‘At this stage, he should be lucid enough to understand what’s going on, and to be aware that it will get worse. He’ll be facing up to the horror of what he might do at the urging of those voices, and the options he has left to save himself, to avoid turning back into the evil monster he once considered himself to be.’

‘I can think of one option,’ said Cooper, holding his eye. ‘He might feel the only way he can prevent himself from turning into that monster is to end his own life.’

Sinclair nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. John Lowther is a much greater risk to himself than to anyone else.’

‘Thank you.’

As Cooper stood up to leave, Sinclair seemed to slip from the script again, just for a moment. ‘A grasp of Mr Lowther’s thought process is essential, you know, Detective Constable.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Because it’s counter-intuitive.’ The psychiatrist made a weary gesture. ‘I realize it’s difficult to understand. Most of us know what it means to be afraid to die. But it’s rare to meet someone who’s scared to live.’

Fry burst into the office anxious to know whether Cooper had returned from his visit to Dr Sinclair. But Murfin was taking a call as she walked through the door. His eyes were wide, and she watched him expectantly when he put the phone down.

‘According to the authorities in Pleven, the Mullens’ adoption application was never fully processed,’ he said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means they didn’t complete the adoption procedures. There were some legal problems with the papers, apparently, and their application was rejected by the court.’

‘And what happened to Zlatka Shishkov?’

‘They say they can’t tell us that, for reasons of confidentiality. But one thing’s for certain – she wasn’t adopted by the Mullens.’

Fry stared at him in amazement, wondering whether she’d heard him right.

‘So where did their baby come from?’ she said. ‘And who the hell is Luanne?’

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

The bar of the Mulberry Tree in West Street was deserted in the afternoon, once the lunchtime rush was over. It was hardly worth staying open, except as a matter of principle. This afternoon, there were only two customers – and one of them was there reluctantly.

For a moment, Georgi Kotsev smiled at Diane Fry and placed a strong, brown hand on the table between them, like an offering.

‘Baby smuggling,’ he said. ‘It’s very regrettable.’

‘Is that the word you’d use?’

‘Forgive me. My English is not adequate, perhaps.’

‘It’s just fine, Georgi.’