arol fiddled with the lime pickle. "I don't know. Does it have a separate entrance?"

"Well, of course. I wouldn't want to compromise your reputation. There's a door that leads to a flight of steps up to the back garden. And an internal door down from the house, obviously. But it would be a simple enough thing to fit a lock to that." He smiled. "You could have bolts too, if you wanted."

"You've been thinking about this, haven't you?"

Tony shrugged. "When I viewed the house, it seemed like a good way of making it work for a living. I didn't know what your plans were. But the builders started work on it yesterday. And I'd rather have you living there than a stranger. Look, don't make a decision now. Think about it. Sleep on it. There's no hurry." There was an uncomfortable silence while they both tried to figure out where to take the conversation next. "So how was your first day back in harness? What are you working on?" Tony asked, moving the conversation away from treacherous shoals.

"Until we get a new major case, we're taking a look at a bunch of unsolveds." Carol looked up as the waiter brought their starters.

"That must be pretty soul-destroying."

"Normally it would be." She reached for her aloo chat. "But amazingly enough, we actually scored a break this afternoon. Purely by chance, a detective from another squad stumbled across a new lead. I can't help seeing it as a positive omen."

"That's a great start."

Carol's expression was rueful. "Yes and no. You remember

Don Merrick? He's the DIon my team. And the trouble is that the break came on one of his cold cases. Which makes him feel pretty sick."

"Not Tim Golding?"

Carol tipped her head in acknowledgement. "The one he called you in on. Thanks for telling me, Tony," she added ironically.

He looked embarrassed. "To tell you the truth, I was afraid of muddying the waters while you were considering coming back to Bradfield. I didn't want to influence your decision one way or the other."

Carol smiled. "Oh, you think your presence in Bradfield would have been such a draw?"

He put down the pakora that was halfway to his lips. "The truth, Carol? I was afraid if you knew I was here, it would be the last place on earth you'd want to be."

Don Merrick stared glumly into his pint of Newcastle Brown Ale, his Labrador eyes sad and brooding. "Stop looking on the fucking bright side, Paula," he grumbled. "Because there isn't a fucking bright side, all right?"

Paula ran her finger down the condensation on her bottle of Smirnoff Ice. They were the last survivors of the bonding session the team had decided on after DCI Jordan had called it a day. There hadn't been much of a celebratory atmosphere, truth to tell. Stacey and Sam had excused themselves after the first round, and Kevin had been sucked into a drawn-out game of pool in the pub's ratty back room. Neither Paula nor Merrick minded. They'd worked together long enough to slip the bonds of rank once they were on their own time. "Please yourself, Don."

"That photo ... I can't help thinking about what that lad went through before he died. And don't try to contradict me," he continued, holding up a hand to fend Paula off. "We both know that the kind of scum who'd do that to a kid Wouldn't leave a witness. Tim Golding's dead. But he was alive long enough to be taken off somewhere in the middle of nowhere and subjected to Christ knows what. That picture was taken in daylight, which means he was still alive the next morning. And that's what I'm having trouble with. If I'd done my job, we'd have found him."

Paula reached across the table and helped herself to one of Merrick's cigarettes. "If you're getting maudlin, I need a smoke."

"Thought you'd stopped."

"I have." She inhaled deeply. "That's bullshit, what you were just saying. We worked that case into the ground. You've got to stop beating yourself up like this, Don. Apart from anything else, we need you not to be fucked up. We've already got a fucked-up DCI. The last thing we need is a fucked-up DIas well."

Merrick looked at her in surprise. "You think Carol Jordan's fucked up?"

"Of course she is. She was raped, Don. And it happened because a bunch of suits thought so little of her they staked her out like a Judas goat. However you cut it, she's not playing with a full deck right now. Her judgement's compromised."

Merrick shook his head. "I don't know, Paula. She seemed pretty much on her game to me."

"It's easy to talk the talk when there's no pressure. But I'm not sure she'll be able to walk the walk any more."

Merrick looked doubtful. "It's far too soon to be talking like that. Carol Jordan's the best guvnor I ever worked for."

"I thought so once too. But now .. .?" Paula swigged the rest of her drink. "Let's see if you're saying that in six months' time. So what do you make of the newbies?"

"Early days." Merrick shrugged. "That Stacey knows her way round the machines, that's for sure."

