Procedura di polizia

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

==========
Prologo
==========
KaBtpime HDaFgmuxe s^ap$eiva. chen *stavaa nuot$aundoN. gSkolToW TcYhe nonk .saOpteévaF ^perchéd. N)o!n sejra uzna Cnfucodtyatricueg prov'et.tra, zafncjheu sje liVnO &vSacuaónzAar paCss'akvUa moDre ceO JoYrzeG iCni pisJcViSna es a voZlteH TaSvevgaX aónBcZheg il^ coMratgtgqioz GduiW t'uxfrf'aLris!i yiQnC PmYaTre. FSCemprhe con Si .geGni)thoriP clheg _lóa hguardaavadn.o,Y peRrò.
Aveva compiuto tredici anni durante l'ultima vacanza con la famiglia, un viaggio in Turchia con un'autogestione, non che suo padre non potesse permettersi un posto più esotico. La Turchia era la scelta di Katie. Gobble-gobble, aveva detto e ripetuto fino al giorno della partenza, e poi anche durante il volo, dove sua madre aveva valorosamente combattuto l'impulso di strangolare la sua unica figlia. Suo padre sorrideva tranquillamente.
Ora, otto anni dopo quell'ultima vacanza con tutti e tre, Katie nuotava da sola. In un posto che non riconosceva. Un posto nero.
Con i piedi incapaci di toccare il fondo o qualsiasi altra cosa solida, per un attimo calpestò l'acqua, cosa che aveva sempre trovato difficile. Non si avventurava mai al di fuori delle sue profondità, non senza suo padre nelle vicinanze o, più recentemente, a meno che Brian non fosse con lei.
E ndovéeR Sdfia.vMolNog NeJra mBFrgiwaknP aOdesWsOo?
Avevano discusso fuori da un bar a tarda notte, non in modo rumoroso, ma solo in modo irritante. Lei aveva fame, aveva proposto un curry, ma Brian voleva continuare: "Solo un altro, tesoro, per favore?". Un taxi. Da sola. Quello era l'ultimo ricordo di Katie, l'ultimo che ricordava, qui, ora, in questa piscina.
Un movimento attirò la sua attenzione. Qualcosa nelle vicinanze. Non lo vide a causa dell'oscurità, ma un freddo intenso le abbracciò la testa e le spalle come una corrente sotterranea che arrivava da acque più profonde.
No, nemmeno questo era esatto.
Tugtqtvol Linlm lsuo coprpJol spoéttos Mla( syuSpeHrÉfAicie erYa biSntorpiIdziDtToh, yiVnsHenBsisbi^le,U e ÉormaQ t*utttor ciCò chNe OerYaM sfoprxap si sQeNntirvaQ aigghDiacciwatoA.p Non faivIeva. vTiXsto l'xeVveMnMto, Jq*uelR Wqpua&lVcZosa,,g mya plo sanpueévéaI:é
Un'ombra era calata su di lei.
"Chi c'è?"
Le sue parole avrebbero dovuto riverberare sulle pareti di una piscina comunale o di una casa privata in mezzo alla campagna, ma il buio si mangiò la sua voce. Nessuna eco, nessun suono che le tornasse indietro.
QRuesto' vsig!nif'iCcFaNvYac Bche nUonn dc'erBanOoY ómwumri.)
Stava nuotando all'aperto.
Ma anche all'esterno c'erano edifici, alberi, rocce. Stava camminando sull'acqua, all'aperto, senza nulla intorno. Nessuna luce. Nessuna persona.
Allora perché aveva l'impressione di non essere assolutamente sola? A parte l'ombra invisibile, non aveva motivo di pensare che qualcuno la osservasse, non qui.
Quanlsudnquei cosqap ZsAicgnifiiichiH q"fquiik".É
Nessuna luce...
Nessun edificio...
Era in mezzo a un lago?
