arol forced a smile. "I might just have some news for you on that score, sir." Briefly, she outlined the information Jonathan had given them.

Brandon's lugubrious face lit up. "But that's excellent news, Carol. Whose idea was it to bring this geologist on board?"

"Mine, sir." She was damned if she was going to refuse credit for the one good thing she'd achieved in a while.

"Good. Well done. Make sure you keep me posted on developments. And Shaheed too." He stood up.

"If I might have a word, sir?" Carol said, drawing him to one side.

Brandon raised an eyebrow. "Fire away."

"I understand DC Evans told you he was following an unauthorized line of inquiry relating to Dr. Aidan Hart?"

Brandon squared his shoulders. "He did. And I'm bound to say I was most surprised that you had closed down that particular avenue. It's not as if you're awash with suspects on these prostitute murders. I know that Hart works with Tony, but .. ."

"That had nothing to do with my decision, sir," Carol interrupted. "I eliminated Dr. Hart on the basis that he has an alibi for the time when the medical evidence says Sandie Foster was killed."

Brandon shook his head. "Not good enough, Carol. We all know time of death is far from an accurate measurement."

"Nevertheless, the timings don't stack up. He picked her up at half past eight. It would have taken a few minutes to get to her room. Then he's got to tie her up and brutalize her repeatedly. Then somehow he's got to drive across town, find a parking space and get to the restaurant by nine without a trace of blood on him. It's just not possible, sir, whatever bee Sam Evans has in his bonnet."

Brandon scowled. "In that case, DCI Jordan, you need to keep a tighter rein on your officers. Now, I'm sure you have work to do in preparation for this evening." He walked past her and out the door, leaving Carol smarting at the injustice of his final remarks. Had she been wrong about Brandon? When the pressure for results was at its height, was he so very different from the others who had let her down before? One thing was certain: when all of this was over, there would be some adjustments in the Major Incident Team. But for now, she had to swallow her pride and get back to work.

Carol understood the disappointment she could read all over the faces of Kevin Matthews and Sam Evans. Tonight would be the first sniff of real front line action they'd had since their supposedly elite squad had been inaugurated and she was pulling them off it for the sake of a good night's sleep. But if Tony was right about what lurked in Swindale, she wanted officers in charge who were alert to every possibility. She didn't want vital evidence slipping through their fingers either because the lead officers were dizzy and disorientated with tiredness or, conversely, high as kites because they'd got a result in another case.

She knew that when she'd called them in they'd been expecting some special assignment on the undercover duty. They'd both demonstrated all the eagerness and anticipation of lads let off the leash for a Saturday night on the town. She'd tried to let them down easy, but there was no way to sugar the pill. They wanted to be out there, standing shoulder to shoulder with their team mates, not tucked up in bed in preparation for the morrow's work, no matter how crucial that might turn out to be. No matter that they were all desperate to find out what had happened to Tim Golding and Guy Lefevre; when push came to shove, cops always wanted to be where the action was. And tonight, the action would be in Temple Fields.

"I thought we needed every body we could muster on the ground for this op," Evans had protested even before she'd had the chance to brief them thoroughly.

"I'm not doubting your willingness, Sam," she said, trying not to let her personal animus colour her response to what was close to insubordination. "But I make the decisions about priorities round here. And as far as I'm concerned, finding out what happened to Tim Golding is every bit as high a priority as catching the person who killed Sandie Foster and Jackie Mayall before he can claim any more victims."

"Even if it means putting an officer at greater risk?" Evans' betrayal of her to Brandon seemed to have given him a taste for undermining her. She had to end it here and now before it caused problems with the others.

"Believe me, Detective Constable, your absence will not be increasing the risk to DC Mclntyre one jot. You are not so special that you can't be replaced. Tonight's team is at full strength. What I need is to have confidence that tomorrow morning's operation will be as thoroughly covered." Carol's voice was sharp and cold as an icicle. Evans studied his shoes and mumbled something she was prepared to consider an apology.

