thought we could go into live role-play," Tony said, still with his back to them as he made the coffee. "Sit across a table from each other and run through the case file exactly the way we would do it for real."

He half-turned with a tentative smile and a spasm ran across Carol's stomach.

Get a grip, she told herself angrily. Even if he could, he wouldn't want you. Remember? "That sounds fine," she heard herself say. "How were you planning on involving the trainees?"

Tony juggled the three hot mugs in his broad square hands and managed to get them on to the coffee table without spilling much on the tobacco brown carpet. "Specially chosen to hide the stains," he muttered, frowning in concentration.

"There's half a dozen of them," Bishop said. "So it's not feasible to let them each have a crack at you, even if you were willing to give up that much of your time. They'll watch you and Tony work through the case files. Then, if they have any questions about that part of the process, they'll ask them. After you've gone, Tony will work with them on the drawing up of a profile, which will be passed back to you in a matter of days. What we're hoping is that when you develop a suspect to the point of arresting and charging, you'll liaise with Tony on interview strategies and allow us access to the taped interviews afterwards." His smile said he wasn't accustomed to being refused.

"That may not be possible," Carol said cautiously, not completely sure of her position. "You may have to wait until after a trial to have access to the interview tapes, and then only if the interviewee agrees.

I'll need to take advice on that."

Tiny movements of muscle beneath the skin stripped Bishop's face of its bonhomie. "My impression from Mr. Brandon was that we weren't being slavish about formalities on this one," he said briskly.

"I'm the investigating officer here, Commander. This is not a classroom exercise. It's an inquiry into an unlawful death and it's my intention to get a conviction if that's appropriate. I will take absolutely no risk that could cost me a successful prosecution. I don't leave windows open for smart defence counsel."

"She's right," Tony said unexpectedly. "We get carried away with ourselves here. It's heady stuff, you know, Paul. The bottom line is, Carol has to make the case against this arsonist stand up in court, and we can't expect her to go along with anything that might interfere with that."

"Fine," Bishop said curtly. Ignoring his coffee, he stood up and headed for the door. "I'll leave you to it. I've got some phone calls I need to get out of the way if I'm going to sit in on your session. See you later, DCI Jordan."

Carol grinned. "Would five get me ten that he'll be on the phone to John Brandon before his backside hits the chair?"

Tony shook his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "Probably not, actually. Paul doesn't like being crossed, but he keeps his powder dry for the battles that matter."

"Not like me, rushing in where angels fear to tread, eh?"

Tony met her gaze and recognized the goodwill there. "Nobody's quite like you, Carol. I was genuinely sorry that you didn't want to join the team here."

She twitched one shoulder in a shrug. "Not my kind of policing, Tony.

Sure, I like the big cases, but I don't like living in limbo."

Her words hung between them, freighted with more meaning than any casual bystander could have read. Tony looked away and cleared his throat.

"All the more reason why I'm pleased to have the chance to work this case with you. If we'd already been up and running, I don't expect you'd have come running to us with what looks on the face of it to be a fairly straightforward serial arson that's turned nasty almost by accident. So it's a bonus for the squad that they're going to get to see someone as good as you at work."

"You know, all I've had since this task force was mentioned in connection with my case is enough flattery to choke a politician," Carol said, trying to cover her gratification with a sardonic tone.

"When did I ever offer you flattery?" Tony said simply.

Again, Carol's stomach clenched. "Maybe it's not such a good idea," she said. "Having an officer like me along, I mean. You should have given them a reality check and wheeled in one of the cavemen," she added, struggling to keep her smile in place.

Tony laughed in delight. "Can you imagine? Great session that would be." He dropped his voice and broadened his Yorkshire accent. "Right bloody load of crap this is. You want me to go round asking me suspects if they pissed the bed when they were kids?"

"I'd forgotten you were from round here," Carol said.

"I hadn't," Tony said. "Back in the West Riding, last place on earth I ever wanted to be. But I wanted the task force, and the Home Office were adamant we had to be based outside London. God forbid we should do anything sensible like billet the profiling squad with the intelligence unit. How are you finding it out in the primeval ooze of Seaford?"

