She looked at the clock in the corner of her laptop. It was a few minutes past 1 p.m. She checked her inbox. There were forty-four new emails since she’d arrived, bought a coffee and found a seat.

The story had posted at eight that morning, and she had received the first message from a national newspaper just after ten.

Hi there, my name’s Tony Walker, with the Daily Herald. We read your story with interest – you have great sources! – and would like to know whether you have any more details or angles on the ‘Crucifix Killer’? (Awesome name by the way – did you come up with it?) We’d love to have you send them over if you do – we’d pay, of course – do you have an agent? – or if you prefer you could write the story for us? Whatever works, Alice – let me know, OK?

By midday she had similar emails from almost all the other national papers. They would send their own reporters to cover the story, but she had what they all wanted: an inside track. Serial killers were always hot copy – they were endlessly fascinating – and to be the closest journalist to a major investigation was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The kind of opportunity which could make her into a major name.

She was going to need more, though, for that to happen. She was going to need fresh information, more details about what the Crucifix Killer did.

She needed to speak to Nadia, but it would have to wait. It was 1.30. Martha was leaving at two.

Alice left some change on the table as a tip and packed up her laptop.

Tom

He was utterly wrecked. Not physically – physically he was unchanged – but psychologically. He couldn’t focus on the simplest task. He could hardly think in a straight line. He understood now why driving tired could be as dangerous as driving drunk; your mental processing speed was a fraction of what it normally was. It felt as though there was a screen between him and the world.

He was sleeping from about 1 a.m. to 5 a.m. It was good sleep when he got it – he was out as soon as he closed his eyes, and it was the sleep of the dead – but nowhere near enough, and right now all he wanted to do was sleep. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and let himself slide into blissful unconsciousness.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t fall asleep at his desk, so instead he stared at his computer screen, his eyes dry and blinking, trying to force his mind to do anything other than count as the seconds ticked by at the speed of something very, very slow. He couldn’t really think of what it would be.

‘Still not sleeping?’

Scott Daniels perched on the edge of his desk.

‘Is it that obvious?’