Sometimes in the police force, there is nothing quite as terrifying as a map.

A map covered in photographs, character profiles and little red dots – every one a drop of blood spilled, a life lost. An unsolved crime.

Hastily pencilled in lines tried to connect victims to one another, linking anything from workplace to birthplace in a desperate attempt to tighten the net on the murderer who had eluded Detective Inspector Robert Maclaren for the last six months.

Leaning back in his chair, Maclaren drew deeply on his clipped cigar and gazed once more at the network of terror which had come to represent so much more than names and places to him – it was a masterpiece of criminal genius; a practical joke at the expense of society.

Still, the rest of the force would always relax when the trusty Detective Inspector was around – as the story went, ‘murder never happens on Maclaren’s watch’.

As long as Maclaren was in the office, puffing a stogie, the city was safe.

Perhaps that’s what we should worry about.