Using his flashlight to illuminate the area, he focused on the chair. It was an old thing, sturdy, made from steel legs and a solid steel backing. It was dusty, grimy, dirty as hell.

Not the greatest material for fingerprinting.

As he crouched down and examined the surface more closely, looking for any traces of hair or other DNA-testable substance, he noticed that there was no blood. The torture appeared to have been entirely electrical.

It was odd – something he had never seen.

Behind him, a plank groaned. Striker swivelled around and spotted a wizened old face at the top of the stairs. Barely reaching Striker’s shoulders, and weighing in at a measly sixty-five kilos, was Inspector Tekuya Osaka.

At fifty-five years of age, Inspector Osaka was nearing his 80-factor – that magical total derived from age plus years served. It allowed for superannuation, and for Osaka, retirement was fast closing in. The look on his face suggested he wished he’d taken an early leave. Striker couldn’t blame him.

‘You don’t look happy,’ Striker said.

Inspector Osaka just frowned. ‘This is downright creepy.’

‘Tell me about it. Guy used electrical torture.’

‘A stun gun?’

‘More like a wand of some kind.’

Inspector Osaka moved nearer. ‘A rather unusual instrument, don’t you think?’

‘The guy who did this is a pro.’

Osaka came to within a foot of Striker, his face better illuminated in the flashlight glow. With his thick white hair brushed back over his head and a matching goatee, he looked just like an Asian Colonel Sanders. ‘Haven’t heard of an electrical wand being used in years – not since that renegade biker got taken out back East.’

Striker made no reply. He was too intent on the scene before him.

Beneath the chair, the floorboards were no longer discoloured. The water stains had all but evaporated in the humid, growing heat. But the bucket was still there, half full of water. On the ground beside it was the old yellow sponge.

Everything would have to be swabbed for DNA.

Striker turned to look at the inspector. ‘I want this scene processed like no other, sir. Top priority. Private labs, if needed. If a woman really is missing, every minute counts.’

Inspector Osaka nodded. ‘Authorized.’

The word brought Striker a modicum of relief.

He stood up, feeling the haunts of two previous knee injuries, and took a final glance around. To the south, broken glass littered the windowsill and floor, and recollections of gunfire flooded him. He could still hear the shrill sounds of the glass breaking and the heavy, damn-near palpable blasts of the gunfire. It had been distinctive.

A forty-cal, for sure.

Striker moved up to the window. Analysed a few of the entrance holes in the frame. They were uniform, roughly ten to twelve millimetres in diameter, and the exit holes weren’t much wider. No mushrooming. In some areas, the wood from the beams had exploded outwards in uneven chunks.

Full Metal Jacket.

He looked at the holes for a long moment, at the broken and splintered wood, then let out a long breath. The rounds hadn’t missed him by all that much. Inches.

Inspector Osaka saw this too. ‘That was damn close, Striker.’

Striker said nothing; he just stared out the window. In the southeast, the sun was slowly creeping out from its earthly blanket, turning the skyline from a light bruised colour to a deep crimson. The natural light illuminated the waters below. Down there, the helicopter had already scoured the shoreline, but a much more thorough search still needed to be done.

He headed for the river.

Nine

Striker watched Inspector Osaka return to his police cruiser. His responsibility was to report the incident up the chain of command. With the unexpected health scare DC Hughes had suffered this past month, Superintendent Laroche was acting as the fill-in Deputy Chief.

That was bad news for Osaka, because Laroche was notorious for poking his nose into ongoing investigations and for being unfairly demanding. Striker had dealt with Laroche too many times to count, so he felt for Osaka.

By the time Striker had hiked down to the river, the sun had risen just enough to flood the entire waterway with a reddish glow. Being careful where he stepped, Striker crossed the sandy expanse and stepped onto the pier. At the far end, tied to the last post, was the rope he had found earlier, still dangling in the wind.

He walked down the pier and studied the rope. Unlike the thick nylon normally used to harness vessels, this rope was thin – a twine that could be bought at any hardware store. Definitely not easily traceable. Also of note, the knot fastening the rope to the post was of the ordinary overhand kind. Nothing unusual like a bowline, hitch or cat’s paw. Just a regular old knot.

The suspect had left them little to go on.

Striker took out his notebook and wrote all this down. By the time he had finished, Jim Banner had arrived on scene.

Banner – Noodles to all his friends – was making his way down from the roadside. Striker knew the man well. Hell, Striker was the one who had given Banner the nickname, after Banner had almost choked to death on a creamy linguine at the Noodle Shack. In return, Banner had nicknamed Striker Shipwreck – which Striker thought only fair, since it had been Banner’s boat Striker had destroyed in a not-to-be-discussed water-skiing incident.

Striker waved the man down. ‘Over here, Noodles.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hold your friggin’ horses.’

Short, stubby, with white bushy eyebrows that made him look more Muppet than human, the ident technician waddled as he walked. He cut through the concrete plant loading zone and approached the dock. When he reached the river’s edge, Striker nodded.

‘’Bout time you got here – should I send you a special request next time?’

‘Sure. Address it to your mother’s bedroom.’

For the first time since this nightmare had started, Striker managed a bit of a smile. He explained to the technician all that had happened, then got Noodles to swab the bracelet for DNA and examine the cut rope. Once done, he guided him a few metres back towards the trail.

There, he stopped.

In the softer region of sand and silt were the footprints he had seen a half-hour earlier, during the chase. Three separate indentations. In the morning light, it was obvious that they were poor at best. Little ridge detail, blurred by the twisting motion in the sand. But one thing was for certain – the prints pointed in the direction of the dock.

‘Any chance of casting these?’ Striker asked.

Noodles placed his toolbox down on an unblemished section of land and crouched down low. Breathing hard from the exertion, his big belly protruding out, he pulled the flashlight from his tool belt and aimed the beam down into the first set of prints, then the second, and lastly the third.

He made some unhappy sounds.

‘Not good?’ Striker asked.

‘Poor. But we’ll do what we can . . . Any others?’

Striker shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve seen – but we haven’t done a full sweep of the beach yet. Got a canvass team being called out as we speak.’

Noodles just nodded.

Striker studied the footprints alongside the tech, assessing each one individually, then viewing them as an ongoing chain. After a moment, he pointed at two of the three shoe prints – the right ones.

‘The heel kicks out every time,’ he noted.

Noodles nodded. ‘Could have a fucked-up gait.’

‘Or a previous injury of some kind.’

‘Could be. But the ground here slopes down towards the river. So his foot would naturally slip a little, especially if he was trying to turn as he ran. Size is probably an eleven.’