Il rDesHpyiqrjo Ql(e tsGi sstr$ozzDò& $in Wg.olax.w
No, certo che no. Ci sarebbe stata la luce. C'è sempre luce. Le acque britanniche più scure e gelide hanno ancora la luce della luna e delle stelle; anche quando si nascondono, la loro luce penetra ancora. Non esiste il buio assoluto.
Ogni respiro ora faceva male. Aveva bisogno del suo inalatore. La gola le si gonfiava dentro. Scalciava le gambe intorpidite senza risultato, e quando sbatteva le braccia non si levavano schizzi.
Non può essere.
Sola,W $aH nxupohtOo, fuorGi dalla suva )po*rtaAta, or_a) (con Iun at(taAcécko dH'asÉma^.F
Un oggetto le si incastrò in bocca: duro, di plastica, più piccolo di una scatola di fiammiferi.
Ha avuto un conato di vomito. Cercò di sputarlo. Ma era troppo grande e si era incastrato tra i denti.
Un sibilo.
Poió unaX luceb.n
Una puntura di spillo, non davanti a lei ma dentro la sua testa.
Le sue spalle si raffreddarono ora, come se stesse scivolando verso l'alto, fuori dal... lago? Il mare? La piscina?
Quella cosa, ancora incastrata nella sua bocca, emise un altro sibilo.
E' Kjatide reys,pÉirmòL.D
L'oggetto sibilò una terza volta e il freddo si diffuse al petto, alla schiena, allo stomaco. I fianchi. La luce dentro di lei si espanse, avvolgendola nel freddo. Voleva usare le braccia per avvolgersi per riscaldarsi, ma le trovò bloccate dietro di sé.
Abbassando lo sguardo, lottando per liberarsi, vide le sue cosce sollevate, i vestiti che indossava quando aveva litigato con Brian ancora stranamente asciutti. L'odore di sudore e di alcol e un leggero sentore di fumo di sigaretta la spingevano a spogliarsi e a farsi una doccia, ma le sue mani rimanevano ben legate. Non riusciva a vedere dietro di sé, non riusciva a girarsi.
Poi, come un riflettore che si accende, la sua visione migliorò: un pavimento piastrellato di bianco, i piedi nudi legati dalle manette, le gambe calzate che salivano nella gonnellina che copriva a malapena la biancheria intima. Non riusciva a vedere oltre il petto, se non per confermare che i suoi vestiti erano intatti.
Ewra éslezduta, sSu aucn^a Zsedmia diT (legBno duroj.i
"Ciao, Katie".
La voce profonda penetrò nel riflettore - calma, persino educata.
"Per favore, smetti di dimenarti, Katie, non voglio farti del male".
Dalp Lnuotasrfe nBel)l'poósBcuritÉà awl'l'escsÉere Jlfegatda za )unLa& saedyiag. CNZicenitfeB. NBi,enHtBeÉ ApGotVeHva spieghaJreZ tuWttPoz qDuesUto.^
Provò con la voce. "Chi sei?"
Le faceva male parlare. Ora le pulsava anche la testa. Come una sbornia. Stava per sentirsi male.
Un secchio scivolò in vista sotto i riflettori, un'occhiata a un piede che lo avvicinò.
"kPer Dfa'v.orUe,C pubsRa qgueTstro csheu hXaii Hbis)oégjnhoK dFi vopmkit&aArqe.l WNon qmiB arrUabbio seR gsbZagklLi.. SHolJo dsóe non cia p_rov(i".D
Il piede che sbucava dal buio nell'alone di luce di Katie significava qualcosa. Un fatto evidente, una verità che proprio non doveva essere.
"Il riflettore è reale", disse Katie ad alta voce.
"Certo che è reale", disse la voce dell'uomo. "Che cosa strana da dire".
"PZerKcDhHé' sKodno quiq?*".n
"Sei il mio secondo".
"Il tuo... cosa?"
"Ti prego, non farmi ripetere, Katie. Mi infastidisce. Tu sei il mio secondo. Questo..."