Carol shrugged. "Life among the dinosaurs? Ask me in six months." She glanced at her watch. "What time are we due to kick off?"

"Couple of minutes."

"Fancy catching up over lunch?" She'd practised the casual tone half a hundred times on the motorway coming over to Leeds.

"I can't." He looked genuinely sorry. "We eat together in the squad.

But I was going to ask you ... "

"Yes?" Careful, Carol, not too eager!

"Are you in a hurry to get back?"

"No, no rush." Her heart singing, yes, yes, he's going to ask me to dinner.

"Only, I wondered if you'd like to sit in on the afternoon session?"

"Right." Her voice bright, her hopes squashed, the light in her eyes dulled. "Any particular reason?"

"I set them an exercise last week. They're supposed to produce their conclusions today and I thought it might be helpful to have your response to their analyses."

"Fine."

Tony took a shallow breath and said, "Plus, I thought we could maybe have a drink afterwards?"

Apprehension and anticipation had pitched Shaz on an adrenaline high.

Even though she'd only squeezed three hours' sleep out of the night, she was buzzing like a raver on an amphetamine high. She'd attacked the photocopied newspapers the minute she'd got home, laying them out in piles on her living-room carpet and pausing only to phone for a pizza.

So engrossed was she that she didn't even notice when they sent her a ten-inch Margarita and charged her for a twelve-inch with everything on.

By one in the morning, she'd eliminated everything except the entertainments ads and the sports pages. Her earlier conviction that the external link that would prove her contention was lurking in the local papers was starting to look less like a solid hunch than a desperate clutching at straws. Stretching her stiff back and rubbing her gritty eyes, Shaz got to her feet and staggered through to the kitchen to brew another Thermos of coffee.

Refuelled, she returned to her task, deciding to go for the sports pages first. Maybe the same visiting football team with its loyal supporters?

Or a player who had moved from club to club and then become a manager?

Maybe a local golf championship that attracted outsiders, or a series of bridge trophies? Eliminating all the sporting possibilities took another couple of hours, and left Shaz jittery with exhaustion, caffeine and a looming fear of failure.

When the connection finally emerged, her first response was that she was hallucinating. It was so outrageous an idea she couldn't take it seriously. She caught herself giggling nervously, like a child who hasn't yet learned the appropriate response to the pain of others. "This is crazy," she said softly, double-checking through all seven sets of newspapers to confirm she wasn't seeing things. She lurched stiffly to her feet, trying to loosen her cramped muscles, and staggered through to the bedroom, stripping her clothes off as she went. It was too much to take in at half past three in the morning. Setting her alarm for half past six, Shaz fell face down on the bed where sleep hit her like a truck colliding with a motorway bridge.

Shaz dreamed about television game shows where the winner got to choose how they'd be killed. When the alarm clock went off, she dreamed it was a buzzer on an electric chair. Still groggy from sleep, her memory of what she'd unearthed in the newspapers felt like an extension of the nightmare. She pushed the duvet back and tiptoed through to the living room as if normal footfalls would scare her discovery away.

There were seven ragged piles of photocopies. On the top of each pile was a page from the entertainment section. Each page contained either an advertisement for a personal appearance or a featured interview with the same man. However she cut it, it looked as if one of the nation's darlings was somehow tied in to the disappearance and presumed murder of at least seven teenage girls.

And now she was going to have to share her revelation.

It wasn't difficult to set tongues wagging, Micky had soon discovered.

Whenever she visited the rehabilitation unit where Jacko was learning how to use his artificial arm, they made a point of closing the door of his room and sitting close together so that when

they were interrupted by a physio or a nurse, they could spring apart and appear embarrassed.

At work, she would phone him when the surrounding desks were occupied and she was almost certain to be overheard. The conversations would swing between animated hilarity, with his name dropped in at regular intervals, and the low, intimate tones her colleagues would unimaginatively associate only with lovers.

Finally, to move things up a gear, it was time for scandal and drama.