"What's the drill tomorrow, guy?" Kevin asked, feeling sorry for his colleague and keen to divert Carol's annoyance.

"Dr. France, the forensic geologist, thinks he's narrowed down where the photograph of Tim was taken. It's an isolated though not especially remote dale in Derbyshire. Dr. Hill believes that there's a strong possibility Tim may have been murdered there and his body disposed of on site. So this isn't just a stroll in the countryI'm sending you on. This could be the most significant development in these cases so far. You'll be going out with a full complement of SO COs and you're going to treat the area as a crime scene: I need officers of your calibre because it's crucial that we don't miss anything that's down there that can take us nearer to what happened to Tim and who made it happen."

"Do the local boys know we're going to be on their patch?" Kevin asked.

"I've spoken to them, yes. Stacey has the details of who you should liaise with if you come up with anything." She stood up. "I know you're both disappointed about tonight, but I've chosen you two because I have confidence in your ability to find whatever there is to be found out there in Swindale. So get a good night's sleep then go out tomorrow and prove me right."

They filed out and Carol watched them glumly. You're losing them, she thought, trying not to panic. You're losing them and they know why.

The rules have changed. This time it's going to be different because the Voice says so. He doesn't make the rules, he just follows them. And if they change, there must be a reason. It doesn't worry him that he doesn't know what that reason is. He knows he probably wouldn't understand it even if he did. But the Voice understands. So even though things are going to be different this time, he'll still be OK.

Because it's going to be different, because there are new things for him to learn, the Voice is giving him longer to prepare. He has a new script to learn, a new set of instructions to be sure of. He's even got a new coat to make him look different.

He has a dim feeling that these changes mean danger. He's going to be taking more chances, which would be scary if it wasn't for the Voice giving him confidence. So tonight, he's staying home, making sure he knows without having to think about it what he'll have to do. He's sitting in his room, listening to the seductive voice on the mini disk running through the routine one more time. He's got a joint burning, good stuff he's been holding back for a special occasion.

As the words sink into his brain, spreading their warmth and comfort, he knows he was right to roll it. Occasions don't really come any more special than this.

Tony sat in the pool of light cast by the desk lamp in his office at Bradfield Moor. Like so many objects in the secure hospital, it had never been up to much in the first place, and now it was well past its best. The only two positions it would sustain for any length of time were either too high or too low for effective use. But at that particular moment, Tony was oblivious to his surroundings.

The killer was still eluding him. A disembodied voice he couldn't hear but which still seemed capable of pulling his strings. He had no more real sense of who this killer was now than he'd had on the morning after Sandie Foster's murder when he'd spoken to Carol about rape and murder and power.

He'd tried to speak to Derek Tyler again, but Tyler had refused to come out of his room. When Tony had attempted to see him there, Tyler had curled up in a ball on his bed and turned his face to the wall. There had been nothing equivocal in the gesture. So he'd gone back to his office and read through the case file that Carol had finally sent over. She'd been right. There was no wriggle room around Derek Tyler's conviction. Not unless he'd had a twin brother who shared his DNA. And there was no record of Tyler having any siblings, never mind a twin.

"What's in it for you?" he said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "Where's the punchline in taking over someone else's crime?" He was at the point of beginning to doubt something he had always regarded as one of the few given truths in what he did: that no two people were subject to precisely the same reactions to stimulus in the area of sexual homicide. What if this case were to provide the exception that proved the rule?

He'd once been present at a forensic science conference where a prominent crime writer had been giving the after-dinner speech. He remembered the man leaning nonchalantly on the lectern, his soft Welsh accent making his words soothing and innocuous. Tony didn't have Carol's gift of total recall of speech, but he remembered the gist of it because it had chimed so perfectly with his own understanding. The writer was talking about a question that was frequently put to him by readers: did he worry about somebody stealing his imagined crimes and turning them into real ones? The writer said he didn't lose sleep over this for two reasons. Firstly, the chances of any individual having the identical motive springs for his action as the characters in the books was negligible. And even in the unlikely event of that happening, it still wasn't the writer's responsibility. The person committing the crime had to be predisposed in that direction; to blame the writer for the murderer's crime would be like blaming the bread knife for stabbing a spouse in the middle of a domestic.

