obody's told you, have they?" Tony said, looking up at her with angry eyes in a pained face.

"What's happened?" she asked, her chest constricting. What had happened now to drill more anguish into him?

"You remember Shaz Bowman?"

Carol nodded with a rueful smile. "Ambition on legs. Blazing blue eyes, uses her ears and mouth in the correct proportion of two to one."

Tony winced. "Not any more she doesn't."

"What's happened to her?" The concern in Carol's voice was still more for Tony than for Shaz.

He swallowed and closed his eyes, summoning the picture of her death and forcing all emotion out of his voice. "A psychopath happened to her.

Somebody who thought it would be entertaining to gouge out those blazing blue eyes and chop off those wide-open ears and pour something so corrosive into that smart mouth that it ended up looking like multicoloured bubble gum. She's dead, Carol. Shaz Bowman is dead."

Carol's face opened in incredulous horror. "No," she breathed. She was silent for a long moment. "That's terrible," she finally said. "So much life in her."

"She was the best of the bunch. Desperate to be the best. And she wasn't arrogant with it. She could work with the others without making it obvious that she was the racehorse among the donkeys. What he did to her, it went straight to the heart of who she was."

"Why?" As she had done so often in their previous case, Carol picked the important question.

"He left her with a computer print-out. A drawing and an encyclopedia entry about the three wise monkeys," Tony said.

Understanding flashed into Carol's eyes, followed swiftly by a confused frown. "You don't seriously think ... That theory she came out with the other day? It can't be anything to do with that, can it?"

Tony rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "I keep coming back to it. What else is there? The only live case we've had anything to do with is your arsonist, and none of them came up with enough to threaten anyone."

"But Jacko Vance?" Carol shook her head. "Surely you can't believe that? Grannies from Land's End to John O'Groats dote on him. Half the women I know think he's as sexy as Sean Connery."

"And you? What do you think?" Tony asked. There was no innuendo in the question.

Carol turned the question over in her mind, making sure she had the right words before she spoke. "I wouldn't trust him," she eventually said. "He's too glossy. Non-stick. Nothing leaves a lasting impact.

He'll be charming, sympathetic, warm, understanding. But as soon as he moves on to the next interview, it's like the previous encounter never happened. Having said that ... "

"You'd never have thought of him as a serial killer," Tony said flatly.

"Me neither. There are some people in public life that you wouldn't feel overly surprised to see on a fistful of murder charges. Jacko Vance isn't one of them."

They sat in silence facing each other across the room. "It might not be him," Carol said at last. "What about somebody in his entourage? A driver, a minder, a researcher. One of those hangers-on, what do they call them?"

"Gofers

"Yeah, gofers right."

"But that still doesn't answer your question. Why?" Tony pushed himself to his feet and started pacing out the perimeter of the room. "I don't see how anything she said in here could conceivably have made it into Jacko Vance's circles. So how did our theoretical killer know she was on to him?"

Carol swung round awkwardly in her chair so she could watch him as he crossed behind her. "She wanted to be a glory girl, Tony. I don't think she was ready to let it drop. I think she decided to follow up her idea. And one way or another, she alerted the killer."

Tony reached the corner and stopped. "Do you know ... " was all he had time for before the door opened on Detective Chief Superintendent Dougal Mccormick. His bulky shoulders almost filled the frame.

An Aberdonian, he resembled one of the black Aberdeen Angus cattle from his native territory: black curls tumbling over a broad forehead, liquid dark eyes always on the lookout for the red rag, wide cheekbones seeming to drag his fleshy nose across his face, full lips always moist. The only incongruity was his voice. Where a deep roar should have rumbled in his chest, a melodious light tenor emerged. "Dr. Hill," he said, closing the door behind him without looking at it. His eyes flickered in Carol's direction then looked a question at Tony.

"DCS Mccormick, this is DCI Carol Jordan from the East Yorkshire force.

We're helping her with an arson inquiry," Tony said.