"I keep catching myself wondering if she is a machine," Paula giggled. "She's not one of the girls, that's for sure. I keep trying to get her talking, but she's definitely not one for idle chit-chat."

Merrick grinned. "Yeah, somehow I can't see her gossiping about men and make-up in the toilets. But she's quick enough to weigh in when somebody needs a bit of help with the computers."

"What about Sam? What's your take on him?" Paula asked.

"Seems all right. He doesn't have much to say for himself."

"I'm not sure about him. There's something a bit creepy there," Paula confided. "One of my mates used to work with him over at Downton, and she said he was slimy. Never said much, but never missed a chance to put one over on everybody else. And always incredibly well informed about what everybody else was up to. Apparently, he likes to look good to the bosses, does our Sam."

"Well, we all like to make a good impression," Merrick said.

"Yeah, but not necessarily at the expense of our colleagues. Oh, and she said he was never at ease with her or the other women on the squad. She thought he was a bit of a secret sexist."

Merrick laughed. "Paula, these days we're only allowed to be sexist in secret or else you and the sisters come down on us like a ton of bricks."

She punched him affectionately on the arm. "You know what I mean." She contemplated her empty bottle. "You ready for another?"

"I should be getting home," Merrick said reluctantly.

Paula got to her feet, grinning. "That'll be another brown ale, then?"

He knows these streets like the inside of his pocket. He's walked them, worked them since he was a kid. He knows the faces, he knows the places where certain people can be found at particular times of the day and night. He never thought anything of it before, it was just the way the world turned. But the Voice has made him understand that knowledge is power, that what he knows makes him king of the streets.

He shambles along in his usual fashion, trying his very best to look like he would on any other night. He does a bit of business, just to cover himself, just to make it look like any other night. The Voice said he should do that. So that when the questions come, people will place him in the usual haunts, doing the usual things.

But soon it's time. He knows where to find her. It's where she always is between punters. He clears his throat and walks up to her. He tells her what he wants. She looks amused, as if she can't quite believe it's him asking for it. "No discounts for mates, mind," she says. He blushes and squirms. It makes him uncomfortable that she calls him a mate. Because what he's about to do to her is nothing like the things that mates do to each other, no way. But she doesn't see what's in his mind. She sees iv hat she expects to see: a punter who feels awkward because he's a fish out of water.

He tells her he wants to go back to her room. He knew about the room even before the Voice. He knows much more about what goes on round here than anybody gives him credit for. He follows her round the corner into the ginnel where her room is, giving a quick glance over his shoulder. Nobody is paying any attention. Even if they wanted to, it's too dark round here; the dealers smash the streetlights so often the council's given up replacing them. And even if they had eyes like a cat, they'd assume it was him working, not getting her to work for him.

Up the stairs she goes, her arse tight in her short skirt. It's amazing, but he feels himself getting hard at the sight of it. He's seen these girls a million times before, they're just part of the landscape, they don't normally register any more. But tonight, watching Sandie's gyrating hips, he's turned on. He remembers dimly what he's supposed to do at this point and he pulls out the digital camera and snaps her as she goes. The flash makes her stop-in her tracks and whirl round. "What the fuck are you up to?" she demands.

He waves the camera at her. "I just wanted something to remember you by," he says, the rehearsed words tripping out with hardly a stumble.

She frowns for a second, then laughs. "That'll cost you."

He snaps another shot. "I can afford it," he says. She carries on upstairs and he follows. At the door, she stops. "Let's see the colour of your money," she says. "You want to tie me up, you pay up front."

He takes out the money the Voice left with his instructions and peels off some notes. Sandie snatches at it and shoves it into her little handbag. "Business must be better for you than it is for me," she says, her voice bitter as the coffee in Stan's Cafe. She opens the door. "Come on then, let's get it over with:

He smiles. She wouldn't be saying that if she knew what he's got for her. But then, if he does what he's told, she won't be saying anything again. Ever.

Temple Fields hadn't changed much in the past couple of years, Carol thought as they walked back to her car. The same litter tumbling along the gutters, the same mixture of self-conscious seekers after what passed for pleasure rubbing awkward shoulders with those who had already found it and lost all inhibitions along the way. Her police officer's mind clocked them as she passed: the frail-looking rent boys, the bored hookers, the shifty sellers of chemical promises, and the easy marks who moved among them, obvious in their fake confidence. But the woman behind the badge shivered at the traffic in human flesh and folly. She didn't want to think of the acts that would take place in this square mile before morning. Carol felt as though she'd lost a layer of skin somewhere, and wondered how long it would take to grow back.

