‘You been reading up on me?’

‘Couldn’t get much.’

‘Not much to get. Parents separated. Mother’s English, she took off back to the UK some years back. Father’s a drunk, he took off to Chicago. My sister still lives in the city. She’s a lawyer. Two kids. Great kids. Me and my sister have never been close, though. Hardly speak now. I’ve lost touch.’

‘She’s older, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Always bossing you around?’

‘Yeah, she’s the one in command.’

‘Smart too?’

‘She was always smarter than me. Went to college. Got a degree. Law firm. Worked hard. She’s bringing up the two kids well. I wish I could get to see them more.’

‘Such a tender story. Why you both in law?’

‘Do I need to tell you?’

‘Why? You think I should be able to work it out?’

‘No. I know you will have already found out. Erin Nash wouldn’t come unprepared now, would she?’

‘Okay, I did a little research. I was interested.’

‘I’m flattered. What about you, Erin, what’s your background?’

‘God, we’re like some soap opera. My story is simple. I was born like this. I was spoiled by my old man and hated by Mom. I learned to enjoy annoying her. It became an art. I now use the same tactics to get under other people’s skin.’

‘What tactics are those?’

‘All people like flattery, right? You work your way in, be real nice, make them feel that you’re in need of them until they let down their guard. Then when they’ve revealed an itsy-bitsy bit of weakness, you snap their hand off.’

‘I guess, in telling me this, you’re not trying to impress me.’

‘I like you. I’m not playing games with you. You know the score. You do the same with interrogations, I bet. Soft soap followed by sudden attack. So, I’m just being honest.’

‘For a change.’

Tom pushed a gherkin around his plate. He thought of Denise, then looked up at Erin. He didn’t know what he was feeling at the moment. Hurt, mainly. The boxing match plus a couple of hits from Lukanov had left him with a few wounds. But beneath that, he was pleased to be working again, working with Denise.

‘Okay,’ said Nash. ‘Now let’s get down to business. Tell me about the case.’

‘Look, Erin, this isn’t official, but we’ve got unconnected Jewish deaths. Capske, you know about. I’ve got Esther Haeber from a few months back — and she’s Jewish. And South Manhattan found the body of a Jewish woman yesterday, apparently killed for no reason. Her name is Marisa Cohen. What’s more, about ten days ago, a Jewish high-school student was abducted.’

‘You’ve got links, haven’t you?’

‘I think so.’

‘What have you got?’

‘These three Jewish murders are all linked by an “88” written at the scene and by the use of iron bullets.’

‘What’s the significance?’

‘Being blunt, he’s using Nazi symbols and Nazi bullets and he’s attacking the Jewish community.’

‘You’ve just written tomorrow’s headline story. What do you want from me?’

‘We need help. We’re searching for a man called Martin Heming. If we could get some public help on this, we might be able to stop him.’

‘You need pressure put on him.’

‘I need information. He’s speeding up. The time between kills is falling rapidly.’

Erin Nash listened for another twenty minutes as Tom spoke and worked his way through his waiting plate. She nodded appropriately.

At the end she said, ‘Hell of a story, that, Harper. I can write this, you know.’

‘I know, but you can’t say anything definite yet.’

‘I wouldn’t need to, Harper, that’s the beauty of journalism. You have to prove your case while I just have to throw my case to the public. We’re talking about the police linking the murders of Jewish people across the city.’

‘Don’t name me as the source.’

Nash looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I understand. And thanks, this is another big break for me. Means I won’t have to do the story on Detective Harper’s addiction problems.’ She drank up and smiled.

‘You leaving?’ said Harper.

‘Yeah. I’ve got a party to go to.’

‘On your own?’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said. ‘I like to travel light. Company gets in the way of a good story.’

North Manhattan Homicide

March 10, 11.11 p.m.

Denise met Harper outside her building. ‘I need sleep,’ she said, and looked at Harper. ‘You more than me, maybe.’

‘We can sleep when this is over. What did you get?’

‘I’ve been working all evening. First thing is that Aaron called. He found a link between the words. You know, the words Loyalty and Valiance that were printed on the card.’

‘Yeah, so what do they mean?’

‘The motto of the SS. Loyalty, Valiance, Obedience.’

‘The SS, as in the Nazi Party SS?’

‘Yeah. We think he’s playing a part. Trying to make it as authentic as possible.’

‘Anything to help find him or nail him?’

‘Not yet, but I spent some time thinking and then it came to me — where I’d seen those marks on David’s chest. My father used to show me images from the Holocaust. I think I might have another link between David and Abby.’

‘What?’

‘The tattoo on David Capske’s chest. I think it was a number.’

‘Marisa Cohen had something written on her chest too, but the water washed it away. They found some residual signs of ink. And he’d removed her blouse.’

‘He writes numbers on their bodies,’ said Denise.

Harper noticed the heavy tone in her voice. He pulled out his notebook and flicked through. Stared down at the marks. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘You got a theory for me? The guys at Forensics were trying to match letters.’

‘They look like prisoner numbers, Tom. After Aaron found the SS link, I just went with the idea. The SS ran the concentration camps. They numbered prisoners’ chests. They’re not letters,’ she said, her fingers running across the scratches in ink. ‘They’re prisoner numbers. He thinks he’s running some prison camp.’

Harper felt his breath catch. It was so obvious, but they’d missed it. He’d missed it. She leaned over his shoulder. He felt her closeness.

‘What’s the number?’ he said.

Denise stared hard at the scratches, trying to discern a pattern.

Then she smiled. ‘Well, although numbers are infinite, in fact, in our limited numerical system, there are only nine numbers and one zero.’

She took a pen and scratched a number four through the second set of dots. ‘Looks like a four.’

‘Could be a one or seven to start with,’ said Harper. He watched the numbers emerge on the paper below. ‘There’s a cross on the third. Got to be another four,’ he said quickly. They continued to stare at the marks on the page.

‘744…’ said Harper. He turned and looked at Denise.

‘Or 144,’ she said. ‘144003.’

‘That was quick. You know that number?’ Harper asked.

‘Abby Goldenberg’s kidnapper sent a letter to her father. It gave her weight and blood pressure. And it gave her a number. It was 144002.’

‘David’s the next in the sequence,’ said Harper.

‘So Esther was presumably the first kill,’ said Denise. ‘144001.’ Harper wrote down the four consecutive numbers: 144001, 144002, 144003, 144004. Would the sequence continue? Who would be number 144005?

‘What do the numbers mean?’ he asked.

‘I’ll see what I can find.’

‘Find it quick,’ said Harper. ‘We’re getting somewhere.’

Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

March 10, 11.51 p.m.

‘Thanks for meeting me here,’ said Denise. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is to come back here.’

Aaron Goldenberg stared out glassy-eyed. ‘What can I do? My only daughter is out there — I must do everything I can.’

Denise felt the rise of tears but pushed them away. It wouldn’t help to be emotional. ‘The police won’t give you the whole story,’ she said, ‘because everyone’s afraid to speak.’