Carol stood up. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Mccormick's nod was almost imperceptible. "If you'd excuse us, I need a moment with Dr. Hill," he said.

Carol knew when she was being dismissed. "I'll wait down in the canteen."

"Dr. Hill won't be staying on the premises," Mccormick said. "You'd do better to wait in the car park."

Carol's eyes widened, but she simply said, "Very well, sir. I'll see you outside, Tony."

As soon as Carol had closed the door behind her, Tony rounded on Mccormick. "And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Mccormick?"

"What I said. This is my division and I'm running a murder inquiry. A police officer has been ... destroyed, and it's my job to find out who's responsible. There's no sign of forcible entry in Sharon Bowman's flat and, by all accounts, she was no fool. So the chances are she knew her killer. And as far as I know at this point in time, the only people Sharon Bowman knew in Leeds were her fellow officers in the task force, and you, Dr. Hill."

"Shaz," Tony interrupted. "She hated being called Sharon. Shaz, that's what she was called."

"Shaz, Sharon, whatever, it makes little difference now." Mccormick brushed the objection aside with all the casual grace of a bull flicking its tail at a fly. "The point is that you people are the only ones she'd have let in. So I don't want you talking to each other until my murder squad officers have had a chance to interview each and every one of you. Until further notice, this task force is suspended. You will not be authorized to occupy police premises and you are not to communicate with each other. I've already discussed this with Commander Bishop and the Home Office, and we're all agreed that's the appropriate path to go down. Is that clear?"

Tony shook his head. It was all too much. Shaz was dead, horribly dead. And now Mccormick wanted to arrest one of the handful of people who might actually be able to provide a way through to her killer. "You might, by some stretch of the imagination, have authority over the officers in my squad. But I'm not a police officer, Mccormick. I don't answer to you. You should be using our talents, not pissing on us. We can help, man, can't you understand that?"

"Help?" Mccormick's voice was scornful. "Help? What were you planning on doing? I've heard some of the daft ideas your lot have come up with.

My men are going to be chasing leads, not jokes. Jacko Vance, for heaven's sake. You'll be asking us to arrest Sooty next."

"We're on the same side," Tony said, smudges of scarlet rising across his cheekbones.

"Maybe so, but some kinds of help turn out to be more of a hindrance. I want you out of here now, and I don't want you bothering my men. You will report back to this station at ten tomorrow morning so that my officers can interview you formally about Sharon Bowman. Have I made myself clear, Dr. Hill?"

"Listen, I can help you here. I understand killers; I know why they do the things they do."

"It's not hard to work that out. They're sick in the head, that's why."

"Granted, but they're all sick in the head in their own particular ways," Tony said. "This one, for example. I bet he didn't assault her sexually, did he?"

Mccormick frowned. "How did you know about that?"

Tony ran a hand through his hair and spoke passionately. "I didn't know in the sense of being told. I know because I can read things in a crime scene that your men can't. This wasn't a run-of-the-mill sexual homicide, Superintendent, this was a deliberate message to us that this killer thinks he's so far ahead of us he's never going to be caught. I can help you catch him."

"Sounds to me like you're more interested in covering up for your own," Mccormick said, shaking his head. "You've picked up some information at the scene of the crime and turned it into some fancy theory. It'll take more than that to convince me. And I haven't got time to wait till you pick up the next bit of gossip. As far as this station's concerned, you're history. And your bosses at the Home Office agree with me."

Fury drove Tony's normal tools of flattery and appeasement underground.

"You are making one hell of a mistake, Mccormick," he said, his voice rough with anger.

The big detective gave a snort of laughter, "I'll take that risk, son."

He gestured with his thumb towards the door. "Away you go, now."

