ony frowned, trying to work out what had happened. "He must have that room electronically shielded," he eventually said. "Of course. The last thing he'd want is anyone doing any snooping round him that he didn't know about. It never crossed my mind."

Chris cupped her hands against the wind and lit a cigarette. "Jesus," she exploded softly in a long stream of smoke. "Don't ever give me a fright like that again. So what happened? Did he cough? Don't tell me he coughed and we didn't get it on tape?"

Tony shook his head, walking her across the street to where he'd parked his car in full view of Vance's house. He glanced back and was pleased to see his target standing at a window on the top floor looking down at them. "Get in my car for now, I'll explain," he said.

He started the engine and drove round the corner. "He poured scorn on the evidence," Tony said as he turned into another street, doubling back to get behind where Chris was parked a couple of hundred yards from Vance's gate, out of the line of sight from the house. "He made it plain that he thought we had nothing on him and that if we didn't call off the dogs he'd come after me."

"He threatened to kill you?"

"No, he threatened to go to the papers and make an idiot of me."

"You sound pretty pleased with yourself for somebody that just blew their big showdown," Chris said. "I thought he was supposed to either roll over and spill his guts or else try to top you?"

Tony shrugged. "I didn't really expect him to confess. And if he was going to kill me, I don't think he'd have done it on the spot. He might have convinced Wharton and Mccormick that there was nothing sinister about Shaz visiting him before she died, but I think even they would have to pay attention if I was killed after I'd just been to Vance's house. No, what I wanted to do was unsettle him to the point where he starts to worry how well he's covered his tracks."

"And what good does that do?" She wound the window down an inch to flick her ash clear.

"With a bit of luck, it sets him off like a clockwork mouse, straight for his killing ground. He needs to make sure there's nothing that can incriminate him in the unlikely event that I could ever persuade the police to apply for a search warrant."

"You think he'll go now?"

"I'm banking on it. According to his schedule, he's got nothing on tomorrow until a meeting at three. After that, the week starts looking horrendous. He's got to go for it now."

Chris groaned. "Not the M1 again."

"You up for it?"

"I'm up for it," she said wearily. "What's the plan?"

"I go now. He's seen me drive off with you, so he should think the coast's clear. I'll head on up to Northumberland and you try to stay with him when he emerges. We can keep in touch by phone."

"At least it's dark," she said. "Hopefully he won't notice the same headlights in his rear-view mirror." She opened the door and got out, leaning back in to speak. "I can't believe I'm doing this. All the bloody way down from Northumberland to London just to turn round and go back there again. We must be demented."

"No. Just determined."

He was that, all right, Chris thought as she walked to her car and watched Tony do a three-point turn and return the way he'd come. God, she thought. It was already seven. Five, six hours back to Northumberland. She hoped there wasn't going to be too much action at the other end of the trip because she would be dead on her feet.

She tuned the radio to a golden oldies station and settled down to sing along with the sixties. She didn't have long to harmonize before the gates of Vance's house slid back and the long silver nose of his Mercedes appeared. "You fucking beauty," she said, turning on her ignition and rolling forward to keep him in her sights. Holland Park Avenue, then up to join the A40. As they headed out through Acton and Baling, Chris felt a vague sense of uneasiness. This wasn't just the pretty way to Northumberland. It was perverse. She couldn't believe he was going to drive all the way out west to the orbital M25 just to circle round to the northbound M1.

She stayed close enough not to lose him at the lights, always managing to keep a single car between them. It was hard driving, but at least the streetlights helped. Eventually, the signs for the M25 appeared and Chris prepared to take the slip road even though Vance showed no signs of leaving the carriage way Probably do a last-minute lane change, she thought, if he thinks he might have a tail.

But he didn't move and it was she who had to do the last-minute rescue, stamping on the accelerator to keep in touch with his tail lights. She only made it because he was driving a scant handful of miles above the limit, like a man who absolutely doesn't want to be stopped for speeding. She grabbed her phone and hit the recall button for Tony's number.

"Tony? It's Chris. Listen, I'm on the M4O heading west tight on Jack the Lad's tail. Wherever he's going, it's not Northumberland."

