hatever Carol had been expecting, it wasn't Dr. Jonathan France. Tall, lean and thirty-something, he was dressed in dark blue bike leathers, the top unzipped to reveal a white T-shirt that showed off an admirable set of pecs. He lounged in the visitor's chair in Carol's office as relaxed as if he was in his own living room. He had thick, straight dark hair cut short enough to stand erect as a shoe-brush on top of his head, and his dark blue eyes were nested with laughter lines. For the first time in months, Carol reacted to an attractive man with interest rather than wariness. She was so shocked at her response she immediately retreated behind formality. "I'm Detective Chief Inspector Jordan," she said, extending a hand in greeting.

The hand that engulfed hers was warm and large, long blunt fingers ending in square-cut nails. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Jonathan France," he said. Nice voice too, she thought, hearing what sounded like a faint trace of West Country in his accent. He glanced around, letting her see him taking in his surroundings. "Not quite what I expected," he said.

"Me or the room?" Carol said. God help me, I'm flirting, she thought, appalled.

"Both," he said. "I didn't realize you would be .. ."

"A woman?" she interrupted, forcing herself to sound cold.

He smiled. "I was going to say, so young. Isn't that a terrible cliche?"

Outflanked and disarmed, Carol took refuge behind her desk. "I don't know how much you've been told?" she said.

"Almost nothing," he said. "Only that you had a photograph you wanted me to look at to see whether I could help identify where it might have been taken."

Carol opened the Tim Golding file and pulled out the blown-up photograph. Before she handed it over, she said, "Have you ever worked with the police before?"

He shook his head. "Never."

"No problem. But I have~ to stress that everything we discuss is confidential. Even the fact that you are working with us. This investigation is live and we don't want to give the slightest hint to the perpetrator regarding our lines of inquiry. Whatever insight you can offer stays with us. Are you comfortable with that?"

He frowned. "It's possible I might have to consult one of my colleagues. But I can do that without going into any detail as to why I'm asking."

"That would be helpful. Of course, if we make an arrest and we get to court, you might well have to appear as a witness, with the attendant publicity that might bring. Are you comfortable with that?"

"Sure." He gestured at his leathers. "I clean up well. And I'm happy to have the chance to show the world that geology isn't boring."

Fat chance of them thinking you're boring. "Just for the record, can you run through your qualifications?"

"I took a first in Earth Sciences at Manchester, then spent a year doing postgrad work in the Carlsbad Caverns. I did my doctorate in Munich, then came back to teach at Sheffield, where I am a lecturer in geology. My area of specialization is calcite formations in limestone. That do you?"

Carol looked up from the notes she was taking. "Sounds impressive." She picked up the photo again. "The boy in this picture is called Tim Golding. He was kidnapped nearly four months ago. Every possible lead we had is exhausted with the exception of this. If you can help narrow down where it might have been taken, it's possible we could make some progress in finding out what happened to him."

He held out a hand and took the sheet of paper. He held it up at an angle to the light and studied it. "This is a digital image, right?"

"It was sent as an email attachment."

"And you've got the original electronic version?" He spoke absently, moving the photograph closer to his face then drawing it away.

"Yes, we do."

He looked up and smiled. "Good. Can you have someone send it to my mailbox? I've got some great software specially designed to enhance geological specimen photos. It should be able to give me something better to work with."

"You think you can help us?" Carol had almost forgotten what hope felt like.

He cocked his head to one side, considering. "It's possible," he said at last. He straightened up in his chair. "Yes, it's possible. Can I meet you for dinner this evening?"

Carol was surprised. "You'll have something for us that soon?"

He laughed, a deep, warm laugh. "Afraid not. But even Detective Chief Inspectors have to eat sometime. What do you say? Pizza, curry, Chinese? You choose."

"Are you asking me out to dinner?" Carol couldn't keep the disbelief from her voice.

He spread his hands. "Why not? I'm young, free and single, and if you're not, just say no."

She couldn't have explained why, but there was something utterly unthreatening about Jonathan France. The idea of sitting opposite him in a restaurant didn't freak her out. For the first time since the rape, she could almost believe it might be possible to have something approaching a normal life. "I don't know what time I'll be through here," she hedged, still not quite trusting herself enough.