Micky chose a friend on a middle-market tabloid. Three days later, the paper splashed with PERVERT TARGETS JACKO'S NEW LOVE.

Lifesaving hero Jacko Vance's new girlfriend has become the target of a terrifying campaign of vandalism and hate mail.

Since the start of their whirlwind romance, TV journalist Micky Morgan has had paint thrown over her car dead mice and birds posted through her letter box a vicious series of poison pen letters sent to her home.

The couple met when she interviewed the world record-holding javelin star in hospital after the motorway pile-up where Jacko's tragic heroism cost him his lower right arm and his Olympic dream. They had been trying to keep their affair under wraps.

But we can exclusively reveal that their secret has leaked to someone who bears a grudge against attractive blonde Micky, a popular reporter on Six O'Clock World.

Last night, at her West London home, Micky said, "It's been a nightmare.

We've no idea who's behind it. I just wish they'd stop.

"We've been keeping our relationship to ourselves because we wanted to get to know each other better without the glare of publicity. We're very much in love. The private man is even more exciting than the person the public sees.

"He's brave and he's beautiful. How could I not be madly in love? All we want now is for this heartless campaign to end."

A spokesman for Jacko, who is undergoing intensive rehabilitation and physiotherapy at London's exclusive Martingale Clinic, said, "Jacko is obviously disgusted that anyone should treat Micky like this. She's the most wonderful woman he's ever met. Whoever is behind this better hope the police catch them before he does."

Jacko, who ended his engagement to (Continued on page 4)

The press coverage was hectic for a couple of weeks, then it slowly died away, resurfacing every now and again whenever something happened to either of the alleged lovers. Jacko's emergence from rehab into his old life; his hiring as a TV sports presenter; Micky's new job as an interviewer on breakfast television; Jacko's voluntary work with the terminally ill; all of these and more refreshed interest in their supposed affair. They soon learned it was necessary for them to be seen together somewhere public and high profile at least once a week to avoid speculation in the gossip columns. Often, knowing they were being followed, Jacko ended up spending the night under the same roof as the two women after he and Micky had been clubbing or charity working. After nearly a year of this, Micky summoned Jacko to a powwow over dinner with Betsy.

Her lover's culinary skills had not deserted her since the years she had spent catering for boardroom lunches. As he swallowed the last morsel, Jacko gave the two women his most wolfish grin. "It must be bad," he said, ' it took something that good to soften me up."

Betsy smiled demurely. "You haven't had the sticky toffee pudding with home-made hazelnut ice cream yet."

Jacko pretended to be shocked. "If I was a police officer, you could be arrested for an offer like that."

"We do have a proposition for you," Micky said.

"Something tells me you're not talking three in a bed," he said, rocking gently on the back legs of the chair.

"You might try and sound a little disappointed," Betsy said drily. "The idea that we're so unappealing is bad for what the Americans so charmingly call our self-esteem."

Jacko's smile reminded Micky disturbingly of Jack Nicholson. "Betsy, my dear, if you knew what I like to do with my women, you'd be profoundly grateful for my lack of interest."

"Actually, our ignorance on that very point is one of the factors that has made us reluctant to put our proposal to you before now," Betsy said, briskly clearing the plates and carrying them through to the small kitchen.

"I'm intrigued now," Jacko said, tipping forward with a slight thump and leaning his prosthetic arm on the table. He held Micky's eyes in a glittering stare. "Spill the beans, Micky."

Betsy appeared in the kitchen doorway and leaned against the jamb. "It's awfully time consuming, this silly business of you and Micky having to go out enjoying yourselves. I don't mind in the slightest that she's out with you. It's just that we'd both rather spend what limited time we can spare together."

"You want to call the whole thing off?" Jacko frowned.

"Quite the opposite," Betsy said, sitting down at the table again and placing her hand over Micky's. "We rather thought it might be a good idea if the two of you were to get married."

He looked astonished. Micky thought she had never seen a more genuine expression cross Jacko Vance's carefully controlled features. "Married," he echoed. It wasn't a question.