The discovery of the vice injected a new urgency into the search.

Acutely aware of how bizarre this must seem to Doreen Elliott, Kay desperately tried to distract her with conversation. "They made a lovely job of converting this place," she said brightly.

It was clearly the right thing. Mrs. Elliott turned to the kitchen and ran a hand along the polished smoothness of the solid wood. "Our Derek did the kitchen. He wanted no expense spared, like. Everything you could possibly want, all the latest stuff." She pointed to the cupboard fronts. "Washer-dryer, dishwasher, fridge, freezer, all tucked away."

"I'd have thought he'd have brought his wife up with him more often," Kay tried.

It was clearly the wrong thing. Mrs. Elliott frowned. "Well, he told us they'd be using it as a weekend place. But in the end, she never came. He said she was too much of a city girl. She doesn't like the country, you see. Well, you only have to look at her on that TV programme to see she'd not fit in with the likes of us. Not like Mr. Vance."

"What, she's never been here at all?" Kay tried to sound as if this was news to her. She had half her attention on Simon and Leon, but she was still keeping watch on Mrs. Elliott's reactions. "We're just trying to work out who else might have a key. For security reasons," she added hastily as the older woman's face grew more slab-like.

"Never seen hide nor hair of her." Then a smirk. "That's not to say there's never been a woman's hand on the place. Well, a man's entitled to his compensations if his wife cannot bring herself to share his interests."

"You've seen him here with other women, then?" Kay asked, aiming for casual.

"Not actually seen him, no, but I come in once a fortnight to give the place a clean, and there's been a couple of times I've unloaded the dishwasher and there's been glasses with lipstick traces. It doesn't always come off in the machine, you see. So putting two and two together, I suppose he's got a girlfriend. But he knows he can rely on us to keep our mouths shut."

Only because no one's ever asked you, Kay thought cynically. "As you say, if his wife won't come to a place like this ... "

"It's a palace," Mrs. Elliott said, doubtless comparing it to the dark kitchen of her own cottage. "I tell you something: I bet it's the only house in Northumberland with its own private nuclear shelter."

The words fell into the conversation like a bomb.

"A nuclear shelter?" Kay asked faintly. Simon and Leon froze where they stood like gun dogs on point.

She mistook the stillness of their surprise for doubt. "Right under our feet," Mrs. Elliott said. "I'm not making this up, pet."

Chris had barely finished the call to Tony when she saw the tail lights ahead of her wink to indicate that Vance was about to take the next slip road. Chris followed, leaving her move to the last possible moment.

They turned north then, a couple of miles from the motorway, Vance signalled a left turn. At the junction, Chris slowed down and saw something that made her swear like a football supporter.

She switched off her main lights and drove cautiously down the narrow lane on sidelights only. She rounded a bend and there on her left was Jacko Vance's destination.

The private airfield was floodlit. Parked on a strip of Tarmac, Chris saw a dozen small planes standing in front of four hangars. She watched Vance's headlamps cut twin cones through the darkness round the perimeter then be swallowed up in the greater brightness as he drew up behind one of the planes. A man jumped out of the cockpit and waved.

Vance got out of his car and walked to the plane, greeting the pilot with a clap on the shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," Chris said. For the second time in the space of an hour, she had no idea what to do. Vance could have chartered the plane to get him to Northumberland ahead of any possible pursuit. Or he could have chartered it to get him out of the country. A quick flight across the Channel into the open borders of Europe and he could be anywhere by morning. Should she opt for dramatic intervention or leave him to take off ?

It was a gamble, and one she didn't want to take responsibility for. Her eyes scanned the airfield, settling on the small control tower that jutted out beyond the furthest hangar. Then she saw Vance and the pilot disappear aboard. Seconds later, the propellers stuttered into life.

"Fuck it," Chris said and put the car in gear. She raced round the airport perimeter fence and reached the control tower just as the small plane taxied out on to the runway.

She raced inside, startling the man who sat at a plotting desk beside a computer. Chris thrust her warrant card in his face. That plane on the runway. Has it filed a flight plan?"

