Somewhere out there in the Belgian night, crowned in living flame, he was already smiling at his next chosen one.
The strand of red-orange hair lay on the hotel table like an accusation made of fire. I stared at it under the single lamp until my eyes ached, the monochrome shadows of the room pressing in from all sides. Victor and Eleanor sat across from me, their faces pale in the dim light. The rain outside had eased into a soft, persistent whisper against the glass.
"I need a full description," I said quietly. "Not from rumors. From someone who actually saw him."
Victor nodded and checked his notebook. "The diplomat's maid. She's the only one who spoke directly to him before the shooting. I pulled the transcript."
He slid the crumpled sheet across the table. I read it slowly, my pulse thudding louder with every line.
The maid's words painted him in terrifying detail:
"He was tall, six feet or slightly more, with broad, powerful shoulders that made the corridor feel narrow. He carried himself with absolute confidence — straight-backed, graceful, yet commanding. His coat was dark charcoal, beautifully tailored, with a flash of deep crimson lining when he moved. His hair was extraordinary… a rich, burning red shot through with bright living orange strands, like Irish fire mixed with pure sunlight. It glowed even in the dim gaslight, as if lit from within.
His face was flawless. Strong, sculpted jaw. High cheekbones. A gentle, understanding mouth that curved into the kindest smile I've ever seen. His eyes looked straight into your soul and forgave everything. He spoke softly, never raising his voice. When he smiled at Monsieur Duval, the diplomat seemed to melt with relief, as though all his burdens had been lifted. He listened like a messiah come to save the weary. Then he left through the side door. Five minutes later came the shots."
I set the paper down. My hands were shaking.
He looked like a perfected, younger version of me.
Not identical — but the resemblance was unmistakable. The same height. The same broad shoulders. The same sharp jawline and confident posture. Only his version was luminous where mine was tired and shadowed. His hair burned with living red-orange fire. Mine was dark, almost black-brown, dull by comparison. His facial features were slightly softer, more refined, more… angelic. I was the older, rougher draft. He was the finished masterpiece.
A false messiah sculpted from my own reflection, aged and elevated into something divine.
Victor watched me. "Crowe… you look like you've seen your own ghost."
I stood and walked to the small mirror on the wall. The gaslight turned the room into harsh black and white. I studied my face. The resemblance was there — subtle enough to dismiss, strong enough to destroy credibility.
"I'm taking this description to the Belgian police tomorrow," I said hoarsely. "Full alert. Sketches based on the maid's words."
Victor gave a bitter laugh. "They'll think you're inventing a phantom that looks like a more handsome, younger version of yourself. They already want this case closed."
He was right.
The next morning at headquarters, the inspector listened with mounting skepticism. When I showed the red-orange hair and explained the resemblance, his expression hardened into contempt.
"So you want us to hunt a red-haired savior who looks like an idealized younger version of you, Detective Crowe? While the Cardiff prosecutor sits in chains? This is not helpful. Stop wasting our time with fairy tales."
They didn't believe me.
They thought I was cracking — projecting my own face onto a glamorous killer to explain my failure.
The dilemma crushed me as I left the station. Victor and Eleanor returned to file their censored reports. I walked alone through the grey Brussels streets, drizzle turning every surface into black mirrors. In every puddle, my dark-haired reflection stared back — and behind it, I imagined that burning red-orange glow of the younger , perfected me.
How do you hunt something that wears your own face, only better?
By evening, the decision had crystallized. I needed to return to the beginning.
Back to Wales. Back to the imprisoned prosecutor. Back to the source where the angel had first struck.