Realizing he couldn't win on this battleground, Tony bit down hard on the flesh of his cheek. The flavour of humiliation was the coppery taste of fresh blood. Defiantly, he walked over to his locker and pulled out his briefcase, filling it with the missing person files and the squad's analyses. Snapping the lock shut, he turned on his heel and walked out. On his way through the police station, officers fell silent as he passed. He was thankful that Carol wasn't there to witness his rout. She would never have been able to keep the silence that was his only remaining weapon.

As the front door swung shut behind him, he heard an unidentifiable voice behind him call out, "Bloody good riddance."

In a rare moment of lucidity in the ocean of pain, Donna Doyle contemplated her brief life and the foolish trust that had brought her to this place. Regret swelled inside her like a strange tumour, devouring everything it encountered. One mistake, one attempt to follow the rainbow to the pot of gold, one act of faith that was no more preposterous than the one the priest talked about every Sunday, and here she was. Once upon a time, she'd have said she'd do anything for a chance at stardom. Now she knew it wasn't true.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't as if she'd just wanted to be famous for herself. With the fame would have come money, so her mum wouldn't have had to scrimp and save and worry about every penny like she'd had to all the time since Dad had died. Donna had wanted it to be a surprise, a wonderful, wicked, exciting surprise. Now it would never happen. Even if she got out of here, she knew she wasn't going to be a star, not ever. She might be famous for fifteen minutes, like the song said, but not for being a one-armed TV star like Jacko Vance. Even if they found her, she was finished.

They could still find her, she told herself. She wasn't just whistling in the dark, she thought defiantly. They'd be looking for her by now, surely. Her mum would have gone to the police, her picture would be in the papers, maybe even on the telly. People all over the country would see her and search their memory. Somebody would remember her. There had been loads of people on the trains. Half a dozen other passengers had got off with her at Five Walls Halt. At least one of them must have noticed her. All dolled up in her best outfit, she knew she looked tasty. Surely the police would be asking questions, working out whose Land Rover she'd got into? Wouldn't they?

She groaned. In her heart, she knew this would be the last place she would lie. Alone in her tomb, Donna Doyle wept.

Tony sat hunched forward in the armchair, staring into the flickering gas flames of the fake hearth. He was still nursing the same glass of Theakston's he'd had since they'd arrived back at Carol's cottage. She'd refused to take no for an answer. He'd had a shock, he needed someone to discuss the case with, and she needed his input on her arsonist. She had a cat to feed, he had none, so logically their destination should be an hour down the motorway to the outskirts of Seaford.

Since they'd arrived, he'd said barely a word. He'd sat with his eyes on the fire and his mind projecting the film of Shaz Bowman's death.

Carol had left him alone, taking the chance to throw together a packet of chicken breasts from the freezer, a couple of chopped onions and a jar of ready-made cider and apple sauce. She'd put the result into the oven with a couple of baking potatoes and left it on a low heat while she made up the guest bedroom. She knew there was little point in expecting anything more or less from Tony.

She poured herself a large gin and tonic, adding a couple of chunks of frozen lemon, and returned to the living room. Without saying anything, she tucked her legs under her and let the armchair opposite his swallow her up. Between them, Nelson lay stretched out like a long black hearth rug.

Tony looked up at Carol and managed a faint smile. "Thanks for the peace and quiet," he said. "It has a very welcoming ambience, your cottage."

"That's one of the reasons why I bought it. That and the view. I'm glad you like it."

"I ... I keep imagining it," he said. "The process. Tying her up, gagging her. Torturing her with the knowledge that she wasn't going to get out of it alive, not knowing what she knew."

"Whatever that was."

He nodded. "Whatever that was."

"I suppose it brings it all back to you?" Carol said softly.

He let out a long breath. "Inevitably," he said through tight lips. He looked up at her, his keen eyes shining under the jut of his frowning eyebrows. When he spoke again, his voice was a brisk contrast, indicating he wanted to escape the memories that were sometimes almost as bad as the experience itself. "Carol, you're a detective. You heard Shaz's presentation, you were one of the ones who passed judgement on it. Imagine you'd been on the other end of our criticisms. Imagine you're back at the start of your career, with it all to prove. Don't think too hard about this. Give me your gut reaction. What would you do?"