He fished a card from an inside pocket of his leathers. "No problem. I've got a couple of meetings later this afternoon, then I'll just plug in my laptop and do some work till you're ready." He placed the card on her desk. "Text me when you're free." He stood up, loose-limbed and unperturbed.

Carol followed him out into the squad room "Thanks for your help," she said.

"It's a pleasure."

Stacey looked up from her computer screen. "The Chief wants to see you in his office. Dr. Hill's with him."

Carol crashed back to earth. Paula. They had to figure out what to do about Paula. And how the hell was she going to explain Jonathan France to Tony?

Tony had marched straight into John Brandon's office, ignoring his secretary's attempts to stop him. The Chief Constable was sitting at his desk, dictating a memo into a hand-held digital recorder. He stopped, astonished, in mid-sentence. "Tony," he exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting .. ."

"I know you weren't," Tony snapped. He'd grown increasingly angry as Carol had driven him back to headquarters, though he'd made sure she didn't notice. In his professional life, he'd worked hard to keep his own responses battened down. But the more he thought about John Brandon's suggestion, the more outraged he felt. He stalked across the room and leaned on the edge of Brandon's desk, his hands fisted tightly. "John, what the hell were you thinking, asking Carol to commit one of her officers to an undercover operation?"

Brandon stood up. "You're well outside your remit, Tony. My operational decisions are nothing to do with you."

"Don't hide behind protocol, John. You pay me to give you the benefit of my psychological insight. And that's what I'm doing right now. Carol Jordan was thrown to the wolves by people who have the same masters as you do. I understand you're under political pressure to solve these cases, but it was political pressure to get results that motivated the bastards who hung Carol out to dry in Berlin. Can't you see that, in her eyes, that makes you just like them? You held this job out to her as a lifeline, yet here you are, asking her to put a junior officer in the very same position that nearly destroyed her." The words poured out of Tony in an angry torrent.

A dark blush spread up from the pristine white collar of Brandon's shirt, creeping up his neck and face. "You're out of line, Tony."

"I'm not. I'm telling you that you are going to do serious psychological damage to one of your best officers if you force her to run this operation."

Brandon pounced. "So it's not the operation you object to? Simply that I'm asking Carol to oversee it?"

Tony flung up his hands in exasperation. "The operation's questionable. It'll only work if you sow the proper seeds in the media. But yes, my primary objection is the potential danger for DCI Jordan."

"You think I haven't considered that?" Brandon said, his voice rising. "Frankly, I'm already having some doubts about her self-confidence. I think it's affecting her judgement."

Tony was shocked. "What do you mean?"

Brandon shrugged off his question. "Nothing I'm prepared to discuss with you. But just how good do you think it would be for her self-esteem if I put another officer in charge of it? This is her case, Tony, and she's desperate to prove she can still cut the mustard. She's the SIO on these murders. If I give the undercover to someone else, she'll think I don't trust her to do her job. And what's worse, her team will think the same. If we try this avenue of approach, Carol has to be in the driving seat. I'm not happy with that, but I don't see any alternative."

Tony slammed his palms down on the desk. "So hold off on it. Give them the chance to see if they can get anywhere with conventional methods. Let me try and get some more out of Derek Tyler. He's close to giving me something, I know he is."

Brandon shook his head. "Tyler's been silent for two years. Why should he suddenly start to talk now?"

"He spoke to me this morning," Tony said.

Brandon's head jerked back. "He what?"

"He spoke to me."

"What did he say?"

Tony felt cornered. He knew Brandon would dismiss the prospect of getting information out of Tyler if he told the truth. But a lie would only cause more problems in the long run. "He said he couldn't talk to me until the voice said he could," he sighed.

"Well then," Brandon said triumphantly. "It's hardly progress, is it?"

"Of course it's progress," Tony said, knowing from Brandon's expression and body language that he'd already lost. "It'll take time, though."

"We don't have that luxury. Time means more women dying. You more than anyone should know that," Brandon said. "So, what bait do I have to lay in the media?"

