“Yes, and they also don’t look anything like anyone else who’s gone in there in the past half hour,” said Karl. “It’s called a disguise. Now come on.”

If someone looked hard enough online, they might come across an old picture of Patton in her uniform, but they would not recognize the woman who walked out of Heathrow into the cool night air. Nemo’s shopping spree in Atlanta had netted a second set of new clothes for each of them—his distinctly more fashionable than hers. He had stolen a torn and empty suitcase, abandoned on the side of the baggage claim carousel and transferred Patton’s new clothes and everything else she needed into it.

“No one notices when you steal a bag like this,” he said, striding confidently through the customs area. He had explained how she should execute her transformation and told her to come out of the restroom exactly thirty minutes after going in. She had left Alta Vista a brunette with wavy hair that fell below her shoulders, a perfect complexion, and brown eyes. She stepped into their rental car a blue-eyed blond with short-cropped hair, a pockmarked forehead and florid cheeks, no longer wearing a business suit, but rather a baggy sweatshirt that read, “Atlanta United,” a pair of jeans, and what a woman in the restroom had called “trainers,” as in “Oh, I love your trainers.” To Patton they were Nike running shoes. Add to that a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and a Braves cap to keep her face off CCTV and its pesky facial recognition software, and Patton Harcourt had completely disappeared.

In an Armani suit and designer sunglasses, Nemo looked like an aging Italian playboy, she thought—too old to be dressing in a style that he probably could have pulled off a decade earlier.

“I hope your friend is ready for us,” said Nemo as he pulled the rental car onto the M25. Patton slid down in her seat, and so did not notice the black sedan two cars behind them. Not then, and not when it exited behind them from the M1 onto the A5 an hour later.

“How did you get so good at all this?” said Patton as the car raced through the darkness. “The disguises, the staying off the grid, the fake passports.”

“Oh, the passports aren’t fake,” said Nemo. “Only the identities are fake. And I got good at it the same way anyone gets good at anything. I practiced. And I started young.”

Once he was sure Mr. Gerrard was dead, Dexter stepped away from the body and went to find Jack. The boy was huddled under the covers in his bed, shivering.