Sachs climbed back down the ladder and returned to the victim. She had done a fast sex-crime exam of Chloe’s body but now wanded it with the ALS to look for traces of the three S’s present in most sexual assault cases – semen, sweat and saliva.

Negative on that but it was clear he’d probed her skin with his gloved fingers – or at least the abdomen, arms, neck and face. No other parts of the body appeared to have been touched.

She used the light on the rest of the scene – from the manhole to the breadbasket – and found nothing.

All that remained for her was removing the flashlight that the unsub had left as a beacon.

‘Sachs,’ Rhyme called.

‘Yeah?’

‘Why don’t we have city workers pop the manhole and you come out that way? You’ll have to search that area on the street anyway. We know that’s how he got in – and he was there about five minutes ago. Could have some trace.’

But she knew he was suggesting this so she could avoid the smaller of the two tunnels.

The circular coffin …

Sachs glanced at the black maw. It seemed even smaller now. ‘It’s a thought, Rhyme. But I think I’ll go out the way I came in.’

She’d beaten the fear once; she wasn’t going to let it win now.

Using a rough ledge on the brick wall to support her weight, she stepped up and boosted herself to within reach of the unsub’s flashlight. She took the surgical scissors from her pocket and cut the tape.

Pulling it down, she dislodged a handful of grayish powder, which she suddenly realized the perp had set as a trap for the crime scene officers. That’s why he’d left the light! The material poured straight into her eyes and, desperately brushing it away, she dislodged the N95 respirator and inhaled a good amount of the toxin.

‘No!’

Choking, choking, drowning on the stinging powder. Instantly the fierce burn began. She fell to the ground and stumbled back, nearly tripping over Chloe’s body.

Rhyme’s voice was in her ear. ‘Sachs! What was that? I couldn’t see.’

She struggled to inhale, to clear the poison from her lungs. The barbed hooks scorched her windpipe and eyes and nose. She ripped off the face mask, spitting, aware that she was contaminating the scene but she was unable to stop.

Rhyme was shouting. It was hard for her to hear but she believed he was calling, probably into his phone, ‘Medics down there! Now!’ And ‘I don’t care.’ And ‘Poison control. Fast.’

But then she heard nothing more than the choking that consumed her.

CHAPTER 7