Forensics had worked through the night. When Harland arrived at Scotland Yard the next morning, he was greeted not by the usual indifference of his colleagues, but by a sense of movement. Files being carried, screens flickering with data, whispered conversations snapping shut as he walked past.
"Sir," Collins called from across the corridor, holding up a folder. "We've got something."
In the incident room, Harland leaned over the evidence photographs spread across the table. At the center lay a high-resolution image of a wine glass — the faint outline of a smudge highlighted in white.
"A partial fingerprint," Collins explained. "Not enough for a complete ID, but enough to narrow. It belongs to a woman. At least, the ridge patterns suggest female. No match in the criminal database."
Harland's jaw tightened. "So she's clean. Or clever enough to have stayed that way."
Aisha entered, her eyes sharp from lack of sleep but burning with determination. She placed a report in front of him. "Toxicology confirmed it. Same compound as Bennet and the others. She's repeating her method. Which means she's confident. Arrogant, even."
Harland nodded slowly. "Or she wants us to see it."
The room fell silent.
Across town, Michael Rowe was piecing together his own fragments. His notebook was a mess of scrawls: Quiet victims. No families. Civil service connections?
But the thread that bothered him most was the blonde woman. He had seen her once at the funeral of another victim, twice walking near Whitehall, and again — he was certain — outside the café. She was always there, always in the periphery, and always immaculate.
He stared at the rough sketch he had drawn of her — sharp cheekbones, calm eyes, lips that hinted at a smile. An angel's face, if angels could kill.
Rowe muttered under his breath: "Who the hell are you?"
That same afternoon, Eleanor Marks sat in her Whitehall office, the pale autumn light falling across her desk. Around her, the machinery of government turned without pause: phones ringing, memos circulating, decisions made that would ripple across the nation.
She looked every bit the diligent civil servant — tidy blouse, neat hair, the picture of composure.
But behind the mask, her thoughts were darker.
Daniel had been easy. Too easy. For a moment, she had felt a thrill in knowing she could end a life and walk away unseen. But then a different thought crept in — a whisper of unease.
Had she left something behind?
She pushed it down, forcing herself to smile at the junior clerk who entered with documents. No one here suspected her. No one ever would. She was untouchable. She was the Angel of Whitehall.
And yet, in the quiet moments, she felt something pressing against her calm exterior — the faint, unsettling awareness that the walls were closing in.
That evening, Harland sat with Aisha in the small glass-walled office, the city lights burning in the distance.
"This is the first time she's slipped," Harland said, tapping the photo of the fingerprint. "One mistake. That's all it takes."
Aisha leaned forward. "Then we set the trap. If she thinks we're not watching, she'll strike again. And next time, she won't get away."
Harland exhaled smoke into the dim light. His voice was low, resolute. "The Angel won't stay in the shadows forever. We'll drag her into the light."
Meanwhile, Eleanor walked along the Embankment, the Thames black and restless at her side. She looked up at the Houses of Parliament, their gothic towers rising like watchful sentinels against the night.
She smiled faintly.
They thought they could catch her. They thought they could understand her.
But Eleanor Marks was not finished.
Not by a long shot.