Published by Arrow Books in 2011

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Copyright © James Patterson, 2011

James Patterson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by
Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-0-099-55675-6

ADVICE: contains violent scenes

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter One

‘Killing isn’t murder when it’s necessary.’

The figure, dressed in black, lying on the bed, believed it. The killing that had taken so much planning would benefit more people than it would hurt. So it wouldn’t be murder.

The killer listened to the faint roar of London traffic that the triple-glazed windows failed to mute, and watched the figures change on the digital clock. 2.00 a.m., 2.01 a.m., 2.03 a.m., 2.04 a.m. …

The click of the clock and a distant steady breathing were the only sounds apart from the traffic. The sleeping pills in the bedtime drink had worked. No one else was awake.

At 2.10 a.m. the night porter, Damian Clark, would pocket the intercom receiver. He’d leave the foyer and take his break in his studio flat in the basement. His routine hadn’t varied in the six weeks that the killer had watched him.

The cameras would record, but Damian wouldn’t be watching the screens above the porter’s desk. It was the perfect time. With care there’d be nothing to be seen on the tapes, because the killer knew the exact angle of the cameras, where they recorded and where they didn’t.

Damian’s absence was an extra safety measure.

The street doors were locked. No one could enter Barnes Building without summoning Damian on the intercom and who was going to call between two and three in the morning?

No resident could enter one apartment from another unless they had the master key code. The day porter, Ted, had been stupid. When he’d been given the job three months ago, he’d written down the code and left it on a notepad on the desk.

At 2.10 a.m. the figure rose from the bed and glanced in the mirror. All that could be seen was a black shadow in the darkness. The only glimpse of colour was in the eyes shining through the slits in the ski mask. Thin latex gloves were snapped on. The pencil torch was in the trouser pocket. The bag packed.

Time to go.

The layout was the same in all the apartments except the penthouse. The front door opened into a hall. There was a kitchen on the left, a living room that opened on to a balcony straight ahead, bedrooms and bathrooms on the right. Snuffles and heavy breathing came from behind the second bedroom door. The killer listened at the outer door before opening it and creeping out into the corridor.

The kitchen surfaces gleamed, smelling of antiseptic, as a chef’s kitchen should.

The knives were in the block. A chopper to cut through bone. A filleting knife to loosen organs. A carving knife to sever muscle. The two-pronged fork was hanging above the cooker. All were placed in the bag. Back to the hall. Listen at the door. Was it imagination, or was there a sound in the corridor?

Open the door slowly. Deep breath to steady nerves. Back into the corridor, crawling low to avoid the lens of the CCTV camera.

The building hummed with night noises. The heating whirred. The low-wattage light bulbs buzzed. Water ran in the communal utility room as a night load washed.

No one slept in the artists’ studio. The plumbing under the sink was plastic, push fit. A stab with a sharp penknife split the joint. Water began to drip, enough to make a small pool by morning. It would claim the day porter’s attention for an hour or two.

The stairs behind the fire doors were concrete. They led up to the penthouse roof terrace and down to the cellar car park. There were cameras trained on the outside doors. One was at the cellar car park level, another was on the roof. Nothing between.

It was easy to crawl below the red-eyed beam of the CCTV, reach up, and key in the master code. The door clicked. The killer crept forward and crawled into the secret place.

There was a light but no windows. Shelves were bolted to the walls – waist high on one side, shoulder height on the other. The secret place was small, but there was room to move around.

Chains had been wound around the shelf at waist height. Leather straps fastened to the links at measured points. Straps that would fasten ankles, knees, hips, waist, arms, wrists and neck securely to the shelf.

The killer turned to the shelves on the other side and emptied the bag except for a can of spray paint. The chef’s knives and the two-pronged fork were set out in a row, steel blades gleaming in the electric light. There was a roll of red satin ribbon and a sheet of pink-heart gift wrap, a plastic box, and a white cardboard box, with a printed address label and a plastic flag. Next to them the killer laid the stun gun that looked like a mobile phone, bought in Florida and smuggled back through Gatwick. It was illegal to buy stun guns in Britain.

‘Killing isn’t murder when it’s necessary.’

The killer spoke the words aloud. One final check before leaving, closing and locking the door. A quick spray of paint. It was a second coat. The paint was invisible, difficult to check.

Back to the corridors in the building, then returning to the apartment, avoiding CCTV cameras, moving as slowly and carefully as on the journey down.

Home! The lock clicked. The sound was loud.

A cry tore through the air from behind a bedroom door. The killer froze.

Chapter Two

The killer remained still, silent. The cry subsided to a soft moan. After a heart-thundering eternity, the sound of steady breathing once more echoed from behind the door.

A nightmare!

Slip into own bedroom. Undress with five minutes to spare. 3.05. Everything was ready. Close eyes, try to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day – and, for one person, their last.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, darling.’ Jack Barnes set the tray on the four-poster bed next to his wife, Zee.

She opened her eyes to a vista of pink.

‘Pink rose, cranberry juice, fresh raspberries topped with raspberry yoghurt, smoked salmon and pink scrambled eggs. The eggs are a cheat. I mixed tomato juice into them.’ Jack shook out the napkin and laid it over the sheet. ‘The best I could do with the coffee was to serve it in a pink mug.’

‘You are a sweetheart.’ Zee pulled his head down and kissed him.

‘The last luxury.’ He uncovered a pink iced doughnut.

‘If I eat that, I’ll grow as big as an elephant,’ Zee complained.

‘In five months we’ll start training for the London Marathon so you can run off the baby weight.’

‘Only if I can bear to leave the baby.’

‘Strap him or her to your back,’ he teased.

‘Have you time for coffee?’

‘No, because I’m working on another surprise.’

‘What?’

‘It won’t be a surprise if I tell you. Enjoy breakfast. I’ll meet you at the restaurant for lunch.’

‘One o’clock at our usual table? Or in your office?’

‘Our table. Make the most of this lazy day,’ he warned. ‘The next Valentine’s Day will be filled with baby and nappies.’

‘I’m looking forward to being a mother.’

‘As opposed to wife?’ he joked.

‘I’ll always be that.’

He went to the door and blew her a kiss. ‘Love you lots.’

‘Love you more.’ It was her standard reply, but it always made him smile.

Jack went into the living room. Their cleaner, Sara, was dusting.

‘Thanks for setting up the breakfast tray, Sara.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Jack. How long will you and Mrs Zee be gone?’

He held his finger to his lips. ‘Zee doesn’t know about the trip yet. We’ll be back on Monday.’

‘I’ll give the apartment a good clean over the weekend.’

‘It always looks immaculate to me, Sara. You do a fine job.’

‘Nice of you to say so, Mr Jack.’

Jack left the apartment and, ignoring the lift, walked down the stairs. He’d lived in Barnes Buildings in Mayfair for five years. Originally two houses, he’d hired an architect to convert them into apartments for himself and his family. His penthouse was large and luxurious. It had four balconies, a roof terrace with hot tub, four en-suite bedrooms, a study, movie and games suite, formal living and dining rooms and a den.

His younger brother, Michael, lived below him and Zee, with his girlfriend Anni. As they were both artists, Jack had turned the floor below their apartment into a studio where they worked.