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  Donaldson’s phone buzzed. He stared down his nose at the phone’s screen, holding it at arm’s-length, then tapped it and held it to his right ear.

  ‘Professor, I’m a little busy right now… Yes, I called it in… that’s the general theory… I have read the Bible, believe it or not… No, Adams said Calvary… Hang on…’ Donaldson held out the phone again and tapped at an icon of a microphone. Rickard’s crisp, upper class voice swept into the vehicle.

  ‘Bethany, the cave in the Mount of Olives, where Christ ascended. That’s where you need to be headed. Not Calvary. I’ve located a warehouse that would fit the bill. You can still make it before the girl dies.’

  Donaldson turned towards Greg, his thickset features momentarily lit up by the headlights of an oncoming car. He raised a bushy eyebrow.

  Greg swallowed. ‘Professor, I don’t believe it’s there. There was no death, no–’

  ‘Adams, first, your own theory, as related to me, and for which I have to say I commend you, absolutely states that it must be where Christ ascended, because the killer is seeking transformation into an immortal, and what else was the ascension? Where did it take place, eh? Not Calvary. Second, don’t forget the other clue – the Apostles will follow – they did, they went to Bethany and watched him ascend.’

  Greg hadn’t thought of that. But there was no killing at the ascension. That didn’t fit the profile. The Divine wouldn’t need a willing sacrifice at Bethany.

  It had to be Calvary.

  ‘Third, if you are wrong, the tabloids will have a field day with us. Finally, may I remind you that I am your boss, and the final decision-maker in such cases. It is I, and I alone who am ultimately accountable to the Chief Constable, not you.’

  Greg’s insides locked tight. Rickard was pulling rank. Donaldson would have to comply. The girl would die. By the time they found nothing at this warehouse it would be too late to get back to the mansion. He checked his watch.

  2334.

  Donaldson switched off the speaker and held the phone back to his ear.

  ‘And if you are wrong, Professor, it will end your career. In point of fact I am the one on the ground leading the raid, so it is my call… yes, I do take responsibility… Very well, send me the exact address.’ He clicked off the phone. Before Greg could ask, Donaldson leaned forward, addressing Rutherford in the front passenger seat.

  ‘Tell Carstairs to take the second van to the warehouse. I’m sending the address now.’ He tapped an SMS with pudgy fingers, checked the message had gone, and put his phone away, while Rutherford relayed the clipped message to the third and fourth vehicles. Greg turned around to watch out the back window, and sure enough, a van and a Range Rover peeled away to the right at the next junction.

  ‘Thanks,’ Greg said.

  Donaldson fished inside his Kevlar waistcoat and pulled out a pistol. ‘Take it. This isn’t standard procedure, and I’ll have to fill out a bucket-load of paperwork later, but we’re way undermanned now for this type of operation, and your licence is up to date.’

  Gingerly, Greg took it in both hands.

  ‘You remember how to use one, don’t you?’

  Greg nodded, then added, ‘Kate taught me well.’

  Donaldson grunted. ‘Good for her.’

  Rutherford turned around in his seat. ‘Three minutes, sir.’

  Donaldson drew his own weapon and breeched it.

  Greg had never been armed before on a raid. As a psychologist, his job was to help people – even the criminally insane – not shoot them. But everyone else was tooled up, and this was his call. Besides, he could shoot, though he’d never shot at anything in anger. He detested guns, but Kate had persuaded him to learn to shoot, and had even taught him how to quick-draw while visiting an old school friend at a ranch in Texas.

  As they drew close to the cul-de-sac where the mansion awaited, Greg carefully tucked the standard issue SIG Sauer P226 into his jacket pocket. He knew the weapon. It had no ‘safety’, and was carried with a round already in the chamber. The last thing he wanted to do was to accidentally shoot one of his police colleagues in the darkness. Or his own foot.

  The vehicles drew to a stop and they all filed out. Everyone was on edge; no trace of the idle, nervous banter he’d heard on the three missions like this he’d assisted before, just keyed-up men checking their weapons and protective vests. Six armed police – three young ones and three more seasoned professionals – quietly faced the mansion at the end of a country lane backing onto a cemetery. Technically, all of them had two goals. The first goal, the official one, was to find, arrest and incarcerate The Divine. But Donaldson made their priority crystal clear.

