‘I can’t tell you any more. I don’t know any more. You can help me to stop him. Help me to stop him taking over.’

Marty’s mind was a white sheet of fear. He couldn’t think at all. He was scared for himself now. Perhaps this man had killed Kitty Hunyardi. He stared at him hard.

‘Shocking, isn’t it, Dr Fox? I’m as shocked as you. Please help me.’

‘What do you want? I can’t help. Go to the cops. You need to get yourself sectioned or locked up.’

‘I want to know what I am. I want to know why something happened to Chloe. I want to know what the hell is going on. I want it to stop.’ He pulled out an envelope and poured the contents on to the glass table. ‘A diamond necklace. I found it in my pocket. Where the hell would I get a necklace like this?’

Marty didn’t know what to think.

‘The American Devil has killed rich girls. Why do I have a rich girl’s necklace in my pocket? What am I going to do?’

‘Listen,’ Marty said, ‘we’ve got to get you some serious help.’

‘I’ll be put away for the rest of my life. Please help me.’

Nick was a pathetic, weak figure on the couch. Marty looked across. ‘Look, I can’t help you. Have you not fucking noticed? I’m a fake, a flake, a pathetic excuse for a therapist. I know nothing about how to heal people. I just talk to them. I just want an easy life. We’ll just say goodbye and forget all about it. How about that?’

‘Then Sebastian wins,’ said Nick.

Marty reached for his cigarettes and lit another. ‘I can’t help that. I really can’t.’

‘You know that those things will kill you, don’t you?’

Marty looked up at Nick. ‘Yeah, I know.’

Nick felt someone or something move within the corridors of his mind. Footsteps, heavy and distant. He was coming now. Nick looked up to Marty, his face contorted with fear. ‘He’s coming, Doctor. I can feel him.’

Nick’s voice suddenly dropped an octave and a deep baritone voice said, ‘You know what the motto of St Sebastian is, Doctor? Beauty constant under torture. Show nothing, remain beautiful, whatever the pain.’

Nick removed his hand from his pocket and raised a clenched fist up before him. ‘I can sometimes keep him away. Sometimes I can.’ Marty looked across - dark red blood was streaming from his hand, through the fingers and knuckles and on to the table and carpet. Marty rushed across and took hold of Nick’s arm. ‘Stop it! What the hell are you doing? Jesus!’

He pulled open Nick’s bloody fist and a handful of sharp flat-headed nails clattered on to the glass table and across the floor, peppering the pale carpet with spots of blood. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Nick?’ Marty said, staring hard at Nick, who was concentrating with all his strength. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘Resisting,’ said Nick. ‘Resisting him.’

Chapter Sixty-One

Marty Fox’s Suite

November 28, 11.45 a.m.

Marty waited until he saw Nick disappear across the street, then he stood up. His shirt was sticking to him. He pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled it off and threw it in the trash. Then he pulled the New York Times out of the trash. He’d seen the killer’s profile that morning in the paper but ignored it. Now he wanted to know. He read the 500-word description. His pulse started racing. Nick was a good match.

He pressed through to his PA. ‘Get me a new shirt, will you, Jane.’

‘I’m sorry, Dr Fox, he pushed right past me.’

‘Yeah. I . . . Don’t worry. And put me through to the police.’

‘The police?’

Jane paused and then she said she would do as he asked.

Just then, Marty’s cell phone vibrated. He took his jacket and searched the pocket. He pulled out his phone and pressed to read the text. An image appeared on his screen. He stared at it in confusion. What did she do that for? It was a picture of his wife. She was outside their house, getting into her car. It was earlier that day, he was sure of it. She was wearing what she had on that morning. White trousers and a purple blouse. What did she send that for? He looked at the message details - it wasn’t from her cell.

Marty put his phone down on the desk and tried to think. Then the cell vibrated again and clicked against the glass. Another text arrived. Marty opened it. It was another picture. His wife, getting out of her car at her office. Again, it was a picture taken earlier in the day. A fear was dawning on Marty as he looked at the screen. Then another text arrived. There was his lovely wife at work. Another text came quickly after. This time she was looking directly into the camera and smiling. Marty’s hand was shaking. His phone was vibrating constantly as photograph after photograph appeared. All of his wife, all from earlier in the day. All from someone standing close to her.

Jane called back through. ‘I’ve got the police on the line. Can I patch you through?’

‘Jane, that guy who just left; the guy who calls himself Nick Smith - he didn’t say anything to you, did he?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You ever give him my cell phone number?’

‘Sure. At the first session. Just your work phone, not your private number.’

‘Thank you, Jane.’

‘Can I patch you through now?’

‘Sure.’

Marty looked down at his wife’s smiling face then put his cell phone down. It continued to buzz with a life of its own. He picked up the office phone, his voice catching dry in his throat. ‘Sorry, officer, I’ve made a mistake. It’s fine. I had a client who was refusing to leave, but he’s gone now. Sorry for wasting your time.’ He put the phone down quickly.

Five more photographs arrived. Nick Smith had been following her right until he started out to Marty’s office. Marty’s heart was pounding. Nick or, worse, Sebastian had been stalking his wife. And he was feeling the guilt himself. Marty felt his cowardice leaching the colour from his skin.

He looked down at the last photograph of his wife, a woman he’d lied to and betrayed for fifteen years. And now someone was threatening her life. Tears formed in Marty’s eyes like long-lost relatives arriving at a funeral. He was a cheap, lying, adulterous bastard, but his heart yearned for her like a dog. He wanted to howl. He looked at her familiar face and realized why he was crying. He was looking at the only thing on earth that he really loved and wondering why the hell he was killing her.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Dresden Home

November 28, 11.55 a.m.

Dee had never meant to get married. It was always part of her long-term idea of what she’d do, but she’d never meant to marry Nick. Somehow, she’d found herself at an altar standing in front of a priest knowing both that this was her destiny and that she didn’t want it at all. She cried all through her wedding night. Women like her just didn’t have the heart to fight against it. She presumed that these doubts were normal, that marriage was, for all women, a compromise between personal dreams and the needs of men.

Her problem over the years, as she saw it, was that she was loyal. Faithfulness was her cardinal virtue. It was worth more to her than love. Faith was her gold standard and she expected it from herself.

And faith was a good thing, wasn’t it? Faith was good in itself. Dee felt that her faith was tested every day after the children were born. She spoke to her priest and he agreed that faith was a good thing. He saw her bruised arms, he saw her hurt. ‘Have faith,’ he said. ‘Stick with it.’

On the morning that the papers arrived, Nick was out with the children. There was a cherry tree wood a cycle ride away and Nick sometimes liked to spend time with them there. Dee had sat in the kitchen with the weak wintry sun touching her hair and her face. The paper lay open on the table as she sipped her tea. That was when she came across the police profile of the man they called the American Devil, and her faith finally slipped.