The grand ballroom of the estate glowed like a captured star. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto a sea of black ties and silk dresses, and the air hummed with polite laughter and the music of a string quartet. DI Miles Corbin, feeling conspicuous and brutal in his rented dinner suit, moved through the crowd like a shark. His injured arm was a dull, persistent throb, a physical anchor to the ugly reality that lay beneath all this glittering pretence.
He saw her across the room: Dame Eleanor Swift, looking every bit the national treasure, holding court with a small group of admirers. Regal, formidable, and completely unaware she was the intended officiant at a human sacrifice. Corbin began his slow, deliberate orbit, observing, listening.
He touched his earpiece. "Harris, I'm in. The Conductor is secure for now. Keep an eye on the west terrace exit."
In a small, windowless security office tucked away in the manor's service wing, DC Harris flinched. The room was a coffin of humming electronics. On the bank of monitors in front of him, he could see Corbin moving through the party, a grim ghost among the revellers. But all Harris could see were the faces of his wife and daughter.
His burner phone, lying face down on the desk, vibrated once. He picked it up with a trembling hand. A new text.
The boathouse. One hour. Don't be late. We are watching.
He felt the bile rise in his throat.
From a quiet alcove overlooking the ballroom, The Puppeteer sipped his champagne and watched his beautiful, intricate design unfold. The players were all in position. The Conductor was charming her audience. The blunt instrument of a detective was blundering through the gallery, looking for clues he was too foolish to understand. And his own frightened little pawn was in the control room, ready to be moved. Everything was perfect.
An hour later, Corbin was feeling nothing but a gnawing frustration. He had observed and dismissed a dozen people in Dame Eleanor's orbit: a powerful MP who lacked the physical resilience, a tech billionaire who had no real-world gravitas, a celebrated author who seemed terrified of his own shadow. None of them fit the impossible profile. The Masterpiece was not here. He was missing something.
"Anything, Harris?" he muttered into his earpiece, his voice tight with frustration. "I'm coming up empty here."
In the security room, Harris saw the message on his phone: Now. This was it. The moment of his damnation.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Guv!" he said, forcing a tone of urgent discovery into his voice. "I've got something! CCTV feed from the north car park. A man matching The Pathfinder's description. He just put a large holdall into the boot of a Range Rover. You need to go. Now!"
"On my way," Corbin replied instantly, his trust in his partner absolute.
He moved purposefully through the crowd towards the north exit. To get there, he had to pass a large, glass-walled conservatory that branched off the main hall. A man's passionate voice from within made him slow his pace.
He stopped. A small crowd was gathered around a handsome man in his late twenties, who was speaking about a new charitable foundation. Corbin listened, and the floor seemed to fall away beneath him. The speaker was Leo Croft. Julian Croft's older brother.
He was a celebrated war artist, whose work was praised for its profound insight. (Perception.) He was a decorated former Captain in the Paras, spoken of with awe for his resilience. (Instinct. Will.) His powerful physique was obvious even in a dinner suit. (Structure.) And now, he was a charismatic public figure, launching a foundation in his brother's name. (Identity.)
Corbin froze in utter horror. He fits. All of it. He fits perfectly. It wasn't just a blueprint; it was a bloodline. He was the Masterpiece.
At that exact moment, he looked up and saw him. Across the conservatory, standing by the French doors leading to the darkened gardens, was The Puppeteer. He wasn't looking at Leo. He was looking directly at Corbin, a small, knowing, triumphant smile on his face. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod towards Leo Croft, as if to say, Yes, you finally see.
Corbin realised with sickening clarity what Harris had done. He fumbled for his earpiece. "Harris! It's a trap! The target is Leo Croft! Repeat, the target is—"
The earpiece was dead. A hiss of pure static. He was alone.
As he watched, helpless, The Puppeteer began to move calmly towards Leo. From the edges of the crowd, two other figures detached themselves from the background—one huge and stooped, the other silent and fluid. The Architect and The Pathfinder. They were all here. They were closing their trap.
He looked at the smiling killer, the perfect victim, and the hundred oblivious, champagne-sipping guests between them.
The showcase was about to begin.