Unblock your story. Navigate the journey. Discover the ending.

Copse Hall. 8:31 a.m. George Kotlas turned into the visitor’s car park and pulled up close to the reception building. He looked around as he opened the back door and unhooked his suit jacket from the holder above the window. The tarmac and white lining were obviously new. Only one other car was parked there. A mixture of excitement and anticipation fluttered in his stomach. He recalled the letter Dr Rubenstein had sent three weeks ago. It had contained a brief introduction, together with an invitation to call him, but it was the title – Director of Forensic Psychiatry, Proof and Experimental Unit – that drew Kotlas in. ‘Dr Rubenstein? It’s George Kotlas. You wrote to me—’

‘Dr Kotlas.’ Rubenstein cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I did. I take it you’re interested?’

‘At this stage, I’d say I’m more curious. Why approach me?’

‘Haven’t you heard, Kotlas? There’s an acute shortage of psychiatrists per se. And practitioners with your provenance are rarer still. I sent a non-disclosure form with the letter. Sign and return it to me. Until then, I’m not at liberty to discuss anything further.’ Kotlas complied. A flurry of correspondence followed; a formal interview was arranged and confirmed in writing, along with a list of procedures to be followed on his arrival at the hospital. It occurred to him that Sunday was an odd day to ask him to come in, but it was his day off. It suited him. He still didn’t know exactly what his new role, if successful, would entail. He patted his pocket to check his passport hadn’t fallen out, locked the car, and then followed the directional signs for Reception. Once Kotlas had completed his security induction, he sat examining his knuckles, comparing one hand to the other. When he’d finished that, he turned to his palms. Unsurprisingly, the calluses on his right were harder and thicker than those on his left. The security guard who had recorded his fingertip biometrics had remarked on them. ‘Are you sure you’re a doctor? Your hands look like you lay bricks in your spare time.’ Kotlas had grinned. ‘I do a lot of work with my hands.’ The door in front of him opened. A bespectacled middle-aged man stepped through and locked it behind him. ‘Dr Kotlas, I presume?’ He closed the space between them with surprising speed and held out his hand. ‘I’m Dr Rubenstein. Philip, but we use last names around here. Welcome. I’m sorry about the delay. Control Room protocol, I’m afraid. Come on through.’ He unlocked the door again. ‘I’ll escort you up to my office.’ Rubenstein used his keys to open and close the numerous doors that barred their way. Finally, he led the younger man into a long passage around the corner. ‘I’ve lost my bearings,’ Kotlas said and paused in the middle of the corridor. ‘Is this new? It’s just that I noticed a large, older building close behind where Reception would be.’

‘Keep moving, Kotlas.’ Rubenstein glanced at the CCTV monitors projecting from the ceiling. ‘You’ll make security nervous. To answer your question, it’s a blend of new construction and the adaptation of the existing. This institution is the first of its kind in the country. Aside from those who work here, few are aware of its existence. Copse Hall is a private enterprise, located on a vast country estate, well away from prying eyes. Here, we hope to gain greater insight into the minds of some of the worst former juvenile killers in the world. What goes on here is not for discussion beyond these walls,’ Rubenstein said. ‘You know, I’m envious of you, Kotlas. At your age, the possibilities of being on the cutting edge, the opportunities that will present themselves.’

‘We’ll see.’ Kotlas nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very quiet, isn’t it?’

‘We have just a few patients for now, and the staffing levels are commensurate with that. I’ll explain further when we get to my office. Right. Here we are.’ Rubenstein stopped by a passenger lift. He placed his fingertips on the reader control, and the steel sleeves of the doors slid open. They stepped inside. The doors automatically closed, and they began to ascend. Rubenstein unlocked his office door and ushered Kotlas through. ‘There’s another reason for the facility appearing quiet. We’ve sent ten guards out to collect our star patient, from Ashmore.’

‘Ashmore? That’s where I work,’ Kotlas said. ‘I must confess, it’s part of why I approached you.’

‘So, not so much about shortage, more about provenance.’ Kotlas’ eyes narrowed. ‘Ten-man security detail? Not many warrant that. I think I know the answer to my next question. What’s his name?’ Rubenstein indicated the vacant chair. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, walking around his desk. ‘First things first. I already know a lot about you. Let’s fill in the blanks.’

‘No. Wait. How can you have arranged to do that without me knowing?’ Kotlas shook his head. Rubenstein peered over the top of his spectacles. ‘Patience, dear boy. We’ll come back to that in a few moments.’ Ten minutes later, Rubenstein pushed away from the desk and walked to the window. He turned and, leaning against the window board, faced Kotlas. ‘Look, as far as I’m concerned, based on what we’ve discussed, the job’s yours.’ Kotlas smiled. ‘That’s great, but you haven’t explained exactly what my role is if I accept. Or how you managed to find out so much about me. You said this is a private company?’ Rubenstein rubbed his lower lip with a forefinger. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘So, tell me, who leaked the information?’ Rubenstein strode back to his seat, sat down, propped his elbows on the desk, and clasped his hands together. ‘I want you to continue your work with Wolfe.’ Kotlas leaned back in his chair. ‘And the leak?’

