She had bloodied the lips and blackened the eyes of several tedious bullies: four older boys and three girls from her year. She soon gained a fearsome reputation and respect that she didn’t care for.

She just wanted to be left alone.

They were different times.

Archer turns away from the mirror.

*

The Coroner’s Court on Horseferry Road in Westminster is a sombre late-Victorian three-storey block. A central stone arch houses two heavy panelled doors coated in years of deep red gloss. Archer presses the intercom buzzer and waits.

Quinn cannot stop talking about the killer. ‘So I read another article from an online magazine that had touted him as the new enfant terrible of the art world with his risqué online videos and graffiti art appearing in random public areas across London. He has a devoted following who share his posts widely and openly across social media. The article also went on to say that not many people seem to understand his work.’

‘No shit,’ says Archer.

‘Quite. There are some who consider his work profound, albeit cryptic. His political beliefs are anyone’s guess. Until yesterday the right-wingers claimed him as their own, as did the left-wingers, who sought to make him the poster boy for their causes. Now they’re all washing their hands of him.’

Archer presses the buzzer again.

‘His ambiguity and anonymity have been part of his growing appeal and genius, apparently. He is more than a wannabe Banksy, they say. He is something new.’

‘Nothing new about serial killers.’

‘How many like to display their victims as pieces of art in public?’

‘Point taken.’

A voice crackles through the intercom. ‘Yes?’

‘DI Grace Archer and DS Harry Quinn. We have an appointment,’ replies Archer.

Downstairs in the mortuary, Doctor Kapur, a dour man dressed in grey scrubs, greets Archer and Quinn with a handshake that is firm yet cold to the touch. His face is long and his complexion matches his work clothes making Archer wonder if he has a chameleon-like ability to blend in with the corpses he spends his working days with.

‘Are you ready?’ he asks.

Archer nods. She is no stranger to dead bodies. As a constable, and later a DS, she has seen her fair share of dead people from road accidents to natural causes to murders. As a child she had seen . . .

She pushes the thought from her mind and follows Kapur as he leads them through the large swinging doors to the theatre where the four bodies lie under sheets on top of stainless-steel tables. The doctor pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and peels back the sheet from the first table to reveal the blackened corpse of Herman Olinski. Kapur extends his arm and with a rubbered index finger points to the dead man’s temple.

‘This gentleman had been shot once in the head before the van was set on fire. Mercifully, he was dead before he burned.’