She knew Harper must have felt secure about this place and with that knowledge she started towards the door. The fear was growing inside her, a dark anxiety that had felt so close for months now. She tried to hold it back and looked up ahead.

There was no bell or buzzer, just a sheet of steel in peeling black paint. She pulled it open. It grated on an old metal runner. The sound shot right through her. Metal on metal. She knew that from the dungeon. She held the door and her breath.

There were no lights in the corridor, so she walked in and followed a narrow path around to the right. She stared ahead, where two dim yellow lamps lit the way. By the time she made it to the end of the corridor, Denise’s heart was pounding. She came to another door and pulled it open.

A line of steel steps led down to a large warehouse space. In the strange space, there was a car parked next to a van, a small gym set up on one side, a few concrete stairs leading nowhere and a doorway just like in a house. All around were different scenes that looked like some fire sale from a film set. She looked at each in turn. The mood was strangely foreboding.

Denise descended the steps and called out, ‘Hello?’ Her voice echoed against the huge tin roof. From a door across the room, a man appeared. He looked up at Denise. He took her in slowly.

‘I’m D—’

‘Don’t tell me a thing.’

‘Tom Harper gave me your name.’

‘I said not a thing. You don’t owe me an explanation.’

Standing on the last step, Denise stared back at him. The man was rough-looking. About five feet eight in height, big and strong across the shoulders, hands like spades and a mean look in his eyes. She didn’t like him. He was tattooed across his biceps and neck.

‘Get in here.’

He walked back through the door. Denise stood for a minute. She climbed back up the stairs, took three or four paces and then stopped again. What was she going to do? Sit in the yard and cry? She knew that she couldn’t be in danger. Tom would never send her into that kind of situation. She turned round and felt the steel under her feet as she made her way down.

Across the floor, the door was half open. She opened it and looked in. The short guy with the attitude was sitting on an old pommel horse in front of a group of seven women and one man. They were all hunkered down on the floor. The guy on the pommel horse pointed to the floor. Denise walked across and sat down.

‘First things first. You never trust me, ever.’ The guy jumped down off the horse and addressed his little group. ‘Welcome, victims. I don’t know why you’re here or what happened to you, but I know by looking into your sorry faces that you have ignored your birthright.’

The guy stepped towards the group. They shied away in unison. ‘You, lady,’ he said, pointing at Denise. ‘Stand up.’

Denise stood. This was clearly some kind of self-help group. Not the sort of thing she thought Harper would have been involved with.

‘Where are your eyes, victim?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

The guy moved two fingers up to her eyeballs. ‘Where are my fingers coming from?’

‘In front of me.’

‘And what if I come from here?’ He moved his hand round behind her ear.

‘I can’t see them.’

‘Here?’ he said again, moving his hand behind her head.

‘I can’t see them.’

‘So tell me, victim, if you were meant to be scared of predators, where the hell would God put your eyes?’

‘The side of my head so I could see them coming.’

‘Fucking exactly. Go to the top of the class.’

‘Can I sit down?’

‘No, victim, you cannot.’ He leaned in close. He smelled of two-day-old sweat and stale beer. Denise veered away.

‘You don’t like my smell?’

‘No.’

‘You think a rapist is going to smell sweet? Going to get all washed and put on his best cologne? You better get used to the thing you’re going to learn to fight.’

Denise couldn’t speak.

‘I’m a pig, because that’s what you’ve come to me for — to get rid of that stench he left on you. Am I right?’

Denise stared ahead.

‘I said, AM I RIGHT?’ He shouted hard, close up to Denise.

‘Yes,’ she said and looked down at her feet, her heart thumping.

‘Sit back down, victim.’

He walked around the group, his eyes moving from person to person. ‘We got work to do, victims. A lot of work. But you’ve all come here from something bad and you all don’t like where it left you and I’ll tell you why you don’t like it. You’re not prairie rabbits. You’re not cattle or deer or ducks. You don’t like being victims, people, because you are not made to be victims. You know what you are, people? No? I didn’t think so. You’re predators. Each and every one of you. Predators who have nothing to fear in the world but other predators. And you know what? Predators shouldn’t ever be afraid. That’s why your eyes sit right up there on the front of your skull. Front and center, to measure the distance between you and your prey accurately. You’re made to hunt and kill and cause fear and maximum damage. You’re not made to anticipate attacks and defend yourself. So I’m here to turn you back into predators. You understand? So sit down, listen and learn.’

Mac turned back towards the pommel horse, then stopped and faced the group. ‘People who come here want to learn how to survive. Well, this is the right place. Welcome to Predator Class, victims.’

Chapter Eleven

Investigation Room, North Manhattan Homicide

March 7, 2.05 p.m.

‘Wait up, Harper. I need to speak to you right now!’ bellowed Captain Lafayette.

Harper was moving fast down the beige and brown corridor of the precinct house. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got something that needs my full attention.’

Lafayette’s face reddened and he marched up to Harper. ‘Stop with the fucking games, Harper. I need to know, right now.’

Harper stopped and turned; he pointed his finger. ‘You know and I know that someone is going to try to pull this out of our hands. The media are painting this as a political assassination so we’re going to be dragged off-course unless we focus. We’ve got maybe twenty-four hours to make this our own.’

‘Then help me to keep them off your back.’

‘What do you need to know?’

Lafayette sighed. Harper looked bad and he felt wired. Everything was urgent, everything had to be done an hour ago. Evidence evaporated the moment it was born. Time was all they needed and time was the one thing that destroyed evidence. Harper had sent out his teams to interview witnesses, families, friends and anyone else who might have come into contact with Capske.

‘It looks like a political attack, Harper. I got to explain to the Deputy Commissioner why we’re closing the door to the Feds and Counter-Terrorism.’

‘Don’t close the door, just point them in another direction. Look, tell the Deputy Commissioner that, as it stands, there’s not a scrap of evidence that this was political.’

‘You really think that? The killer emailed the networks to tell them just that. Jesus, I thought this was an open and shut case.’

‘You know Judge Capske and his wife had cut ties with David because he was marrying a non-Jew?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘Did you know David Capske was big into cocaine a year back?’

‘Come on. Harper, I know nothing till you tell me.’

‘We can’t presume it’s political just because someone emailed. I’ve got the team bringing in evidence all the time. Just let me see this my way. What have the Feds got? Our victim’s related to Judge Capske — that’s it. You going to hand over every investigation on account of their parent’s CV?’

Lafayette grabbed Harper’s shoulder and turned him towards the window.

‘Look out there, Harper. What do you see?’

Harper stared out of the sixth-floor window down to the street below. The crowd of news teams kept growing. The nearside sidewalk had already been filled, and new teams and the later arrivals from the print media had set up on the opposite side of the street. The whole mass of people seemed to be in constant circulation. ‘I see about a hundred and fifty people down there telling some bullshit story before we’ve even got an autopsy report,’ he said.