‘Matthew, please. You can also look at it the other way. The police saved me, you know.’

The man fell silent but seemed even more furious. Sellitto was hoping he didn’t have another coronary.

‘What was this earlier assault?’ Harriet asked hesitantly. Her voice left no doubt what she was asking.

‘Not sexual assault. Homicide.’

She was breathing rapidly now and under the heavy makeup her face seemed to grow paler. ‘A, like a serial killer?’ What was left of the tissue disintegrated further.

‘Again, we don’t know. Could you describe him?’

‘I’ll try. I only saw him for a few seconds before he pulled a mask down, grabbed me and turned me around.’

Sellitto had been interviewing witnesses for decades and knew that even the best-intentioned remembered little or accidentally supplemented accurate observations with mistaken ones. Still, Harriet was pretty specific. She described a white man around thirty wearing a dark jacket, probably leather, gloves, a black or navy-blue wool cap, dark slacks or jeans. He was slim of build but had a round face – it struck her as Russian in appearance.

‘My husband and I went to Saint Petersburg a few years ago and we noticed that was typical of how young men look. Round heads, round faces.’

Matthew pointed out in a sneering tone, ‘Crime there too but only pickpockets. They don’t sneak up on you in hospitals.’

‘Higher standards, yeah,’ Sellitto replied. Then: ‘Or the guy’s appearance: maybe Slavic in general? Eastern European?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose so. We’ve only been to Russia. Oh, and his eyes were light blue. Very light.’

‘Scars?’

‘I didn’t see any. I think he had a tattoo. One of his arms. Red. But I couldn’t see much of it. He had the coat on.’

‘Hair?’

Harriet’s eyes scanned the floor. ‘He pulled that hat down pretty quick. I just couldn’t tell you for sure.’

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Just whispered to stop struggling or he’d hurt me. I didn’t hear an accent.’

And that was it.

Age, build, eye color and a round head. Russian or Slavic. Clothing.

Sellitto radioed to Bo Haumann, the head of NYPD Emergency Service, and the officer in charge of the manhunt. He gave the description and the latest information.

‘Roger that, Lon. We’ve sealed the office building. Don’t think he got out but I’ve got some teams canvassing the streets nearby. K.’

‘I’ll get back to you, Bo.’ Sellitto didn’t bother with radio code propriety. Never did. It wasn’t that rank had privilege; tenure did.

He turned back to Harriet Stanton and her husband, who was still glowering. Heart attack? He looked pretty spare. And had an outdoor-weathered face, so he probably got a fair amount of exercise. Maybe being in a bad mood was a risk factor for coronaries. Sellitto felt bad for Harriet, who seemed like a nice enough lady.