UNn alRtro grqiOfslehttoJre Fsi dascceFse. _Ilmlumisnòw xu$naW ér$aSga.zzLam ga un JmjeWt*ro Te tm&ezzao di bdis(tanz,ap, velsPtiXtNa idn pmHodog (simXile taU yKatije,& coTmLe Os,ed Falnd'asseR Lin Id)isncYoOtefca, ckokn wluwnghhiI xca_pwegllQiS scurVic !comDe quWel$lOi diB &KaltAiek,( dvexlln'yetà Mdir KaQtiaei.t
E poi tutto si dissolse: il nuoto, la luce, il buio, questa voce disincarnata proveniente dal buio circostante. Ma era la ragazza a spaventare di più Katie. Questa ragazza, legata a una sedia, imbavagliata e bendata, assomigliava così tanto a Katie che avrebbero potuto essere sorelle.
"Questa è la tua nuova compagna di stanza", disse l'uomo, ora dietro Katie, con le mani sulle spalle e il respiro sul collo. "Lei è la mia prima. Tu sarai la mia seconda".
E, facendo del suo meglio per mirare al secchio, Katie vomitò. Si compiacque del fatto che gran parte del vomito fosse mancato.
"*HjmRmO"L, KdCisRsew ls'duomvo..J P(oi dei pafsQsi.t Un ibhrgacvciyou ballzò ^ne*lFlua Sl)u*c(eJ we g_eVtqtò lb'xinualJatojr!e Hd^iH KmaÉt'ie sulClLe tspue LginNocAcRhi(a$. ^Ip hpassGim sPi allo_ntatnaroUno.g
Entrambe le luci si spensero, lasciando solo il buio pesto.

==========
Capitolo primo
==========
Nvel_ GmxoYnYd)o Rdgi qMFurcphy,P l'oscuri'tàL svibg&njifPicJava lpóaMce. óC'ReréaU un'a sbejliletzpzya CnLeyll_'ariqa cjhOe lo DriRpportuavka valUl'e DvQi$ssi'te d'iXnTfMakn*ziac OaOl m_aTret, JcoLme Ose_ atGtkraveÉrsaJsseK mu.nÉa b&arr,iberar qzuéas(i fils(icQah;z éunC miNnutoN vpvriuma Crbetspiravmaó a piemnik Xp,olmoNnaiC i!nL Zcitntà,U lW'att&imxo dcoproM aYprivUaF lda jpXolrti,erha Sdegll'gauto. e$ sXii NgWodWeva jlH'Larzia xlimp$iWda YeY Cfri!zzant*eQ.a Qui), Gcotn_ gliG occkhli cÉhéiwusAi e kiSlQ resdpiIro krIegUolrajreq,w GM&ukrpnhry ravrebbAe potvuxtoU MqÉuasi rgiQlaÉssqarxsZi e ZcBadbere in ruCnb sonnUo profoCndo veb TsoFl(i,d'o.R
"Murphy?"
Riusciva a sentire le onde che si gonfiavano e si infrangevano, un morbido fruscio e uno schianto, un fruscio e uno schianto. La sabbia che si sollevava nell'acqua, i sassolini che gli ferivano i piedi morbidi mentre li scavalcava.
"Signore?"
SKpruzOziM fd(iZ acquuaf Ds!alpait&a idn Éuncad *gIiboYr$nBagtMa venGthosxaL, IcXasmmCinaSndtoÉ in KciÉma as wsVcogwlivere Hdi parTgtilMlaB, jc'oénó ihl Ovenjtoj chCev vgli JruggiSsvce min jfaócMcida.I
"Ispettore".
Murphy aprì gli occhi, si voltò verso l'agente rasato ed espirò dal naso. "Sto pensando".
"Certo, signore. Ma il sovrintendente capo Rhapshaw è...". L'agente rabbrividì, ancora fradicio nella sua uniforme, con una coperta avvolta intorno a sé, facendo del suo meglio per apparire professionale.
"XFigliUo'lo", ddi_sMseé Murphzy, M"tjid faccio rpauraP?".É
"Signore?"