But what if they'd both been wrong, the writer and Tony? What if a congruence of murderous fantasies wasn't as unlikely as he and his colleagues had always believed? What if someone out there had been so moved by Derek Tyler's crimes that he'd come to understand that the only way he could achieve his own dream of perfection was to act out what he'd realized was his fantasy too?

It was far-fetched. It would earn him ridicule from his colleagues. He could see the smirk on Aidan Hart's face at the conviction that Tony Hill had finally lost it completely.

More than that, it just didn't make sense. Because Tyler had confessed, because the forensic evidence had been believed to be impregnable, because he'd been deemed to be mad and not bad, the full story of Tyler's crimes had never been heard in open court. There were elements of the crimes that were not in the public domain, known only to Tyler himself, the police and the lawyers on both sides of the divide and those, like Tony himself, charged with his psychiatric care. And while it wasn't impossible that someone among that group could have gone to the bad, it wasn't a suggestion that was likely to inspire confidence from Carol or from Brandon.

Come to that, he didn't believe it himself. Trying it on for size only demonstrated what a bad fit it was.

He walked his chair back till he was out of the light and his head was touching the bookshelves behind him. Had he really lost his touch? Had he been out of the game for too long? Was he no better than those self-serving idiots who gave profiling a bad name?

It was a frightening thought. If he had lost the one thing he knew he was good at, what was left? He certainly couldn't console himself that he'd been able to use his professional acuity to help Carol. It had taken a man who spent his days looking at rocks to see at least something of what she needed and to act on it.

He wallowed for a few minutes longer, then abruptly sat upright. "Mawkish self-pity," he said loudly. "Not a pretty sight." Nor did it lead to behaviour he could be proud of. He'd walked away from tonight's undercover operation not because he genuinely believed there was nothing useful he could offer, but out of a combination of pique and a sense of acute failure. He'd let himself down. More importantly, he might have let Paula Mclntyre down. And that was something Carol would find harder to forgive than his role in her own ruin.

"Oh, bugger," Tony said, pushing himself out of the chair and grabbing his coat. It was time to stop the self-indulgence. It might not be too late to stop something very bad indeed happening to Paula Mclntyre.

Carol watched the officers file out of the briefing room, their voices a low mutter of background noise. She'd pulled together just over thirty men and women to cover Paula's foray into the killer's world. Most would be on the streets in plain clothes, trying to blend in with the usual patrons of Temple Fields. Some would be parked up in cars just off the main drag, out of sight of Paula but in radio contact with the surveillance van. Others would be strategically placed in the warren of back alleys, ready to cut off any escape attempt. Carol herself would be in the surveillance van with Don Merrick, Stacey Chen, Jan Shields and a couple of technicians, sweating it out, staring into the CCTV screens, straining to hear what came in over the wire Paula would be wearing.

Carol tried to convince herself she was confident of a good outcome. She thought they'd achieved saturation coverage; any more officers and they'd have started to have a significant impact on the ambience. She knew that murderers like this were often finely tuned to their killing ground, and it was important not to alter the environment so much that their target would sense a disturbance in the atmosphere. That much she'd learned from Tony over the years. She could have used his input this afternoon. It wasn't that she didn't believe in her own ability to organize a major operation; it was more that she wanted another angle on what she had planned. She wanted Tony because he could look at it with the eyes of the hunted rather than the hunter. Paula would be offered up as prey; Carol didn't want her to end up as a sacrificial lamb, but equally she didn't want the wolf to sniff the air and take fright.