Shaz looked around the seminar room again, assessing her audience, hoping she wasn't about to make a complete fool of herself. She tried to second-guess where the objections would come from and what they'd be.

Simon would pick holes on principle, she knew that. Leon would tilt his chair back and smoke, the ghost of a sneer on his mouth, then find some load-bearing prop in her argument and demolish it. Kay would cavil and quibble over details, never seeing the big picture. Tony, she hoped, would be quietly impressed with her brilliance in spotting the cluster and her diligence in pursuing it to a demonstrable external connection.

Her groundwork would be the trigger for a major inquiry and when the dust finally settled, her future would be sealed. The woman who nailed the celebrity serial killer. She'd be a legend in squad rooms up and down the country. She'd be in a position to pick her billet.

Carol Jordan was the wild card. A morning watching her work with Tony hadn't provided nearly enough raw material for accurate conjecture about her response to Shaz's theory. To leave as little to chance as possible, she'd have to hang back and let a couple of her colleagues go first so she could watch Carol carefully while they presented their reports.

Leon went first. Shaz was surprised by the brevity of his report, and she didn't think she was the only one. He said that while there were clearly similarities between certain of the cases, given the number of teenage runaways recorded annually it was hard to argue

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that there was any statistical significance in that. He had, seemingly grudgingly, chosen four girls from the West Country, including one of Shaz's cluster. The connecting factor he'd identified was that all four were reported to have harboured ambitions to become models. He suggested they might have been abducted by one or more pornographers under the pretext of offering them the opportunity to become photographers' models then suckered into a life of blue movies and sex for sale.

A short silence was followed by a few apathetic comments from the room.

Then Carol said coolly, "And how long did you spend on this analysis, Mr. Jackson?"

Leon's eyebrows descended. "There wasn't a lot to analyse," he said belligerently. "I did what it took."

"If I were the investigating officer who had handed this material to you, I would be rather underwhelmed by something so superficial," Carol said. "I'd feel disappointed, short-changed, and I'd have a pretty low opinion of a specialist unit which produced nothing of more significance than one of my own officers could have provided in an afternoon's work."

Leon's mouth opened in astonishment. Neither Tony nor Bishop had ever been so openly critical of anyone's work. Before he could respond, Tony cut in. "DCI Jordan's right, Leon. It's not good enough. We're supposed to be an elite squad, and we're not going to make any friends if we don't treat every assignment as something serious and worthy of our attention. It doesn't matter if we think a group of cases are Mickey Mouse. To the investigating officers, they're important. To the victims, they're important."

"This was just an exercise," Leon protested. "There isn't an investigating officer. It's just playtime. You can't get worked up about that!" The whine in his voice said, "It's not fair!" louder than the actual words.

"As I understand it, every one of these cases is real," Carol said quietly. "Every one of those kids is on the missing list. Some of them are almost certainly dead. The pain of uncertainty can often be more damaging than knowledge of the truth. If we ignore people's pain, we deserve their contempt."

Shaz watched Tony's impassive face incline in a tiny acknowledgement of Carol's words, then followed his eyes across to Leon, who had compressed his mouth into a thin line, half-turning in his seat so he didn't have to look at Carol. "Right," said Tony. "We've established that DCI Jordan doesn't do polite. Who's next for the high jump?"

Shaz could barely contain her impatience during Kay's report, a pedestrian but painstakingly thorough analysis that forged several possible groups with an assortment of linkages. One was identical to Shaz's own cluster, but it was given no extra weight compared to the others. When the recital drew to a close, Tony looked happier. "A thorough piece of work," he said, the unspoken '' hanging in the air like a relay baton.

Carol picked up the challenge. "Yes, but it sounds like you're sitting on the fence. An investigating officer wants information presented in a way that underpins specific initiatives. So you need to prioritize your conclusions. "This is quite likely, this is less likely, this is tenuous, this is frankly improbable." That lets the officers on the ground structure their inquiries in the most productive way."

"In fairness, it's hard to do that in the vacuum of a classroom exercise," Tony added. "But we should always attempt to do it. Any ideas regarding the order of priority we should be looking at here?"

