On a sunny summer day at lunchtime Fortune Street Park is packed with office workers eating food bought from stalls on neighbouring Whitecross Street. There is barely room to move. Before I started to shoot from my luxury apartment in The Denizen overlooking the park, I made some handwritten calculations about where to aim in order to maximize the death toll. Killing the muppets in the park was like shooting fish in a barrel. I took them out like turkeys on a meat factory production line at Christmas. People were such idiots; many of them lay flat on the ground in a bid to escape the leaden death spewed by my guns. Others tried to run away and I laughed as I saw claret stain the white shirts of those I’d hit. They made weird twitching movements like spastics before they died.
I paced up and down, pondering the tale as Lik told it. I saw how from his point-of-view it looked like Chan must be the murderer. I remained convinced Woo was the killer and ultimately she would butcher me too in an erotic rite of eldritch significance. Still there was something in the whole business that was currently beyond my comprehension, which would show that the deductions Lik drew were erroneous. And while I knew it was Woo who’d killed Tao, Chan’s mad as hell triad associates could just as easily be put in the frame.