The body lay on the floor, as warm as the blood that seeped through the plush Wilton carpet or trickled down the white walls. Glassy-eyed, brain-dead, finished, Lorraine McNeill’s high-achieving life was over. Her black skirt had bunched up round her hips, revealing long, shapely legs – legs to die for. Like a butcher arranging the shop window, the killer lifted a slender ankle and put underneath it a sheet of plain A4 paper. One character had been typed at the foot: the numeral 1. ‘Well, you wanted a murder on page one,’ the killer whispered, then left to be absorbed into the anonymous crowd.