Shaz barely contributed to the vigorous discussion that followed. She was too nervous about what lay ahead to care about the impression she might be making. A couple of times, she caught a stray look of inquiry from Carol Jordan, and responded with some innocuous comment.

Then, suddenly, it was her turn. Shaz cleared her throat and assembled her papers in front of her. "Although there are several superficial similarities that pull together a variety of potential groupings, closer analysis reveals that there is one strong cluster linked by a nexus of common factors," she began firmly. "What I intend to show this afternoon is that this cluster is further linked by a significant common external factor and the irresistible conclusion is that the members of this cluster are the victims of a single serial killer."

She looked up, hearing a gasp from Kay and a guffaw from Leon. Tony looked startled, but Carol Jordan was leaning forward, chin on her fists, gripped. Shaz allowed a small smile to twitch one corner of her mouth. "I'm not making this up, I promise you," she said, distributing stapled pages of photocopies around the table.

"Seven cases," she said. The first page you have in front of you is a table listing the common features in these seven disappearances. One of those key connections, in my view, is that all seven girls took a change of clothes with them. But they didn't go for the kind of things you'd choose if you were planning on running away and living on the streets.

In every case, what they went missing with was their "best" gear, the fashion outfits they'd have worn if they were going out on a special date, not trainers for walking the streets and ski jackets for staying warm at night. I know teenagers aren't always sensible when it comes to what they wear, but remember, our sample weren't irresponsible, out of control, wild-child girls."

She glanced up and was gratified to see that Tony was now as rapt as Carol Jordan. "In each case, they didn't turn up for school and had lied in advance about what they were doing afterwards to give themselves a clear run of about twelve hours. Only one of them had ever come to the notice of the police or social services and that was for shoplifting when she was twelve. They weren't delinquent, they didn't do drink or drugs to any significant degree.

"Now, if you turn to page two, you'll see I've laid out their photographs scaled down to the same size. Don't you think there's a remarkable physical similarity?" Shaz paused for effect.

"That's eerie," Simon muttered. "I can't believe I didn't see that."

"It's more than physical," Carol said, sounding faintly bemused.

"There's a look they've all got. Something ... almost sexual."

"They're dying to become former virgins," Leon told the room. "That's what it is. Unmistakable."

"Whatever it is," Shaz interrupted, ''ve all got it. The cases are geographically scattered, the time frame is six years at irregular intervals, but the victims look practically interchangeable. Now, that's strong evidence in itself. But Tony's taught us that we should also be looking for external connectors; factors outside the victim's control or influence that are common. Factors that link to the killer, not the victim.

"I asked myself where I might find the relevant external link that would tie together my cluster of putative victims." Shaz picked up another pile of stapled photocopies and passed them round. "Local newspapers. I trawled the local papers for two weeks either side of each disappearance. And in the early hours of this morning, I found what I was looking for. You've got it in front of you. Just before each one of these girls died, the same very public personality was in their home town. And each and every one of them, let's not forget, went off with the one and only outfit they'd have chosen from their wardrobes if they were planning on impressing a man."

The murmur of disbelief was already rising around her as the enormity of Shaz's suggestion hit them. "That's right," she said. "I couldn't believe it either. I mean, who's going to believe the nation's favourite sporting hero and TV personality is a serial killer? And who's going to authorize an investigation of Jacko Vance?"

The soft whimper seemed to be swallowed by the chill darkness. Donna Doyle had never felt more frightened in her short life. She'd never realized that fear could act like an anaesthetic, apprehension dulling excruciating agony to a throbbing ache. What had already happened had been terrible enough. But not knowing what the future held was almost worse.

It had all started so well. She'd kept the secret, in spite of the way it kept bubbling up inside her, almost seeming to press against her lips and demand release. But she knew he'd meant what he'd said about the importance of confidentiality, and this was too good a chance to miss.

Excitement at her new prospects had buoyed her up, allowing her to stifle her awareness that what she was doing would cause uproar at home.

