Detective Inspector James Harland stood at the window of Scotland Yard, watching the traffic crawl over Westminster Bridge. His desk behind him was cluttered with reports, photographs, and Aisha Khan's toxicology notes.
He had just come from a meeting with the Assistant Commissioner. "Serial homicide," Harland had said. The words had landed like a stone in water, sending ripples of disbelief across the room. But with Aisha's data - three cases showing the same rare compound, delivered by injection - the brass could no longer wave him off.
Now it was official. London had a killer.
Harland lit a cigarette and turned back toward Aisha, who was leaning against the desk, arms folded.
"You've got proof," he said. "But proof isn't enough. We need a face. A reason. Something that tells us where they'll strike next."
Aisha's eyes were sharp. "Whoever this is, they're disciplined. They know medicine, dosages, how to mask evidence. This isn't some thug with a knife. This is someone who understands bodies. Someone educated."
Harland grunted. "And patient. They're not rushing. They're choosing."
He tapped Arthur Bennet's file. "They'll do it again. And when they do, we'll be ready."
Michael Rowe shuffled through a stack of photocopied obituaries in the corner of a café, the smell of burnt coffee clinging to the air. His editor had warned him not to waste time chasing ghosts, but Rowe couldn't let it go.
His laptop screen was filled with a spreadsheet of names, dates, causes of death. And there, buried in the lines, was the faintest pattern: quiet deaths, quick inquests, and one name cropping up again and again in the footnotes - Whitehall.
Rowe scribbled in his notebook: Civil servants... hidden corridors... no one looks at the bureaucrats.
He paused when a familiar blonde figure passed the café window - a woman in a cream coat, her gait graceful, her eyes forward. For a moment, he thought she looked... angelic. Then she was gone, swallowed by the London fog.
Rowe frowned, tapping his pen against the page. He didn't know her name, but something about her stuck.
Eleanor Marks walked calmly through the fog that evening, the city's damp air clinging to her hair. She had already chosen her next canvas.
His name was Daniel Harker, a 34-year-old IT consultant who lived alone in a Southwark flat. She had met him briefly at a charity function, where he had tried too hard to impress her with talk of servers and coding. Forgettable, except for his loneliness - the kind Eleanor could spot from across a room.
Now, as she sat in his kitchen, she smiled sweetly while he poured her a glass of cheap wine. "I don't usually invite people over," he admitted nervously.
Eleanor touched his arm gently. "That's all right. Sometimes it's nice to have company, isn't it?"
When he turned to fetch the corkscrew, her hand slipped into her bag. The syringe glinted faintly under the kitchen light. She moved like a dancer - quiet, precise. The needle slid into his arm before he even registered the touch.
Daniel's eyes widened. His glass shattered on the floor. Eleanor leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. "Hush now. It'll all be over soon."
Within minutes, his body stilled.
Eleanor arranged the scene carefully: spilled wine, shattered glass, the faint whiff of alcohol on his clothes. A lonely man, drinking too much, collapsing in his own flat. Tragic, but ordinary.
She was nearly perfect. Nearly.
As she left, she didn't notice that one of her gloves had brushed against the wet glass, leaving the faintest trace of a fingerprint smudged in wine.
Hours later, Harland stood in that same kitchen, the air thick with the scent of stale alcohol. Daniel Harker's body was slumped against the counter.
"Looks like a fall," Collins muttered.
But Harland's eyes narrowed at the broken glass, the unnatural way the body leaned. His gut twisted. "No. This is her. She's getting careless."
He crouched, spotting the faint print on the glass. He called over the crime scene tech. "Bag it. If she's slipping, that's our way in."
Back at Whitehall the next morning, Eleanor sat at her desk, the picture of serenity. Her hair gleamed under the lights, her smile soft as ever. Around her, colleagues laughed, gossiped, typed furiously.
But inside, she was replaying Daniel's death, savoring the silence that followed his final breath. She hadn't noticed her mistake.
And she would not - until it was far too late.