He could already see it. He wouldn’t need Fibonaccian or factorials. All he had to do was reorder the list, once again arranging them in the order in which they had been attacked this year.

9. Church of Saint Étienne, France, 1903

3. Church on Spilled Blood, Russia, 1891

2. Milan Cathedral, Italy, 1889

41. 16th Street Baptist Church, USA, 1963

And there it was: 93241, the first four attacks formed the five numbers that had been embossed in blood on the mural of madness. The Serpent. It was the number the serial killer had carved into both his wall and Jax’s brain. A sudden rush of adrenaline caused Jax’s hands to shake. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself before looking down at the rest of his list.

8. St Nedelya Church, Bulgaria, 1902

5. Church of San Felipe Neri, Mexico, 1895

1. Salisbury Cathedral, England, 1884

Had he seen 851 on the Serpent’s wall? Whatever came after 851, the next numeral or numerals, would reveal the location of the next attack.

He already knew he hadn’t seen the number. His mind didn’t hide things. Couldn’t hide things. He remembered everything. No matter how much dirt he tried to shovel over things he didn’t want to remember – like what he’d done to the actor in the holding cage, what had happened in his cell with Marsh, Nikki’s face at his sentencing hearing, waking up to the body on his army barracks floor – his recall was as vivid as if he were watching the scenes unfold on a high-definition screen. He would know if he had seen 851 on the Serpent’s wall.

He went back to the scene anyway.

93241.

Made bold by blood, the numbers were the centrepiece of whatever it was that the Serpent was creating on that wall. There was cursive script above, carved and hard to see, and the section of the wall closest to Jax was a chaotic crowd of chalk: blue, yellow and white. It was stroked and scratched with letters big, small and tiny, in styles ranging from computer-perfect print to kindergarten scribble. There were languages he recognised, some he didn’t and some that might not exist. Food scraps and shit had been smeared across quotes and equations; star charts and maps were buried beneath.

He couldn’t see the numbers he was looking for, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. They could be scrawled in a corner. Hidden on a sunflower stem in the almost perfectly reproduced chalk Van Gogh. He couldn’t make out what was on the far end of the wall, although there the colours seemed grouped and ordered and the text less chaotic, almost neat.

There was also the blank space. The beacon . . .

But the Serpent? He suddenly asked himself a question.

What could the Serpent have to do with this?

He couldn’t be the mastermind. Or could he?

No. No fucking way.