She rationalized her failure to inform her mother of her plans by telling herself that when everything worked out as she dreamed, there would be so much joy that the trouble would be forgotten. Deep down, she knew that was a lie, but she couldn't bear to let that knowledge interfere with her elation.

Bunking off school had been easy. She'd set off as usual, then, instead of turning in down the road leading to school, she'd carried on into the town centre where she'd dodged into the public lavatories and changed into the clothes she'd carefully folded into her school backpack instead of books. Her best outfit, she knew, making her look older than she was, making her look like the young women she saw on MTV, cool as fuck.

In the dim light of the toilet, she applied her make-up and pouted at the mirror. God, she looked good. But would it be good enough for him?

He'd picked her out when she wasn't even dressed up to the nines, she reminded herself. He'd seen her star quality. Dressed like this, she'd knock him dead. Wouldn't she?

The memory of that nonchalant self-confidence was like a sick joke to Donna now, lying in pain and fear in the dark. But at the time it had been more than enough to get her through the day. She'd caught a bus into Manchester, hanging back until it was about to leave, making sure there wasn't one of the neighbours or her mother's boring friends on board. Then she'd run upstairs, sitting at the back so she could see who got on and off.

Having a few hours in Manchester on a weekday on her own was almost adventure enough in itself. She browsed the department stores, played the fruit machines in the video arcades, bought a couple of lottery scratch cards in a news agent near the station and told herself that winning ten straight off wasn't just a result, it was an omen. By the time she boarded the train, she was irrepressibly high, more than capable of ignoring the nerves that still fluttered annoyingly in her stomach when she thought of what her mum was going to say.

Changing trains wasn't quite so much fun. It was growing dark, and she couldn't understand a word anyone on Newcastle station tannoy said. They didn't sound like Jimmy Nail or Kevin Whately off the telly. They sounded like aliens. Somehow, she managed to find the right platform for Five Walls Halt and nervously boarded the train, aware that she was among strangers with curious faces who eyed her short skirt and dramatic make-up with predatory eyes. Donna's imagination began to work overtime, translating weary commuters into stalkers and mad axe men

It had been a relief to get off the train and find him waiting in the car park, just like he'd said. And it had been lovely. He'd said all the right things, reassuring her and convincing her she'd done the right thing. He was lovely, she told herself, not a bit like she expected someone off the telly to be.

As they'd driven down narrow country roads, he'd explained that they wouldn't be able to do the screen test until morning, but that he hoped she'd have dinner with him. He said he had a cottage, that she could stay overnight, there was a spare room, which would save him having to drive after he'd had a glass or two of wine. If she didn't mind, of course. Otherwise, he could take her to a hotel.

The part of her that had been well brought up and drilled to wariness wanted to go instantly to a hotel where she could phone her mother and reveal that she was safe and well. But it wasn't an enticing prospect, a night in a lonely room in a strange place where she knew no one, with no company except the TV and her mum complaining down the phone line.

The other voice in her head, the tempting adventurous voice, told her she'd never have a chance like this to make her mark. Having him to herself for a whole evening would be the perfect opportunity to impress him so much that the screen test would be a formality.

The voice she stifled through a mixture of apprehension and anticipation pointed out that there might never be a more propitious time to lose her virginity.

"Staying with you'd be great," she said.

He smiled, briefly turning his eyes away from the road. "I promise we'll have fun," he said.

And he hadn't been lying. Not to begin with, anyway. The food had been wonderful, like the really expensive stuff from Marks and Spencer that her mum always said they couldn't afford. And they'd had wine. Lots of different kinds. Champagne to start with, then white wine with the starters, then red with the main course and a sticky aromatic golden one with the pudding. She'd had no idea there were so many different-tasting ones. He'd been lovely, all through dinner. He'd been funny and flirty and full of stories that made her smile and hug herself inside because she was learning all these secrets about telly people.

And he seemed to find her entertaining, too. He was always asking her what she thought, what she felt, who she liked on TV and who she hated.

