‘Sturbe’s angry.’

‘I took a hit for you.’

‘You’re out, no one else is. Not Paddy, Ray or Ocks. Just you. You know what that tells me?’

‘I didn’t get caught hitting someone.’

‘You hit Harper. No, Leo, it means that you gave them some information.’

‘No, sir, not me.’

‘You know what that’s called, Leo?’

‘No.’

‘High fucking treason.’

‘I did nothing. No treason, nothing.’

‘You’re not safe, Leo. You’re like a weak point in a wall and the thing is, the weak point is the point where the wall breaks.’

‘I’m not a weak point, I swear.’

‘I’m going to go in the bedroom, talk to Sturbe; we’re going to decide what to do with you.’

Leo watched. ‘Fuck you, Martin. There is no Sturbe. You fuck. You’re just trying to spook me. We all know that Sturbe’s just a fucking game you play. You can fuck off and die, Martin.’

‘Really? You think that, do you? You think that this has no one behind it? Really? You think this is just me?’

‘Fuck you, Martin. We’ve all been up to the compound this Sturbe wants us to build and none of us have seen him.’

‘You’ve got to watch yourself, Leo.’

‘Do I?’

‘Sure you do, kiddo.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You know what happens when you stop believing in the bogeyman.’

‘What?’ said Lukanov, his head twisting to look over his shoulder.

‘The bogeyman comes to pay you a visit.’

Apartment, Yorkville

March 10, 6.45 a.m.

The autopsy on Marisa Cohen found a third bullet. Harper had it in his hand. He needed an answer soon. Even if they caught Martin Heming, they’d need some evidence to link him to the murders.

Each bullet was too mangled and, without a cartridge, there was no way of matching it to a gun. But Harper wanted to know more.

Eddie was working with Hate Crime, conducting interviews with friends and relations of Marisa Cohen. So Harper brought Denise with him.

Denise sat in the car. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I need someone to look over the three bullets. Ballistics have nothing much, but I gave them to someone who used to work with us. He’s retired, works the odd case with the FBI. He’s one of the best. Hans Formet.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘These bullets look different to me — so do the entrance wounds they leave. They’re tight, no expansion. Look, Hans is a genius. If anyone can find something, he will.’

‘Anything on the tail?’

‘No, he’s still in his apartment. Sleeping. He didn’t get back until after five a.m. What about Abby?’

‘We’re working on the note. Nothing yet. What am I here for, Tom?’

‘You’re here to certify I’m of sound mind and let me know if I’m not.’

‘But if you’re not, you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Then get me to a psychiatrist as soon as you can.’

They both smiled.

‘I want to hear more about what Aaron said. You can talk on the drive over.’

Harper pulled out. Denise filled him in on the Nazi symbols used in the three murders and Harper listened intently. ‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to understand him.’

‘With Aaron’s help, I am.’

Harper and Levene arrived at the home of ballistics expert Hans Formet and walked up the steps.

‘What did the CSU find on the Capske bullet?’ asked Denise.

‘The initial ballistics report was inconclusive. They carried out some ballistic imaging on the bullet, but nothing came up on the National Network. There was too much damage.’

‘No way to tell if it was the same gun that fired both bullets?’

‘If the gun that shot this bullet had been used before, we wouldn’t be able to tell from the mangled slug we’ve got. We didn’t find the cartridges. They’d tell us more.’

‘So what the hell can Hans Formet tell us?’

‘I don’t know, but we’re going to find out soon.’

Harper rang the bell and waited. After a long while, Hans Formet appeared.

Hans was of Austrian origin. A short, balding man with small intense eyes, he was in a white coat, the picture of the anti-social scientist. Harper said hello. Hans smiled and stared at Denise.

‘How you getting on?’ said Harper.

‘Who’s this? Some inspector?’

‘Dr Levene. Psychologist. Working on the case.’

‘Don’t try to read me, Dr Levene, okay?’

‘We’re interested in bullets, not therapy,’ said Denise.

Hans eyed her for another second, then seemed to let it go. He turned to Harper. ‘I found something interesting,’ he said. ‘Something very interesting. You should come in.’

‘Thanks,’ said Harper, and the door opened.

Hans stared at Harper for a moment longer than was comfortable. ‘If you want something done properly, you come to me. Those new recruits at CSU are full of techniques, but they have no depth of knowledge. Everything is from a computer. No real-world experience.’

Hans smiled thinly and led Harper and Levene down to his lab. He waited for Harper to say something. Clearly Harper was supposed to acknowledge his old-school brilliance. Harper didn’t. He looked around at the images on the walls — all of them bullets and cartridges. ‘You like bullets, Hans?’

‘Yes, I like bullets. That’s called dry humor, isn’t it?’

‘If you ever got caught up in a murder investigation, you’d be a prime suspect,’ said Denise, staring at the obsessively neat closeups of bullets.

Hans led them past the workbenches to a desk with three computer screens side-by-side.

‘So this is where you get to play now?’ said Harper.

‘Since I retired, yes. Anyway, I like to do my own work out here away from those new guys with their smart shirts. I don’t like bright colors, you see. What did they find in these bullets?’

‘Nothing,’ said Harper. Denise watched from a distance.

‘Nothing is correct, Detective. But what did I get?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Harper. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘What have I got for you? Here,’ said Hans. A picture came up on the screen.

Harper looked at two close-up photographs of the twisted gray bullets. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘It didn’t take long — not long at all, considering that no one else spotted it. There is something unusual in your bullets. Your instincts were right, Detective.’

‘What did you spot?’ said Harper. ‘Come on, he could’ve murdered again in the time you’ve taken building up to the show.’

Denise Levene felt her interest growing as she stared at a magnified picture of a used bullet. A bullet that had passed through Esther Haeber’s body.

‘Look, here’s the Capske bullet. And here’s your bullet from Esther Haeber. They are both badly damaged. Much more deformed than you would expect. You can see that right away. I presume that is why the young technical specialists at the CSU labs could not identify them. They only know modern bullets. But even for me, this is not something I’ve seen outside of museums and I’ve seen everything post 1961. So that led me to believe that this was older.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes. This, Detective Harper, is, as you know, a 9mm Parabellum. But it is an unusual 9mm. Firstly, the metal is different from usual and so is the color.’

‘Looks like it got burned.’

‘It’s a different metal. Not a metal anyone uses to make bullets.’

‘What is it?’

Hans Formet put his hand on top of Harper’s. He whispered, ‘This, Detective, is an iron bullet.’

‘An iron bullet — what does that mean?’

‘Very rare in this size of ballistics. Very rare. So rare, in fact, that you have a connection between your apparently unconnected murders.’

Harper put the third bullet down on the desk. ‘This came from our next victim, Marisa Cohen.’

Hans pulled it out of the bag with forceps and turned it under his eye. ‘It appears the same,’ he said. He dropped it into a small dish and squeezed some droplets on it. They changed color. ‘Iron,’ nodded Hans.