he reached the spot at almost the same moment as Kevin. They crouched down, the better to see what was being pointed out. Below the brambles, dead bracken had been piled in a vain bid to disguise the unmistakable hump of a shallow grave. To one side, the earth had been disturbed, presumably by a fox or badger. At first glance, it looked as if someone had strewn a handful of short grey-white sticks on the soil. But Carol knew different, knew what a scatter of finger bones looked like.

She stood up, head bowed, rain streaking her face. It looked as if they'd finally found Tim Golding. Or Guy Lefevre.

Or both.

Midnight. Carol rubbed eyes made tired by hours of peering at CCTV screens and sighed. They'd done everything Tony had suggested. But they were no further forward than they had been when Brandon had first insisted that they try the undercover. Carol wondered how long he would continue to sanction this level of expenditure and staff on such a labour-intensive operation. Following the discovery in the dale, they had two major murder inquiries on their hands. If the press got a whiff of how many officers were involved in the prostitute killings, there would be an outcry. Hysterical demands that more officers be allocated to the paedophile murders, that saving children was more important than saving hookers. It was logical to devote more attention to the Temple Fields murders at this point, because the killer was clearly active now, whereas the paedophile murderer seemed to be dormant for the time being. But logic was always the first victim when the press got their teeth into a campaign. They needed a quick result, both for morale and so that they could be seen to be throwing every resource at finding Tim Golding's killer. If they couldn't manage that, it would be Carol who would carry the stigma of failure in the eyes of her colleagues and junior officers. It wasn't the sort of start a supposedly elite unit needed, though she suspected there would be plenty who would savour her lack of success.

She pressed the transmission button on her radio and said, "All units, stand down. Tango Charlie two three, pick up DC Mclntyre. Full briefing tomorrow afternoon at four." A man emerged from the cafe bar behind the van and climbed in, driving them back to base. Nobody spoke. They were all too tired and disheartened. When they arrived at the police station, the others filed out, leaving Carol and Merrick slumped in their seats.

Merrick glanced across at her. "We're not going anywhere with this, are we?"

Carol shrugged. "At least it stopped raining. What else is there to try?"

"We should be concentrating on finding Tim's killer. We both know he's going to kill again if we don't find him. And I don't want another kid's blood on my hands."

"The man who killed Sandie Foster and Jackie Mayall is also going to kill again, Don. And he's got a much shorter killing cycle. The women on the streets deserve our protection as much as the kids do. We don't have the right to create a hierarchy of deserving victims. We leave that to the press. We treat them all the same, and we devote our resources where they're most likely to get a result."

From the look on his face, Carol could tell Merrick didn't agree with her assessment. "We can't keep this up indefinitely," he said.

"And if Tony's right, we won't have to. Once our man accepts Paula as a fixture, he'll bite." Carol sounded more confident than she felt.

Merrick pursed his lips. "And until then, we keep putting Paula on the line?"

Carol reached for her jacket and stood up. "It's her call. If she wants out, she only has to say."

"But she's not going to say, is she?" Merrick challenged her. "She's ambitious, she wants to do well. She wants you to think well of her. She sees backing down as bottling it."

"You seem to be very clued up on Paula's thoughts," Carol said. "Has she told you she wants out?"

Merrick seemed embarrassed. "Not in so many words, no. But I can see it for myself."

Carol sighed. Sometimes she couldn't resist the feeling that Merrick had been shoved one rung up the ladder too far. He'd been a terrific sergeant, but he wasn't cutting it as a DI. "Don, you're probably not wrong. But we haven't got the right to pull this rug out from under Paula. She's been asked to do something asked, not ordered and until she says she's reached her limit, she deserves not to have her courage undermined by us second-guessing her. So unless you think she's either a danger to herself or to anyone else, she keeps on keeping on."

Merrick's dark eyes took on a sulky look. "If you say so, ma'am."

"I do, Don. And now'I'm going home to bed. It's been a bitch of a day, and I've got to brief the Tim Golding team first thing in the morning." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Carol cursed herself.

"I was going to ask you about that," Merrick said. "I want you to put me on that inquiry."

Carol shook her head. "No, Don. I need you working this case. There has to be an inspector in charge of the statement readers and the action assignments. Somebody has to have an overview."

"So get someone else," he said impatiently. "Tim Golding was my case. I worked on Guy Lefevre's disappearance too. Nobody's put more into finding those lads than me. I lost sleep over them, I worked my arse off for them. I know those cases inside out. I know the families. And they know me. Anybody else would be starting from scratch. And it would be just another case to them."

