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Without looking at each other, they silently fist-bumped.

He didn’t need her to explain. The Immolation Man’s pattern could only be seen when it was placed within the context of the circles he hadn’t used.

He’d killed his victims at the so-called ‘big three’: Long Meg, Swinside and Castlerigg. They were sites of historical importance and known to an international audience. Huge and impressive. Leaving a burning body in the middle was impact heavy. But . . . he’d also picked Elva Plain in Cockermouth. Why? There were more impressive circles he still hadn’t used. Elva Plain didn’t even look like a stone circle. Most people were unaware of its existence.

Why hadn’t he chosen a circle from the biggest mass of yellow on the map? Why hadn’t he chosen one from the area known as the Shap Stone Avenue? There were countless circles to choose from – some of them close to where they were now. Some of them were isolated but well known. They even had easy access to the M6. Pretty much everything the Immolation Man needed.

He thought about Bradshaw’s buffer zone. Was it possible the Immolation Man hadn’t committed any crimes in the Shap area because he lived nearby? Had they been looking out when they should have been looking in?

The back of his neck started to bead with sweat. The room was getting warm again. He removed his jacket, put it on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. He could sense he was close. The answers were all there; he needed to look at everything through a different lens. He rocked his chair backwards and forwards, trying to think of something new. The rocking caused his jacket to fall on the floor. He bent down to pick it up.

And paused.

He caught his breath. His intuition had been telling him that the answers would be found in the past. That Price, and then Swift, becoming suspects, were nothing more than a distraction. He’d never believed either of them had been capable of being the Immolation Man.

His eyes moved from his jacket on the floor to one of the photographs on the wall. The four boys – topless and happy in the sun, puffing out chests they didn’t yet have. He stood up and draped his jacket over the chair again. He looked at it, damp with sweat and hanging limply like a sock on a shower rail.

His mind brought up a succession of images. Through memory after memory, he searched for the one that would disprove his growing suspicion. He couldn’t find it. He blinked and the images disappeared.

His jacket.

The photograph.

There was a connection.

His thoughts drifted back to something Bradshaw had said earlier. He hadn’t paid too much attention, but it had been marinating because it was now jumping up and down in the front of his mind.

The butterfly effect, she’d called it. She’d said that someone reminding Reid about Tollund Man being found not five miles from where they were now was the catalyst, the butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil that causes a hurricane in Texas. Without Tollund Man they wouldn’t have found the disturbed coffin, probably wouldn’t have discovered the stolen Breitling. Quentin Carmichael would still be listed as dying in Africa and the insidious purpose of the charity cruise would have remained hidden.

But what if . . .?

Sometimes Poe’s mind lay coiled and quiet, processing data at its own speed, but at other times he was capable of making huge intuitive leaps. A horrific, half-formed suspicion grew in the pit of his stomach and began to gnaw and gnaw . . .

Neurons were firing. Faster and faster as he made link after link. All the disparate parts of the puzzle came together and clicked into place. Confusion was replaced by understanding.

Poe knew most of it – maybe all of it.

No one had been able to answer how the Immolation Man had managed to stay a ghost for so long. Fair enough, anyone could learn police procedures these days; the Freedom of Information Act meant that most police manuals were publicly available. It was feasible that an intelligent, careful man could teach himself to be forensically aware. But how had he evaded the surveillance Gamble had laid down? The mobile ANPR cameras, the human surveillance on the stone circles, all the patrols. There was only one possibility. The Immolation Man had to be getting current intel.

As Poe inched towards confirming his own theory, he thought of everything they’d uncovered over the last two weeks. He looked at his jacket and corrected himself. He went back further. To the night of the charity cruise and a plan that had taken almost twenty-six years to come to fruition.

Logically, there was only one person it could be. The thought chilled him to his very core.

‘Do you have the information sheet on propofol, Tilly?’

She found it and handed it over. Poe turned over the top sheet and looked for the sections on other uses. He ran his finger down the list and stopped when he found what he was looking for.

Shit . . .

He glanced up. Bradshaw was watching him. ‘I need you to check something for me, Tilly.’

‘What is it, Poe?’

After he’d told her, she frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ she said softly.

He found he couldn’t speak. He nodded.

As Bradshaw ran the information he’d given her, Poe paced up and down the room. It was the worst thing he’d ever had to wait for. He prayed he was wrong, but knew he wasn’t.