There’s a long desk in the centre of the room that’s partially covered in paperwork. There’s an old laptop that runs slowly to anyone with the latest iPhone, but for the old man, it does exactly what he needs. There’s a printer at one end that he uses for his work.

On the wall is a crude, almost childish squiggle that is supposed to represent the rough shape of the River Thames. Where Chelsea Bridge is located, there is a drawing pin. Nine pieces of string spiderweb outwards and each strand is attached to a photo of a dead person. Below each cult member is information. Some have more than others. Young Levant has the most. The Nobodies have the least.

And you’d be forgiven for thinking that this is the work of a retired police detective, looking into the unfortunate death of his nephew, trying to crack the code of who is behind The People of Choice, because it looks exactly like that. It looks like the work of a former professional. Gathering information and evidence. Questioning. Cross-referencing.

Unless you want it to mean something else.

Obsession, maybe.

Planning.

Plotting.

The careful recording of information by a faithful number two.

The next pin to go into the map will be at Millennium Bridge.

The old man will require two pieces of string.

The People of Choice will only need one.

67

She could tell that something wasn’t right. Even without talking to her son. Mother’s intuition, maybe. Or a firm grasp on a person she had shaped over two decades.

There was a quiet desperation to the emails the family had been receiving. A little surface chat about university and a lot of questions about what was going on back home. She sensed he was holding something back.

Her husband had transferred extra money to try to alleviate any stress that was bringing.

The move to England was supposed to be an experience to remember. Character-building. The kind of thing any parent wants for their child.

‘The distance is killing him,’ she had said one evening to her husband. ‘It’s more than homesickness. He’s our son and we are having a video conference every two weeks.’

Her despair was less quiet. She’d seen the news about Chelsea Bridge and didn’t quite understand how these incidents had already spread to her side of the world, too.

The next day, her husband returned home from work and gave her a plane ticket. ‘Pack your bags, I’m driving you to the airport in two hours.’

‘Wait. What? No, we can’t just…’

‘We can just. Now go and throw your clothes and products in the case while I make some coffee.’

She cried. She was smiling hard but crying all the same.