“It’s a Ferris wheel, not a roller coaster. It doesn’t plummet,” he informed her. “It just sort of floats down.”

“I know what a Ferris wheel does,” she said, trying to avoid a smile.

There was something quite charming in the matter-of-fact way he went about things that she couldn’t help falling for—even delivering not-so-great news.

“Besides, it’s not like we had a lot of time to ourselves today,” he added.

She had spent the better part of it going through Sergeant Hawley’s computer and desk with the utmost thoroughness but had come up with nothing to help get a further line on Prior Silver.

She did find a small notepad filled with the doodles Hawley must have squiggled during phone interviews. What gave her a moment’s pause were the lopsided stars and curlicues he’d scrawled around the word Esher, followed by question marks. Rachel imagined the idea fomenting in Hawley’s brain that had resulted in his tragic side trip on the way home.

In the meantime, John and her father had brought Commissioner Stebbins up to date. The three of them repeatedly went over the chat transcript between Grant and (presumably) Prior Silver that had alternated between Rachel’s cell and the dead Hawley’s phone—looking for any clue to Silver’s whereabouts.

This yielded the same results as Rachel’s search—absolutely nothing.

A lengthy discussion between the three men ensued again as whether or not to release Prior Silver’s name to the public. This time Frankel and her father convinced Stebbins it was a good idea, stressing it would make it more difficult for the born-again mechanic to hide. The clincher was getting the deputy commander to imagine what might occur should Silver kill again before such a statement was released. The Yard would be excoriated by reporters like Monte Ferguson and a terrified public for holding on to information that might have prevented it.

As a result, the media outlets were given Silver’s name and a photo from his time up at Hatfield prison. Over the next few hours, Rachel watched in amazement as Silver’s face and vitals blanketed the UK and beyond.

Almost immediately, the Yard was besieged with calls from people who thought they’d spotted Silver, had a run-in with the man, or barely escaped for their lives when he came after them with a piano wire. One woman claimed to have had a lovely five-course meal with him at Claridge’s, then headed upstairs for a matinee.

Naturally, all of these turned out to be blatantly untrue.

“Some people just want their names in the paper,” said Grant.

As the sun set over an increasingly fretful London, Grant had urged the two of them to head home.

“We have plenty of people here well-equipped to deal with these calls and even more on the streets looking for Silver.”