  ‘Save the girl. Shoot to disable The Divine, or to kill if necessary, but save the girl. No matter what you see, keep a cool head and watch each other’s backs.’ He looked at his watch, and Greg couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Donaldson wince. ‘We have seven minutes. You’ve all trained for this. Let’s go.’

  He nudged Greg forward, and together with three police ahead of them they half crept, half ran across the damp lawn, avoiding the gravel driveway, up five stone steps to the front door, while three others circled around the back. Two men in front of Greg made quick and silent work of opening the front door. They all stole inside.

  It was dark, though not completely. Candles here and there. Donaldson held up a flat palm, telling Greg to stay put, while he and the three other officers fanned out, checking the ground floor in pairs, room by room. Greg’s gaze was drawn to the wide staircase, candles lighting the way like a trail of breadcrumbs, and he understood. The Divine wanted to be found. Maybe for fame. The reason didn’t matter.

  The girl. She mattered.

  Greg slowly climbed the stairs. The thought that this was exactly what soon-to-be-dead idiots did in horror movies crossed his mind, but then horror movies made real were his job.

  The radio taped to his left shoulder crackled. ‘We’ve found one! Holy Christ! She’s… she’s dead. God, at least I hope she is!’

  It dawned on Greg that maybe both Days ‘Five’ and ‘Six’ were here, on the lower floors, which was why they’d not been able to find them until now. He’d have to work out the biblical references later, after he’d seen the causes of death. He had a hunch The Divine would be at the top with the final victim, Day ‘Seven’. Greg switched his radio to silent and trod as lightly as he could up the softly creaking stairs.

  2355.

  He skipped the middle floor and ascended the second and final flight of stairs, ignoring the commotion down below as the second girl was found, also dead, also in a way that clearly rattled seasoned officers who’d thought they’d seen it all.

  At the end of the upper landing was a door, slightly ajar. Pale, flickering light seeped out. Greg considered drawing his weapon. But entering with his weapon drawn might literally trigger the death of the girl. Besides, he wanted to at least try to talk The Divine out of it if he could. He thought about waiting for backup, but there was no time – assuming she was still alive. In any case, he heard police boots stalking up the lower staircase. He reached inside his pocket and positioned the pistol for quick access.

  He eased the door open. Hundreds of candles brightened the room. Like a shrine. He froze as he saw the girl, nailed – actually nailed with thick black shards of iron – to a crucifix. Still alive, gagged, sobbing. Facing her was an old, chinless man with thinning white hair and an impressive stoop. Serial killers were usually younger. The man had his finger on the trigger of a crossbow firmly mounted on a metal stand. The bolt pointed straight at the girl. Not quite the scene Greg recalled from the Bible: it should have been a spear. The old man had improvised.

  Greg held his hands up, empty. ‘You don’t need to do this,’ he said, realising a moment later it was the wrong approach.

  The killer’s balding head swivelled towards Greg the way a lizard’s head moves, his teal-coloured eyes sharp and cold. His upper lip curled, as if staring straight through Gr
eg. Classic serial killer. Barely seeing people as human beings. He turned back to the girl, the muscles in his shoulders tensing for the kill shot.

  Greg only had seconds. He thought of all the things he’d been trained to say in such situations. But they were for hostage negotiations, for dealing with desperate but relatively sane criminals. Greg needed to enter the serial killer’s worldview.

  ‘In the Bible,’ Greg began, forcing his voice to sound cold, as if – yes, that was key – as if he was one serial killer talking to another, ‘the Roman soldier used a spear.’ He recalled a name. ‘Longinus. The Spear of Destiny.’ He’d read somewhere that it had mythical healing properties.

  The Divine turned back to Greg, studying him, as if seeing him properly for the first time, not simply as an annoying, buzzing insect.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked, his voice surprisingly deep and strong, each word enunciated precisely.

  ‘Adams. Greg Adams.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘A psychologist.’

  ‘I think not. A criminologist. You are the one who found me. Am I correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ Greg said. He did his best to ignore the girl’s muffled, urgent scream, the violent shaking of her body and head, whether from fear or from the agony in her hands and feet, probably both. He pretended she didn’t matter, that she was inconsequential, because that was how The Divine thought of her. He heard the upper stairs creaking, and considered his pistol. Could he reach it in time? The Divine’s bony finger teased the crossbow trigger.