"Same old same old," she said wearily. "Look at them they think they've made a deal with the world that will keep them safe. They've no bloody idea how fragile they are."

"They can't afford to think about it," Tony said, his eyes taking in the parade on streets splashed with garish neon from the bars.

They walked on in silence. "I'll give you a lift," Carol said as they neared her car.

"No, you're all right. I feel like walking."

Carol raised her eyebrows. "Thinking time?"

Tony nodded. "I saw someone today and I need to figure out how to keep the promise I made him."

"Your latest crusade?" Carol smiled.

Tony looked surprised. "Is that how you see what I do?"

"I think it's how you see what you do. A one-man crusade to mend the damage."

He shrugged. "I wish it was that easy. So, you'll come round tomorrow night to see the house?"

"I will. Then maybe I can decide if I want to be the mad woman in the cellar. Shall I bring pizza?"

He considered. "Chinese," he said finally.

"OK." She reached for the driver's door. "Tony thanks for tonight. And for being here in Bradfield."

He looked surprised. Why would I be anywhere else? Everything I need is here. Instead of speaking his thoughts aloud, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. "See you tomorrow."

She climbed into her car and drove off, conscious of him in her mirrors, standing on the pavement, watching her out of sight. She knew it was guilt that had brought him there.

Once, that would have made her uncomfortable and angry. But she was a different woman now and that woman had learned to be grateful for good things, however complicated the package they arrived in.

Sam Evans edged the office door open cautiously. No lights inside. He slipped through the narrow gap and closed the door behind him, turning the lock. Then he flicked the light switches on. The fluorescent strips flickered then settled their hard glare over the Major Incident Team's squad room Sam surveyed the array of desks and made straight for Paula Mclntyre's.

He sat in her chair and noted the position of the piled paper on the desktop. The case she was working on would come to him next. Carefully, he riffled through each stack, trying to figure out the reason for the alignment she'd chosen. He flicked open the notepad and read down the list of points Paula had made. Some of them were pretty perspicacious, he thought, storing them away in his mind for when he came to review that case.

He inched open Paula's desk drawers one by one, stirring the contents with a pencil, leaving no prints to indicate he'd been there. It was always useful to see what people kept out of sight but close at hand. Tucked right at the bottom of the drawer, he found a photograph of Don Merrick with his arm round a woman in what looked like a pub or a club. On closer inspection, he realized with a jolt of surprise that the woman was Carol Jordan. Her hair was longer, her face fuller, but it was undoubtedly her. They were both toasting the photographer with what looked like glasses of champagne. Very interesting, he thought. And almost certainly useful.

He closed Paula's drawer and moved on to Kevin Matthews' desk, where he repeated the same process. People said you should know your enemies. But Sam Evans also believed in making damn sure he knew the people who were supposed to be on the same side. He was, as John Brandon had spotted, ambitious. But he didn't just want to excel; he wanted to make sure nobody outshone him. Ever.

Knowledge was power. And Evans knew that nobody ever handed out power as a gift. You had to grab it whenever and wherever you could. If that meant stealing it from someone else, so be it. If they were too weak to hold on to it, they didn't deserve it.

He did.

He checks the image in front of him against the one planted there by the Voice and the videos. Sandie's spreadeagled on the bed, her wrists handcuffed to the cheap pine frame. Her feet are tied to the legs. He had to use rope for them because the ankle cuffs wouldn't stretch that far. It's not right, but it's the best he can do. He's grateful to the Voice again for reminding him to take rope as well as the cuffs in case the bed wasn't right.

He wishes the room was nicer, but there's nothing he can do about that. At least the lights are dim. It's easy to ignore the needle tracks on her arms and the fact that she's too skinny. She could almost be the dream girl from one of the videos, the trimmed triangle of hair hiding the secrets he's about to possess.

He turns away from her and snaps the latex gloves over his hands. "Come on," she says. "What are you waiting for? I haven't got all night."

Only he knows how true that is. He reaches into his backpack and takes out the padded leather gag. He turns back to face her and now she's starting to look worried. He moves towards her and she starts to shout. "Wait a fucking minute! You never said nothing about that .. ." But her words are lost as he rams the gag home, jerking her head forward to fasten it behind. Her eyes are bulging now as she struggles to scream. But all that can be heard is the faintest of grunts.

