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  “That’s wonderful. Then we’re all right, right?”

  “That’s the thing, we’re not. I thought I could make this work but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you remind me too much of my wife. And you know what? After realizing that Stewart is behind this, you might be wise to stay away from me.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Yes, neither was my wife. This is a dangerous game we play. Hell, we shouldn’t even consider it a game. It’s serious. People get hurt, especially those who are not trained to . . . You should know this best of all.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m muddled. I need some space and time to think, sort it all out. I’m not angry at you, I’m worried about you.” He turned around and started walking away down the pavement.

  She didn’t follow. He was right. It was a crazy world and she wasn’t just behind a desk anymore, viewing it through rose-colored lenses. It had become violent in the past and it would again if she wasn’t careful. He was only trying to protect her.

  He stopped and turned around. “Are you coming?”

  “No, because I agree with you, Foxton. It’s better if we keep our distance.”

  He approached, nodding.

  “When do you transfer?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It has to be approved and I’m not sure they’ll think of approving it until after the case is over. Even then . . .” He paced back and forth. “Do you want to grab a coffee?”

  She nodded. “It’s really cold.”

  They walked to a coffee shop two streets over and stepped inside. Immediately the warmth hit her and she shivered. She found them a table in the almost empty cafe and sat down.

  “Why couldn’t we arrest Gikhrist before?”

  “We could never tie him to the crimes. He started with fraud and slowly worked his way up. He’s brilliant with computers and various forms of technology—made millions of pounds. I kick myself when I think I didn’t realize sooner that it was him behind the events at the flat. He probably had a laugh when he found out I was on his trail. He’s an arrogant bastard. The problem is that he doesn’t have a conscience, he has no problem killing to protect himself or for that matter, just for kicks.”

  “Why did he go after your wife?”

  He stared at her for a minute, probably debating whether to go further or not, but finally he replied, “To get to me. And it was a warning first. He made it clear that if I pursued him, he would go after all that was near and dear to me. I don’t even, to this day, know how he knew Kendra was my wife . . .”

  “Is that your wife’s name?”

  He nodded.

  “Some believed he got access to our computers or had a man on the inside. We never found a leak. I actually believed Kendra was safe—I came home late and she wasn’t there. Instead of checking in on her or ringing to make sure she was all right, I went to bed. I just thought she popped out to the shops.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.” It explained why he checked up on Sophia regularly.

  “It all happens so fast. I didn’t believe it at first. I wanted to punch the person who told me such a sick joke—my wife couldn’t be dead. We made a point of it, my wife and me, to lower the risk after we got married. She held a desk job, like you. She wasn’t meant to be put in danger. I never meant to put her in danger. But it was the job. It was me.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “But I do, And one does not get over the death of one’s wife. Especially when the killer is having a laugh about it over tea.”

  Sophia put her hand on his arm. It shook. “I can’t possibly say I understand because I don’t. I lost someone close to me, only I was the bloody killer.” She took a sip of her coffee. Her lip was beginning to quiver. “We have to be smarter than him. I’m sure we are. If he can get to us, we can get to him. Crystal and I can make it a priority to find him. And not only that, we’ll find out how he managed to get away with things for so long and catch him.”

  “That’s not your priority—you have other cases you need to work on. They don’t like me taking you away from your assignments. I can’t ask you to do that. If they wanted the team to find him that way, they would have made it a priority for you. Right now they are more interested in the weapons. I have to follow orders.” He looked at his mobile. “I can’t ask you to look into it.”

  She understood. “All right. I will tell Crystal what you told me.”

  “Sophia, you can’t get too involved, do you understand? If you do, he’ll come after you. You have to be very careful. He will have no qualms holding a gun to the back of your head and blowing your bloody brains out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Theo, and for that matter, Dorland, did not have much experience with autopsy. “Experience with autopsy.” What a way to describe it—as if it was something to be desired. The room was sterile except for the naked man that lay on the table. Theo watched Dr. Alfred Waynton lay out all his utensils one by one, picturing what each was used for, imagining the knives slicing through human flesh. His stomach turned over.

  “Would you like a glass of water, Theo?”

  Theo looked up at Waynton and swallowed sharply. “No. I’m all right. Just tired.”

  “Well, don’t fall asleep during the autopsy. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

  Dorland seemed happy in the room, laughing, making jokes. Theo supposed it was his uncle that calmed him. What must family dinners be like? Did they let him carve the turkey? De-bone a ham? One by one, each organ was removed, weighed, and examined.

  “The old man was in fine health, save a missing leg,” Waynton said, removing his gloves and donning a new pair. “I can tell you this, the person who murdered him was shorter than him. Can’t tell you if it was male or female, only that it is possible for it to be either sex.”

  “What about the wound? Did the killer know what they were doing?”

  “I think that they aimed for the heart. Although he was only stabbed once, the knife didn’t go deep. Only half the knife entered the chest cavity. Fortunately for the killer, they struck right on target. The good news is that he was dead almost instantly.”