"I'd want to prove you were wrong and I was right."

"Yes, yes," Tony acknowledged impatiently. "That's a given. But what would you do? How would you go about it?"

Carol sipped her drink and considered. "I know what I'd do now. I'd put a small team together just a sergeant and a couple of DCs and blitz every one of those cases. I'd go back and talk to friends, family.

Check out whether the missing girls were Jacko Vance fans, whether they'd gone to the event he was appearing at. If they did, who they went with. What their companions noticed."

"Shaz didn't have either the time or the team for that kind of operation. Think back to what it was like when you were young and hungry," Tony urged.

"As to what I'd have done then ... Given no resources, you have to fall back on your own assets."

Tony gave her an encouraging nod. "Meaning?"

"Smart mouth, fancy footwork. You know you're right, that's the bottom line. You know the truth is out there waiting for the proof to go round it. Me? I'd shake the tree and see what falls out."

"So you'd do what, specifically?"

"These days, I'd probably drop some poison in the ear of a friendly journalist and plant a story that would mean something more to our killer than it would to the casual reader. But I haven't seen any signs that Shaz had those kind of contacts or, if she did, that she used them.

What I'd probably have done in her shoes, if I'd had the bottle, would have been to set up a meeting with the man himself."

Tony sat back in his chair and took a long swallow of beer. "I'm glad you said that. It's the sort of idea I'm always reluctant to bring out into the open in case your lot starts laughing because no self-respecting police officer would dream of doing something so risky either to life or career."

"You think she made contact with Jacko Vance?"

He nodded.

"And you think that whatever she said to him ... "

"Or to someone around him," Tony interrupted. "It might not be Vance.

It might be his manager or his minder or even his wife. But yes, I think she said something to someone in that group of people and she made a killer afraid."

"Whoever it was didn't waste much time."

"He didn't waste time and he's clearly got a lot of nerve to kill her in her own living room. To risk a cry, a scream, the noise of furniture being knocked over, anything untoward in a house split into flats."

Carol sipped her drink, savouring the growing edge of lemon as the frozen fruit thawed completely. "And he had to get her there in the first place."

Tony looked puzzled. "What makes you say that?"

"She'd never have agreed to meet someone she suspected was a serial killer in her own home. Not even with the hubris of youth. That would be like inviting a fox into the henhouse. And if he turned up there later, after the official interview, she'd hit the panic button, not let him in. No, Tony, she was already his prisoner by the time she got home."

It was such flashes of insight backed with impeccable logic that had made Carol Jordan such a joy to work with before, Tony remembered.

"You're right, of course. Thank you." He toasted her mutely with his glass. Now he knew where to start. He finished his beer and said, "Any chance of another one? Then I think we need to talk about your little problem."

Carol uncurled herself from the chair and stretched like Nelson. "You sure you don't want to talk some more about Shaz?" Tony's expression of distaste told her all she needed to know. She went through to the kitchen for another beer.

"I'll save it for your West Yorkshire colleagues tomorrow morning. If you haven't heard from me by teatime, you'd better make sure I've got a decent brief," he called after her.

When she was settled again in the armchair, he dragged his brooding eyes away from the fire and pulled a couple of sheets of lined paper from his briefcase. "At the tail end of the week, I got the squad to work on their idea of a profile for you. They had a day to work up an individual profile, then on Friday, they collaborated on a joint effort.

I've got a copy of it with me, I'll show you later."

"Terrific. I didn't want to say anything before, but I've been working on a profile of my own. It'll be interesting to see how they compare."

She tried to keep her voice light, but Tony heard the desire for his praise, nevertheless. It made what he had to say all the more awkward.

Sometimes he wished he smoked. It would give him something to do with his hands and mouth at times like this.

