Lexa said nothing more. She guided Gabriel and Dalia away from their father towards the kitchen area. Striker watched them move down the hall, fleeing more than walking, with Lexa looking back over her shoulder a few times as they went. There was a strange expression on her face, one Striker couldn’t define.

He didn’t like it.

When he turned his eyes back to Dr Ostermann, the man looked like a victim of high blood pressure. His face was red and the veins in his neck looked close to the surface of the skin. He fumbled off his glasses, wiped his brow with his sleeve, then looked back and forth from Striker to Felicia and back again.

‘I apologize for that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so . . . so . . . vocal. But I cannot – I will not – have my patients’ privacy breached. It’s unethical and it simply cannot be allowed.’

Striker said nothing.

Felicia said, ‘We understand.’

The doctor nodded, as if thankful. ‘I will call you first thing in the morning – after the appropriate contact has been made.’

Striker took the hint and said goodbye, as did Felicia. The moment they stepped outside, the front door closed behind them. They returned to their car and drove up to the gate. When it opened, they pulled out on to the road and drove down the snaking route of Belmont Avenue. It wasn’t until they were almost a mile away that Striker felt the pressure lessen.

Felicia was the first to speak. ‘Nice family.’

‘Sure. If you’re one of the Mansons.’

They drove towards 41st Avenue. That was where the office of Car 87 was located, the Mental Health Team car. It was also the location where the staff personnel files were kept.

Which was a necessary step.

If Dr Ostermann did work with the Strathcona Mental Health Team, it meant he was also linked to Car 87. And to work with Car 87, everyone required a portfolio of their personal history, which included everything from emergency contact numbers to a criminal records check. Dr Ostermann would have his file there, and Striker wanted to see it. There was more to Dr Erich Ostermann than the man was showing them.

Striker could feel it.

Felicia looked at the way they were headed. ‘Aren’t Car 87 headquarters south of here?’

Striker nodded. ‘We got one quick pit-stop to make first.’

When he took a left on 12th Avenue, Felicia understood. They were going to Vancouver General Hospital.

That was where the morgue was located.

Twenty-Two

The Adder sat on the grey concrete of the floor in the dimness of the room, and felt the cool dampness of the walls invading his core. No matter what he did, he was never warm. Not here in this room. Not anywhere. He was always cold.

Cold like the water in the well.

He stared at nothing for a long time, and listened to the sounds that came from above. The Doctor was up there. In the study. And dangerously close to the edge again.

The Adder tried not to think about it.

He stood up from the floor and walked to the far wall, where the cabinet stood. Behind it were his beloved DVDs and the back-up hard drive. More than anything, he wanted to watch his movies. To relive that wondrous moment. That instantaneous miracle.

The Beautiful Escape.

But he could not turn his thoughts from the detective. The man was a force like no other. And the man was in pain. The Adder could see that just by looking at him. Bad things had happened in the man’s life. He had researched it, researched this man. More than anything, the Adder wanted to release him from the chains of this world. To set him forever free.

And to watch the bliss in his eyes when it happened.

He didn’t understand it himself. The greater the challenge, the more beautiful the release. It was odd. And the mere thought of such a moment was so powerful that it sucked him away. And time passed. When he finally awoke from the reverie, his face was bleeding and he realized he had been scratching it again.

It was unimportant.

He moved over to the cabinet and turned on the computer. Pale blue light – as cold as the blood in his veins – artificially tinted the room. The Adder signed on to the computer.

Logon: William

Password: Flyaway

He hit Enter and the Windows screen flashed up. There was no screen saver. No saved image on the desktop. Just an icy white screen, because that was how he felt. All icy white.

He double-checked his internet options to be sure that privacy was set to maximum. Then he logged on to the relay computer he kept off-site. It was a necessary tactic. If the cops ever did manage to trace his IP Address – which was almost impossible considering he used proxy servers and ran his requests through other unprotected Wi-Fi users – poor eightynine-year-old Martha McCallum would find the cops kicking in her front door in the middle of the night and searching her crawlspace.

And even that did not matter. The computer was set to delete All History every night using the KillDisk program.

As a last wall of defence, the Adder always used his Anonymous-Sender account because the host company purged their servers every twelve hours. Even if the cops did get a warrant – which was highly unlikely – the information would be gone by the time they executed it.

Everything was one hundred per cent safe.

And yet still, it was not enough for the Adder. Over confidence had been the downfall of many before him. So he spoofed his IP Address regularly. And he changed the way he did things every single time so that there would be no pattern. With all the steps the Adder had taken, he was confident he had created a nonentity on the net and an email host with no traceable account.

It made him smile every time he logged on.

With everything set in place, he was ready. He took one last look at the hatch above the ladder, making sure it was secured and locked in place – for an action such as this would enrage the Doctor – and then he began typing his email.

Addressed To: Homicide Detective Jacob Striker

Subject: Snakes & Ladders

Twenty-Three

The Vancouver morgue is located on the north side of Vancouver General Hospital, behind the police and ambulance parking area. No signs show the way. There’s just a pair of grey doors leading to a cargo elevator. That’s it.

Striker had been there too many times to count. Long-forgotten memories bombarded him, one after another, whenever he came here – the murder victims, the car accident casualties, and of course the never-ending string of suicides.

Like his wife’s. He would never forget the day he came here to identify Amanda. The walls had seemed warped and the lights far too bright and the body cleaners smelled like Lemon Pledge. That was a memory that refused to leave him. He doubted it ever would.

They took the elevator down two levels into the morgue and Striker moved over to let Felicia stand by the doors. Her claustrophobia was always two seconds from exploding, and she almost jumped from the booth when the doors were half open.

Striker followed. Once in the hall, the stale smell of old paint and dampness hit him. The building was old. The morgue, equally so. He walked down the long dim corridor, turned right, and stopped at a drab grey door. This was the main entrance to the morgue.

Where he had identified Amanda.

The moment hit him hard. So many memories. All bad. This was a sad and despondent place, one he never wanted to see again. And yet here they were, like always.