Hand to Heart was the key to the men’s operation. It seemed to be about humanitarian aid – and visitors could click through to tsunami relief or ending hunger sites. But most of Hand to Heart was pictures and videos of disasters, atrocities, death, dismemberment.

She speculated that the men noted who downloaded the most pictures and discreetly contacted them to see if they might be interested in something more … graphically violent. She was sure that, after sufficient vetting of both parties, and for the payment of a huge fee, clients could order specific types of videos or images. It answered the question they’d wondered about at the beginning of the case: why not just burn down Solitude Creek? Why not just shoot people at the Bay View? Because this particular client – whoever he was – wanted pictures of stampedes.

March tilted his head, brows dipping, and she had an idea what he was wondering. ‘Oh, how we found you at TJ’s? You used prepaid cells in the cameras and routed through proxies, but the video ended up at the Cedar Hills Inn server.’

Jon Boling had explained how the signals could be traced. She hadn’t understood a word but kissed him in thanks.

‘That just sent us to the hotel, not your room. But I correlated all the guests’ names with anyone who’d rented a car in Los Angeles just after the panic at the theme park. Yours popped up. We hit the room at the inn and found a note with TJ’s address.’

The same technology that was so integral to their perverse career had betrayed him.

He sat back, a clink of chain.

She was struck again by how handsome he was, resembling an actor whose name she couldn’t summon. He had no physical appeal to her but objectively he was striking – dipping lids, careful lips that weren’t too thick or too thin, noble cheekbones. And a cut, muscular physique. Even the shaved head worked.

‘I want your cooperation, Andy. I want the names of your clients. Those in America, at least. And any of your – what would you call them? – competitors.’

The cases would be tough to put together, though she, Michael O’Neil and the FBI’s Amy Grabe would try. But, in fact, what Dance wanted most was to understand this man’s workings. He was unlike any other criminal she’d ever come up against; and, experience had taught her, if there was one with his proclivities toward the dark edge there’d be others.

‘Before you answer, let me say one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Texas.’

His face gave a minuscule twitch. He knew what was coming.

‘If you agree, I’ve spoken to the prosecutor here, and he’ll accept a death penalty waiver.’ She gazed at him steadily. ‘And will guarantee no extradition to Texas. We subpoenaed your credit-card statements, Andy. You were in Fort Worth six months ago, finding clients for your website. The same time of the stampede at the Prairie Valley Club. You used that homeless man for your fall-guy there. But there’ll be some forensics tying you to that incident, I’m sure. They’ll go for capital murder. And they’ll get it. The daughter of a state politician was killed in that stampede.’

The tip of his tongue eased against a lip and retreated. ‘And here? I’ll get life.’

‘Maybe a little shorter. Depends.’

He said nothing.

‘Or call your lawyer.’

March’s eyes scanned her, from the top of her head to her waist, leaving a chill repulsion in the wake of his gaze. ‘You’ll guarantee that?’

‘Yes,’ she told him.

‘Personally.’ He dragged the word out, almost seductively.

‘Yes.’

‘I have one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I can call you “Kathryn”.’

‘That’s fine. Now, what’s the condition?’

‘That’s it. You let me use your first name.’

He can call me whatever he wants. But he’s asking my permission to use the name? The sensation of ice brushed the back of her neck.

She forced herself not to react. ‘You can use my name, yes.’

‘Thank you, Kathryn.’

She opened her notebook and uncapped a pen. ‘Now. Tell me, Andy. How did you meet Chris Jenkins?’

CHAPTER 84

The two men had become acquainted in one of the snuff forums online.

Dance recalled the websites that Jon Boling had found:

they featured not only pictures that could be downloaded but forums where members could post messages and chat in real time.

Jenkins was former military. While on tour overseas, he’d taken a lot of pictures of battlefields, bodies, torture victims. He himself had had no interest in the images but he’d learned he could make good money selling them to news media or, even more lucrative, private collectors.

March explained, ‘Every night I was online looking at this stuff. It was the only thing that kept the …’

‘The what?’ Dance asked.

A pause. ‘Only thing that kept me calm,’ he said. ‘He had good-quality pictures and I bought a number of them. We got to know each other that way. Then he started running low on original material – he’d been out of the army for years. I asked if he’d be interesting in buying some from me – pictures he could resell. I didn’t have much but I sent him a video I’d done of an accident during a bungee jump. I was the only one who’d gotten the actual death. It was … pretty graphic.

‘Chris told me it was very good and he knew a collector who’d pay a lot for it as an exclusive. It would have to be private – if it was posted, a video lost its value. I got to work and started to send him material. After a few months we met in person and decided to start our business. He came up with the idea of a humanitarian website, with pictures of disasters. Sure, some people went online to give money. Mostly people downloaded the pictures. I took a lot of them myself, traveling overseas or to disaster areas. They were good, the video and the pictures. People liked them. I’m good at what I do.’

‘Where did you get this material?’

A smile crossed his face. His eyes stroked her skin and she forced the cold away. He said, ‘Next time you find yourself at any tragedy, a train or car crash, a race-car accident, a fire, a stampede.’ His voice had fallen.

‘Could you speak up, please?’

‘Of course, Kathryn. Next time you’re someplace like that, look around you.

‘At the people who are staring at the bodies and the injured. The spectators. You’ll see people helping the victims, praying for them, standing around numb. But you’ll also see some people with their cameras, working hard to get the best shot. Maybe they’re curious … but maybe they’re collectors. Or maybe they’re just like me – suppliers. “Farming”, we call it. You can spot us. We’ll be the ones angry at police lines keeping us back, disappointed there’s not more blood, grimacing when we learn that no one died.’

Farming …

‘You’ve always had this interest?’

‘Well, since I was eleven.’ His tongue wet his lip. ‘And I killed my first victim. Serena. Her name was Serena. And I still picture her every day. Every single day.’

Kathryn Dance masked her shock – both at the idea of someone committing murder at that young age and at his wistful expression when he told her.

Eleven. One year older than Maggie, one younger than Wes.

‘I was living with my parents, outside Minneapolis. A small town, suburban. Perfectly fine, nice. My father was a salesman, my mother worked in the hospital. Both busy. I had a lot of time to myself. Latch-key but that was fine. I didn’t want too much involvement from them. I was a loner. I preferred that life. Oh, the weapon I used on Serena was an SMG.’

Lord, thought Dance. ‘That’s a machine-gun, isn’t it? Where did you get it?’

Gazing off. ‘I shot her five times and I can’t describe the comfort I felt.’ Another scan of her face. Down her arm. He focused on her hands. She was glad they were polish-free. She felt as if he’d touched her. ‘Serena. Dark hair. Latina in appearance. I’d guess she was twenty-five. At eleven, I didn’t know much about sex. But I felt something when I was watching Serena.’