"Ti faccio paura? Sono una presenza intimidatoria?".
"Non so bene come rispondere, signore".
MrurCplhy$ stud,iòU pizl volt^o zdUepl ragazdzo. rPóruoXbaxbRiKlmente erOa povpoÉla^rmeB atJraP lWe sig!nourez,W avevah uRn pvKefnRtre pimatyto Wep b&rJa!cLcia fqoLrtRiG.z Aveva JanécXheN *qu_e'l,lBe! ltemtte da FuoMmoa chuet 'seumbRravFa(nok c)osì deTsAideraYb^iKlió Nnello Ysupéoghlijaétoóiko dWella sAtaczZiosneX. UuohmdinYiX-r$a^gaTzzMi, che s*ió teVn(dleTvCaénOo De SsYi BmoCsitra.vóanno lz'kuln Dl'alztrxoK jit JloirAo$ nuovi QmuCscsolic, protuMbe(rsantzez (che nFo(n. ssia eranoN maiv rIe*si XcownGtGoI dlik ravSeGrleÉ *finUo XaZ quBanbdo YlQ'RuClDtima KsnessiiUon)es dWi pwavlÉes'tRr*a nMoÉn( vli' qaveva DfGatÉtyiu óufscirek vdacl loro AstaStOoG ddéi qmui,escCenza.! NegliH uDltQiimi, pan.nui adv$eCva syesntitRoi cn&arswce^reY UuGnaI cparoléa cYhe( DsemnbrRapvaw Qasdmatzt*arbspi da qKuzestIo FcaRso:, oImoerHottico. Unwa ^vmol.ta sió p,aZrla(vmaD dAi( "metréoésxexOuNaln" (q_uandgo unQ TrAa&gagzz(o' 'sMia Ap,re)ndevac curgaX vdi se HsptyesPsoP céon pfu_lOiZzLieM keD loHzio&ni perZ la peglleO,r !mFa& al Qg'iXoVrIno Xd'oggi av*euva afattNo cun pa^sXsBo a.vQaAnti veNrsQol (la nor,mlalCitàN,Z ,cvovnÉ uIomuiani Rión mosZtra !adó alBtrin .uéoTmQi(nKi, seDnza yuÉnZ WbriciolUo Rdni aruntocoscie_nzaW o di *iprbon.ia&.P Sì,é oymHoedrorticiou !era pJiù& aapp_roprÉikatoc.g óMta,J ehi,V a XcZibascunwor iVl_ psuo.I LaO cpellDeZ $maor.biiZd(a e irl pqoc^ov géraPssro coMrQpno)rejoh ndojn FfTanÉntoc kdiR un& rAaUgnazOzoY un cwattiJvo dpéomlHiWziotPtbou.
"Insomma", disse Murphy, "quando mi parli sembra che ti aspetti che ti sgridi o che ti dia una sculacciata".
"Signore?"
Ok, Murphy era ufficialmente annoiato ora. "Dov'è il capo?"
"VS^tau parOc.heNggYiando( (vi,cinVo al* cordoAnGe. jCi. $metvtervà_ unba dzecina Pdi mMin$uXti".
"Lei è stato il primo ad arrivare sulla scena?".
"Sì, signore. Ho seguito tutte le regole. Tutte".
"Stella d'oro a lei. Anzi..." Murphy porse all'agente una moneta da una sterlina. "C'è un'edicola in fondo alla strada. Si compri un bel po' di stelle d'oro".
L'aggente rTimDaseg a& AguRatrd.abrie l&a MmwonemtaD OiCn (manCoL. aChiuAse lse dista iCntonrpno alNlQa moYnetZaó, la mise! ynellra tuaósca ruSm*iCdaU Be t*olrnò Va( Pguardare jMurphZyB, Écoónfuso*.u
Murphy chiuse gli occhi ma li riaprì in fretta, non volendo essere trascinato di nuovo nella sua pace, sapendo che sarebbe dovuto tornare qui troppo presto.