Tony rubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to erase his anger and fear and replace it with professional competence. He stared down at the floor. When he spoke, his voice was cold and distant. "He's a Power Assertive rapist. He prides himself on his control of the scenario. He thinks he's covered all the bases. So you have to tell the press that this second murder has provided some valuable lines of inquiry. That the killer is not as careful as he thinks he is. That you believe you will be able to apprehend him before he can claim another victim. That way you prick his vanity, challenge him to prove you wrong. And then your decoy scenario might just work in the short term." He straightened up and looked Brandon in the eye. "And that's what you want, isn't it, John? A nice, quick, clean result."

Brandon turned away and reached for his intercom button. "Have DCI Jordan come up, would you?" With his back to

Tony, he said, "Yes, Tony. That's what I want. A nice, quick, clean result. And I think Carol can deliver that with an undercover operation."

"For her sake, I hope you're right."

Merrick walked into the squad room balancing a sandwich on top of his polystyrene cup of tea. Late afternoon and nothing much doing. Apart from Stacey, the room was empty. He called out a greeting, earned a grunt in reply and crossed to his desk. He was glad of the peace; he'd stuck his head round the door of the murder incident room, seen it was crowded and decided to write up his interview notes at his own desk. He sipped his tea, rubbed his eyes. He wasn't sleeping well. Nothing to do with Paula's spare bed and everything to do with the core of misery eating away at his heart. He missed his sons like a physical ache. Even though he'd often gone a few days without seeing much of them, knowing he wasn't allowed to be with them was a completely different experience.

He missed nothing about Lindy, and that was almost as disturbing. How could he not have noticed how the love between them had shrivelled and shrunk? It wasn't as if there was anyone else. He hadn't even been tempted to read between the lines of Paula's offer of somewhere to stay. Besides, there had been nothing in her behaviour to indicate that she was interested in him as anything other than a friend, even if he had been ready to consider the possibilities of solace. For now, recognizing the death of love between him and his wife had left him feeling curiously desolate.

Merrick sighed and roused his computer from its snooze mode. He'd just started typing in the mostly fruitless results of his interviews when Paula walked in. "Hi, Stacey. Hi, Don," she said brightly, walking over to his desk and perching on the corner of it. "How's it going?" she asked.

He pulled a face. "Pretty crap, really. I spent a bit of time out on the streets this morning after I'd sent the teams out. But I might as well have stayed here and read the paper for all the progress I've made. I'm just writing up what I've got, then I'm going to plough-through the rest of the reports in the incident room." He flipped through his notebook. "Oh, I did get one laugh, though. I was talking to this young lad. Rent, you know? And he goes, "I hear the girls are refusing to play bondage games with their customers. You think maybe I should do the same?" I could hardly keep my face straight. "I don't think you're his type, son," I said."

"At least you got a laugh," Paula said. "I've just spent the last hour going through the mug shots with a kid who calls herself Honey. She used to turn twosomes with Jackie sometimes. I thought she might be able to pick out some of their punters, but no joy. It's such a hidden world, Don, that's the trouble. These are lives that feed on secrecy. Jan says they're so used to turning a blind eye that in the end they just stop noticing."

"She should know, the queen of the Vice," Don said slightly sourly.

"You don't like her, do you?" Paula said.

"She's a smart-arse," he said. "And you know what they say?"

"Nobody loves a smart-arse," they chorused.

Paula stood up. "Better crack on," she said. But before she could make a move towards her own desk, the door opened and Carol walked in with Tony. When she saw Paula, she turned to share a quick look with Tony.

"Paula," Carol said. "Can you come through to the office? I'd like a word."

Paula raised her eyebrows at Merrick behind Carol's retreating back then followed her and Tony into the office. Tony leaned against the wall, arms folded. Carol sat down and indicated that Paula should do the same. Paula could feel the tension in the room and wondered what was coming. She wasn't nervous; she'd done nothing to be worried about, after all. The only secret thing in her life wasn't something Carol Jordan would summon her to the office to discuss. Especially not in front of Tony Hill.

Carol fiddled with a pen, avoiding Paula's eyes. "Paula, the Chief Constable has had an idea he wants me to put to you."