Tony was, she thought, behaving oddly. Given the level of concern he'd been showing for her since she'd come back to Bradfield, she'd expected him to be glued to her side tonight. It was hard not to see his absence as a reproach.

The last of the team left the room and Carol took a final look at the white boards where the strategy was outlined. Time to go and reassure Paula.

She found the young DC sitting in her office with Jan Shields. Paula was kitted up and ready to roll. She looked curiously pathetic in her trashy outfit, her bare legs already goosepim-pled above the strappy stilettos Jan had found on a cheap market stall. Paula's face was masked with the exaggerated make-up of a street girl, eyes outlined in kohl and lips a scarlet slash. She looked as comfortable as a white mouse in a pit of vipers.

Carol looked her up and down. "I know it feels horrible, but you look the business. Well, from a distance anyway. Up close, you look far too sussed and healthy."

"Thanks, chief," Paula said ironically.

Carol put a hand on her shoulder, feeling the stiff PVC cold against her fingers. "We'll be close, all the time. We'll be watching you. We've got officers on the street as well as in vehicles. Have they wired you up yet?"

Paula nodded, swivelling in her chair and lifting the back of her jacket. Although the sparkly silver top revealed her midriff, the jacket reached the top of her hips, hiding the wire that ran from the mike between her breasts, round the line of her bra and down her back into the transmitter that was fixed just below the waistline of her skirt. The wire wasn't taped to her skin; there was enough slack to make sure it wouldn't be ripped out by accident if she had to bend over or crouch to speak to the driver of a car.

"You can't see anything when she's standing or walking," Jan said. "We've checked."

"Good," Carol said. "What about an earpiece?"

Paula shook her head. "The techies said it was too visible with my hair being so short."

"And you're OK about that? About us not being able to talk to you?"

Paula shrugged. "I'll be fine."

"If we need to abort, one of us will do a walk-past. You're clear on the rest of the drill?" Carol asked.

She nodded unhappily. "If I get a punter, I walk round the corner with him and find out what he wants. If he's just a regular punter, I flash my warrant card and tell him to disappear before he gets arrested."

"That's right. We're not interested in sad do sales reps tonight. Save them for Jan's colleagues another time."

"Thanks," Jan said sarcastically.

"And when I get someone who wants a bit of bondage, I go along with him?"

Carol could see Paula was trying hard to maintain bravado. But she knew the worm of anxious fear that was eating her. She knew because she'd lived with it for longer than she ever wanted to again. "That's right," she said. "Then you ask him exactly what he's got in mind. If he's got somewhere to go or if he wants to use your place. Whether we think he's the killer or not, that's when we move in. Either to warn him off in no uncertain terms or to lift him. We'll be right behind you. We need to give him a bit of rope, but we'll be keeping close tabs to make sure nothing goes wrong."

Paula braced herself visibly. "But nothing's going to go wrong. Right?"

"Right." The male voice came from behind them. The three women turned to see the Chief Constable in the doorway. "I have every confidence in you and your team, DCI Jordan. You're in the best possible hands, DC Mclntyre. I'm sure we're going to get a result. If not tonight, then very soon."

Carol felt Paula stiffen under her hand. She realized that the DC hadn't understood that this might not simply be a one-off. "Thank you, sir," she said.

"I'd like a word, DCI Jordan?" Brandon said.

Jan and Paula left them to it. "We'll wait in the briefing room," Jan said, closing the door behind her.

"How are you doing, Carol?" Brandon asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

"I'm fine, sir," she said, her voice clipped, inviting neither sympathy nor indulgence. After their earlier encounter, she found it hard to accept his concern was sincere. "It's not me who's taking the risks tonight."

"No, but it can't be easy for you, sending an officer out on an operation like this. After what you'

"I do my job, sir," Carol interrupted. "If I thought my own feelings were compromising the operation, I would have asked you to relieve me of command."

Brandon looked embarrassed. "I wasn't suggesting that for a moment, Carol. And it wasn't what I was implying when we spoke before. All I meant was that I do understand that this must bring back uncomfortable memories."

