‘Ever been hogtied, Denise?’ said Sebastian. ‘I’m the American Devil, by the way. I think you already know me well.’

Chapter Eighty-Seven

East Harlem

December 2, 11.20 p.m.

Tom Harper had wandered slowly back to his apartment. He was full of thoughts and ideas, some of which were about the case, some not. The thing that really kept him thinking was the idea that Mo and Sebastian were somehow linked.

Tom walked up the steps to his building. He wanted to forget all about the case for a few hours. There was an envelope taped to his front door, with his name written across the front of it. His heart started beating. He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and put them on. Then he opened the letter.

Dear Detective Harper,

Are you afraid of dying, Detective? I’ve seen the look on their faces when they are about to die. If you kill them slowly enough, they reveal their secrets. Did you know that? They are at their most beautiful just as they die. What will your face look like, I wonder? Shit-scared like Williamson? Proud like Elizabeth Seale?

I’m after you, now, Detective Harper. Just you. Williamson never was good enough, but I’m going to make an example out of you.

All my girls died in their own particular way. I guess, Detective Harper, that I’m more afraid of dying than any of them. More afraid of loving too.

Artists are like that, unable to love, afraid to die, outcasts from life’s feast. We live for our work, nothing else. My sculpture is complete but for one thing and that’s you, Detective. I want your blood to mingle with theirs. We’ll meet soon, I’m sure of that.

I know you like Denise, Detective, I know you’re going to miss her and you are going to try to find her. I know what it’s like to miss them. It’s like nothing else in the world. I want you to feel pain, Tom Harper.

Think of my taking Denise as a necessary preparation for your ending. First, I will tenderize you with pain and guilt, then I will cut you up and serve you on a plate.

Yours,

Sebastian

Harper swallowed hard. He felt the crawl of fear over his skin. He had not felt this terror before. Not personally. Now he knew what it felt like. Sebastian was after Denise.

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Harper’s Apartment

December 2, 11.25 p.m.

The back stairway was painted dark green and echoed to the smallest sound. Harper sprinted down the stairs, jumping the flights of steps in one leap, his footfalls rebounding off the walls and climbing high into the building. He already had his cell phone in his hand and at the bottom of the steps he called Denise. He stood there, breathing heavily, listening to the phone ringing and ringing. ‘Please pick up, damn you. Pick up!’

No one did. Harper looked up the street. How was he going to get to Denise’s in time? He could get a cab, take a car, but the subway would be the quickest of all. It was a few stops. He tried to calculate quickly and was caught in a moment of indecision. Then he darted towards the subway, a look of panic etched across his face.

All the time he intoned her name like a prayer. Denise. Denise. Denise. Perhaps Denise didn’t know yet. Perhaps Sebastian hadn’t managed to get to her. God help her! As he ran towards the subway, he called Eddie.

‘No time for talking, Eddie. Sebastian’s gone for Denise. Get a patrol to her apartment fast.’ He knew Eddie would be on to the duty supervisor immediately.

He headed down into the subway and stood on the train, staring straight ahead and shaking in the bold yellow lights. There was nothing worse than fearing for someone you cared for, when your mind could hardly dare to admit that they were only in danger because of you. His shirt was drenched in sweat.

He was trying to think. Maybe it was not too late. Maybe Sebastian had made a mistake. Maybe, he should’ve seen this coming. Maybe, maybe, maybe, ran through his head with the rhythm of the train.

He couldn’t believe how slow the journey was. He couldn’t believe he was so impotent. He just tensed and tried to remain focused. She needed him focused. She needed him, period. A busker got on at the next station, carrying a guitar. He stood in the middle of the train and strummed and sang. Some John Lennon number about peace.

The doors seemed to remain open an interminable length of time and then drew together like drapes drawn by a geriatric. Thinking of the killer alone with Denise Levene, her pale skin, her gentle blue eyes, Harper strained to keep the anger and fear from boiling over.

The train finally drew into Denise’s station. Tom called out: ‘Police! Move!’ and started to shove people out of the way as he pushed his way up towards the street.

It wasn’t so busy that he couldn’t get anywhere, but he came up against more and more crowds. He was drowning in a sea of people. It felt like a lifetime before he made it above ground again and ran towards Denise’s apartment. As he turned into her street, he saw the blue and red lights flashing.

He raced to the building, through the doors, and up the stairs. In her corridor, there were cops all over. The rumble of distant voices on the shortwave, the hush of whispered conversations.

Harper burst into the apartment. ‘Where is she? Where is she?’ No one answered. Their eyes twitched and lowered. He’d seen that look so many times before. It was only ever used on the bereaved. God, please don’t let her be dead! Tom walked through the door into the bathroom, where he could see the backs of a group of broad-shouldered officers and detectives.

A uniformed officer turned, looked at him dead on and shook his head.

‘We got here too late,’ he said.

Tom felt as though he was falling down a black hole. His head was clouding over. He stumbled a few steps and looked at what the team was examining.

There was no body. No Denise. The shower cubicle was splattered and splashed with blood and Denise was gone. The monster had her.

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Mace Crindle Plant

December 3, 12.25 a.m.

In 1995, Elliot Crindle of Mace Crindle Corporation, a petrochemical giant, agreed to a settlement with the United States Department of Justice and the United States Environmental Protection Agency. In addition to a very lenient $2 million civil penalty for industrial pollution from leaking sewers and over 65 separate environmental violations, Elliot agreed to upgrade or replace over 18 miles of ageing sewers across the plant.

The ancient pumping centre occupied a large underground site with cavernous rooms formed by elaborate brick arches. The company had closed this unit and sealed it. It lay ten metres below ground, accessible, still, through an industrial elevator in land once belonging to the company and now derelict.

Into this abandoned underground room Sebastian walked, the still body of Denise Levene over his shoulder.

At the centre of the vast and labyrinthine old sewer complex was a large circular space. In it was a set of shelves upon which sat Sebastian’s curiosities and artefacts, his own small contribution to the grotesque. His women. He had the clothes belonging to all of them hanging on the walls. There were rows of photographs of each woman taken as they were stalked, then the grotesque shots of their murders and the still, posed bodies hit by the glare of the camera flash.

In the centre, a glass vitrine containing his sculpture of body parts in formaldehyde, The Progression of Love.