Hawley swayed back and forth. Waiting, as if for permission to speak—which Grant mercifully gave him. “Out with it, Sergeant.”

“There’s been another one.”

An icy chill ran the length of Grant’s spine. “A third?”

“In an alley behind a club in Piccadilly. Same mark as the others . . .”

“Except there were three lines instead of one or two.”

“Exactly, Commander.”

“Nice of the bloke to keep track for us,” Grant said grimly.

He turned for one last look at Allison’s grave, making a silent promise to see her the following Sunday. Then he told Hawley to lead the way. As they walked out of Highgate Cemetery, a thought that had recently become Grant’s mantra ran through his head.

I can’t wait until New Year’s Day, when I can leave Scotland Yard forever.

IV

Grant didn’t even know that the Wooten existed. There used to be underground clubs on practically every block in mid-London and Grant hadn’t frequented a single one. He’d definitely never heard of Billy Street or his band, the Blasphemers.

The crime team had been working the scene for over an hour by the time Grant arrived with Sergeant Hawley. The club’s adjacent alley was so tight between buildings that only a Smart car or the victim’s MG could navigate it without scraping paint. It was a space to toss trash, sneak out the back door for a smoke, or send an aging rocker off to meet his Maker. Being Sunday, Street’s body wasn’t discovered until a neighbor ducked into the alley to let his dog relieve itself. Street had been identified by the driver’s license in his pocket, allowing them to run his name through the system, which resulted in the knowledge that his band had played the Wooten the previous evening. As Grant approached the MG, Hawley was already on his mobile, rounding up the club owner and other Blasphemers to put together some semblance of a timeline.

Jeffries, the forensics medical examiner, was taking measurements and notes. Well into his forties but looking two decades older (Living with the dead will do that to you, thought Grant), he wore a bulky parka over jeans and a sweatshirt. Clearly his weekend had been interrupted just like Grant’s.

“Sorry to drag you out on a Sunday morning, Commander.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” Grant said. “Seeing how it looks like we have an even larger problem on our hands.”

“I’m afraid so,” agreed the FME.

Grant peered over Jeffries’s shoulder to stare down at the dead rocker. With rigor setting in, Billy Street looked paler than Marley’s ghost, but even more anguished. The metal guitar string wrapped around his bulging neck didn’t help. But it was the victim’s forehead that commanded Grant’s attention. Vertical cuts had been sliced directly above the victim’s dyed eyebrows.

“Sadly familiar?” asked Grant.