Carol considered diplomacy and rejected it. She was too tired to go round the houses. And besides, it would probably be wasted on Merrick. "That's a large part of the reason why I'm not transferring you. We've got a fresh scenario and I want someone running the shop who isn't bringing any preconceptions to it." Merrick recoiled as if she'd slapped him. But Carol ploughed on. "The other reason is that the Foster and Mayall cases are live and ongoing. Bringing someone else in to replace you would mean they'd have the impossible task of reviewing all that's already been done while still trying to keep on top of fresh statements and actions." Belatedly, she tried to soften her response. "Don, I know you took these disappearances very personally. And that's not a bad thing. It means you went the extra mile for

Tim and Guy. But now it's time to step back. Sandie and Jackie had families too. They deserve answers as much as the Goldings and the Lefevres. And I need you by my side on this one."

Merrick looked momentarily as if he wanted to argue. Instead his shoulders slumped and he stood up, bending over so he wouldn't crack his head on the roof of the van. "I'll see you in the morning, ma'am," he said bitterly. Then he was gone, leaving her to contemplate another piece of botched staff management.

"What a fucking day," she said under her breath as she climbed out of the van and made for her car. She'd stood over a child's grave, then driven to the Goldings' home to tell them that in all probability it belonged to their son. Next she'd had to break the news to Jonathan before he heard it on the radio or the TV. Then four hours stuck in a van in an atmosphere pregnant with expectation. And now she'd pissed off her number two. Her nerves were shot. She needed a large drink, and she needed it soon.

The last thing she expected when she pulled up outside the house was to see Jonathan huddled over his motorbike. She glanced up at Tony's windows and was reassured to see they were all dark. She stifled a groan and got out. As she approached, he dismounted stiffly, stretching his long limbs and straightening his spine. She couldn't help admiring the sight. "This is a surprise," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realize you'd be working this late. But once I'd waited an hour .. ." He shrugged and spread his hands.

"There's nothing more I can tell you, Jonathan. We don't have a positive ID yet, never mind a cause of death .. ."

"I didn't come because I wanted more information," he said. "I came because .. . well, I just couldn't settle. The whole thing kept going round in my head, and I thought how much worse it must be for you, and I thought it might help both of us .. ." He saw the look on her face and began to turn away. "Obviously I was wrong."

"No, no," she said hastily. "I was just taken aback, that's all. I'm not used to .. ." Her voice tailed off.

"People regarding you as human?"

She sighed. "Something like that. Now you're here, would you like to come in for a drink?"

He looked uncertain. "It's late, you probably want to get some sleep."

"Both of those statements are true, but the first thing I was planning to do was to pour myself a very large glass of wine. You're welcome to join me."

"If you're sure?"

Carol shook her head in mock exasperation. "Can we not waste good drinking time standing here talking about it?"

She'd thought the ceilings in her flat were relatively high, but Jonathan had barely a few inches of clearance. He sat down hastily, looked around her living room and smiled. "You've not been here long, have you?"

Carol pulled a face. "Does it feel so unlived in?"

"It's not that, it's just that there's no clutter. Me, I can make a place look like the wreck of the Hesperus in three days."

"I'm not greatly given to clutter," Carol said. "But what there is of it is in my London flat." She spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the fridge. "White wine or beer?"

"Wine, please. So are you planning on selling your London flat?" he called after her.

Carol came back with the bottle and two glasses. "Not sure yet. Right now it feels like too much of a commitment." She handed Jonathan a glass and poured the wine. She turned on the CD player and slotted in Arvo Part's Alina, then sat down next to him. There was enough distance between them for the decision not to seem weighty. The lambent notes of the piano and violin eased the way into conversation.

"How do you get through this stuff?" he asked.

"I just open my mouth and swallow," Carol joked. "It's not that bad, is it?"

"You know that's not what I meant. OK, we'll talk about something else."

"I'm sorry. I get so used to flippancy and graveyard humour I sometimes find it hard to shake off. You waited for hours in the cold, you deserve an answer. Except that I don't really have one. Some cops drink too much. Some focus so hard on catching the person who did it that they deliberately lose sight of the victim. Some go home and hug their kids. Some go home and beat their wives. And some crack up."

"And you? What do you do?"

Carol stared into her glass. "I try to turn the anger into positive energy. I try to feed off it, use it to drive myself to the edge of exhaustion and beyond."

"Does that work?"

