Pace thinks the author sounds delusional. But the doctor he had seen six times over the last couple of months was so lucid and erudite. It couldn’t be the same person.

But the front page says written by Henri Artaud.

Pace continues to flick and, even though he knows that nobody will be returning to the building, he keeps looking at the doorway, thinking he is seeing something or hearing movement.

The manual talks of those first nine people to jump from Chelsea Bridge. Later, after more rambling about other killers who turned out to be great mentors, the two young strangers from Millennium Bridge make an appearance.

Dr Artaud had been at the police station that day to report personally on the progress of two police officers undergoing therapy with him. He did not need to do that. But he needed to be around the witnesses from that train carriage. He had to hand out business cards for Rossi and Milton and Erickson.

He was recruiting.

There is an entire chapter devoted to the recruitment process.

Detective Sergeant Pace is enthralled.

Detective Sergeant Pace is wasting time.

As he reads, nineteen people have taken the lift to the top of Tower Bridge.

Detective Sergeant Pace cannot stop.

The book talks of John Christie and how he has no right to be lauded in the annuls of serial killing because he was half-witted and drowning in mistakes.

Then, a mention of twenty people. They are referred to as the last. Pace runs his finger beneath the words as he reads, like a little boy reading in front of his teacher at the front of class. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

It clearly states that this happened at Tower Bridge.

But it hasn’t happened.

Not yet.

Detective Sergeant Pace grabs the pages and runs down the stairs two at a time and out the still open door before getting into his car. He tucks the book into the large pocket behind the passenger seat. And wheel-spins towards the speed ramps that will lead him to the place he was supposed to be jumping from today.

127

Dr Henri Artaud stands on the road that leads across Tower Bridge and he waits.

It ends here.

He is John Christie with a brain.

He is Charles Manson with a clear ideology, untouched by drugs.

He is Harold Shipman with self-awareness. And more kills.

He smiles.

He looks up at the walkways and he smiles.

Any moment now.

Dr Henri Artaud lights a cigar that could very well be his last. His lungs are too far gone and he doesn’t suppose Cohibas are used as currency in jail. His insides may be drenched in black but he’s not going to spend his final days with his mouth wrapped around the teat of a common cigarette. It’s at this point he wishes he had a glass of wine to enjoy the show with.