  ‘What do you think I am doing?’ The Divine asked, still studying Greg. Not studying. Testing.

  ‘God took seven days to make the world,’ Greg said. ‘You’re reversing the process. Seven days, seven sacrifices to make you a god, immortal.’

  The logic of crazy.

  The Divine faced Greg square, his finger easing off the trigger, though not quite letting go. The footsteps on the landing creaked closer.

  ‘It won’t work,’ Greg began, desperate to stall him. ‘It’s a crossbow not a spear. You need a spear. I can get you one.’ He glanced at a clock on the wall behind The Divine.

  2359.

  The Divine smiled, revealing sharp teeth.

  ‘Nice try, Greg Adams.’ He turned back to the girl.

  Greg lowered his arms. ‘It won’t work, you’re too early.’

  As The Divine’s head turned towards the clock, Greg’s hand dived into his pocket for the pistol and, whipping it out, he aimed not at The Divine but at the crossbow. He fired.

  The crack of the gunshot exploded in the confined room amidst a spray of splinters. The Divine, a flush of rage in his eyes, yanked back the trigger, releasing the bolt with a tremendous thwack. The girl screamed through her gag, her eyes stretched wide with pain and fear.

  But the crossbow had shifted. The bolt had missed her heart.

  The door behind Greg flung open as two policemen burst into the room, one leaping high, one diving low, both with weapons drawn. The Divine’s hands shot up, and he dropped to his knees, his arms shaking, suddenly a picture of vulnerability, a broken old man. Someone who needed help. Greg glanced to the crucified girl, and through the mist of pain on her face he saw a moment of recognition, as she realised this was how The Divine had tricked her in the first place.

  The policemen were not so easily fooled. They’d seen the victims downstairs. They brought him to the ground hard and plasti-cuffed his hands behind his back.

  ‘Medic!’ one of them shouted. Two more officers piled in, one carrying a paramedic bag. He checked the girl’s wounds, then injected her with a syringe of what Greg guessed was morphine. Her eyes met Greg’s as the drug kicked in, and he mouthed two words to her before her eyelids fluttered then closed.

  ‘It’s over.’

  Donaldson arrived, panting. ‘Ambulance… will be here… in… Jesus Christ!’ His eyes fixed first on the girl, then on the old man pinned to the floor.

  ‘Not quite,’ Greg replied. He handed Donaldson his pistol.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Donaldson said, pointing to The Divine. As he was manhandled past them, the old man’s head passed right in front of Greg, and that cold, reptilian gleam he’d seen before resurfaced for an instant.

  ‘Right time, wrong place, Greg Adams.’

  ‘Get him out of here!’ Donaldson repeated.

  Greg played the words back again. What did he mean? They’d saved the girl. Unless… could Rickard also have been right? Something going on at the second location, the warehouse? That made no sense. He and Donaldson stepped outside onto the landing to give the paramedic some space.

  ‘I should get to work,’ Greg said. ‘Document all this. See the other two victims downstairs, how they were killed, interpret the clues.’

  Donaldson shook his head. ‘Go home to your wife. Forensics are on their way. They’ll photograph everything, bag and tag it. We got him, thanks to you.’

  Greg nodded absently. His mind kept playing back The Divine’s parting jibe.

  Wrong place.

  ‘Anything from Rickard?’ Greg asked. ‘He could have been right, you know.’

  ‘Could have. Should have. But he was plain wrong. You were right. The warehouse was empty. Now, go–’

  Donaldson’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the number, then took the call. As the caller talked and Donaldson listened intently, he paled. He glanced at Greg once, then turned away, still listening.

  While Greg waited, he pulled out his own phone. Two missed calls, one from Donaldson, and one from Kate. No voicemail, but an SMS.

  Greg, where are you, I think someone is here.

  He stared at the message, barely hearing Donaldson mutter something and end his call.

  ‘Greg,’ Donaldson said.

  Greg stared at the SMS as two words ricocheted around his skull.

  Wrong place.

  Heat built in his shoulders, flushed into his neck, crawled up onto his scalp.

  ‘Greg… I’m so sorry. Something’s happened… to Kate. Something truly awful… Jesus.’