Suddenly the tumblers clicked into place. Honey's words. Carol's unease. Tony's presence. "You want me to go undercover on the streets. Be a decoy," Paula blurted out.

Carol's head came up, her expression stunned. Out of the corner of her eye, Paula registered a look of faint amusement on Tony's face.

"How did you know that? Who told you?" Carol demanded.

Paula shrugged. "Nobody told me. I worked it out for myself. One of the girls I was interviewing said I reminded her of Jackie, and I suddenly realized that, if I was on the game, I'd be his exact type. And we're not getting anywhere with the usual routines, so when you said Mr. Brandon had had an idea ... it just seemed to make sense, that's all."

"And how do you feel about the idea?" Carol said. "It's up to you, Paula. It's a dangerous, risky operation. You don't have to agree if you're not comfortable with it."

Paula couldn't help herself. She was grinning broadly. "I think it's brilliant, chief." Her chance to shine, to show what she could do. Not even the look of concern she caught on Tony Hill's face was enough to dent her enthusiasm. "So when do we start?"

He's watching the streets tonight. He's had a hard day; it's not easy to do what he does for a living when the place is crawling with coppers. But his customers need what he has to offer, so somehow it happens. He shifts the gear, relying on a sixth sense for avoiding trouble that's always kept him clear so far.

There's something soothing about prowling his familiar pitch, now transformed by his own actions. He'd never have believed he could change the world around him, but he has. People are moving differently. He catches the nervous glances every pedestrian throws at- those they pass. They don't know if there's a killer among them, and they're scared.

He almost wishes he could stand in the middle of the street and shout, "It's me. I'm the one you're all scared of." Just to see the looks of disbelief. Because he knows he's not what they expect. He's not a monster. He's not even scary. He just looks ordinary.

It's what's inside that counts. And they've got no idea what's inside him. They've never heard the Voice. They're the ones that are ordinary. But him, he's become extraordinary. And this is only the beginning.

The low rumble of the motorbike engine cut through the quiet of the suburban street. Jonathan kept the big machine steady even at low speed. As they drew level with Tony's house, Carol unpeeled one arm from round his ribs and tapped him on the shoulder. The bike slowed to a halt and the engine died, leaving a shivering echo of itself inside her head. Carol dismounted, heart still racing, and took off the spare helmet Jonathan had given her outside the Italian restaurant where they'd eaten dinner.

Jonathan was next to her, placing his own helmet on the padded leather saddle. "Not too terrifying, I hope," he said.

"It's years since I've been on a bike," she said, handing over her helmet. "I'd forgotten how exhilarating it feels."

Jonathan opened the top box on the rear of the bike and stowed the spare. "There's nothing like it," he said. He moved closer to her. Instinctively, she put a hand against his chest, feeling the rough tweed of his jacket under her fingers. It was as if all her senses were heightened, on full alert. She could smell the tang of winter in the air, the warm masculine scent that rose from Jonathan's skin. He put his hands on her hips and she could feel a burn on her skin even through her clothes.

"Thanks for a lovely evening," she said briskly. "I enjoyed it."

"Me too," he said, leaning down for the kiss.

Carol shifted her head to one side so his lips brushed her cheek. Her pulse was hammering in her throat, her tongue dry against the roof of her mouth. The images flashing in her head were not of Jonathan France, and no matter how hard she tried to tell herself this was not a threatening situation, she couldn't free herself from her history. She knew she wasn't being fair; their conversation had been flirtatious and fun, but that had been in the safe environment of a well-lit, busy restaurant. Here, now, she couldn't maintain the charade that she was like any other woman.

He sensed her tension and drew away, a puzzled look in his eyes. "Was it something I said?" he asked, his tone light and teasing.

Carol released the breath she hadn't been conscious of holding. "It's not you," she mumbled, fixing her eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. She'd been surprised that he hadn't turned up in his leathers, but he'd explained that he always travelled with a change of clothes when he was working. The boy biker look had been replaced by a faintly fogeyish tweed jacket, faded jeans and a crew-neck cotton sweater.

"What's wrong, Carol?" he asked, his voice mild, entirely lacking in accusation.