  “As far as you can tell, this murder was not done by a professional?”

  “No, well, I suppose it might have been, but it could have been committed by anyone else too.”

  “Male or female.”

  “Yes. Male or female.”

  So, really we have nothing to go on?”

  “I’ve collected a few fibers, but unless the killer screwed up and left some mark on the knife I’m not sure you’ll be able to find him or her from the autopsy results.”

  “What about the leg? Why was it removed?”

  “It’s hard to say. I looked up the man’s health records but all it said was his leg was amputated due to an infection. How he received the infection is unknown. The amputation was done by a doctor in the NHS. Can’t remember the hospital off-hand.”

  The tox screen also proved disappointing. Other than a few common medications relating to high blood pressure all in their proper doses, there were no unusual substances found. He had not drunk in days and suffered from nothing life-shattering. If he had not been stabbed, he would probably have lived for years to come. How could the man manage to make someone angry enough to plan this murder? The reason was not apparent to either detective.

  Three phone calls to forensics only depressed Theo further, for there were no useful prints other than what belonged to the deceased and the nurse. No footprints, no other blood. Any hopes for useful DNA leading to an arrest of a suspect were unrewarding. It was a standard kitchen knife. No unique brand name.

  “The public doesn’t like a senseless murder of a crippled old man just heading out to retrieve his newspaper. It makes the populace afraid and their fears fall on us. It really is important, but I think you know how important it is. Don’t you?” Theo said.

  Dorland nodded.

  “We
must be running backwards,” Theo said, walking toward his office, “because I sure feel like vomiting.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sophia spent the afternoon going through all the files she could find on Gikhrist Stewart. Although there was a lot of information and countless missions, they had always failed to catch him. Sophia stared at the face of the man who killed Liam’s wife.

  She laid the picture to her right and piled other papers on top. The papers were the notes from Doc Tipring’s Uncle Earnest. She had forgotten all about them. The events of the last few days completely occupied her thoughts. And she had assured Theo she would get back to him.

  Sophia dropped those thoughts and headed for Crystal’s desk instead. “I need you to track Liam’s mobile for me.”

  Crystal just stared at her but didn’t respond. That’s why Sophia loved her; she didn’t ask questions. “It’s available on your computer or mobile.” She handed Sophia a paper with some login information.

  Sophia preferred to follow Liam privately and chose to use her mobile instead. A small flashing light indicated where Liam was, but he was on the move. A half hour later, the light finally stopped. Where was he? She pulled out her A–Z and looked around. He must be in one of the shops along the street.

  Halfway to Liam’s location, Sophia almost turned her car around. He was a grown man and could take care of himself.

  The rain turned from drizzle to downpour and the traffic almost stopped. By the time she reached him, he would have moved on. However, after forty-five minutes, the dot indicating Liam’s location still hadn’t moved. The GPS locater wasn’t getting her closer than five hundred meters which left her a large area to search, and Liam’s four-door non-descript surveillance car did not help either. The light turned red. She put her car into park and turned around to look. She couldn’t see anything with the rain running down her windows.

  The light turned green and a car honked behind her. She moved on, but she couldn’t slow down enough to examine each car. No, she would have to make a search—on foot. Liam’s car should be parked nearby. At the end of the street she circled around and parked down the street in one of the few spaces available for her larger Merc.

  The prospect of getting out of the car wasn’t a pleasant one for none of the men and women who made their way on foot outside her car looked happy. Most stood under the protective cover of the shop’s doorways or inside. She reached in her back seat for her black umbrella and soon realized it wasn’t there so now she would have to tromp through the rain in her leather flats instead of her more practical Wellies. She pulled off her socks and placed them on the passenger seat. She rolled up the legs of her trousers but knew it wouldn’t really matter; she would be drenched anyway.

  Her first step from the car landed her in a puddle of frigid water. What was she doing? She ran into an off-license and grocery shop and asked the man behind the counter for an umbrella. The man grunted and pointed toward the front of the shop. She scanned the aisles until she finally saw one umbrella in a bin. One of the arms of the umbrella flopped sideways when she lifted it from the space.

  “It’s broken,” she yelled to the owner.

  He shrugged. “It’s all we have.”

  “How much?”

  “A fiver.”

  “What, for a broken umbrella?”

  He shrugged again.

  With a huff, she reached into her handbag and brought out a five pound note from a zipped pocket. “This is thievery, plain and simple thievery. You’re only charging this because it’s raining.”

  “Then don’t buy it.”

  She bit the side of her cheek to hold her tongue. This wasn’t the time to make a scene. Back in the rain with a limpy umbrella, she scanned each car along the street. She could barely see, but halfway down the street, on the other side, she spotted his car. As she approached from behind, she could see a form in the driver’s seat.

  What was he doing? The car wasn’t running and he wasn’t moving. For a split second, panic hit her. He wasn’t depressed, was he? He did yell at her but he wasn’t angry enough to take his own life. She laughed aloud at her stupidity.