  And Greg knew straightaway that she was dead, and that The Divine had known, which meant she’d been killed, maybe beaten, maybe tortured, maybe… He stopped breathing, because his chest was in a vice. His vision turned blotchy. His own worldview spun about him, and he found himself on his hands and knees.

  ‘Medic!’ Greg heard Donaldson yell.

  But it was too late, too late, too late.

  2

  One year later

  Greg spun the stainless-steel revolver on the table in front of him. Kate’s revolver, a Colt Detective Special with a two-inch barrel. A collector’s item, suitable for personal defence, easily concealed. Never fired in anger. Not within reach when she’d needed it most. It came to a halt, its snub-nosed barrel facing him. He spun it again. A move he’d seen in a film somewhere. The Deer Hunter? He couldn’t recall. It stopped, facing him again. Chance? He didn’t think so. He closed his eyes a moment, remembering the look on her face when he’d proposed at a New Year’s Eve ball six years ago. But the image of her blood-soaked corpse crashed the party.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the single bullet standing upright on the table, the only other item besides an untouched glass of Talisker, no ice. His gaze dipped to the floor. Kate murdered right there, in their living room. Cut, violated… His job had been to catch that particular killer – The Dreamer – still on the loose. But he’d gone for The Divine instead, now in prison for his remaining days, in a coma, unable to provide answers.

  He reached for the .38 round, ignoring the tremor in his hand. He played with it a moment, rolling it between fingers Kate had once told him were those of a pianist, though he didn’t play an instrument, could barely hold a tune. His pulse kicked up a notch as he clicked open the cylinder, slotted the bullet into one of the six empty chambers, snapped it shut and rolled the wheel. He set the revolver down on the table, flicked it around one last time, watched it slow and stop. Facing him.
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  Time.

  He took a sip, barely tasting his favourite whisky as his gaze locked onto the windowless wall opposite. A patchwork of photos, news clippings, maps, thin lines of tape radiating out from a central image, occasionally crossing, never converging. A spider’s web with a smattering of dead flies, but no spider. One year on, Kate’s murder a cold case. The Dreamer hadn’t been found, and – as far as Greg knew – hadn’t struck again since.

  Donaldson had made a sterling apology last month, which was apt given that he’d been a guest at their wedding five years ago. Resources, he’d said, other threats, no decent, or even indecent, leads. Greg understood. He’d tried his best to be gracious about it, because his colleagues in the force, even Rickard, had pulled out all the stops on this one. But The Dreamer had got away. Greg had promised himself – and Kate, in her absence – he’d wait six months. It had been a year. The pain wasn’t going away like everyone promised it would. Nor were the nightmares, where he almost saved her. Then there was the guilt, because she’d tried to call him, and he’d been elsewhere while she was being tortured and killed. His breathing sped up again. Blood flushed into his head, the knuckles on his fists whitened. Anger at the killer for being here, of all places, a year ago. Rage at himself for not.

  Kate would have told him that guilt was a rubbish emotion, that it never helped anything. Besides, he’d saved the girl and brought justice to The Divine, and that would have given sorely needed solace to the six bereaved families left in his wake. She was right. The logic was there. But so were the pain and grief he felt all the time. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. And the meds he’d stopped taking a week ago hadn’t helped. Sure, they dulled the pain. But they hadn’t removed its source. How could they? He shut his eyes, squeezing them and his fists at the same time. The anguish built in his chest, rose up into his throat, and he let out a roar until he had no breath left. He bowed his head. And opened his eyes.

  Forgive me.

  He breathed in and out, long and slow, and stared down at the revolver. He picked up the Colt. A one-in-six chance of the bullet entering his brain and ending his life. It didn’t seem enough. He didn’t know if Kate was on the other side, or would even want to see him if she was – she’d always insisted suicide was wrong, the coward’s way out. But his life was no longer tenable. It wasn’t empty. Quite the opposite. It was full of reasons to miss her. He was tired of waking up expecting to find her next to him and then remembering. Tired of catching a fleeting glimpse of someone who from the back could have been her. Tired of listening to that last, bland recorded message telling him earlier that day that she’d be working late at home that night, telling him not to rush back. He couldn’t bring himself to delete it. It was her voice.