Carol fought to stay in command of herself against the rising tide of frustration and anger. "With respect, sir, that's my business."

Rebuked, Brandon turned away. "As you say. Is Tony in the building?"

"No, sir. Dr. Hill felt he had contributed all he could to this evening's undercover. He indicated that he thought the arrangements I had put in place were sufficient." Unlike you, she thought with some bitterness. Suddenly, it dawned on her that Tony's absence might not be an admonishment. It could be his way of showing her that he thought she was back in command of herself again, back on top of her game.

If that's what it is, he couldn't be more wrong. She was more anxious than she'd been for a long time. But she was damned if she was going to let Brandon see that. She nailed a smile to her face and said, "If you'll excuse me, sir, I need to show my support for DC Mclntyre. It's time we got to work."

Brandon stood aside to let her pass. "Good luck, Carol," he said.

She swung round. "If we catch him, it won't be about luck, sir. It'll be about good police work."

Temple Fields on a weekday evening. Sharp night air with an acrid edge of city pollution that caught the throat. Two generations back, the base note would have been the smoke from thousands of coal fires. Now it was the greenhouse gases from car exhausts and the stale exhalations of the city's hundreds of food outlets, from burger bars to Bollinger bistros. The garish neon lighting looked blurred through the lenses of the CCTV system. The four cameras that fed into the surveillance van were all targeted on Paula from a variety of angles and distances, showing her against the backdrop of a bustling street where all appetites could be met. People shopped in the mini-market on the corner, moved in and out of pubs, cafes and restaurants. Sex workers of all genders and sexes dawdled, their impatience for custom mostly numbed by alcohol or drugs. Cars cruised and drifted, some looking for parking spaces, others looking for sex. What their drivers didn't know was that every number plate was being logged by another set of cameras strategically placed at the main access routes into the area. If the killer didn't show his hand, each of those registered owners would have to be visited in a tedious, time-consuming ritual where everyone was assumed to have something to hide until they demonstrated otherwise. Marriages might founder in the wake of tonight's operation. Carol Jordan didn't care. She knew the price that taking chances sometimes demanded and she had little sympathy for those who took their risks for such venal rewards. She stared into the screens, watching Paula intently. The young DC had staked out a corner by a mini-roundabout. She'd learned quickly, clocking the attitude and style of the other women on the street and now she was strutting her stuff like the rest of them. A few steps in one direction; a cocking of the hip, an insolent stare at the traffic. Then back to where she started.

When she'd taken up position, she'd been challenged by another woman whose pitch she'd inadvertently invaded. A quick flash of her warrant card would have seen off the opposition but might have threatened the whole strategy. So Paula had done a deal. The other woman backed off in exchange for a twenty-pound note. It wasn't much of a bribe, but Paula had invested her words with enough of a threat for the other woman to move a few yards down a side street without further complaint. Carol had been impressed. Given how nervous Paula had been earlier, it was a bravura performance.

"She did good," Jan had said. "That's one of the advantages of us clearing out the pimps. Not that long ago, if she'd have tried that stunt, she'd have had a knife at her throat in five minutes. But the women don't go in for that kind of response."

"Don't they look out for each other?" Stacey asked, looking up from the computer screen where she was running the car numbers from the other cameras against the Police National Computer.

"Up to a point. But they're not exactly what you'd call a trade union," Jan said sardonically.

It wasn't a busy night on the street as far as the hookers were concerned. But it was early yet. According to Jan, there would be more action after ten o'clock, reaching a peak between midnight and one. Carol, however, had already decided to close down the operation at midnight. All of the killer's victims, whether you counted it as two or six, had been taken off the streets between six and ten. This killer clearly didn't like working the night shift.

By half past eight, Paula hadn't had a serious nibble. The team in the van had been aware of a dozen or so transactions on the street, but none of the women involved had looked remotely like the killer's type, so they'd let them run their course without interference.

