‘A nurse was already in there,’ I say.

‘I didn’t see a nurse.’ But just at that moment, a nurse hurries past us and darts into the room with the screaming man.

‘There, now he’s got two,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

She allows me to shepherd her into the elevator. I stab the button to close the door.

Thistle shoots me a sympathetic look. ‘You don’t like hospitals, huh?’

‘Yeah,’ I say.

My breathing doesn’t return to normal until we’re out on the freeway and the hospital has disappeared in the rear-view mirror.

•

My bathtub has never been so full.

Usually it’s just one body at a time, and only the parts I can’t eat without getting sick. Bones, brains, eyes, intestines. I cover them in a sulphuric acid-based drain cleaner—lye would be quicker, but only if I can heat it—then I let them melt away to nothing while I stand in the corridor to avoid the fumes.

Today the tub is a tangle of limbs, mostly with the flesh still on. Elliott, Francis and Biggs. Dissolving them will take hours. It would be so much easier if I just …

No. I don’t do that anymore.

Thistle promised she’d call me if Vasquez managed to get anything off Luxford’s computer—apparently the jumble of letters on the post-it note wasn’t his password—or if anyone tracked down Armana Black, the woman whose hair was found in Biggs’s car. I’m hoping she’ll call me tonight, even if nothing happens with the case. Maybe just to check on me. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone call just to check on me.

I use a wood plane to strip off the muscle and fat, then I smash the bones with a framing hammer. The smaller the pieces, the faster they’ll dissolve. Carefully, dust mask on, I tip the jug of drain cleaner over them and watch them start to sizzle. I buy the cleaner from a different hardware store each time, and always pay cash.

These days, some funeral homes freeze the body with liquid nitrogen and vibrate it until dissolves into a powder. Then they bury the powder—it’s supposed to be better for the environment than cremation. Maybe I could buy some liquid nitrogen next time, and—

No. There is no next time.

My hands are covered in blood. I force myself not to lick my fingers. Go over to the sink and scrub and scrub under scorching water.

My conscience is back. Thistle’s voice in my head: That blood’s never gonna come off.

‘Sure it will.’ I hold up my hands to the light.

I can still see it, she says. Can’t you?