"I'm sorry, I .. ." She didn't know what to say except the truth and she didn't know how to say that. His hands were still on her body and it was taking all her strength not to wriggle away from what felt like an invasion.

As if sensing her discomfort, he let her go. Her hand was still on his chest, and he gently covered her fingers with his own. "It's all right," he said. "I'll go." He stepped back, still holding her hand.

Carol closed her eyes. "I was raped," she said. The words hung in the air between them. His grip didn't alter. She opened her eyes, expecting to see shock, anger, pity, avidity.

But all she could read on his face was concern. Their eyes met in the silence. Then,-tentatively, he said, "Then it was pretty brave of you to come out with me tonight. Thank you for trusting me."

She was taken aback. His reaction was unlike anything else she'd experienced. "I don't know about brave," she said. "But I don't think it was very fair."

He shook his head, the streetlights catching his hair and making it seem to sparkle. "Don't be hard on yourself. Is this the first time you've been out with someone since it happened?"

Carol nodded. "With someone I didn't know before? Yes." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Seven months ago, and it still feels more vivid than anything I did today."

"Then you should be proud of yourself. I'd never have guessed that there was anything preying on your mind other than work." He smiled down at her. "So. Probably best we call it a night." He let her hand go and took a step back. "Can I call you?"

"Please," she said. On a sudden impulse, she darted forward and stretched up to kiss him. His lips were dry and cool, and he made no attempt to pull her into an embrace. They stood, slightly awkward, smiling at each other. "Goodnight," she said softly. She'd been lucky tonight. Lucky to have found herself with a man who didn't dismiss her as damaged goods, leap to the desire to avenge her, or recoil with ill-disguised disgust. He hadn't drowned her in pity or outrage, hadn't asked how such a thing could happen to a woman like her. A clutch of negatives that added up to the first positive she'd encountered since the rape. It was, she imagined, how Tony would have reacted if he hadn't been so riven with guilt.

"Goodnight, Carol." Jonathan reached for his helmet. "I'll wait till you're inside," he said, straddling the powerful machine.

She opened the gate and walked down the path, noticing for the first time that the light was on in the upstairs room that anyone else would have used as the master bedroom but which Tony had turned into a study. Her heart lurched and she hoped he hadn't seen the small drama they'd just played out.

Tony sat at his desk, eyes unfocused, turning over what he'd just witnessed. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he'd have missed it. Although his observational skills were the lynch-pin of what he did for a living, he didn't sit at his window spying on other people's worlds. And when he was working, engrossed in his reading, writing or analysis, it would take more than the unfamiliar note of a motorbike engine to rouse him from the focus of his concentration.

But when Jonathan France turned into his street, Tony was standing near the bay window, scanning rows of books for something he knew had to be there somewhere. That was the trouble with moving house; no matter how carefully you packed the books, they never ended up on the new shelves in quite the right place.

So when the motorbike stopped at his front gate, he was not in his customary state of oblivion towards the outside world. Curious, he glanced out of the window in time to see Carol shake her blonde hair free of the constraints of the helmet. His first instinct was to step away, to allow her privacy. But when she reached out her hand towards the tall man who had dismounted, he found he couldn't move. He told himself he was only watching to make sure she was safe. He knew that was a lie, but he didn't want to acknowledge the confused emotions tumbling beneath the surface. He watched as she avoided the first kiss, watched as the man stepped away, watched as they spoke and as Carol suddenly took the initiative.

Shamed, he made a harsh, dismissive noise and stepped back into the shadows as Carol turned towards the house. He dropped into his chair and slumped there, his face in his hands. Eventually he raised his head, blinking back tears.

Jealous. He was so jealous he could taste it like bile in his throat. He loved her? he known that for a long time now. But it looked as if the rift between them had grown too wide to cross. In spite of all his efforts, it appeared that Carol had chosen her own route to salvation. And it didn't include him.

The atmosphere in the incident room was heady with anticipation. A low buzz of speculation filled the air as the detectives wondered why DCI Jordan had called them together. "I don't care what it is as long as it gets us out of talking to hookers in the rain," Sam Evans confided in Kevin Matthews. "It's like monkey city out there see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."