Suddenly, Jan pointed-to one of the screens. "Well, well, well," she said. "Look who it is."

Walking down the street towards Paula, head down and jacket collar turned up, was the unmistakable figure of Tony Hill. Carol leaned into the screen, watching intently as he walked past Paula without a second glance. Then he turned into the first pub he came to. What the hell was he up to? Part of Carol wanted to jump out of the van and chase after him. But the better part of her knew she must sit tight. If anything went down, her place was here, right on top of the game, not running round the streets demanding to know what Tony was playing at. Besides, it went against all the rules of surveillance to have foot traffic in and out of the vehicle, drawing attention to its presence.

Her decision was made for her when a car glided to a halt next to Paula. "Punter alert," Merrick shouted. The tension in the van ratcheted up palpably.

Paula bent down to speak into the lowered window. The car obscured her face, but the camera behind her showed she was free and clear, and the wire gave a crackly but comprehensible rendering of the conversation.

"You working?" the driver asked.

"What are you after?" Paula said, the harshness in her tone evident even through the attrition of transmission.

"You take it up the arse?" the man said.

"You want me to take it up the arse, it'll cost you more than you could ever afford. Fuck off, pervert," Paula snarled.

"Fucking cunt," the driver spat back, shifting the car into gear and moving further down the street.

Paula stepped back from the kerb. "I guess the price wasn't right."

"Attagirl, Paula. Keep whistling in the dark," Carol said softly. They all sat back in their seats and allowed themselves a degree of relaxation.

"He's sitting in the window," Jan said.

"What?" Carol was still replaying Paula's encounter in her head.

"Dr. Hill." Jan pointed at one of the screens. It was just possible to make out a face that might possibly belong to Tony. "He's just sat down. He's got a drink look. He's found a seat where he can watch the street."

"Just so long as he stays put," Carol muttered.

Another fifteen minutes passed without incident. Then Merrick said, "That bloke. He's walked past three times." He pointed with his pen at a middle-aged, balding man, stocky but with a slight stoop. "He's eyeing up Paula. Look."

He was right. The man slowed as he approached Paula, his head moving up and down as he scrutinized her from the side and from behind. He passed her, then crossed the street. At the corner, he turned back. He sauntered in Paula's direction, then, when he was almost level with her, he crossed the street, quickening his pace.

"Uh, oh," Jan said as he hit the pavement, crowding Paula so she had to take a backward step.

"Let's do some business, you and me." The man's voice was a loud growl in their earpieces.

"What are you after?" Paula said, trying to stand her ground but having to back up as he moved in on her.

"I want you to suck me off," he demanded, keeping up the pressure, angling Paula towards a break in the buildings where a narrow alley led to back yards.

"Team A, move into position," Carol yelled. At once, four of the apparently aimless strollers on the street began to converge on Paula's position.

Now they were in the alley. It was hard to see what was going on, but they heard a thud then a cry of protest from

Paula. "Hey, shithead, cut the rough stuff," she shouted.

"Shut your fucking hole," the man grunted.

"Team A, stand by," Carol said. The four bodies flanked the alley mouth. Carol heard sounds of movement in her ear. Then a yelp of pain. Then Paula's voice. "This is a warrant card, asshole."

"What the fu..."

"Yeah, I'm a cop." Carol could hear Paula's breath coming fast and hard. "Now fuck off fast before I'm tempted to do you for assault, shithead."

Carol laughed out loud. "Team A, stand down."

The man shot out of the alley, breaking into a shambling trot, nearly stumbling as he looked over his shoulder, panic written all over his face. Behind him, Paula emerged from the alley, brushing down her skirt.

"She's good," Jan said.

Carol wiped the sheen of sweat from her upper lip. "She's very good. Let's just hope the killer thinks so too."

Tony had his glass halfway to his lips when the hand descended on his shoulder. He started, slopping lager down his shirt. "Shit!" he said, jerking backwards and batting pointlessly at the spreading stain. He looked up. "Where did you come from?" he demanded.