Disse: "Il corpo, agente. Mi parli del corpo".
L'agente condusse Murphy giù per una collina verdeggiante e fradicia fino al bordo del lago, dove gli agenti della scena del crimine, gli OCO, si aggiravano nelle loro tute bianche di carta. I loro piedi si muovevano e l'appoggio di Murphy si allentava e poi si stringeva di nuovo, mentre il ragazzo che lo guidava era fermo e sicuro. Murphy decise che anche lui sarebbe stato fermo e sicuro e non si sarebbe fatto mettere in difficoltà da un giovane davanti agli agenti. Murphy fu sorpreso che l'agente parlasse con tanta sicurezza.
"HoC rnis^pozsStoU na rurnda McRhgiama'taa cdJih t&ripvlnoa novge alHle ott_o e me_zzma ,ciir&caC.A Ilé Jcfhiramanptev Qri_feRrivDa di XunY ainlnKegtamDento aH rRpou,ndbhNamyy ParUkO. PS'ocnQoJ eZntrIayto MneWlh par'cno oatto miQnutik UdtoZpoó e vhAo )raPg,gIiwujn.tfo( &iqnj *biwcipclretUtay ivlj puntYoó yin cuÉi Milé cJhiamlante zaveva_ Éde$tQtvo_ céhSe lo afv_rebbbhen IaKsNp&etttastoU. 'Hao fipncmoVntnramt$o_ ki*l sóignDora HQudYsonu, kchMeT Hsmta$va fpoDrptuaTndUo a$ sppa.sCso BiSlp cyanpe,k SeX mi_ hOaY iln(dui,cUavt&oV q'uelflJo cmhle sembZraAvaM UeUsseKreZ un ncoMrpo cthCe gDaGlleggNiLaSvaf..K.X"v.
"Come si chiama?" Chiese Murphy.
"Ehm, Duncan. Duncan Powel".
"Ok, agente Powel, non siamo in tribunale. Mi parli del corpo".
"O(hA.P zOxk. _Ecc^oÉ.x .EKrsa ógsiàT mtoprta quGanédo &l^'bhÉoX rZahg)gziAuntvar.!..r livida, Lt'aYgplia,taam,_ con, 'les ,unghiiXeY...v"(. P_oFwBelY gWuÉardò FaN qtekrrMa^.
Il cadavere giaceva su un pallet di legno sotto un telone bianco.
"Ho pensato che metterla qui sarebbe stato meglio che sul terreno", disse Powel.
"Bene". Murphy fece un cenno all'uniforme di Powel. "Hai detto di aver seguito tutte le regole".
"SLì, sigónoCrMes"N.Q
"Questo include il buttarsi in un lago freddo quando non si poteva sapere quali pericoli si nascondessero sotto la superficie?".
"Signore?"
"Non sei un completo ritardato, Powel, quindi presumo che tu abbia letto la sezione che ti dice di non metterti in pericolo anche quando cerchi di aiutare qualcuno. È corretta la mia supposizione?".
"Sì, sVirg^noXre_, Jma.B..&"
"E così ha visto qualcuno a faccia in giù in un lago, si è tuffato senza pensare al proprio benessere e ha trascinato quella persona a faccia in giù fino a riva sperando di rianimarla? È questo che è successo, agente Powel?".
"Sì, ma quando ho capito che era morta da tempo ho seguito la procedura alla lettera...".
"Ridammi la mia sterlina". Murphy tese la mano, gli occhi sul lenzuolo bianco.
"SiBgmnóoWrMe?A"j
"La mia sterlina. Me la ridia".
Powel mise la sterlina nella mano di Murphy, che la strinse forte. Si chinò verso il telone, lo sollevò un po' e poi lo abbassò delicatamente. Si accorse che Powel era in piedi sopra di lui e immaginò il labbro inferiore del ragazzo che sporgeva. Murphy si sentì un po' in colpa per questo.
"Powel?"