"You never know with Jordan," Kevin said. "If anybody's got off-the-wall tendencies, it's her."

"But do they work?" Evans demanded. "Her off-the-wall ideas?"

Kevin picked at a bit of dried food he'd just spotted on his trousers. "She's got a spooky tendency to get it right," he said. "I've seen her float ideas that even Tony Hill thought were out of the box. And then she's turned out to be on the money."

"Yeah, but after what happened to her .. . maybe she's lost her nerve for going out on a limb," Evans pointed out. His late-night trawls through the desks of his fellow officers had yielded nothing from Carol Jordan. She seemed to commit very little to paper and even less to her computer. He needed to know what she was thinking if he was to achieve his goal, but it was taking a long time to get a handle on her. So far, he'd managed to avoid an opportunity to tell her about his surveillance on Hart. He was hoping Brandon would get to her first, make her feel vulnerable and put her on the back foot. But it didn't look as if that had happened yet.

"I wouldn't bank on it," Kevin muttered as a hush fell over the room. He turned to see Carol making her way to the front through the serried ranks of officers. Don Merrick followed close on her heels. Kevin thought she was looking better than she had for weeks. Her skin had a glow to it and her eyes were bright.

Carol stopped by the murder board with its photographs of Sandie Foster and Jackie Mayall. She looked at their faces, made a silent promise to herself then turned to face the detectives. She'd been in the office since seven working on the undercover strategy, stifling her personal anxieties about the operation, and she still felt fresh and sharp. After leaving Jonathan, she'd gone straight to bed without even a nightcap. And she'd slept straight through till the alarm woke her at six. No nightmares, no restless tossing and turning. And almost no alcohol. Three glasses of wine with dinner scarcely counted, given her recent levels of consumption. She didn't think she'd climbed a mountain, but she thought she might have turned a corner, offering a new choice of direction.

"Good morning, everyone," she said, her voice clear and brisk. "First, I want to thank you for your hard work over the past few weeks. It's not the fault of anyone in this room that we have made so little progress. We're up against an organized and intelligent killer here, and we've had none of the breaks that open a case up. So it's time for an alternative strategy."

There was a murmur of assent round the room. She saw nods of approval from her own team. She bit back her doubts and fears and carried on. "It's a high-risk operation. It's going to mean a hundred per cent effort from every one of you. But I believe it can bring us results we're not going to get any other way."

Carol opened the folder she carried and took out photographs of Derek Tyler's four victims. She pinned them up on the board behind her then swung back round to face the room. "I know there's been a lot of speculation in the media about a connection between these two recent murders and the series of killings two years ago. At this point, there is no substantive doubt about Derek Tyler's guilt. However, one thing is clear: whoever is responsible for these murders is using Derek Tyler's crimes as a template. There's no point in wondering why. At this point, it's not going to take us any further forward. We simply have to accept that it's the case.

"What it does give us is a very clear idea of the physical type that our killer goes for. These women all have short blonde hair. They're all slim. They're all around the same height and build. These are his chosen victims." Carol straightened her shoulders. "With that in mind, we have decided to mount an undercover operation in an attempt to draw our killer to us." A sudden hubbub of reaction threatened to drown out Carol's words and she raised her voice accordingly. "The first part of that strategy came last night in the Chief Constable's press briefing. His comments were guided by advice from Dr. Hill, and they were designed to goad our killer into action."

She glanced across to Paula and nodded. Paula stood up. "For those of you who don't know her, this is DC Paula Mclntyre. She's going to act as our decoy on the streets."

Paula grinned at the room. Carol's heart lurched. She remembered that gung-ho feeling, and where it had taken her. It was unbearable to think of someone else embarking on the same journey. But at least she could make sure Paula had blanket back-up, something she'd been forced to do without.

Sensing the excitement in the room, she immediately acted to subdue the natural thrill of anticipation provoked by the idea of something that would break the investigative logjam. "I repeat, this is a high-risk strategy. We are going to saturate the area with undercover officers to make sure we keep Paula safe. That is our paramount consideration. If Paula is in any danger, then we abort. I want you all to be crystal clear about that." She glanced at Paula. "The first thing is to get Paula to look the part."