Carol jerked her head towards the rear of the bar. "Through the back door." She put two bottles of Stella on the table.

"You scared the hell out of me," Tony complained, reaching for one of the bottles and topping up his almost-empty glass.

"I'm supposed to scare the hell out of people. I'm a cop." Carol sat down and took a swig of her beer. "As you will have noticed, we just wound up for the night. I got the van to drop me off round the corner."

"I noticed. I was just finishing up my drink then I was off to get the night bus."

Carol grinned. "Your sophistication never ceases to amaze me. What's wrong with a taxi?"

"You get a better class of nutter on the night bus. I blend in perfectly."

She couldn't argue with that. "So why are you here? I thought you were washing your hands of the undercover."

He shook his head. "I never said that. Just that I didn't think I had anything useful to offer." He gave her a shrewd look. "But I do now."

She raised her eyebrows in a question.

"It's not going to work, Carol," Tony said flatly.

From anyone else, it would have been grounds for offence. But she knew him better than that. "What's the problem? You don't think Brandon's line will force his hand?"

Tony pulled a face. "The challenge was fine. It's the bait that's the problem."

"You don't think Paula looks like a hooker? I thought Jan had done a good job getting her kitted out. Or is it that you think she's not close enough to his type?"

He shook his head. "She looks like a hooker. And she's his type. That's not it. Paula's right on the money. It's what you're doing with her that's the issue. Carol, this man knows Temple Fields. It's his stamping ground. Like I said earlier, I think the chances are high that he works here. Which means he knows these streets, he knows the women who work them. So if he saw Paula out there tonight, he knows she's new meat. And what did she do tonight?"

Carol thought for a moment. "She acted like a street hooker."

Tony put his glass down heavily. "No. She didn't. Carol, she didn't go with a single punter. As a whore, she was a total failure. Now, if our man was watching her, he'll have thought one of two things. Either that she's a decoy, in which case you're blown. Or that she's so new to the game she's being too picky. In which case he's not going to chance an approach."

Carol closed her eyes momentarily. With all she'd learned from Tony about putting herself in the shoes of the enemy, why hadn't she thought of that? Because she'd been too wrapped up in her own reactions. Her priority had been taking care of Paula, not making sure the honey trap was tempting enough. "So what do I do now?" she asked wearily. "You go back out on the street with Paula tomorrow night. And you set up some fake punters. A couple of guys in cars, a couple on foot. Make it look like she's learned not to be so fussy. Make it look like she's working and not standing around like cheese in a mousetrap." He smiled. "That's all I wanted to say. Now, are you going to give me a lift home or should I go and get the night bus?"

Rain drizzled depressingly from a battleship-grey sky, leaching all colour from the Derbyshire landscape. Their small cavalcade had swept out of Bradfield against the incoming tide of the morning rush hour, arriving at the car park by the remains of the old railway station in Miller's Dale just after nine. The brown grit stone of the walls seemed to weep moisture. Carol turned to Jonathan France, white-faced beside her in the back seat. "Are you OK?" she asked.

They had spoken little in the car on the way over from Bradfield. Carol was lost in her plans for the next stage of the undercover. But even if she hadn't been, the presence of Sam Evans driving the unmarked CID car would have kept the conversation within narrow limits. As it was, Jonathan hadn't shown much inclination for talk. He'd mostly stared straight ahead, as if mesmerized by the sweep of the windscreen wipers.

"I'm ready, if that's what you mean," he said, a deep breath lifting his shoulders. He grabbed the waxed jacket that he'd placed on the seat between them, opened the door and got out.

Carol joined him. "I do appreciate you helping us with this,"

she said. "As soon as you've identified the site, I'll have someone take you back to Bradfield."

He nodded. "I don't know how you deal with this stuff day in, day out," he confessed. "Just thinking about it makes me shiver."

