Detective Inspector James Verlaine arrived at the Hampstead Heath scene shortly after dawn. A low mist lingered--cold and oppressive.

Several other officers--uniformed cops and plainclothes men--had arrived ahead of Verlaine. A large SOC vehicle was parked on a low slope by a dense copse of trees. The Scene of Crime forensics team, dressed in hooded white overalls, cordoned the area with lengths of yellow tape.

Verlaine walked up the hill and noticed Detective Sergeant Jack Bannen loitering near the woods where the SOC team concentrated its efforts. Bannen was smoking a cigarette, engaged in casual conversation with a couple of junior detectives. Noticing Verlaine, Bannen acknowledged him with a slight wave.

"So, Jack, what've we got?" Verlaine asked. "The message from Dispatch was vague. Though it looks like we're pulling out all the stops--"

"Vague?" Bannen replied. "Can't say I'm surprised. I guess they didn't want to risk broadcasting all the gory details over an open circuit."

"It's that bad--?"

"See for yourself--" Bannen suggested. He finished his cigarette and tossed it onto the damp grass. A grim expression darkened his hard features.

Verlaine was the operations chief of an elite squad based at New Scotland Yard known as the Sensitive Crimes Division. The SCD functioned across all jurisdictions in the United Kingdom. It investigated cases that fell beyond the parameters of normal police work--crimes of an especially deviant, pathological nature. Much of the red tape that hampered the regular police did not apply to the SCD. National Security legislation authorized the unit to invoke a complete media blackout, ensuring its more sensitive investigations remained shrouded in secrecy.

As far as senior coppers like Verlaine were concerned this was a vital consideration. Like most policemen he resented press intrusion. As a rule, media attention generally hindered more than it helped. The "Wearside Jack" debacle--the hoaxer who led the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper astray, enabling Peter Sutcliffe to continue his reign of terror--was a case in point.

And, as he made his way through the woods to a small clearing, Verlaine realised this was another of those times when publicity would be more unwelcome than ever.

The man's body was naked, suspended upright against a tree. Leather thongs bound his wrists. The body's posture implied an obvious, erotic dimension. A clear-cut sex crime? Verlaine wondered, reluctant to jump to conclusions. It might well have been a sex crime. But there was nothing clear-cut about this one.

The dead man had been shot with arrows.

Three arrows penetrated the victim's chest close to the heart. Another pierced his left upper arm while a fourth protruded from his right side just below the rib cage. Had the killer used the poor bastard as target practise? Who were they dealing with--a sadistic William Tell?

A deep incision ran from the base of the dead man's sternum to his shaved groin. The wound was neatly sutured. It looked like an expert job. The meticulous stitching reminded Verlaine of how bodies were sewn up following post-mortem examinations. Something about that troubled him.

"So, what d'you reckon, boss?" Bannen lit another cigarette, watching as Verlaine examined the body.

"Well, he wasn't killed here," Verlaine observed, indicating the earth around the corpse's bare feet. "If the killer had bound and gutted him here, the ground would be drenched with blood. And check out the body, too. Aside from the dried blood around the abdominal wound there isn't a speck--gravitational droplets or conventional spatter."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too," Bannen concurred. "How d'you think it went down?"

"Notice the bruising and abrasions around the wrists and ankles. The killer restrained and murdered the victim elsewhere. He did that--" Verlaine indicated the sutured gash "--and waited for the victim to bleed out. Then he sewed the poor bastard up, washed him, and brought him here."

"You think he bled to death? What about the arrows?"

"I'm not sure, but they look post-mortem to me."

"Post-mortem? What would be the point of that?" Bannen frowned.

"How the hell should I know?"

Bannen drew hard on his cigarette. A moment passed.

"Well, assuming all that's true," Bannen resumed. "It begs the obvious question, doesn't it?"

"Why?"

"Precisely."

"It's a fair point, Jack. Most murderers attempt to hide the evidence of their crimes. But this one--"

"Yeah, he's rubbing our faces right in it, isn't he? Cocky bastard!"

"That's one way of looking at it," Verlaine remarked. "But maybe there's more to it."

"How do you mean?"

"Perhaps displaying the corpse like this is more than a psycho's way of giving us the old two-fingered salute. Maybe the act itself is ... significant."

"You mean he's trying to tell us something?"

"I think it's a distinct possibility," Verlaine elaborated. "See how the body is positioned. The killer wanted us to find it this way. It looks symbolic."

"Symbolic? Symbolic of what?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Jack," Verlaine admitted. "Maybe leaving the body here--at this precise location--has meaning in the killer's mind."

"Here on the Heath, you mean?" Bannen asked. "What are you getting at? You think this is a hate crime, an anti-gay thing?"

"A hate crime?"

