Horst laughed, said, “That is the truth. She will never tell anyone.”

Jan put down his glass, then said with edgy impatience, “Horst, please roll back the video.”

On screen, Kim said again between sobs, “I'll never tell anyone.”

“That's good, Kim. Our secret, eh?”

Henri's face was transformed by the plastic mask and his digitally altered voice, but his performance was strong and his audience was avid. Both men leaned forward in their chairs, watched as Henri stroked Kim, rubbed her back, and murmured to her until she stopped whimpering.

And then, as she seemed to go to sleep, he straddled her body, wrapping his hand in the young woman's long, damp, yellow hair.

He lifted her head from the flat of the bed, pulling hard enough that Kim's back arched, and the force of the pull made her cry out. Possibly she saw that he'd picked up a serrated knife with his right hand.

“Kim,” he said. “You'll wake up soon. And if you ever remember this, it will seem like a bad dream.”

The beautiful young woman was surprisingly quiet as Henri made the first deep cut across the back of her neck. Then, as the pain caught up with her – hauled her violently out of her stupor – her eyelids flew open and a curdled scream erupted from her painted mouth. She wrenched her body as Henri sawed and cross-sawed through her muscles, and then the scream cut out, leaving an echo as Henri completely severed Kim's head from her body in three long strokes.

Arterial blood spurted against the yellow walls, emptied onto the satin bedsheets, ran down the arm and loins of the naked man kneeling over the dead girl.

Henri's smile was quite visible through the plastic mask as he held Kim's head by her hair so that it swung gently as it faced the camera. A look of pure despair was still fixed on her beautiful face.

The killer's digitized voice was eerie and mechanical, but Horst found it extremely satisfying.