Detective Inspector Miles Corbin stared at the wall of horrors and took a long, slow sip of his dreadful, lukewarm tea. The Major Incident Room at Chelmsford Police Station hummed with the low-grade, frantic energy of a case that was spiralling out of control. Five whiteboards stood like tombstones, each bearing the face of a victim, each telling a completely different, completely impossible story.
Board one: Jack Thorne, the NHS doctor. A quiet, surgical murder. Victim's eye excised with a precision that had made the pathologist feel physically sick. Weapon: believed to be a thin, antique blade. Motive: unknown.
Board two: Alani Costa, the Team GB swimmer. A case of shocking, explosive brutality. Her body broken and then grotesquely posed like a piece of sculpture at the Basildon Sporting Village. Weapon: a geological hammer. Motive: unknown.
Board three: Ben Carter, the London commuter. Hunted for miles through Epping Forest like an animal. A practical, efficient kill. Weapon: a survival knife. Motive: unknown.
Board four: Chloe Sterling, the influencer. No forced entry. A near-invisible puncture mark in her neck. Her entire digital existence wiped from the face of the earth. Weapon: a syringe. Motive: unknown.
Board five: Arthur Pendelton, the retired headmaster. His life systematically ruined over months before a clean, quiet strangulation. Weapon: a garrote. Motive: revenge, perhaps, but from whom? Unknown.
"The press are having a field day, Miles."
Miles didn't turn. He recognised the weary, strained voice of his superior, Detective Chief Superintendent Davies.
"They're calling it 'The Essex Nightmares'," Davies went on, stopping beside him. He gestured at the wall. "Five major, high-profile murders in as many weeks. All different victims, all different methods. What in God's name am I supposed to tell the Chief Constable? Or the bloody media, for that matter?"
"Tell them we're pursuing all lines of enquiry," Miles said, his voice raspy from lack of sleep.
"That's what I said yesterday," Davies sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, we have to be realistic. We're stretched to breaking point. We need to treat these as separate investigations. The resources are being allocated that way. Get the teams focused. We need results, not grand theories."
"They're connected, Frank," Miles said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the boards.
"How?" Davies demanded, his patience finally snapping. "What's the link? A surgeon, a brute, a survivalist, a ghost, and a bloody schemer. There's nothing here. No forensic crossover. No geographic pattern beyond the county line. Nothing."
"That's the point," Miles said, turning to face him. "There's no sloppiness. No mistakes. Each one, in its own way, is a perfect crime. It's the perfection that links them."
Davies just shook his head. "I need arrests, Miles. Not philosophy. Get me something tangible." He clapped a heavy hand on Miles's shoulder and walked away, leaving him alone in the humming silence of the room.
Miles stayed there for hours, long after the last of the day shift had gone home, leaving him with the ghosts on the wall. He saw the threads his boss couldn't. The Oculist's surgical precision wasn't just a murder; it was a statement of skill. The Architect hadn't just killed a girl; he'd made a sculpture out of her. The Pathfinder hadn't just stabbed a man; he'd proven his mastery over him. The Echo, The Puppeteer… they were all artists. Performers.
He picked up a black marker, the squeak loud in the quiet room as he drew a line connecting Jack Thorne's board to Alani Costa's. Then another line to Ben Carter. And another, and another, until all five victims were linked in a chaotic, terrifying web.
"Still here, Guv?"
A young Detective Constable, Harris, stood in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. He looked at the spiderweb on the wall.
"You really think they're linked?" Harris asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "But the MOs are all over the place. It makes no sense."
Miles stepped back, looking at the five faces staring out at him from the epicentre of his new, awful map. A cold, dreadful certainty settled deep in his gut.
"You're right," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "It makes no sense if you think it's a spree." He looked at Harris, his eyes dark with the dawn of a terrifying understanding.
"This isn't a spree. It's a showcase."