He remembers to wipe the handcuffs clear of any fingerprints, then he grabs the video camera and sets it up on its little tripod, checking that he can see the whole bed. Next, the laptop and the webcam. Sandie pushes against her restraints, but there's no point.

He takes out a bundle wrapped in a thick wad of kitchen towel. He steps into shot and slowly unwraps it. When Sandie sees what he's holding, the veins in her neck stand out. The air fills with the smell of piss. He smiles sweetly. He's hard now, harder than the videos ever got him. But he mustn't lose control. He needs to make the Voice proud of him, and that means no evidence.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his pounding heart. He's sweating, he can feel it running down his neck and soaking his T-shirt. He grips his weapon tightly. The razor blades glint sharp and savage in the lamplight. "I hope you're ready for me, Sandie," he says softly, just like the Voice told him to.

Then he begins.

Carol stared through the two-way mirror at the man in the interview room. Ronald Edmund Alexander looked nothing like the popular image of a paedophile. He wasn't shifty or sweaty. He wasn't dirty or sleazy. He looked exactly like a middle manager who lived in the suburbs with a wife and two children. There was no dirty raincoat, just an off-the-peg suit, an unassuming charcoal grey. Pale blue shirt, burgundy tie with a thin grey stripe. Neat haircut, no vain attempt to hide the way he was thinning on top. He'd been complaining bitterly when the two uniformed officers had brought him in. They had no right, he insisted, no right at all to come marching into his office at Bradfield Cross as if he was some common criminal. He'd co-operated, hadn't he? All they had to do was pick up a phone and he'd have been straight over. There was no need, no need at all to embarrass him at his place of work.

Carol had watched from across the custody suite, trying to work out if she disliked him more because of what she knew he held on his computer or because he exemplified every petty bureaucrat who had ever driven her to thoughts of violence. She'd wanted to get straight into him, but had been frustrated by the tardiness of his solicitor.

So they'd stuck him in a cell while they waited for his brief to arrive. He'd been remarkably calm, she thought, wondering what Tony would have made of Alexander's demeanour. He'd taken a look round then calmly sat on the bunk, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, gazing into the middle distance. Zen and the art of facade maintenance, she thought wryly.

Finally, the door to the observation room opened. Paula stuck her head round the door. "Showtime, chief. His brief's here."

"Who is it?" Carol asked, dragging her eyes away from Alexander.

"Bronwen Scott."

Carol remembered the defence lawyer from her previous spell in Bradfield. Unlike most legal aid lawyers, Scott seemed to have the wherewithal to dress in Dolce & Gabbana, with matching shoes and handbags from Prada. Her perfectly groomed shoulder-length black hair and flawlessly painted nails always made Carol feel like she'd been dragged straight out of bed into their interviews. It would have been almost bearable if the lawyer hadn't been as sharp and combative as she was expensively immaculate. The general view was that if you could afford Bronwen Scott, you'd probably done it. "Oh good," Carol said, heading for the door.

She came face to face with Scott as she emerged into the corridor. "Inspector Jordan. What a surprise. I thought you'd left us for pastures more glamorous," Scott said, her voice cool and amused.

"It's Chief Inspector, actually. And you should know better than anyone that there's nothing glamorous about what we deal in. Shall we go?"

Scott shook her head. "I don't know where you've been hiding, Chief Inspector, hut up here in Bradfield we still allow lawyers to talk to their clients in private. And before I do that, I'd like some disclosure."

Nothing unexpected there, Carol thought. "When your client was arrested, his computer equipment was confiscated. It has subsequently been analysed. He will be interviewed fully about that at a later date, but there is one image on his machine that links directly to a major inquiry which I am leading. It is that single image I want to talk to him about."

"That image being .. .?"

"I'll be happy to discuss that in the interview. And to show you and your client a copy."

Scott shook her head. "You really have forgotten your manners, haven't you, Chief Inspector? Before I can have a meaningful conversation with my client, I need to know what we're talking about here."

