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Julian sat in what he was beginning to think of as the ‘waiting room’. Dr Thomas Griffith’s offices in Fulham consisted of a couple of rooms: his office and another, larger room in which his personal assistant sat behind a desk facing a sofa and a coffee table. Last time Julian had worked with him, his office had been a small study in his home.

The book was obviously doing well.

The phone had been answered at least four times since he had arrived and he half-listened to one-sided conversations whilst flicking through the Media pullout in today’s Times. From what he could hear there was a steady traffic of public appearance requests.

His eyes drifted onto a copy of USA Today.

On the cover was the image of a face he vaguely recognised. He reached across the coffee table and picked up the magazine. Then he managed to place him: it was the American businessman who had recently thrown his hat in for the presidential election. It was an item on the news show he’d caught during the flight back home; an outsider many were calling a fool because he was campaigning so early and was bound to peak and wilt before the final showdown in about eighteen months’ time.

He recalled the man was some kind of a religious figure… Shepherd, that was it, that was his name; a lay preacher of some kind with a lot of money to burn, and a lot of friendly, mostly religious, sponsors gathering around his campaign. Skimming through the article inside, he discovered Shepherd owned a regional media network in Utah, and ran a string of small spiritual colleges that, in the eyes of the journalist, were vaguely reminiscent of the Islamic madrasas in northern Pakistan.

The door to the office swung open to reveal Dr Griffith’s wide frame. He had put on even more weight since the last time Julian had seen him. At a glance he guessed he must weigh sixteen or seventeen stone.

A lot of good living.

‘Julian!’ his rich voice boomed as he thrust out a hand towards him. ‘Fantastic to see you again.’

Julian reached for his hand. ‘Good to see you too, Tom. Things are looking good, eh?’

‘Very good. I should be writing more and doing less television, really. I’m becoming like those media tramps I despise.’

Julian grinned. ‘Or ex-media tramps in my case.’

Tom grinned. ‘You were never a tramp, Jules. Come on in,’ he said, gesturing to the study beyond. He turned to his assistant. ‘Judy, don’t put any calls through for the next half-hour or so, okay?’

‘Of course, Dr Griffith.’

Julian stepped into the office and sat in a winged leather seat opposite Tom’s expansive dark wood desk. ‘Very nice sanctum sanctorum you’ve got here,’ he said, looking around at the tasteful decor and the glistening sheen of polished wood.

‘I’ve always loved quality office furniture,’ said Tom as he pulled his seat out and sat heavily down. ‘It’s one of my weaknesses. The timber for this desk is reclaimed Indonesian teak — reclaimed from the hulls of fishing vessels. There’s no way to get your hands on that kind of wood without bribing the right official.’

‘My desk, by contrast, is a flat-pack from Ikea.’

Tom laughed, not unkindly. ‘I don’t recall you being as vain or materialistic as I am, though.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Julian with a wry smile. ‘Be nice to be able to put that to the test, though.’

Tom offered a conciliatory nod. ‘Things will turn around for you, Jules. You’re smart and you’re tenacious. That girl you worked with.. Rose, was it?’

‘Yes, Rose.’

‘You’re still partners in crime?’

He nodded.

‘She’s an incredibly good film-maker. I really liked what you did with that series. And…’ said Tom, reaching across the vast expanse of his desk and pulling out a lined pad of paper from the pile in his in-tray ‘… I really think you two will be on your way back out of the wilderness with this,’ he said, flourishing a page of notes written in his spidery hand.

Tom reached for an inhaler on his desk and took a hit. Julian remembered the man suffered with asthma.

‘Bloody fascinating stuff this, Julian, absolutely bloody fascinating.’

‘You’ve had a chance to go through some of the stuff I sent over?’

‘I’ve been through most of it, Julian. I couldn’t put the damn thing down, even though I should be working on the foreword to a colleague’s book.’

‘So? What do you make of it all?’

Tom settled back into his chair and pursed his lips in thought for a few moments. ‘What I think you’ve got there, my friend, is a very detailed account of a serial killer going about his business.’

‘That’s the obvious conclusion, isn’t it?’

‘But here’s the big question. Which one of them is it?’

‘Maybe it’s more than one of them?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Could be.’

‘So?’

‘So from the account written by this Lambert character, it looks very much like the most likely culprit is the Mormon preacher, Preston.’

‘Yeah.’

‘He appears to exhibit all the obvious traits of a narcissistic messianic complex.’

‘A narcissistic… a what?’

‘A dyed-in-the-wool sociopath of the very worst kind. I’m not sure how this little tale ends up, Julian-’