"Yeah, yeah, he has," the man stammered. "He's going to Newcastle. Is there some sort of a problem? I mean, I can tell him to abort his take-off if there's a problem. We're always keen to help the police ..

"No problem," Chris said grimly. "Just forget you ever saw me, OK? No little radio messages saying anybody was interested, OK?"

"No, I mean yes, whatever you say, officer. No messages."

"And just to make sure," Chris said, pulling up a chair and giving him the predatory smile that sucked confessions from hard men, "I'm staying right here." She pulled out her phone and called Tony. "Sergeant Devine," she said. "Subject is aboard private plane, destination Newcastle. You're going to have to deal with it from here on in.

Suggest you organize a reception committee with the troops on the ground at his ultimate destination. OK?"

A bemused Tony stared at the shifting lights ahead of him on the motorway and said, "Oh, shit, a plane? I take it you can't speak freely?"

"Correct. I'm staying here to make sure subject isn't given a warning by the control tower."

"Ask him how long it'll take to Newcastle."

There was a muffled conversation, then Chris came back on the line. "He says they're flying an Aztec, which should do it in about two and a half to three hours. No chance you can beat the clock."

"I'll do what I can. And Chris thanks." He ended the call and carried on driving on automatic pilot. So, somewhere between two and a half and three hours? Then he'd have to find his way to Five Walls Halt, either by taxi or by hiring a car, which wouldn't be easy at ten o'clock on a Sunday night. Even so, Tony realized Chris was right. There was no way he could possibly arrive at Vance's bolt hole ahead of him.

"Which is why he did it, of course," he said aloud. Vance was no fool.

He would expect Tony to know about his other home and to make for there once he'd stirred things up. What Vance hadn't known was that Tony already had three police profilers in Northumberland. At least, he presumed they were still making inquiries up there, since he'd heard nothing to the contrary. Come to that, he'd heard nothing since mid-afternoon, when he'd checked in with Simon to discover that they were going door-to-door in a bid to trace any sightings of Donna Doyle.

It wasn't enough, though. Three junior CID officers, none from the local force, none with any experience of command. They'd be uncertain, not knowing when or whether to challenge Vance. They wouldn't know when to hang back and when to move. It needed more than any of them had to give. There was only one person who could get there in time and keep Leon, Simon and Kay in check.

She answered on the second ring. "DCI Jordan."

"Carol? It's me. How are you doing?"

"Not good. To be honest, I'm grateful for the human contact. I've been feeling like a leper. I'm an outcast from the infantry because they think I'm partly responsible for Di Earnshaw's death. I'm isolated from John Brandon because there will have to be an inquiry which he can't be seen to influence. And I'm out of the loop when it comes to questioning Alan Brinkley in case I compromise the interrogation for personal reasons. And I have to tell you that breaking the news to her parents left me feeling that the Ancient Greeks' method of dealing with bad news must sometimes have been a relief to the messenger."

"I'm sorry. You must wish now I hadn't dragged you into this Vance business," he said.

"I don't," she said firmly. "Somebody's got to put a stop to Vance, and nobody else would listen to you. I don't blame you for what went wrong in Seaford. That's my responsibility. I shouldn't have tried to do surveillance on a shoestring. I knew you were right and I should have carried that conviction through and demanded the bodies to do the job properly instead of settling for a skeleton crew. If I had, Di Earnshaw would still be alive."

"You can't know that for sure," Tony protested. "Anything could have happened. Her partner could have gone for a piss at the crucial moment, they could have separated to circle the building. If anyone's to blame, it's the sergeant. Not only were they supposed to look out for each other, he was her immediate boss. He owed her a duty of care and he failed her."

"And what about my duty of care?"

Tony shook his head. "Oh, Carol, ease up on yourself."

"I can't. But enough of that. Where are you? And what's happening with Vance?"

"I'm on the M1. It's been a complicated day." As he hammered on in the outside lane oblivious to anything but the traffic and the woman on the end of the phone, he brought Carol up to speed.

"So now he's somewhere between London and Newcastle?" Carol asked.