  The closer she came to his car, the clearer Liam appeared. She saw he wasn’t sleeping but looking ahead, down the street. He didn’t seem to see her but he was focused on something.

  The light turned red and Sophia made her way across the street between the stopped cars. She hesitated when she reached the pavement. The last time she spoke to Liam, he yelled at her. What could she possibly say to him that wouldn’t get the same reaction?

  Distracted in her thoughts, she didn’t see the group of six people walking down the street toward her until she and her umbrella walked headlong into a burly man. The man pushed her aside, pressing the umbrella against her face.

  “Get your gamp out of my face,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied and placed the umbrella upside down on the pavement. Another spoke had broken against her cheek and the device now resembled a parachuting spider.

  Another man, with a woman on each arm—in order to use his raincoat as a cover—stopped and stared at her in contempt. Sophia placed a hand on her cheek, both to stop the stinging and the shock at who she faced—Stewart. She studied the killer’s eyes—he was clearly annoyed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again, barely audible, and ran past.

  Damn that man. What game was he playing? Liam got pulled from the case for a reason. Tailing Stewart would only fuel the hatred he felt for the man. He didn’t get out of his car but turned in his seat to watch the group get into their SUV. Did he see her? He didn’t seem to notice her at all. Perhaps he meant to threaten Stewart. But that would be dangerous and unnecessary. Liam obviously wasn’t thinking clearly.

  She stood shivering in the rain for a moment longer and decided to head home. The debate within herself to confront Liam ended quickly; the sod probably wouldn’t hear a word she had to say.

  After collecting her umbrella and forcing it closed, she hurried toward her car. On the way, she threw the umbrella into the metal bin at the shop she brought it from. The owner only grunted.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dr. Marjorie Peters had only watched a human die once. She would never forget—it was one of the most powerful experiences a person could witness. They had tried everything in their power to stop it, the hospital staff, but as Marjorie held the tiny, lifeless form in her hands, she knew the bleeding would only claim the life of the mother as well.

  Marjorie had looked into the mother’s eyes as she took her final few breaths. Although Alice would die along with her son, but it looked as if she didn’t care. She wanted to hold him, if it was the last thing she ever did. And it was the last thing. Pale and lifeless they both were, surrounded by a sea of red. So final. So unchangeable. So absolute. So scary.

  And yet, soon another would die, this time, at Marjorie’s own hand. She couldn’t turn back now, could she? Her heart began to race and she could feel her face grow numb. Seventeen minutes. After she pushed the button, it only took seventeen minutes for the anger to wear off and the regret to sink in. But there was no turning back. They had asked her multiple times if she was sure, and when she was angry or scared, she was sure. But then she remembered Alice, who didn’t deserve to die. Did anyone deserve to die? Did she have the right to kill?

  Her whole body had become numb now and she shook out her arms. What was she thinking?

  One thing was for sure, she couldn’t think about this now. She must concentrate on work. After taking a deep breath, she turned the handle on room one.

  She had to concentrate on other things—she had to remember why she pushed the button: for the children—her lost children. Children.

  “What? Did you say children?”

  Dr. Marjorie Peters looked up at the woman whose foot she was holding in her hand.

  “Children?” Marjorie asked, finally realizing that she had said the word out loud. “Ah yes, I asked if you h
ad any grandchildren.”

  “Oh yes I do, and I have pictures, loads of pictures. They are adorable.” The patient had started into her favorite subject. It was lucky for Dr. Peters that Ms. Campbell was sitting upon her medical exam table and unable to reach her handbag, which sat on a nearby chair. “Oh dear, I cannot reach them, that’s too bad. I will have to show you after you finish up. Have I shown you the photo of Carlie’s first tooth?”

  “Perhaps you have.”

  “Well, one never tires of it anyway. So, what do you think of my toe?”

  “Definitely an ingrown toenail,” she replied. “Perhaps your shoes are too tight, or you keep your nails trimmed too closely.”

  “I did buy new shoes lately, I thought they were too tight, but I just fell in love with them and the price. I couldn’t pass it up. What do you think I should do about it? Must I give up the shoes?”

  “That depends. Do you want to keep having these ingrown toenails?” After prescribing treatment, she left the room and gave instructions to the nurse, avoiding the photos.

  Sitting in her office, she looked into the waiting room. It was full. From her desk drawer, she took a bottle of tablets and placed two small pills under her tongue. The clock read ten minutes to two. Only one hour and ten minutes to go. She didn’t want to be here anymore. She didn’t want to be a doctor anymore. How could she call herself a doctor when she took an oath to do no harm and here she was, planning a murder? In university, she used to live for the future. And now, she had everything she dreamed about: lots of money, large house, and nice car. But she didn’t have what she now considered most important: happiness. And it was because she couldn’t have children. Children.

  She lived day to day, not caring how her life turned out. That was why she knew she had to start it. His death was the only way she could live. Waking up next to him every day and pretending that everything was all right was killing her. Her anger and hatred for him was eating her up. But soon it would be over; she had to put up with him for only a few more weeks.