There was a long silence. Carol could feel Paula's eyes on her back, measuring her. There really wasn't anything to be gained by holding back at this point. It wasn't as if Ron Alexander was a serious suspect in the disappearance of Tim Golding. If she refused to give Scott anything, then she'd end up with a 'no comment' interview, nothing surer. If she tried waiting until the interview to spring the photo on him, Scott would simply demand time out to talk to her client. Carol considered. She wanted co-operation. She didn't care what that might or might not do to any wider case against Ron Alexander. "We might as well speed things up," she said. "Your client's computer held an image of Tim Golding. The eight-year-old'

"Yes, I know who Tim Golding is," Scott said impatiently. "But since you people disseminated images of the child all over the country, it's hardly a big deal that my client has a photo of the boy on his computer."

"It's a big deal when the picture in question shows a terrified, naked child." Carol turned on her heel and walked off. "Let me know when you're ready to talk," she said over her shoulder as she rounded a corner, Paula hard on her heels. "I see Bronwen Scott hasn't mellowed with age," she commented.

"It's a pain you had to give away so much," Paula said, falling into step beside her boss.

"You know the rules, Paula. They ask for disclosure, we have to give it."

"Couldn't you have held back on the ID, chief? Then hit him with it in the interview?"

Carol stopped and gave Paula a speculative look. "You think I was weak back there, don't you?"

Paula looked horrified. "I never .. ."

"Giving in isn't always a sign of weakness, Paula. There was no point in holding out. I know how Scott works. Alexander would just have gone "no comment" from the off. This way, she might just see it as a bargaining chip." Carol walked off, feeling the tension in her shoulders. Maybe they didn't trust her quite as much as she'd thought.

He sleeps late. It's nearly noon when he wakes, and even then he has to force his eyes open. He feels like somebody spiked his brain with Valium. His head's muzzy, it takes him a moment to realize where he is. At home, in his own bed, curled into himself like a baby. But it's a different person inside his body this morning.

He's not the fuck-up that everybody laughs at any more. He did it. He did exactly what he was supposed to. Just like the Voice told him to. And he's got his reward. He's got the money, even though he explained that wasn't why he'd done it. He'd done it because he understood. It's not the money that makes him feel like he finally made it. It's hearing the Voice say good things about him. It's knowing that he's done something hardly anybody else could do. Something special.

Thank God he managed to hide the way he really felt when he reached the moment itself. He'd been excited, aroused, on the point of coming inside his pants like a teenager. But when it came to it, when he had to stick that thing inside her again and again, he wilted. It wasn't sexy. It was bloody and terrible and frightening. He knows it was the right thing to do, but at the very end, it wasn't exciting at all. Just messy and sad.

But the Voice didn't see that. The Voice just saw that he'd done what he was supposed to do, and he'd got it right.

As he wakes up properly, he feels a buzz in his veins. It's pride, but it's fear too. They're going to be looking for him. The Voice promised he'd be all right. But maybe the Voice has got it wrong.

Maybe he wasn't as clever as he thought.

Tom Storey stared out of the window, watching the leaves detaching from the trees and swirling in the brisk breeze that had sprung up towards noon. He sat motionless, his bandaged stump gripped in his other hand. Tony watched him for a good ten minutes, but Storey never budged.

Eventually, he walked across the day room and pulled up a chair next to Storey. He noted the purple bruise along his cheekbone. According to the orderly who had shown Tony in, one of the other patients had punched Storey during a group therapy session. "Even these mad bastards draw the line at child killers," the man had said casually.

"We've all got two personalities, you know," Tony said conversationally. "One in each hemisphere of the brain. One's the boss, it shouts down the weaker one. But you sever the diplomatic links, and there's no telling what the subservient one will do once it gets the taste for power."

Storey still didn't move. "I can still feel it," he said. "It's like a malevolent ghost. It won't leave me alone. Supposing you find out I've got a brain tumour. And supposing that doesn't kill me. There's still going to be a war going on in my head, isn't there?"

"I won't lie to you, Tom," Tony said. "There's no quick fix here. See, you've got the dominant left side of the brain. That's in charge of the three R's reading, writing and arithmetic. And you've got the right side. It's illiterate, but it comprehends form, solid geometry, music. I suspect it gets frustrated because it can't express itself readily in the ways that humans generally communicate. That's why it goes off the rails when the left side loosens its grip. But that's not the end of the story."

"Just the end of Tom Storey." His voice was bitter.

"Not necessarily. The brain's an amazing structure. When it gets damaged, it retrains other areas to take over the jobs that used to be done by the bit that's redundant. And there are things we can do to retrain the rebellious part of your brain. I can help you, Tom."

Storey took a breath so deep it raised his shoulders. "Can't bring my kids back, though. Can you?"