That's right."

"You're not going to make it in time, are you?"

"No."

"But I could?"

"Possibly. Probably, if you stuck the blue light on. I can't ask you to, but I ... "

"There's nothing for me to do here. I'm off duty, and nobody's going to call out the CID leper tonight. I'm better off doing this than sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Get me some directions. I'll call you when I get near Newcastle." Her voice was stronger and firmer than it had been at the start of the call. Even if he'd wanted to argue, he realized it would have been pointless. She was the woman he'd taken her for, and she wouldn't walk away from a challenge.

"Thanks," he said simply.

"We're wasting time talking." Abruptly, the line went dead.

The price of Tony's skill was the empathy he brought to situations like this. He understood precisely what Carol was going through. Very few people ever experienced a justified sense of responsibility for the death of another human being. Everything Carol had been certain of had suddenly shifted on to shaky ground and no one who had not shared a similar experience could help her back to terra firma. But he understood and he cared enough to try. He suspected that his phone call had, serendipitously, been the first step in the right direction. Hoping he was correct, Tony stared into the narrowing tunnel of red lights and carried on driving north.

On the exact location of the entrance to the basement shelter, Mrs. Elliott was rather more vague. "It's under the flags somewhere. He had a couple of lads from Newcastle over to install it so that you cannot see it just by looking."

The three police officers glared in frustration at the metre-square stone slabs that made up the floor. Then Simon said, "If you can't see it, how do you get down there?"

"Our Derek said they'd installed an electric motor," Mrs. Elliott said.

"Well, if there's a motor, there's gotta be a switch," Leon muttered.

"Si, you start on the right-hand side of the door. Kay, you start on the left. I'll go up to the sleeping gallery." The two men moved away and started flicking switches, but Kay was held back by Mrs. Elliott's hand on her sleeve.

"What do you need to find the shelter for?" she asked. "I thought you said there was supposed to be a prowler? They're not going to be down there."

Kay dug out her most reassuring smile. "When we're dealing with a celebrity like Mr. Vance, we have to be especially careful. A prowler in his house could be a lot more serious than a straightforward burglar.

If someone was stalking him, for example, they could be hiding in waiting for him. So we have to take this extremely seriously." She covered the woman's hand with her own. "Why don't we wait outside?"

"What for?"

"If there is someone down there, it could be very dangerous." Kay's smile felt strained. If Donna Doyle was trapped in the cellar, discovering her would be a revelation that would give even the stolid Doreen Elliott nightmares for the rest of her life, Kay knew. "It's our job to protect members of the public, you know. How do you think my boss would react if I let you be taken hostage by some nutter with a knife?"

Mrs. Elliott let herself be led into the tiny porch with only a single backward glance at Simon and Leon moving round the room snapping switches on and off. "You think it's a stalker, then?" she asked avidly. "Up here?"

"It wouldn't necessarily be someone from around here," Kay said. "These people are obsessive. They'll follow a celebrity for weeks, months, learning every detail of their life and routine. Have you seen any strangers hanging around?"

"Well, we get the tourists and the hikers, but mostly they're only here for the wall. They don't hang about."

Before Kay could say more, her phone rang. "Will you excuse me? I'll only be a minute," she said, slipping back inside to take the call.

"Hello?"

"Kay? It's Tony. Where are you?"

Oh, shit, she thought. Why me? Why couldn't he have phoned Leon? "Er..

. we're inside Jacko Vance's house in Northumberland," she said. Simon glanced across at her, but she waved to him to continue his search.

"What?" Tony exclaimed, outraged.

"I know you said to wait, but we kept thinking about Donna Doyle

"You broke in?"

"No. We're perfectly entitled to be here. A local woman has a key. We informed her there had been reports of a prowler and she let us in."

"Well, you'd better get out asap."

"Tony, she could be here. This place has got a sealed basement. Vance told the builders he wanted a nuclear shelter."

"A nuclear shelter?" His incredulity was palpable.

"It was a dozen years ago. People still believed Russia was going to nuke us," Kay reminded him plaintively. The point is, she could be down there and we wouldn't hear her, not even standing right above her. We've got to find the door."