"Keeping faith with the dead. That's what Tony calls it." Carol looked around her. The team was gathering, scenes of crime officers in their familiar white suits, designed to avoid any contamination of evidence. Kevin and Sam were struggling into their suits, both muttering complaints about the general level of discomfort. "We should suit up too," Carol said. She retrieved a couple of suits from the SOCO van and took the opportunity to have a word with Kevin and Sam. "I didn't plan on being here," she said. "But Dr. France had cold feet. It's your operation, I'm only here to observe. I won't stay long."

Kevin gave her a tight smile. "Thanks, guy."

When everyone was ready, they set off along what had been the railway track. Now it was a public footpath, the rough stone chippings making for awkward going. It must have been a breathtaking journey back when the steam trains plied this route, Carol thought. Even on a miserable winter's morning, the light poor and the visibility worse, the drama of the landscape was obvious. Striated limestone cliffs and reefs loomed above them, occasional hardy patches of vegetation sprouting from the cracks. Mottled with more shades of grey than she could count, the huge bluffs stretched skywards, seeming to move towards closure above her head. She tried not to think how threatening it must have seemed to Tim Golding.

After a short distance, they left the track and cut down a steep slope towards a meadow. A handful of sodden sheep munched miserably at the pale grass while others huddled beneath the bare branches of a clump of trees. The ground was heavy underfoot and Carol could feel her walking boots add weight as the mud began to stick to them. It was a long and tiring forty minutes to the mouth of Swindale. They gathered at what looked like a cleft in the rock, no more than four feet across. Carol was sweating inside her protective suit, but her feet were freezing. Not even good quality boots could keep the water out when' you had to walk through the river overflow. She turned to Jonathan. "The scenes of crime officers will go in first. They'll tape off a narrow route as they go. That will be the route that we use in and out from now on. So if you go just behind them and direct them to the place you think we're looking for .. .?"

He nodded. He unzipped his suit and took out the blown-up photo of the rock formation. He'd laminated it, a sensible precaution against the weather. Carol stayed close on his heels as he followed the SO COs through the narrow neck of the dale. To her astonishment, a few yards in, the walls of rock spread open dramatically, becoming a valley about fifty feet across. The rough vegetation on the valley floor thinned out in places, offering a faint path forwards. They carried on in, Jonathan occasionally steering them with a few words. "Just there on the right," he said eventually. Carol looked at her watch. Eight minutes from the mouth of the dale. She stepped up beside Jonathan and compared the picture in his hand to the rock in front of her. Even to her untutored eye, there seemed little room for doubt. But Jonathan took her through the common features, indicating the points of identity. "I can't imagine there are two sets of stromatactis formations with those identical configurations," he concluded.

Carol asked the photographer to start on a set of pictures, then she collared one of the uniformed officers she'd requisitioned for the search. "Bryant? I want you to drive Dr. France back to Bradfield. And then I want you to come back for me. I'll meet you in the station car park at one." She turned to Jonathan. "I'll keep you informed," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "Don't brood on it."

He gave a rueful smile. "I'll try not to."

She turned back and watched Kevin go to his task. "Right," he said to the waiting team. "Let's fan out from here. Three metres apart. Any sign of disturbed ground, uprooted plants .. . You know what we're looking for. Let's do it."

Carol hung back, trying to find some shelter in the lee of the bluff a few yards from the site of the photograph. The officers were making slow progress, hampered by the brambles that twined through the dense undergrowth. While she waited, she took out her phone and started making the calls to reshape the undercover operation for that night. She'd just finished talking to Paula when a shout went up from one of the officers towards the right-hand end of the line. "Over here," he called.

At once, everyone froze. Two of the SO COs who had remained behind headed for the man who had called out, spooling crime-scene tape behind them to make another narrow corridor of access. It took them a few minutes to reach the man, then another couple of nail-biting minutes while they looked at what had stopped him in his tracks. Then one of them turned back towards Carol and gave her the thumbs-up sign.