After staring at it for a half-minute, Striker realized what it was.

An old dumbwaiter.

The perfect hiding spot or escape route.

He gestured urgently for Felicia to join him. She saw what he had found and drew her pistol. She aimed it at the door and waited for Striker to open it. When he did, then aimed his flashlight inside at the gaping darkness, all they found was an empty space.

Felicia deflated and holstered her SIG; Striker leaned down and shone his flashlight up into the hole. There was a passageway there, leading up. It was large enough for a man to stand in.

Striker angled the beam towards the upper floors and saw that the dumbwaiter went all the way to the top. Right to Dr Ostermann’s locked study.

Interesting.

‘Why have a built-in dumbwaiter all the way down here?’ Felicia said, half to herself.

‘They probably used this room as an old food or wine cellar way back when,’ Striker replied. ‘God knows it’s cool enough down here.’

He studied the dumbwaiter.

On the left side, on the inside of the post, was a pulley system. Striker grabbed the rope and slowly lowered the dumbwaiter down to his level. On the tray was a video camera, a model he had never seen before, one with an LED screen. Instead of a disc or tape, the camera had a built-in hard drive. The camera also had a built-in motion sensor. So when Striker moved the camera, it began recording again.

He found the settings and turned off the motion sensor.

Felicia came up beside him. ‘What’s on it?’ she asked.

‘We’re about to find out.’

Striker hit Play and the video began. On the screen were Dr Ostermann and Lexa, but dressed like Striker had never seen them. Dr Ostermann was naked, except for the leather collar and chain that hung around his neck; Lexa was tightly wrapped in a red leather corset, her breasts pushed up and outwards, almost falling out of the cups. Below, she wore a pair of red silk panties and stockings to match.

She tied Dr Ostermann down, face first, on the table, shackling his hands and feet to each post. Then, when he was all splayed out, she began caressing his body with a long strap of black leather.

Ostermann groaned in delight with every teasing lash. But within minutes, the lashings grew more strenuous. Fierce, even. The tail-end of the strap left huge raw red marks on the doctor’s back and neck and buttocks and legs.

‘Red,’ he cried out. ‘Red, Lexa. RED! ’

But she acted as if she never heard their safety word and continued lashing the man. The expression on her face was one that Striker had not seen on her before – smug, controlled, dark.

The feed went on for another four minutes. Until Ostermann stopped moaning and groaning, and just lay there whimpering on the table like a tenderized piece of meat.

Lexa slowly approached the table, the smile on her lips stretching across her entire face. She moved slowly from corner to corner, unfastening each handcuff and setting her husband free. When they were all off, Dr Ostermann did not move. He remained on the table, his breathing laboured and his whimpers audible.

Lexa leaned over him. Kissed him gently on his neck. Reached down and squeezed his balls.

Dr Ostermann let out a frantic cry, and Lexa smiled once more.

‘You disgust me,’ she said.

Then she dropped the leather lash across his back, stripped out of her dominatrix lingerie, and dressed once more in her green silk kimono. Without so much as a glance back, she left the room.

Dr Ostermann lay in the centre of the feed, quivering but still, with only the sounds of his whimpers and cries filling the room.

Then the video stopped.

Striker looked away from the video camera display, back at Felicia, and couldn’t hide the surprise from his expression. ‘The office upstairs . . . it isn’t a torture room at all – the Ostermanns are into S&M sex.’

‘What a couple of sick fucks,’ Felicia said.

Striker thought it over, pieced it together. ‘The marks we saw on Dr Ostermann’s back and neck make sense now. They weren’t shingles, or an injury from a fall – they were friggin’ whip marks.’

Felicia nodded. ‘It would also explain his feeble movements.’

‘And why he was so embarrassed about the videos. Jesus, when I was threatening him about the murder films – he thought I was talking about his S&M videos. His home videos.’

Felicia thought it over. ‘Dr Ostermann, a masochist.’

‘And Lexa, a sadist,’ Striker finished.

The word seemed wrong as he spoke it, but he couldn’t help thinking that. Lexa was the one constant here. And the image of her coming downstairs in her kimono, her skin dappled with sweat, her eyes wide and doe-like, came back to him.

‘Lexa,’ he said. ‘Where the hell is she now?’

Felicia said nothing.

Striker placed the camera back on the dumbwaiter tray for Forensic Video to process. As he did this, thoughts of the Adder taping them returned. Striker turned from the dumbwaiter, took out his flashlight, and began going round the room, inspecting everything. There were no other cameras or microphones visible, or any other surveillance equipment, but that didn’t mean none were there.

A sweep of the room would be necessary.

He shone the light under the bed and saw nothing of importance. He then shone it under the dresser and the computer cabinet. There, he stopped. On the concrete below the cabinet there were faint but visible brownish marks.

Scuff marks, just like with the painting.

‘This cabinet’s been moved,’ he said.

He wrapped his fingers around the base of the cabinet and slowly swung it out from the wall. When he looked behind it, he saw a small hollow in the wall. About as long and high and deep as a small microwave. In it sat two rows of DVD and Blu-ray cases. Marked on all of them was the word Back-up, followed by different dates. Striker read through them.

One of them had been made just this morning.

He took it out and dropped it into the Blu-ray player across the room. When he turned on the TV and hit Play, the video started. What Striker saw made his blood turn cold; the video was of him and Felicia. Inside Sarah Rose’s apartment. Right before the fire had started.

Felicia stepped forward. ‘Jesus Christ, is that us?’

Striker said nothing. He just looked from the TV to the row of DVD and Blu-ray discs in the nook behind the cabinet. All of them would have to be watched. Reviewed for any shred of evidence.

It would take hours.

He watched the feed continue until the moment when he and Felicia had managed to break out of the front door through the burning blaze. Then the video stopped—

And started once more.

The camera angle spun about, as if the camera was being picked up. And then, for one fleeting moment, the feed caught the image of a young man with wild, jet-black hair and eyes such a light green they looked transparent.

Felicia turned to look at Striker. Her face was ashen.

‘The Adder isn’t Dr Ostermann,’ she said softly. ‘It’s—’

‘Gabriel,’ Striker said, and he could hardly believe his own word.

Gabriel Ostermann.

The boy.

The son.

And he was gone.

Seventy-Seven

The Adder walked slowly down Sasamat Trail, one of the barkmulch pathways that snaked all through the Pacific Spirit Regional Park. When he reached the end of it, he stopped on a bluff overlooking the strait. Far below, the turbulent waters were black and deep and cold.

Like the well.

Memories of the front window of the house smashing apart after he’d thrown the lamp through it returned to him. In bits and pieces. In intermittent waves. Like a TV signal fading in and out. His actions would have attracted much attention, no doubt.