"Well, yeah. This whole area is popular with the gay community. Cruising, right? International websites promote it to foreign visitors. I don't know if you'd call them sex tourists. But you get my drift--"

"Cruising, huh?" Verlaine was well aware of the place's reputation. Who wasn't? But he hadn't considered the possibility. The staging of the murder suggested an altogether more sinister dimension. He glanced at the corpse's pale genitalia, withered in the cold morning air. A hate crime? It might be a mistake to dismiss the possibility too hastily. "I guess you could have a point, Jack," Verlaine admitted without much conviction, imagining a casual assignation gone horribly awry; an erotic transaction that ended in death.

"These things happen," Bannen suggested.

Verlaine lit a cigarette and observed, "Yes. It puts a new spin on the expression dangerous liaisons."

The SOC officers continued their forensic investigation. Verlaine watched as they set to work on the body. He realised his presence served no useful purpose. "C'mon, let's go. We've got work to do, too--" he said, turning to Bannen. They walked down to Velaine's car.

Neither man spoke for a time, lost in morbid speculation.

Chapter 3

The atmosphere in the pathology lab was grim. The place smelled of carbolic acid and formaldehyde. But there was another odour no chemicals could disguise--the smell of death.

Over the years Verlaine had become accustomed to the autopsy process, but he didn't relish it. And he found the experience even more distasteful whenever he visited this particular laboratory, located in the basement of a dilapidated Victorian building. The place exuded an air of neglect. Although he knew they were refrigerated Verlaine could imagine the cadavers rotting in the steel cabinets that lined the walls, blooming malignantly like satanic mushrooms.

The naked body lay on a stainless steel slab, its pale flesh luminous in the sterile white light. It reminded Verlaine of a wax effigy. Several hours had passed since they'd discovered it. The victim had not been identified. Fingerprints and dental records were all they had to go on. Perhaps the autopsy would yield more clues.

Dr. Robert Ashton stood over the body, contemplating it like an explorer surveying an uncharted landscape. "Well, Verlaine, whatever killed our friend, I can say with confidence it wasn't these--" the pathologist indicated the five projectiles he'd removed from the body.

"It wasn't the arrows, huh? I thought as much."

"What led you to that conclusion?"

Verlaine pointed at the puncture marks where the darts had pierced the skin. "Call it an educated guess, Ashton. But the absence of blood or bruising around the wounds suggested as much."

"Very astute. Ever consider a career in forensic medicine, Verlaine? You could be a natural."

"Not for an instant," Verlaine replied without hesitation, appalled at the prospect. "I guess I don't have the stomach for it."

"No, it's not to everybody's taste," Ashton observed. "By the way, technically speaking, these aren't arrows."

"No?"

"They're crossbow bolts."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," Ashton confirmed. "It's a minor detail, but it might be significant for the criminal investigation."

"Of course. It never hurts to know what weapon we're looking for--" Verlaine sounded less than enthusiastic. It could be a lead, but it was a slim one.

"Now this is interesting--" Ashton inspected the red incision marring the cadaver's pale skin. "It looks like someone's been pissing inside my territorial boundaries."

"Looks like a professional job, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll be the judge of that--" the pathologist shot an impatient glare in Verlaine's direction. Verlaine realized Ashton was serious about the killer's encroachment into his area of expertise--and he didn't take the intrusion lightly. Irritated by Ashton's petulance, Verlaine stepped away and decided to let the procedure continue without further comment.

The pathologist selected a scalpel and began cutting through the sutures that puckered the wound. Once again Verlaine pondered the question nagging at him since he first encountered the corpse.

Why had the killer gone to so much bother?

Ashton disposed of the killer's fastidious needlepoint. He pushed his thumbs into the incision, pressing the flesh and fascia aside, widening the wound. Verlaine thought he looked like a child tackling an elaborately wrapped birthday present. Maintaining his distance, he wondered at the fascination this macabre parcel exercised over the pathologist's imagination.

"Jesus Christ on a bike--" Ashton whispered, staring into the cadaver's belly.

"What is it, Ashton?" Verlaine experienced a vague sense of apprehension. Something had startled the pathologist.

"I think you'd better see for yourself, Verlaine."

Verlaine studied the corpse. It had been eviscerated, the guts scooped out. The killer had replaced the entrails with something.

Verlaine blinked, doubting the evidence of his eyes. Was this an optical illusion, some trick of the light? He turned to the pathologist, unsure of what--if anything--to say: "Ashton, is this--"

The pathologist ignored him and reached into the body to remove something. There was a curious expression on his face as he held the fragile object up to the light.

It was a rose--a single red rose.

Verlaine, at a loss for words, stared into the moist ripeness of the cadaver's belly. It was filled with roses.

There were dozens, densely packed: a macabre bouquet. The scarlet blossoms glistened. Their petals were damp with the rancid liquors of decay. It suggested something unbelievable.

This wasn't simply an obscenity, but a perverse romantic gesture.

Verlaine glanced at Ashton. Their eyes locked. But words failed them. In the brief silence Verlaine became aware of a strange odour. It was an insidious perfume--not unlike the smell of death that persisted beneath the disinfectant and formaldehyde.

It was somehow familiar

All at once he realised it wasn't one smell, but two.

Blood and roses.