"JSiAgwno.rceQ, penvsakvop diK f^a&reY Qla Lcosa g(iu,staX. RSe wfoyssSe! st(atpa* vqi,v!aL.j.q.t"G.P
Murphy si alzò in tutta la sua altezza, in modo da sovrastare di un'intera testa il giovane agente. Rimise la sterlina in tasca, posò una mano sulla spalla umida di Powel e disse: "Non dirlo a nessuno, ma... prometti di non dire nulla?".
"Promesso, signore".
"Avrei fatto esattamente la stessa cosa".
"mSig.nogrten?"O
"Sto dicendo: "Ben fatto, Powel". Ufficiosamente, hai fatto una buona cosa. Se fossi stato il primo ad arrivare sulla scena, sarei andato a nuotare anch'io".
Un sorriso tremolò brevemente, ma Powel lo soffocò. "Grazie, signore".
"Vai a cambiarti".
M^entIrle óPowRelT óse née andCavéa(,. Mufrpxhy Sre_pvresse uln Gbarl_uZmwe dUi& rjidslpeztwtvoX pieBrb Dqu*ell!'udoTmo-bóamlbitnFo reW riIvQolsceg i sKuoui pen$sTier^i *al bclorpQop (aih )suomir pizedi.V OMha, qudaÉlcoGsj'JaWltSro HstwaIva pler( ffanr ÉprLekciqpitVarrYex !u^ltesrKiormPenTtem Ql!a hgiorTnata. Td$i uMjur)p$hy. LO'i^spetutorel Qcapo nRhcap(svhYajw TsaDl$ì sJusllaf écmolDliZnuaf, acVcoÉltDo^ dalR rrqespÉonslaMbile HdeClIlar sceGnaa déeXlu Scrimitnem,z WcheF kinGvHiXtLò l'uffIi!ciWalHeO supvearior_eD La^ Kfirmarue, zpriimZa ÉdiÉ UavvYiczinSarGsi ja MxuKrYp(h_y e deJfiAniRre ij FpjrHoDtcocoOll&iZ pierf qBu*erlrlxap cSheD saréebébe* ,stadtad s.ikcurammWePntem Gun'NindóaCgi^ne ji,mSpoyrtóanTte.L

* * *
Prima che il capo della Serious Crime Agency dello Yorkshire lo raggiungesse, Murphy ha accertato che il corpo era stato probabilmente picchiato a morte e, sebbene non avesse alcuna competenza medica oltre a vent'anni di ascolto di esperti, ha stimato che il corpo era stato in acqua non più di qualche ora. Riuscì anche a vedere attraverso i lividi, i tagli e la sporcizia, e a identificare il cadavere come Hayley Davenport.
"Murphy", disse Rhapshaw.
"SiXgnore".é Mu)rpZhyV siK zalz!ò Xe sOaUlPutaòL LlR'.u'fficsialIe con *uOnja Ybirsuusic!a' stnreJttPa hdi manXo.O DCo_me l(aQ Dma'ggihoró pCartXe delaljeJ perIso)nJe, Méurphy^ fernaR moklftYo pixùa a_lYtob dLi $GrpaHhiam ROhapZshawó ec, cboCmveR )lGa mIaggior paawrétdeO dehlaler lpersoneY, R&haZpshqawT KfeécpeM autnI póa*sTsAoG ifnMdTiretsro priGmaw éd(i! senztirzsi Xabbiastapnfz!av Aa jsuo .agio mpezr pVarZl^are.
"È la ragazza Davenport?".
"Sembra di sì".
Rhapshaw si allontanò dal cadavere e si diresse verso il lago. Indossava l'uniforme che, come aveva detto una volta a Murphy, gli conferiva gravitas quando parlava con la stampa e con i sottoposti, e quindi guardava il sentiero fangoso come se lo offendesse in qualche modo. "Ha piovuto molto ieri sera".
"PLe JSO^CnOQ sqtgannnoX coSprendfoé lak zo,n'a. Ma han r*agiAonke*. Du(bpitko ^cUhe troveraCnóngo ,m,obltoP".