Instead, he ran a hand over his face. "Carol, I have to tell you that I suspect you've all been wasting your time."

Unconsciously, her chin jutted forward. "Meaning what?" The words were more aggressive than the tone.

"Meaning that I don't think your fires fit into any known category."

"You mean they're not arson?"

Before he could answer, a heavy knock reverberated through the cottage.

Startled, Carol spilled a few drops of her drink. "Are you expecting visitors?" Tony asked, turning to the dark window behind him to see if anything penetrated the darkness outside.

"No," she said, jumping to her feet and moving across the room to the heavy wooden door that opened into the small stone porch. As she unlatched the door, a chill gust of wind filled the room with a cold waft of estuary silt. Carol looked surprised. Beyond her, Tony glimpsed the outline of a large male shape. "Jim," she exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I tried to ring you this afternoon and I kept getting the runaround from Sergeant Taylor. So I thought I might as well head on up here and see if I could run you to earth." As Carol stepped back, Pendlebury followed her in. "Oh, I'm sorry you've got company."

"No, your timing couldn't be better," she said, Waving him towards the fire. This is Dr. Tony Hill from the Home Office. We're just talking about the arson case. Tony, this is Jim Pendlebury, the fire chief in Seaford."

Tony ceded his hand into the bone-grinding grip of a competitive handshake. "Pleased to meet you," he said mildly, refusing the invitation to joust.

"Tony is in charge of the new National Offender Profiling Task Force in Leeds," Carol said.

"Tough job." Pendlebury thrust his hands into the deep pockets of the fashionably oversized mac he was wearing. They emerged with a bottle of Australian Shiraz on the end of each. "Housewarming present. Now we can all discuss our firebug with a bit of lubrication."

Carol fetched glasses and corkscrew and poured wine for herself and Pendlebury, Tony waving his glass to indicate he'd stick with the beer.

"So, Tony, what have your baby boffins got to tell us?" Pendlebury asked, stretching his long legs out in front of him, forcing Nelson to move to one side. The cat gave him a malevolent glare and curled into a ball beside Carol's chair.

"Nothing Carol couldn't work out for herself, I imagine. The problem is that I suspect what they've done is irrelevant."

Pendlebury's laugh sounded too loud in the confines of the cottage. "Am I hearing things?" he said. "A profiler admitting it's all a load of bollocks? Carol, have you got the tape running?"

Wondering how many more times he would have to smile politely while his life's work was denigrated, Tony let Pendlebury wind down before he spoke. "Would you use a screwdriver to drive a fence post into the ground?"

Pendlebury cocked his head to one side. "You're saying profiling is the wrong tool for the job?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Profiling works on certain crimes where the motivation is psychopathic to some degree."

"Meaning?" Pendlebury asked, drawing his legs up and leaning forward, his interest wholly engaged, his face sceptical.

"Do you want the thirty-second version or the full lecture?"

"You'd better give me the idiot's guide, me being a mere fireman."

Tony ran a hand through his thick dark hair, a reflex that always left him looking like a cartoon mad scientist. "OK. Most crimes in this country are committed either for gain or in the heat of the moment, or under the influence of drink or drugs. Or a combination of all of the above. The crime is a means to an end acquiring cash or drugs, gaining revenge, putting a halt to unacceptable behaviour.

"A handful of crimes have their roots in stranger soil. They grow from an inner psychological compulsion on the part of the criminal. Something drives him and it's almost always a him to perform certain acts that are an end in themselves. The criminal act can be as petty as stealing women's underwear from washing lines. It can be as serious as serial murder. Serial arson is one such crime.

"And if what we were dealing with here was serial arson, I'd be the first to defend the value of a psychological profile. But as I was saying to Carol just before you arrived, I don't think you've got your common or garden thrill-seeking firebug in Seaford. It's not a torch for hire either. What you've got here is a beast of a different colour altogether. More of a hybrid."

Pendlebury looked unconvinced. "Want to tell us what you mean by that?"