Tony looked out of the window at the flurry of golden and scarlet leaves. "No, I can't. But what I can do is help you live with that absence."

Tears spilled out of Storey's eyes and trickled unheeded down his cheeks. "Why would you want to do that?"

Because it's the only thing I'm good at, Tony thought. What he said was: "Because you deserve it, Tom. Because you deserve it."

Carol walked into the interview room with an assumption of confidence she didn't really feel. It had been many months since she'd interviewed anyone, witness or suspect, and she was afraid of her emotions bleeding into the professional sphere. It didn't help that she was conscious of Paula at her side, weighing her up. At least Ron Alexander's composure seemed to have slipped a little. He was refusing to meet her eyes, fiddling continuously with his wedding ring.

"Right," Carol said, settling into her chair. "I'm Detective Chief Inspector Jordan and this is Detective Constable Mclntyre. As your solicitor will have explained, Mr. Alexander, we're looking for your help in respect of another inquiry that's not related to the reasons you were originally arrested. We would appreciate your co-operation."

"Why should I talk to you?" Alexander blurted out. "You'll only twist anything I say to make a case against me."

Bronwen Scott put a hand on his arm. "You don't have to say anything, Ron." She looked directly at Carol. "My client is concerned that any co-operation he offers you will be reflected in any subsequent proceedings."

Carol shook her head. "You know it's not up to us, Ms Scott. It's the CPS who make the deals. But I'm perfectly willing to make representations to them at the appropriate time."

"That's not good enough."

Carol shrugged. "It's the best I can do. Your client might like to consider the converse, however. If he fails to help us in such a sensitive case, nobody's going to cut him any slack anywhere down the line."

"Is that a threat, Chief Inspector?"

"Just a statement of fact, Ms Scott. You know as well as I how emotions run high in the case of a missing child. Sex offenders have a hard enough time in prison without adding to their problems. It's up to you, Mr. Alexander." Carol eyed Alexander, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. She opened the folder in front of her and took out the photograph Jan Shields had supplied. She placed it in front of him. "We found this on your computer. Do you recognize this child, Mr. Alexander?"

He glanced at the image then looked away, desperately scanning the wall as if it would give him the answer. "Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Can you tell me who it is?"

"His name's Tim Golding." He picked up Scott's pen, gripping it in both hands as if trying to snap it in two. "His picture was in the papers. And on the TV."

"When did you acquire this photograph?" Carol leaned forward slightly, forcing warmth and intimacy into her voice.

He flashed a look at Scott, who nodded. "I don't know exactly. A few weeks ago, I think. It came in an email attachment. I was shocked when I opened it."

"Shocked because you recognized Tim Golding?"

He nodded. "Yes. And because of ... because of how he looked."

"What? You're not used to receiving pictures of naked, frightened children?"

"Don't answer that, Ron," Scott said quickly. "Chief Inspector, if we're going to make any progress here, I must insist you stop asking questions whose answers might tend to incriminate my client."

Yeah, right. Carol took a deep breath. She slid another photograph from her folder. "Do you recognize this boy?"

Alexander frowned. "Isn't he the one who went missing last year? Guy something or other?"

"Guy Lefrevre," Carol said. "Have you ever been sent photographs of Guy Lefevre?"

"No." Alexander's eyes flicked from side to side. Carol couldn't decide whether he was panicking or lying. But with Bronwen Scott patrolling her every question, there was nothing to be gained by pressing the point.

"What did you do when you recognized Tim Golding?" she asked.

"I erased the picture right away," he said. "I didn't want it on my machine."

Carol stripped her voice of challenge and tried to sound sympathetic. "You didn't think about contacting the police? You could have printed it out and sent it to us anonymously. You've got children of your own, haven't you, Ron? How do you think you'd feel if ane of them went missing? Wouldn't you want to believe that anyone who had information that might help the inquiry would pass it on to the police?"

A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. "I suppose," he said.

"It's not too late to put that right," Carol said. "Who sent you the photograph, Ron?"

He breathed out noisily. "I don't know. People don't use their real names on email, you know?"

Carol knew. They used nicknames and mixtures of letters and numbers even when they had nothing to hide. Her own personal email address was a combination of her surname and the last four digits of a previous phone number because, when she'd signed up, carol jordan had already been taken. "OK. You didn't know the identity of the sender. So what was his email address?"