‘There’s no leak. All this may seem presumptuous, but if you accept, you’re cleared to begin working with us right away.’ Kotlas pulled on the lobe of his left ear. ‘Forgive me. I just have to be sure of a few things..’

‘I told you, this establishment is top-secret. We’re in partnership with the government. It’s an arm’s-length arrangement.’

‘In case things go wrong,’ Kotlas said, tight-lipped. ‘And if I don’t accept?’

‘Someone else will. But you are our preferred option. What do you say?’

‘I get to continue working with Wolfe?’

‘Under my stewardship, yes.’ Rubenstein paused. ‘Do you accept?’ Kotlas reached for a sheet of paper. ‘Can I?’

‘Of course.’ Rubenstein watched, puzzled, as Kotlas took a pen from his inside pocket and scribbled a list of notes. He pushed the paper across the desk. ‘Subject to these terms.’ The older man took the sheet and read. ‘I can live with those things. We’ll get a contract drawn up. Now, tell me what you know about the man.’

‘I’m sure you know most of this already, but this is my resume. Wolfe weighed in at twenty-three pounds when he was born.’ Rubenstein raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t know that?’

‘Of course I did, but hearing of such an abnormality never fails to stagger me,’ the older man said. ‘Carry on.’

‘I think it’s obvious he was delivered by Caesarean section. His parents were both six-footers, but neither side of the family had had a child that big before. Destined for greatness, some might say, but he was never going to have a normal life. He outgrew his parents by the time he was nine years old. He claims he first killed when he was ten, but there’s nothing to substantiate that. By the age of thirteen, he was uncontrollable. Killed two girls that year, and despite a massive police hunt, went on to kill five more before they caught him. Bad, isn’t it? The savagery of the killings shocked even hardened detectives. The method used was pretty much the same in each case. They all had something in common: He ate bits of them. Took different parts from each. Trying different things on the menu, he said. As you’re aware, he’s been in the system ever since.’

‘You’ve worked with him for the last two years. How do you see him? Mad or bad?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Kotlas, I’m asking you,’ Rubenstein said. ‘He’s had dozens of psychiatric assessments, and not one of them agrees. To me, he’s both. He sees himself as a victim of his genes.’

‘He does? That one is news to me,’ Rubenstein said. ‘Elaborate.’

‘Wolfe,’ Kotlas said softly. ‘What’s in a name, eh? It comes from his mother’s side. As you probably know, he adopted it when his father died.’

‘Yes, I found that strange. You’d have thought he’d want to keep his father’s name alive.’

‘Maybe. You also know he claims a psychic link to Jack the Ripper?’

‘That wasn’t taken seriously.’ Rubenstein, perhaps sensing a change in tack, viewed Kotlas with suspicion. ‘Why do you bring it up?’

‘Wolfe became more difficult to deal with, complaining that no one listened to him. He went berserk during a routine transfer. Bit one of the staff. He almost overpowered eight burly nurses, all of them highly trained. He ended up in seclusion for a long time. It took me ages to get through to him again.’ Kotlas moistened his lips. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’

‘Over there,’ Rubenstein pointed at the water cooler. ‘Help yourself.’ The young candidate got to his feet, continuing to speak as he approached the machine. ‘I told him there was only one way to prove what he was saying was true.’ He filled a clear plastic cup and took a sip. ‘Submit to a DNA test.’

‘They went along with that at Ashmore?’ Rubenstein seemed incredulous. ‘For that to work, you’d have needed a sample from the Ripper.’

‘There is genetic material,’ Kotlas said. ‘It was recently recovered from historic samples found at the scene of one of the murders.’

‘I heard about that, but honestly, that semen could have come from anyone.’

‘That’s what they said at Ashmore, but I wanted to take it further if only to get Wolfe to see that what he was experiencing had no basis in fact.’

‘Did they relent?’

‘No. I took some of Wolfe’s hair. It wasn’t hard; he consented. I sent it for independent testing.’

‘I’m going to stop you there, Kotlas. What you did is in contravention—’

‘Hear me out, Rubenstein,’ he said harshly. The older man reddened, unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner. ‘I’m sorry. But guess what? It was a match. He’s related. Now, you can argue till you’re blue in the face that it may not be the Ripper’s DNA, but even if it isn’t, what are the odds of Wolfe’s sample coming up positive? Answer me that. And what is even more bizarre, I read somewhere that the Ripper had a taste for blood, and that certain body parts were missing from his victims. The official line from those days was that he’d taken them as trophies, but I now believe he ate them. Maybe blood-thirst runs in the genes, and if we accept that, it could be where Wolfe gets it from.’ Rubenstein stared, measuring the younger man. ‘It seems you’re not above a little experimentation yourself, Kotlas.’ He stood abruptly and strode around the desk, offering his hand. ‘Welcome aboard.’