"Hey, Paula, don't get too carried away now," Kevin called.

"All right, Sergeant Matthews, save the adolescent humour for the little boys' room," Carol said wearily. "DS Shields, I want you to go with Paula over to one of the sex shops in Manchester, get her kitted out in the right sort of gear. We're not going to use anywhere local, on the off chance you might be spotted. Then we'll put Paula on the street tonight with full back-up. Don, can you run us through the technical stuff?"

Merrick stepped forward. "Paula will be wearing a wire, naturally. We're also going to mount extra CCTV cameras at either end of the main drag in Temple Fields and at the bottom of Campion Boulevard, where they can't be easily seen. We'll have a team in the surveillance van, and there will be plain-clothes units on the street. We'll stay in close radio contact. And we're trying to arrange it so that the wire feed will also be available in the cars so you will know what's going down."

Carol spoke again. "Like I said, the priority here is Paula's safety. I want you all to bear that in mind. She's taking all the risks. She deserves to know we're looking out for her. She deserves our best efforts. There'll be a full briefing here at six. Some of you mostly the statement readers and the HOLMES team will continue with what you've been doing. Others of you can take the rest of the day off. DI Merrick has your assignments." Carol swept the room with a cool gaze. "This could be our best chance to take this bastard off the streets before he kills again. I'm counting on you."

She didn't wait for questions or comments. Anything she needed to hear would be relayed to her by Merrick, her eyes and ears among the thirty-odd detectives on the team. She concentrated on getting out of the room before her confident facade cracked wide open.

She'd barely made it back to the security of her own office, blinds drawn against the world, when there was a knock at her door. If it's bloody Brandon, I'll scream. "Come in," she said resignedly.

The door opened a few inches and Jonathan France's head appeared. "Have you a minute?"

Flustered and surprised, Carol stammered, "Yes, come in." He slid round the door and closed it behind him. "I didn't expect to see you so soon," Carol gabbled. "Have you got something for us already?"

"Not professionally," he said. "That'll take a little longer." He pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. Carol recognized the logo of a local independent bookshop. He held the bag out to her. "I thought this might interest you," he said.

Curious, Carol took it. She slipped the book from the bag. Lucky by Alice Sebold. She looked up, puzzled.

"It's a memoir of her own experience of rape," Jonathan said. "I don't mean to be presumptuous, but it struck me you might find it helpful." He looked awkward, as if unsure of his ground. "It's not schlocky or sensationalist or sentimental. And it's very well written."

"You've read it?" Carol asked. It wasn't really the question she wanted to ask, but it filled the silence.

He looked faintly sheepish. "Don't tell my rocky colleagues." He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "My sister is an arts bureaucrat. She's always punting stuff my way. I like things that make me think."

Carol turned the book over and read the jacket blurb. She looked up. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome." He backed towards the door. "Look, I'll get off. We've both got work to do. Give me a call, yeah?"

More touched than she could express, Carol nodded. "I'll do that."

"I'll be in touch about the other thing the photograph." He gave her one last smile, then he was gone.

Carol stared at the door for a long time, trying to work out how she felt. His kindness was remarkable, not least because he delivered it with a grace that removed any sense of patronage. She'd enjoyed his company, found him attractive. But somehow, her heart remained untouched. Maybe she wasn't ready. Maybe it was still too soon.

Or maybe it was simply that he wasn't the one she wanted.

Before she could consider the matter further, another knock disturbed her. "Come in," she sighed.

Sam Evans stood in the doorway, his face giving nothing away. "Can I have a word?" he said.

She gestured to the chair. "Take a seat."

He arranged himself in an attitude of confident relaxation. "I thought I'd better come clean before Mr. Brandon spoke to you," he said without preamble.

Carol frowned. "What are you talking about, Sam?"

"Aidan Hart."

"Have I missed something? Only you're not making much sense."

"I know you concluded that Aidan Hart was off the suspect list because of his alibi, but I wasn't convinced. So I've been following him." Evans met her eyes, his mouth twisting in what might have been an apology. "On my own time."

"What?" Carol sounded incredulous.