Carol could feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes. "I don't know any more. I don't know a lot of things any more. Things I thought were bred in the bone. Now they sometimes feel like fairy tales I used to tell myself to stop me being afraid of the dark."

He reached out and curled his arm round her shoulders. Without hesitation, she moved against his side. "You haven't lost it, you know. You're still a good person. And a good cop."

"How would you know?"

"I saw you out there today. I saw how you managed the scene without anybody realizing you were doing it. And with all that going on, you still found the time to be kind to me. And here you are, being kind to me again."

Carol sighed, an exhalation that seemed to come from the very core of herself. "Doesn't it occur to you that the person I'm being kind to is myself? Jonathan, I don't want to be alone tonight."

She felt his muscles tense. "You mean .. .?"

Another deep, heartfelt sigh. "Yes, that's what I mean. But,

Jonathan .. ." She pulled away so that she could see his face. "Only if you're absolutely sure you're not in love with me."

Just after five, Tony abandoned the unequal fight against wakefulness He'd been drifting in and out of sleep for a while, troubled by thoughts of Tim Golding. And Guy Lefevre, the child almost forgotten in all the excitement. The message Carol had left telling him about the discovery in Swindale hadn't specifically asked him for help, but he had promised her he would look at the scene and he felt Bradfield police were still in credit on that case. He'd been asked for a profile in the early stages by Don Merrick, and he was painfully aware that he'd only been able to provide a very limited outline. That hadn't been his fault; he'd said right from the start that he needed more data before he could be of much use. But now he had more information, and a visit to Derbyshire would offer even more. It should be possible to come up with something a little more detailed.

He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head. The room was dark, but that was fine. He didn't have to see to think. He ran through what he thought he knew about the man who had taken Tim Golding and killed him. And probably done the same previously to Guy Lefevre. It would have been a man. There was an infinitesimal degree of doubt on that point. It was always about probabilities. But you had to keep an open mind at the same time, because the nature of sexual homicide was also very particular; it was about appetites that didn't occur often enough to form a proper statistical base.

So, a man. In age, anywhere between his late twenties and his early forties. It took time to mature into this kind of killer. Teenagers and men in their early twenties were often sexual predators but seldom took it to the point of no return. Sometimes they became murderers almost by accident, when restraining their victims went too far and ended in death. If they liked the way it made them feel, then the next time it wouldn't be an accident and another serial killer would be walking the streets. But mostly that first time was deliberate. And it took time for a man's fantasies to develop the commanding power that would drive him to take a life. So it was mostly safe to assume a higher starting age than for rape or sexual assault. The upper limit wasn't arbitrary either. By their mid-forties, the urgent rage of youth had faded or been dulled by alcohol. If they hadn't started killing by then, the chances were they were never going to take that step.

The fucked-up childhood was more or less a given too. Of course, it was possible to have all the markers without growing up to embrace the darkness. Tony knew that only too well; anyone examining his own past would have found a series of indicators that, in another man, would have been the first steps on the tortuous route to psychopathy. For him, they had provided the foundation of his empathy with those who had ended up on a different path. He was never entirely sure where the crucial fork in the road had been, but he had ended up a different kind of hunter. And just as the serial killer had a sure instinct for his victims, so Tony had an apparent sixth sense for tracking his prey. In spite of his public insistence that his was a scientific approach, he was well aware that his most crucial insights were drawn directly from the well of intuition. He was practised in hiding this aspect of his work; Carol was probably the only person who understood and forgave it.

So what could he safely say now about the abductor of Guy Lefevre and Tim Golding? Gender, age. Probably a loner, probably with superficial social skills but an inability to make deeper personal connections. He was at home in the countryside; he'd known a location isolated enough for a killing ground, and he'd known the area well enough to feel safe about parking in a public car park and transporting the boy a mile through the landscape to the final destination. He must have known there would be few people around at that time of the morning. But he was also comfortable in the environs of the city, since it was assumed he'd lifted Tim from a street in broad daylight.

At that point, Tony's thoughts stumbled. Assumption wasn't fact. There had been no witnesses. The cops had struggled to believe it could have happened without someone seeing something, even though there were precedents in this sort of case. The notorious child abductor and murderer Robert Black had snatched at least two of his victims from the street without anyone noticing. But what if it hadn't happened like that?

