Nash also found something more interesting. He seemed to be acting out of a long-lasting resentment of his own wife and hatred for her new Jewish husband. Was it that simple? He was just some failed, cowardly impotent, looking for a target to hit out at. There was nothing extraordinary about this man who had killed all those innocent people. Nothing extraordinary at all. In fact, he was banal.

Erin spotted Detective Harper and Levene walking across the street to the station house. Harper looked bad. She jumped out and blocked his path.

‘How’s my hero?’

‘I’m not a hero.’

‘They say if you try hard enough, everyone gives in.’

‘It’s probably true, but how many years have you got?’

‘Come on, Harper, I just want an interview. Your story. The cop who came face to face with the 88 Killer. You got to be heard, for the sake of those people who lost their lives.’

‘I didn’t see him.’

‘They said you did.’

‘Not me,’ said Harper. ‘Wish I had, but I was second to this one.’

‘Who got there first?’

‘Detective Jack Carney of Hate Crime Unit.’

‘I don’t know him. Should I be speaking to him?’

‘He didn’t see him either.’

‘Sad, isn’t it. You’re having to play Buzz Aldrin to his Neil Armstrong.’

‘This isn’t moon walking, Erin. This is serious.’

‘I know that, Harper.’ She turned to Denise. ‘Denise Levene. You’re back at work? I didn’t know you were on the case. The A Team is back in business, is that right?’

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Denise is not officially on this case.’

‘Never mind,’ said Erin. ‘You’re obviously quite special, Dr Levene. Tom Harper doesn’t share his thoughts with many people.’

‘Cut it out,’ said Tom.

‘Come on, something happened last night, didn’t it, Detective? You had the killer in your sights, so how the hell did he get away?’

‘He just did. We were a few minutes too late.’

‘How did he get the location of the kids?’

‘You heard the press conference, we are looking into it.’

‘You fired shots in the alley. I hear your gun’s been taken, right?’

‘Standard procedure. We tried to take the killer down but the killer evaded us. He shot at me. I shot back.’

Harper made his way up the steps and pulled open the big brown door.

‘I’m going to keep at it, Detective. I’m going to stick to this story until I get an angle. I always do, you know.’

Harper waved without turning and closed the door. He didn’t doubt her.

Borough Park, Brooklyn

March 13, 11.17 a.m.

The killer straightened the front of his coat, flicked a thread from one of the shining black buttons, pressed his hair against his head and replaced the low cap that covered his face. His facial muscles creased and flexed as if he were trying to straighten out his expression. He had been standing across from the synagogue for two hours now and the soles of his feet ached. He felt that the world was spiraling away from him. He needed to concentrate all that pain on to one object. One detested type of person. He looked up at the sky. It was an uneven color. A line of dark gray growing across the horizon to a heavy ominous stormcloud just out in the Atlantic.

He checked his watch, moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck muscles, then shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had read most of the newspapers that morning and got a thrill out of the thrashing anger of the media. He liked it in the way an animal enjoys the resistance of its prey when it struggles in its jaws. They were angry, the Jews were outraged and the police were full of confident rhetoric. They were all pleased with themselves. But he was unconcerned. It was not him they should be hunting down, but the Jews conspiring against America.

He knew now what he had to do, though. He had to continue like he had been doing, keep the pressure on himself and keep watching. There were two security guards outside the synagogue, there to protect the Jews. He smiled at the thought and walked across. The synagogue was situated twenty feet back from the street, with a raised plaza in front with four benches.

The first security guard moved over to stop him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said in a thick foreign accent.

‘Terrible thing, last night, wasn’t it?’

‘Very bad thing,’ said the guard.

‘I want to help. Is there something planned?’

‘You’ll hear later today,’ said the guard. ‘They want to plan a vigil in Union Square.’

The killer nodded. ‘A good idea. It will attract all their supporters. A very positive step.’

‘It will be big,’ said the guard. ‘You can be sure of that.’

The man knew that the doors would soon open, the Jews would come out and he needed to disappear. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Hope it goes well. Hope nobody does anything stupid and ruins it.’

The guard looked on. ‘Thank you.’

The door to the synagogue opened, and the men and women started to appear. They had been planning the event. A big event right in the heart of Manhattan. The killer lowered his head and walked away.

North Manhattan Homicide

March 13, 11.54 a.m.

The late morning light streamed into the small room off the investigation room that Denise was using as an office. The Sturbe profile had been going backwards and forwards between her and Aaron Goldenberg. They were starting to piece together a picture of Josef Sturbe.

Harper walked along the corridor, the next phase of the investigation clicking through his mind. He pushed open the door. Denise looked up.

‘I’ve been going through the profile again,’ she told him.

‘You need more time?’

‘You left me less than an hour ago.’

‘So did you get anything in that hour?’

Denise smiled and sniffed the air. ‘You could do with a new set of clothes, big guy. You smell like a night in a cell.’

He couldn’t say the same of her. Not at all. ‘Less of the advice, just talk me through this Sturbe profile.’

‘Initially, we thought Sturbe was chosen because he was a vicious Nazi who took the law into his own hands and murdered in his own way, in his own time. We thought this gave our killer validation as a model and an identity so that he didn’t have to think of himself as doing these things. But now we don’t think that’s what the killer is seeing. We think that Sturbe means something personal to him.’

Harper crossed to the window. ‘Is this going to be difficult?’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten or slept, and my brain’s getting all dysfunctional on me.’

‘Be quiet and listen,’ said Denise. ‘You can sleep later. The killer is a neo-Nazi who executes people with a point-blank gunshot to the head. He has this neo-Nazi agenda, this Sturbe identity, but he is psychologically and emotionally motivated, not ideologically motivated.’

‘I understand, Denise, I’m not an idiot.’

‘Sometimes it’s difficult to tell.’

Harper gave her a look. Denise ignored it and continued. ‘We’ve been hunting for the political elements of the killing and missing some key details.’

‘Which are?’

‘The Sturbe link isn’t just political, Tom. This killer is acting out some ritual and the level of overkill is frightening. Sturbe isn’t one of your well-known Nazis. He’s been chosen for a reason. I don’t believe things are chosen randomly, and if it’s not random then the killer has some personal reason for taking Sturbe as his model. We’re trying to find where the profile of the killer and Sturbe meet. In simple terms, Sturbe is hard to research — so where did our killer come into contact with him?’

‘I understand,’ said Harper. ‘Well, soon as you’ve got something, let me know.’

Denise stopped. ‘You heard anything from the team with the children?’ she asked.

‘I talked to the head psych.’ Harper grimaced. ‘He was less than impressed.’