Fallon had sensed the danger and had started turning before the shot was fired, but he didn’t get there in time. In slow motion he saw the plume of smoke that came out of the 12-gauge shotgun, and Grimshaw taking the shot to his back. Everything else came automatically. Fallon was the best close-quarters marksman the LA SWAT had to offer. He’d been through thousands of simulations, and hundreds of real-life scenarios just like this one.

He saw the shotgun barrel start to move again, re-aiming at him. He locked eyes with the shooter for only a millisecond; despite what he saw, there was no hesitation. He squeezed the trigger, and this time his gun coughed twice. Both shots entered the center of the target’s forehead almost millimeter perfect, exiting at the back, leaving a hole the size of a small apple, and splattering gray matter, blood and fragmented bone across the wall.

The girl holding the shotgun looked even younger than the one on the mattress under Ponytail Man. She had an innocent, schoolgirl’s face, with dimples and freckles on her cheeks. As she fell to her knees, her sad, almost tearful eyes had no more life in them, but they never left Fallon’s face, until she slumped forward, hitting the ground.

The man on the mattress took advantage of the distraction and reached for his Uzi for the second time, but his left hand was out of action. That forced him to twist his body and reach for it with his right. He grabbed the gun, but the position he was in was no good. He had to turn his body around the other way to be able to target Fallon. There was no way that would happen fast enough. As soon as he started turning his body back the way he came, Fallon’s aim was back on him.

‘Drop it,’ Fallon shouted, but the man was screaming in anger as he rotated his body, thirsty for blood.

Another squeeze of the trigger from Fallon, another double shot. Both hit Ponytail Man in his right shoulder, fracturing his clavicle and scapula bone before he could aim the Uzi. His arm went limp instantly.

The girl under him, now covered in his blood, let go of a petrified scream that had been gaining momentum in her throat since the girl from the bathroom had hit the floor, and then she became hysterical.

Ponytail Man dropped the gun and collapsed on top of the blonde girl. She started kicking and jerking, trying to get him off of her.

Without lifting his aim from the man and the girl on the mattress, Fallon moved purposefully towards the en-suite bathroom, stepping over the teenager’s body. The bathroom was clear.

‘I’ve got a man down,’ he yelled into his helmet-mic.

Two seconds later the door to the main bedroom burst open. Alpha team stepped inside, immediately followed by team Beta, each of their guns targeting a different quadrant of the room.

‘The room is clear,’ Fallon announced.

‘Whole house is clear,’ Toro said from the door.

The entire operation had lasted thirty-three seconds, and unfortunately had turned into a bloodbath.

While Robinson and Toro kept their aims on the mattress occupants, Fallon turned his attention to Grimshaw on the floor.

‘Grimshaw,’ he called, crouching down next to the boy.

No reply. His whole neck was covered in blood.

‘Fuck,’ he said, holding Grimshaw’s bloody head in his hands. ‘Why didn’t you check the bathroom? I had the room under control, kid.’

Fallon took Grimshaw’s pulse.

Nothing.

A 12-gauge shotgun releases lead pellets. They spread upon leaving the barrel. That means that the power of the burning charge is divided among the pellets, and they lose energy as they travel. From a distance, shotguns aren’t very useful, but the large number of spreading projectiles make it the perfect weapon for close quarters combat. By chance, the girl with the shotgun had aimed high. Most of the pellets missed Grimshaw’s bulletproof vest, hitting him in the back of the neck. They had torn through skin, muscle, artery and veins. Blood was pouring from his neck like an open faucet.

‘We need a medic in here,’ Fallow shouted down his mic, already starting to massage and pump Grimshaw’s heart, refusing to believe what he already knew. There was nothing any of them could do.

‘Fuck,’ Fallon shouted, still clutching at Grimshaw’s lifeless body. His eyes were still open.

Beta team had crossed to the mattress, where the blonde girl was still screaming. Robinson took one look at the bleeding man slumped on top of her.

They had got their man.

One Hundred and Thirteen

‘Drop the gun, Detective,’ the Sculptor said, staring deep into Hunter’s eyes and pressing the electric knife against Scott Bradley’s throat.

Hunter didn’t move. His aim didn’t flinch.

‘Are you sure you want to play this game, Robert? ’Cos I sure as hell am ready.’ The powerful electric knife was turned on, its whirr reverberating inside the room like a thousand dentists’ drills.

Scott was so terrified that only a feeble whimper left his lips. He wet himself.

Hunter still didn’t move.

‘Suit yourself.’ In a super-fast move, the Sculptor grabbed Scott’s right hand and swung the knife against his index finger. The blades sliced through skin and bone with tremendous ease. The finger dropped to the floor like a dead maggot. Blood spurted everywhere.

Scott let out a guttural cry and tried to jerk his hand away, but it was all too late. It was already a bloody mess, the finger gone. He looked like he was about to pass out.

‘OK,’ Hunter yelled, raising his left hand in surrender. ‘OK, you win.’ He thumbed the safety on, and placed the gun on the floor.

The Sculptor switched the knife off. ‘Kick it this way. And make it far away.’

Hunter did as he was told, kicking his gun towards the Sculptor. It slid against the concrete floor until it hit the wall.

‘The back-up too.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Really?’ The knife came back on.

‘Noooo!’ Scott screamed.

‘I don’t,’ Hunter yelled over the noise. ‘I’m not carrying a back-up weapon.’

‘OK, then. Strip . . . slowly. Take off your clothes and throw them to the side. You can keep your underwear.’

Hunter did as he was told.

‘Now lay on the floor, face-down, legs and arms spread, star position.’

Hunter knew he had to comply. Time was running out for him and Scott.

‘Do you know something?’ the Sculptor said, wrapping a piece of medical gauze around Scott’s hand. ‘I had no doubt you would figure it all out. I knew you would manage to piece everything together, to see the real meaning behind the sculptures, to see their shadows, and understand what I was telling you. I just didn’t think you would do it this quick. Not before I was done. Not with this last piece still missing. How did you do it? How did you figure it out?’

Hunter placed his chin on the concrete floor and looked straight into her eyes.

Olivia, Derek Nicholson’s oldest daughter, had finally moved from behind the metal chair. She was dressed all in black, wearing a jumpsuit made of some impermeable material zipped up to her neck. She pulled the jumpsuit’s hood back from her head, and Hunter saw she was wearing a black, silicone swimmer’s cap. Her shoes looked a couple of sizes too big for her feet. Hunter remembered what the lead forensics agent had said about the shoeprints found at the second crime-scene, Nashorn’s boat – that the distribution of weight from each step seemed to be unequal. That suggested that the killer either walked with a limp, or had deliberately worn the wrong-sized shoes. She was still holding the electric knife in her hand.

‘You really had me convinced,’ Hunter said, remembering the first day he saw her in her father’s house. ‘The way you acted . . . the tears . . . the uncontrollable shivering . . . the despair in your voice . . . I bought it all.’