"No. You've got to leave it. He's on his way there. He's chartered a plane, Kay. He's probably coming up there to make sure he's not left any loose ends. Kay, we need to catch him in the act. We need to stake the place out and watch him go down there to an untouched crime scene."

As he spoke, Kay looked on in amazement as the ground moved only feet away from her. Silently, a single slab tilted and swung open in response to a switch flicked by Simon. As the fetid air escaped, Kay gagged. Recovering herself, she said, "It's too late for that. We've found the door."

Simon was already at the opening in the floor, peering down a set of stone steps. His groping hands found a switch and flooded the area with light. A long moment passed then he turned to Kay, his face the colour of putty. "If that's Tony, you better tell him we've found Donna Doyle, as well."

He drummed his fingers gently against the arm rest, the only movement in a body still as a lion preparing for the pounce. He didn't even brace himself against the jolts of the pockets of turbulence the small twin-engined plane hit occasionally, but let his body shift with the movement. Once upon a time, he used to bite the nails of his right hand when he was nervous. Losing his arm had been an extreme cure for a bad habit, he was fond of saying wryly in public. Now, he had cultivated stillness, understanding that nervous tics made nothing happen faster or easier. Besides, stillness was much more unsettling for everyone else.

The engine note changed as the pilot prepared to land. Jacko peered out of the window, staring down at the smudge of suburban streetlights through the fine rain. He'd left Tony Hill standing. There was no way he could have beaten the aircraft. And he had no back-up, Jacko knew from his own discreet inquiries, confirmed by what both Micky and Tony himself had admitted.

The wheels hit the runway and jolted him against his seatbelt. A slight swerve, a correction, then they were heading for the flying club hangars at a gentle taxi. They had barely come to a standstill when Jacko had the door open. He jumped to the Tarmac and looked around, his eyes searching for the familiar shape of his Land Rover. Sam Foxwell and his brother were always glad to earn the twenty quid he paid them whenever he needed the Land Rover brought to the airport and when he'd spoken to them from the car phone, they'd promised to have it there for him.

When he couldn't spot it, he felt a shiver of panic. They couldn't have let him down, not tonight of all nights. The pilot interrupted his thoughts, pointing to the side of the hangar in deep shadow. "If you're looking for your Land Rover, I think it's tucked round there. I noticed it when I was taxiing

"Cheers." Jacko dug into his pocket and took a twenty-pound note from his money clip. "Have a beer on me. See you soon, Keith."

As he thundered along the narrow Northumberland side roads that were the quickest route to the place he considered his real home, he reviewed what he had to do in the couple of hours' grace he had before Tony Hill could possibly arrive. First, check if the bitch was still alive and if she was, see she didn't stay that way. Then, take the chain saw to her, get her bagged and into the Land Rover. Clean the basement with the high-pressure hose and set off for the hospital. Would he have time? Or should he simply disable the motor that opened the door on its swivel?

After all, Hill had no way of knowing about the basement shelter and the local police were not going to mount a search on his say-so, not when it would offend an upstanding local taxpayer like Jacko Vance. And there was no guarantee that Tony Hill would even show up.

Maybe he should just settle for making sure she was dead and leave the clearing up for later. There would be a certain delight in entertaining Tony Hill only feet away from his latest victim. His mouth twisted in an ugly snarl. Donna Doyle would have to be his last victim for a while. Damn the man. Tony Hill should have let sleeping bitches lie.

Jacko had plans for Tony Hill, though. One day, when it had all gone quiet and Tony Hill had resigned himself to the fact that he'd failed, that plan would go into action and he'd wish he'd never stuck his nose into someone else's business.

The headlights sliced through the deep darkness of the countryside, breasting the hill that rolled down to his sanctuary. Where there should have been nothing but blackness, light spilled out over the cropped moorland grass and the grey gravel of his drive. Jacko stamped on the brakes and the Land Rover screamed to a jittering halt. What the fuck?