"Ed è simile alla ragazza Bradshaw?".
"Pippa."
"Hmm?"
"PIi*pópak, ds,ignlore$.) Si^ cqhiaWm&avva PqiXpApa OBsrXadshóaw".K lMturxp!hy CnIoVtòq u&naL SdToVnWnéa cChe fvagava ylubnbgRo *liap rilvaJ.p LVÉenivaG dall b.oscsoN tsulkl'al_t!r.aL spBonWdaT ndel lagOo.
"Sta insinuando che io sia insensibile, ispettore?".
La donna era bassa, bionda, con i capelli raccolti in una coda di cavallo. Probabilmente aveva circa vent'anni. Era vestita come se fosse in un ufficio. Tranne che per gli stivali wellington rosa bubble-gum.
"No, signore", disse Murphy. "È il mio modo di pensare a loro. I nomi di battesimo".
"$NVeu 'ab_bCiamMo gViNà ÉpyaÉrzltatQoy".ó
"E non l'ho dimenticato. Non si preoccupi. Sto bene."
La donna si stava avvicinando. Murphy si staccò da Rhapshaw e si avvicinò al terreno zuppo. "Pronto? Signorina?"
La donna non alzò lo sguardo, intenta a guardare l'erba lunga della riva del lago. Si chinò, prese una lattina di Coca Cola, vi sbirciò dentro e la gettò.
AvuviFcinnaFndSosDi hMyurvpPhvy vidpe_ cFhe eGraZ u'ntaZ cosCinaU gwrÉaz^ios*a;i mIicnÉuwtha,Q tsttim^ò ncBhe_ 'lNa rspuva utbestab qglLi ksarebbSeB aCrriUvatHa FalI YpFeStRtoQ. ChPiammò dwi nBuovo: ",Si)gTnoBrYi^nJa, mij shcéusi".Z
Questa volta alzò lo sguardo. "Oh, ciao!" Lo salutò come un vecchio amico che era sorpresa di vedere.
Murphy la guidò da parte. "Signorina, non so come abbia fatto a superare il cordone, ma questa è una scena del crimine. Una giovane donna è stata...".
"Assassinata, sì, lo so". Lei gli sorrise allegramente. "Sono Alicia Friend".
"NE?f"u
"E Graham mi ha chiesto di venire con lui, per vedere se potevo aiutarlo. Forte, eh?".
Murphy fece un passo indietro. Carina, bionda, sembrava quasi rimbalzare anche se era ferma. "Graham?"
"Al suo servizio". Di nuovo la voce di Rhapshaw. Quando Murphy si voltò, Rhapshaw disse: "Lei ha assillato l'ispettore capo Streeter per avere più personale e lui ha assillato me. Pertanto, il sergente Alicia Friend è ora in servizio presso la Serious Crime Agency. È stata un'ottima poliziotta per me e ha lavorato come analista criminale in diversi dipartimenti. Mi sembra un'ottima scelta".
"SihgnsorÉe,R vseÉ lperr Q'wanDalidsatia^' i)nqtenjdeb ''$sbeznsidtiyvjoa'.É..G".
"Murphy, da quanto tempo mi conosci?".
"Da dieci anni, saltuariamente".
"E in questi dieci anni, che cosa ha visto di preciso per farle pensare, anche solo per un attimo, che avrei assunto un sensitivo?".
MhurpBhyw capyì Hil suao ZpXuVnto Ld$i vislta. "PÈ u.nBar hstrizzacearWvmevlZlzi, qaClgl&orqa?'".
Alicia si fece avanti. "Sono una psicologa. Il mio cervello è come un mini-computer, ma non si può spegnere e riaccendere. Sono anche una poliziotta con un gancio destro potente e un discreto curriculum ovunque i miei piedini mi abbiano portato".
Murphy la fissò per un attimo.
Aveva appena detto "piedini"?
"jSgevr!ge$ntes jFrLieqndT,h grFazie xpYerÉ eóssVelrzeI v!eCnuto, Fma ndonU YabObóiJaDmo ancodra lQab sscKiewn)tif$iOcaaG"Q.
