There had been the first time, when he had seen Saul’s fathershattered on the lawn. Not systematically pulped like this, it wastrue. Maybe he had been running from the flat. Maybe that was why hisinjuries were less severe; he had tasted it in the air, he had knownthat had he stayed he would not just die but be crushed. He had notwanted to die like an insect, so he had hurled himself instead fromthe window, eager for a human death.

Crowley shook his head. His edge was blunting, he could not helpit. Here we are again.

Then Barker, another one whose face was destroyed, and Page,looking over his own shoulder, impossible.

And now another had been broken on this sacrificial altar. Thegirl lay on her back, the floor around her was vile with blood. Herface was bent inwards as if on a hinge. Crowley glanced up at thedoor-frame. That patch of wood there, with radial explosions of bloodand saliva and mucus bursting out from it on all sides, that sectionof the frame there, that was where her face had been thrust.

Crowley vaguely remembered the sense of duty which pushed him intothe dark corridors at night, as he lay sleeping. He would stand inthe sitting-room, where he was now, looking behind him, again, again,like a dog chasing its tail, unable to stand still because he knewthat if he did something would come and smash his face…

He never saw Saul, in his dreams.

Bailey entered, pushing through the perplexed knot ofuniforms.

‘No sign of anything anywhere else, sir. Just this, justhere.’

‘Has Herrin got anything?’ he said.

‘He’s still talking to the uniform who got called to the busstation this morning. A load of the buses are smashed up; and theguard, they reckon it wasn’t the glass in his eye that killed him. Hewas hit over the head with a long, thin stick.’

‘Our unusual club, again,’ mused Crowley. ‘Too thin for mostpeople’s taste; they like something that packs a wallop. Of course,if you’re as strong as our murderer seems to be, the thinner thebetter. Less surface area, more pressure.’

‘Our murderer, sir?’

Crowley looked at him. Bailey seemed confused, and evenaccusatory. Crowley could tell that he thought his superior waslosing it. The extraordinary nature of the crimes had affected Baileyin the opposite way from Crowley. He had been thrust towards anaggressive, dogmatic common sense, determined to bring Saul to heel,refusing to be overawed or surprised by the carnage he saw.

‘What?’ demanded Crowley.

‘You sound unsure, sir. Have you got some reason for thinking it’snot Garamond?’

Crowley shook his head as if at a mosquito, irritated, brushingthe air. Bailey withdrew.

Yes, I have ample reason, thought Crowley, because I interviewedhim and saw him. I mean Jesus look at him, he did not do this. And ifhe did, then something happened to change him in that night after Iinterviewed him, and he changed so much he is no longer what I saw,in which case I am still right, Saul Garamond did not do this, and Idon’t give a shit what you and Herrin think, you lumbering greatpricks.

Nothing added up. The dead guard at Westbourne Grove was clearlythe victim of the same man as had killed the two policemen, and thisgirl here lying ruined in blood and bone. But the police had beencalled to the bus station minutes after the inhabitants of TerragonMansions had reported violent shouts and bumps from upstairs. AndWestbourne Park was simply too far from Willesden to be reached inthat time. So whoever was shattering all that glass in those busesand pushing it in that poor man’s eye could not be the same one whohad destroyed this woman.

Of course, Herrin and Bailey saw no problem with this. Someone hadbeen confused about the time. The people in Willesden must be half anhour or so out. Or the people in Westbourne Grove were, or both werefifteen minutes out, or something. And the fact that so many were outby the same amount, well, what did you think happened then, sir? Ifnot that?

And of course Crowley had no answer.

He was intrigued by reports of music coming from the garage at thetime Saul — or whoever — was destroying it. The reports were vague,but seemed to indicate a high-pitched sound like a recorder or aflute or pipes, or something. Saul was no musician, Crowley knewthat, though he was apparently something of an aficionado of Dancemusic, the kind that his taciturn friend Natasha played. So what ofthe pipes?

Crowley could see the scenario being created for Saul. Saul hadbecome a serial killer. And Saul therefore needed rituals, such asthe return to this, the site of his first murder, that had unhingedhim. And the playing of music at the site of a murder, such as theone at the bus station, what was this but ritualized? Perhaps he hadplayed music also at the death of the as yet unidentified man in theunderground, a crime Crowley was still sure was part of the samerampage. The public-transport connection only strengthened hisconviction.

So, why was Saul no longer into Dance music? Why had he startedplaying what most of those who had heard it described as Folk music?None of this was airtight, of course, of course…

But Crowley could not help thinking it might be another who hadplayed the music in the bus station. Why not? Why must it be Saul?What if it was another who mocked him with this music so utterlydifferent to Saul’s own taste?

Crowley straightened up suddenly. A long, thin, light club. Madeof metal: the impact was clear about that. Something the murdererhung on to, used more than once. Took from crime to crime. Where heplayed music, it seemed.

‘Bailey!’ Crowley yelled.

The big man appeared, still impatient, still exasperated with hisboss.

He all but rolled his eyes at Crowley’s new question.

‘Bailey, do any of Saul’s mates play the flute?’

Deep underneath London, King Rat skulked and ferreted in thedarkness.

He clutched a stash of food, carried it slung over one shoulderlike a swag bag. His strides were long A and left no sign. He stalkedsilently through the water of the sewers.

The rats ran as he approached. The braver souls stayed a little tospit at him and provoke him. His smell was deeply ingrained in theirnervous system, and they had been taught to despise it. King Ratignored them. Walked on. His eyes were dark.

He passed like a thief in the night. Unclear. Minimal. Dirty.Subaltern. His motives were opaque.

He reached under the dirty stream to dislodge the plug to histhrone-room, slid through the murk into the great teardrop chamber.He shook the water from him, and stamped into the room.

Saul came from behind him. He clutched a broken chair leg which heswung at an incredible speed and cracked against the back of KingRat’s skull.

King Rat flew forward and flung his arms out with a sudden shrillbark of pain. He sprawled, rolled, clutching his head, regained hisfooting.

Food spread across the sodden floor.

Saul was upon him, quivering, his jaw set hard and tight. He swungthe chair leg again and again.

King Rat was as pliable as quicksilver. He slid impossibly out ofSaul’s flurry of blows and scampered away, hissing, clutching hisbleeding head.

He spun to face Saul.

Saul’s face was a mosaic of bruises and blood and puffy flesh.King Rat was quite still. He eyed Saul with his hidden eyes. Histeeth were bared and glinted with dirty yellow light. His breathcame hard. His hands were crooked into eager claws.

But Saul hit him again, before those claws could move. Saul’shands and club came at him hard, but King Rat ripped up with hisclawed hands and drew lines on Saul’s stomach, below his ruinedshirt.

Saul spoke, muttering in time to the blows he attempted toland.

‘So what the fuck was Loplop doing there, unh?’ Slam.