He was interested, staring deep into her eyes and really paying attention, like men were supposed to when they fancied you, not like the lads she'd gone out with from school who were only interested in football and how far you'd let them go. It was obvious he fancied her.

But he wasn't slobbering all over her like some dirty old man. He was considerate, treating her like she was a person. With all the conversation, phoning her mum had been the last thing on her mind.

By the end of the meal, she'd been pleasantly woozy. Not drunk, not like at Emma Lomas's party when she'd had five bottles of extra-strong cider and thrown up for hours. Just a bit blurred round the edges, filled with happiness and desire to feel his warm flesh against hers, to bury her face in the citrus and woody smell of his cologne, to make her fantasies reality.

When he got up to make coffee, she followed, a little unsteady on her feet, conscious of the giddiness that made the room sway gently but not unpleasantly. She came up behind him and slipped her arms round his waist. "I think you're gorgeous," she said. "Fantastic."

He'd turned and let her lean into him, burying his face in her hair and nuzzling her ear. "You're very special," he murmured. "Very special."

She felt his erection hard against her stomach. For a moment, a thrill of fear squirmed through her, then his lips were on hers and she was lost to the sensation of what felt like her first kiss. They kissed for what seemed like a lifetime, a dizzying parade of colours spinning behind her eyes as arousal sent her blood charging through her veins.

Almost without her realizing, he moved her gradually round so that her back was against the workbench and he was facing her, still kissing, his tongue darting in and out of her mouth. Suddenly, without warning, his hand clamped over her wrist and yanked her arm to one side. Donna felt cold metal against her flesh and her eyes jerked open. At the same moment, their mouths parted.

Baffled, she looked at her arm, not understanding why it was pinned between the two faces of a big steel vice. He stepped back and quickly spun the handle so the jaws closed on the flushed flesh of her naked arm. Vainly, she tried to pull away. But there was no escape. She was trapped by the arm, pinioned to the workbench vice. "What are you doing?" she squealed. All her face revealed was hurt puzzlement. It was too soon for fear.

His face was blank. An impassive mask had replaced the interest and affection she'd seen there all evening. "You're all the same, aren't you?" he said dispassionately. "You're all out for what you can get."

"What are you talking about?" Donna entreated him. "Let me go, this isn't funny. It hurts." With her free arm, she reached across her body towards the handle of the vice. He raised his arm and smashed her in the face with a backhanded swipe that sent her reeling.

"You do as you're told, you treacherous bitch," he said, still sounding calm.

Donna tasted blood. A rending sob broke from her throat. "I don't understand," she stuttered. "What did I do wrong?"

"You throw yourself at me because you think I'll get you what you want.

You tell me you love me. But if you woke up tomorrow and I couldn't give you what you wanted, you'd throw yourself at the next meal ticket that walked past." He leaned against her, pressing his body to hers, his weight preventing her from making another attempt at releasing the vice.

"I don't know what you're on about," Donna whined. "I never ... Aagh!"

Her voice rose in a yell of pain as he turned the vice tighter. Pain shot up her arm as muscle and bone were compacted, the edges of the vice cutting deep and cruel into the tissue of her arm. As her scream subsided into tearful entreaty, he half-turned so that his weight was still on her free arm and tore her dress from top to bottom with one powerful wrench.

Now she was really afraid. She couldn't understand why he was doing this. All she'd wanted was to love him, to be chosen by him to appear on the telly. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be romantic and tender and beautiful, but this was senseless and stupid and she couldn't believe how much her arm was hurting and all she wanted was for it to stop.

He'd barely begun. Within moments, her knickers were in a torn heap at her feet, deep welts in her side where the fabric had bitten into her skin before the seams had finally yielded to his force. Shaking with sobs, her voice a mumbling of meaningless pleadings, she had no resources left to resist as he unzipped his trousers and thrust his cock into her.

It wasn't the pain of losing her virginity that Donna remembered. It was the agony that coursed through her when he bore down on the vice in rhythm with the thrusting of his hips into hers. The breaking of her hymen went unnoticed among the splintering of the bones of her wrist and forearm and the pulverizing of her flesh between the blank metal plates.