The Mortality Principle by Alex Archer

them said that they saw it. Gouges. I’ve no idea of what made them, but fingers didn’t make them. There’s no way of even knowing if the marks have got something to do with the killer or if they’re just… I don’t know…weeping plaster?”
    â€œBut you believe the men, don’t you?”
    Turek nodded.
    â€œI do. Maybe not all of it, but enough to know that they saw something extraordinary. Maybe not the golem, but something strange. Something that doesn’t fit with the world as we know it. A giant with no face who can scale brick walls and is killing people who are sleeping on the streets. No matter how impossible their claims, I believe there’s an element of truth to them.”
    Annja found it hard to disagree. She’d seen plenty of things during the past few years that didn’t quite fit with the world as most people knew it. So, assuming the two homeless men had seen something, how much truth could there be in their accounts? A giant didn’t have to be a giant, and ragged features didn’t have tomean no face at all. Maybe the handholds had already been chipped into the wall—or several walls across the city—to make an escape easy. It wasn’t inconceivable, was it? A killer could be that methodical, and could have planned in that level of detail to eliminate the element of chance in his escape.
    She knew that she should leave it alone and let the police do their job. No matter how compelling Turek’s joining of the dots might be, this wasn’t a monster. She was less and less sure there was anything she could use in a segment for the show. And, more tellingly, why did Annja suddenly think it was her job to catch the killer herself? Because that’s what was happening, wasn’t it? She was taking on the role of protector for the city, rather like the mythical golem had been. Was that the story she was looking to tell? No. That wasn’t her style. She didn’t want to turn the camera on herself and transform Annja Creed, TV host, into Annja Creed, the freak show.
    Something else gnawed at the back of her mind: Roux.
    Something in Turek’s article had tweaked Roux sharply enough to tear him away from his home comforts back at the estate and bring him here. And Garin had just decided to turn up in the same city at the same time? Roux had said it often enough: there was no such thing as coincidence, meaningful or otherwise. Something was wrong here. She knew that she wasn’t going to be able to rest until she discovered exactly what it was. That was just the kind of woman she was.
    â€œI’ve shown you mine. Isn’t it time for you to show me yours?” Turek said.
    â€œI don’t have anything to share,” she said. “At least,not yet. I’ve been closer than I’d like to have been to one of his victims, but aside from hearing footsteps in the night, I’ve got nowhere in terms of tracking the killer.”
    The reporter’s expression changed. He took a gulp of his wine, then topped up his glass. “If you come across anything, will you let me know?”
    â€œOf course,” she said. “I’d like to talk to the two men who say they saw the killer, but I assume I’ll need a translator.”
    â€œI think a medium might have better luck,” Turek said.
    â€œI’m not following.”
    â€œYou’ve already met one of them. He was found dead in an alleyway this morning. The other, well, I haven’t been able to find him tonight. To be honest, I think he’s running for his life. But even if I could find him, I can’t promise he’ll want to talk to you. Not after what happened last night.”
    The body she’d seeing lying in a pool of his own blood had been both victim and witness.
    But first he had been a witness.
    Was that why he had become a victim?

8
    They spent a couple of hours trying to locate the second witness, but the man was