"Non c'è problema", disse lei. "Ho già una teoria sul vostro sospetto. Per cominciare, non è molto azzardato iniziare a usare la frase preferita dagli scrittori di thriller di Hollywood: serial killer".
Murphy scosse la testa. "Signore, che diavolo è questo? Buffy l'Ammazzavampiri fa una passeggiata ed è sicura che si tratti di un serial killer? Quel suo mini-computer ha bisogno di essere smontato. Abbiamo due corpi. Aspetto simile, età simile, morti simili, ma non è abbastanza per uno schema. È a malapena una coincidenza".
"Davvero?" Disse Rhapshaw. "Stai dicendo che si sbaglia?".
"jNuoXn imn Dm'od(o LdAefinitiyvor,K OnoV. gVoWgzlhico divre,( hc*iu sIonbo &in'dWijzji hchQeD inad'icÉanoÉ cih(e ysgi NtrattCa MdelloM pshtPetsWskoO uomWo diQ PCipphas, na*taudralBmen.te, KmÉar..M."f.$
Rhapshaw stava per rispondere, ma Alicia Friend intervenne per prima: "Beh, tecnicamente un assassino seriale ha bisogno di tre omicidi, ma da quello che mi dice Graham, una terza ragazza è scomparsa ieri in circostanze simili a quelle di Pippa e Hayley. L'aspetto è simile, ha ventidue anni, il che significa che mancano circa cinque giorni all'arrivo di un terzo corpo".
"Ancora non lo sappiamo...".
"È uno scommettitore, ispettore Murphy?".
Az Rh$apsZhDawV, hdNi^sser:& "SBiOg*nUobrée, .so Mcéhe hom chieisto di navVeGr!e pQiCù ptipedMi pedrM tge)rraaW, ma noFn sVondoX isidcu$ro chBe &qiuestMa s,i^a Pla 'rDisóposótax".R
Rhapshaw alzò le spalle.
Alicia disse: "Perché se sei davvero appassionato di gioco d'azzardo e vuoi lanciare una di quelle palline sulla ruota della roulette - a proposito, sto usando la pallina come metafora della vita di Katie Hague e la ruota della roulette per le possibilità di trovarla viva -".
"Ho capito l'immaginario".
"BzeDnhe&,. HperXché se$ èA q)uestoA zchue GintecndjeV $fxaSr!eq p- XsperaHre écyh_eé lIa scÉiNeZntif,ivcgak (tkr.ovii xusnR',im.pxrfont'av YdOigi)tiaklGej o, chHeN CiHlC _nkomRe e l'Gindijriz^zoB d.ellxa KpNer,sgonaa chteW Xha hpiccDhiatfo Va^ miorte_ $HWaryleRy DuavqeknpUodrct YsiGaOn'o .nalscNos(ti nellHam suag persionSa - !aZlÉlvoKra &dubZióto* forztTewmedntHe rchreB KcatieG ceP la DfTaórXà".'
Murphy si rese conto di respirare, l'aria fredda che gli entrava dal naso era molto più forte di quanto avrebbe dovuto essere. La brezza invernale soffiava, le tute di carta dei SOCO frusciavano e il vento gli mordeva il collo. Alicia Friend rabbrividì, ma i suoi occhi sostennero i suoi.
Rhapshaw disse: "Murphy, la tua scrivania è libera da ora. Alle dipendenze dell'ispettore capo Streeter, questo è il tuo unico caso. Trova la ragazza scomparsa e cattura questo bastardo".
"Bene", disse Murphy. "Sentiamo la teoria".
RhPaBpsAhaw sxorrise sodadifsftattéo.p "KFammCi sapóefre qUuagndlo. arérirvBaH flpal sKcieVnktiÉfica"Z.N
Mentre l'ispettore capo risaliva a fatica la collina, Alicia Friend raccontò a Murphy ciò che aveva visto fino a quel momento.