As he sat there, mind racing, adrenaline pumping, a pair of headlights on full beam crept up behind him, angling across the narrow road so there was no possibility of going backwards. Slowly, Vance took his foot off the brake and let the Land Rover cruise down the hill towards his home. The lights shifted and fell into convoy behind him. As he grew closer, he saw a second car parked diagonally just beyond his gateway, effectively blocking the road beyond.

Vance drove on to his property, the cold grip of fear in his stomach focusing his mind. When he rolled to a halt he jumped out of his vehicle, every inch the outraged householder, and confronted the young black man standing in his doorway. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside, sir," Leon said deferentially.

"What do you mean? This is my house. Has there been a burglary or what? What's going on? And who the hell are you?"

"I'm Detective Constable Leon Jackson of the Metropolitan Police." He held out his warrant card for inspection.

Vance switched the charm on. "You're a long way from home."

"Pursuing an investigation, sir. It's amazing where a line of inquiry can take us in these days of electronic communications and efficient travel networks." Leon's voice was impassive, but his eyes never left Vance.

"Look, you know who I am, obviously. You know this is my place. Can't you at least tell me what the hell is going on?"

A horn beeped and Vance turned to see the car that had followed him down the hill stop just outside the gate, blocking the road in the opposite direction. He was hemmed in completely. Jesus, he hoped the bitch was dead. Another young man got out of the car and walked across the gravel. "Are you from the Metropolitan Police as well?" Vance asked, forcing himself to maintain his professionally beguiling mode.

"No," Simon said. "I'm from Strathclyde."

"Strathclyde?" Vance was momentarily confused. He'd taken someone from London few years ago, but he'd never brought anyone down from Scotland.

He hated the accent. It reminded him of

Jimmy Linden and all that meant to him. So if there was a cop here from Scotland, they couldn't be tracking the girls. It was going to be fine, he told himself. He could walk away from this.

"That's right, sir. DC Jackson and myself have been working on different aspects of the same case. We were in the area and we had a report from a passing motorist of a prowler here. So we thought we'd better check it out."

"That's very commendable, officers. Perhaps I could go inside and check to see if any thing's missing or broken?" He moved to edge around Leon, but the policeman was too fast for him. He extended his arm, blocking Vance, and shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, sir. It's a crime scene, you see. We need to make sure nothing interferes with it."

"A crime scene? What on earth has happened?" Concerned, try to sound concerned, he warned himself. This is your house, you're an innocent man and you want to know what's happened on your property.

"I'm afraid there's been a suspicious death," Simon said coldly.

Jacko made himself take what looked like an involuntary step backwards, covering his face with his hands to make sure no sign of the relief that flooded him was visible to the police. She was dead, hallelujah. A dead woman could never testify. He pasted an expression of worried anxiety on his face and looked up. "But that's terrible. A death? Here? But who ... How? This is my home. Nobody comes here except me. How can there be someone dead here?"

That's what we're trying to establish, sir," Leon said.

"But who is it? A burglar? What?"

"We don't think it was a burglar," Simon said, trying to keep the lid on the rage he felt face to face with the man who had killed Shaz and who was trying to pretend he had nothing to do with the putrefying mess in his cellar.

"But ... the only person who has keys is Mrs. Elliott. Doreen Elliott at Dene Cottage. It's not ... It's not her?"

"No, sir. Mrs. Elliott is in excellent health. It was Mrs. Elliott who let us in to the property and gave us permission to search. One of our colleagues has taken her home." There was something in the way the black cop held his stare when he said this that sent a tremor of fear skittering round Vance's nerves. The message coming through loud and clear between the spoken words was the unspoken warning that his first line of defence had crumbled. This was not an illegal entry and search.

Thank God for that. So who is it?"

"We can't speculate at this point, sir."

"But you must be able to tell me if it's a man or a woman, surely?"

Simon's lip curled. He could hold back no longer. "As if you didn't know," he said, his voice thick with angry contempt. "You think our heads button up the back?" He turned away, his hands balling into fists.

"What is he talking about?" Vance demanded, moving into the angry mode of the innocent bystander who senses they're about to become snagged up in someone else's trouble.