A week after the second victim, Lina, appeared, a bakery apprentice making early-morning deliveries in Shoreditch District found a curled-up figure beside stacks of beer crates at the back door.
Another victim had appeared. He was a nineteen-year-old art student, already in a deep coma when he was found. Apart from his canvas bag, there was nothing else around him.
Two days later, a fourth victim appeared. He was a young screenwriter who habitually walked his dog in the early morning. He had collapsed in a secluded converted alley near Notting Hill, and the frantic barking of his corgi drew a patrol officer over.
In MI6's secret analysis room in central London, Carlton lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
The whiteboard in front of him was covered with photos of the victims, physical evidence from the scenes, and lines linking points on maps. The one from Notting Hill had only just been added.
A young female agent covered her nose and waved away the murky air around her with mild displeasure. "Chief, could you not smoke here in the analysis room?"
Carlton did not put out the cigarette. Instead, he stared blankly at the crime scene photos of the victims.
Before joining MI6, he had been an outstanding detective with the London police. As such, he knew very well what these clean scenes meant.
Efficient and pure, with an extremely clear purpose: deploy, then leave.
The cigarette between his fingers had burned down by more than half without his noticing. Ash quietly accumulated, then fell away soundlessly, and he remained completely unaware.
Only when a burning pain reached his fingertips did he jerk and realize that the glowing tobacco had touched his skin. The furrow in his brow finally eased.
"The killer's pleasure comes from knowing. He knows