Seven murders and Seven continents

Somewhere, right now, a man is finishing his coffee and folding his newspaper. You would not look at him twice. That is the point.

Seven people are dead. A painter. A politician. A widower. An old man at the edge of the ice. Seven countries. Seven continents. Seven accidents that were never accidents at all.

No two deaths are alike. No pattern connects them. No one is even looking, because there is nothing to see.

One man made them all. He wears a different face each time. He feels nothing. He does not make mistakes.

But a detective in Sydney has started to sense a shape in the silence, and an analyst in London has felt this exact cold once before, twelve years ago, and never forgot it.

They are closing in. He already knows.

And there is one death left to make.