at the uniformed officers to tell her what was going on. A younger man was trying to coax her away with offers of a cup of tea.

In the confusion, a lone reporter slipped unseen through the cordon, tucking his press badge inside his jacket as he sleazed up the stone steps beside the slightly open window.

‘Let us in, ay, love?’ He addressed the WPC manning the front door. ‘Say I’m a colleague. It’s worth a hundred to you.’

Hawkins moved forwards and tapped on the glass, edging the window further open and showing him her badge, ‘Please move back behind the cordon, sir.’ She dropped her voice. ‘In other words, take your camera and fuck off.’

Hawkins took a moment to enjoy her victory as two uniformed officers, having heard the louder of her statements, practically carried him back past the front gate.

She returned the WPC’s grin.

But she wouldn’t have smiled had she known that, from across the street, the killer watched her turn back into the room.

Acknowledgements

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