"I'd be happy to," Tony said, leaning back and cradling his glass in his linked fingers. "Let's eliminate the hired arsonist for a start. While it's true that a handful of the fires have probably been an answer to the building owner's prayers, in the vast majority of cases, there seems to be no financial gain. Mostly, we're looking at massive inconvenience and, in a few cases, positive damage to the businesses or sections of the community affected. They're not grudge fires either different insurance companies, no reason why anyone would have it in for such a wide spectrum of buildings. There's no common link at all, except that the fires were all set at night and up until the last one, they took place in deserted premises. So, no reason to think there is a professional torch for hire behind the blazes. Agreed?"

Carol bent over to pick up the wine and refill her glass. "You'll get no argument from me."

"What if there was a mixture of motives behind the hiring? What if he was hired sometimes for gain, sometimes for grudge?" Pendlebury stubbornly asked.

"Still leaves too many unaccounted for," Carol said. "My team ruled out a torch for hire almost from the start. So, Tony, why isn't it some emotional retard doing it for kicks?"

"I could be wrong," he said.

"Oh, yeah. Your track record is littered with mistakes," Carol said ironically.

"Thank you. Here's why I don't think it's some nutter. All these fires have been carefully set. In most cases, there have been almost no forensic traces, just the identification of the seat of the fire and some indication of lighter fuel and ignition trails. Mostly there's no sign of forced entry either. If there hadn't been such a spate of these fires over a relatively short period of time, chances are most of them would have been written off as accidents or carelessness. That would point to a professional torch, except that we've already written that off for other reasons." He picked up the papers he'd dropped by his chair earlier and gave his notes a quick glance.

"So we've got someone who's controlled and organized, which firebugs almost never are. He brings stuff with him and also uses available materials. He knows what he's doing, yet there's no sign of him having graduated to this from small-scale fires in rubbish tips, garden sheds, building sites.

Then you've got to consider that most firebugs are sexually motivated.

When they set fires, they often masturbate or urinate or defecate at the sites. There have been no traces of that, nor of any pornographic materials. If he doesn't wank at the fire site, he probably does it at the vantage point where he watches the fire from. Again, there are no reports from outraged members of the public of anyone exposing themselves in the vicinities of the fires. So, another negative."

"What about timing?" Carol interrupted. "He's doing it more often than he was when he started out. Isn't that typical of a serial offender?"

"Yeah, it's in all the books about serial killers," Pendlebury added.

"It's less true of firebugs," Tony said. "Especially the ones who go in for the more serious arson attacks like this. The gaps are unpredictable. They can go weeks, months or even years without a big blaze. But within the series, you do get sprees, so yes, the timing of these fires might support the idea that you're looking at a serial offender. But I'm not trying to suggest that these fires are the work of several individuals. I think it's one person. I just don't believe he's a thrill seeker."

"So what are you saying?" Carol said.

"Whoever is setting these fires is not a psychopath. I believe he has a conventional criminal motive for what he's doing."

"So what is this so-called motive?" Pendlebury asked suspiciously.

"That's what we don't know yet."

Pendlebury snorted. "Minor detail."

"Actually, in a sense it is, Jim," Carol chipped in. "Because once we've established that it's not a psychopath operating on unique and personal logic, we should be able to apply reasoning to uncover what's behind the fires. And once we've done that ... well, it's just a matter of solid coppering."

A look of disgruntled annoyance had settled over Jim Pendlebury's face like an occluded cold front on the weather map. "Well, I can't think of any reason for setting these fires unless you get a kick out of them."

"Oh, I don't know," Tony said casually, starting almost to enjoy himself.

"Share it then, Sherlock," Carol urged him.

"Could be a security firm coming round in the wake of the fires offering cut-rate night watchmen. Could be a fire-alarm or sprinkler-system company facing hard times. Or ... " his voice tailed off and he cast a look of speculation at the fire chief.

"What?"