Tony reviewed the evidence. Guy had gone off into woodland to search for birds' nests. He'd never been seen again, though his map of the nests had been found near the canal. Tim had told his friends he was going down to the railway embankment to watch the freight trains. The women at the bus stop said they thought they'd glimpsed his yellow football shirt between the trees. What if their killer hadn't been in a vehicle on the streets? What if he'd been on the embankment or in the woods, waiting, ready with some tale that would enrapture a young boy and make him come willingly? Maybe a particularly exotic nest, or some piece of railway machinery? Interestingly, both locations were connected by transport links to the Derbyshire peaks, only a dozen or so miles from Swindale, though not links that the killer could have used. The canal led to a railhead with a direct line down into the dales. And that particular spur of the railway line led to a quarry on the fringes of the Peak District.

Galvanized by the thought, Tony jumped out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and hurried through to his study. He wanted to get something down on screen, to make his ideas concrete so he could present them to Carol before the morning briefing he knew she'd be leading. They could discuss them over a coffee before she left for work.

While he waited for the computer to boot up, he ran downstairs and brewed some coffee. Mug in hand, he went back upstairs and crossed to the window to stare out at the sky while he marshalled the words he wanted to express his insight.

But it wasn't the sky that drew his eyes like a magnet. It was Jonathan France's motorbike, the one incongruity in a street scape Tony had already grown familiar with. The bike squatted between Carol's car and the next-door neighbour's people carrier, imposing its presence with all the malevolence of a tank on the streets of Baghdad. Tony felt as if the breath had been sucked out of him, leaving him hollow.

Then emotion surged in, raw and relentless. It was more than jealousy; it was ragged pain, tearing at him like lacerating claws. It's your own fault. Because you couldn't give her what she needed. Because you're a pathetic excuse for a man. Because you led her into the lion's den but you couldn't rescue her. Because love is only worth something if the actions match the words.

Tony hurled his mug at the door, splattering the fresh paintwork and the nearby books with coffee. "Fuck it," he shouted. Then he threw himself into his chair and pulled his keyboard towards him.

Don Merrick was on his second cigarette of the morning when Paula pushed open the kitchen door. Her hair stuck up in an angled wedge on one side of her head, her eyes were puffy with sleep and her navy dressing gown had a streak of toothpaste on the lapel. "How the fuck do you get to look so sorted first thing?" she grumbled on her way to the kettle.

"It's something to do with shaving," he said. "Even when you feel like shit, when you've had a shave you look better."

"I'll have to give it a try some time," Paula muttered.

"You not sleeping?" Merrick asked.

Paula coughed and poured boiling water on instant coffee. "I'm OK once I get off. But that seems to be taking a while." She sniffed, added milk to her drink and plonked herself down at the table opposite him. She reached for his cigarettes but he adroitly swiped them out of her reach.

"Slippery slope, Paula. You start cadging fags this early in the day, you'll be back on two packs before you know it." He wagged a finger at her.

"Grrr." She snarled, showing her teeth. "I didn't realize I was inviting my mother to stay."

"Your mother wouldn't have fags for you to nick. So, what are you planning to do today?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Might go down to the Spa, have a swim, see if I can get a massage. I need to do something to make me feel good about my body after two nights on the meat rack."

"You don't have to do this, you know."

Paula gave him a sidelong look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you could say you've had enough. That it's freaking you out."

Paula snorted. "Yeah, right. What a good career move that would be."

Merrick's expression mingled concern and sympathy. "Jordan would understand. She knows what it's like, she was on the sharp end when it all went pear-shaped. She's not going to hold it against you."

"Even if you're right which I'm not convinced of, by the way that'd barely be fine if Jordan was the only senior cop in the world. I walk away from this, I'll always be the girl whose bottle went."

"Better that than you end up as fucked up as Jordan." Merrick studied the table. "I'd never live with myself if anything happened to you on this one, Paula."

Paula squared her shoulders. "Get over it, Don. This is about you, not me. I'm holding together. I can do this." She pushed the chair back, its legs grating on the tiled floor. "You've got to stop trying to be the knight in shining armour. You can't save the world, Don. Concentrate on saving yourself." She looked at the clock as she stood up. "Isn't it about time you were getting a move on? Isn't there a briefing on Tim Golding at nine?"

Merrick grunted. "I'm not invited to the party. Jordan wants me to stick with the hooker murders. She wants a fresh pair of eyes on Tim Golding."

Paula felt for him. She knew how much of himself he'd poured into the hunt for the boy. "I'm sorry, Don. But maybe it's for the best. That case really ripped into you."

He looked up at her, eyes wounded. "So you think I blew it too?"

"Of course not. If they do crack it now, it'll be on the shoulders of your groundwork. Maybe Jordan's right, maybe she's wrong. But I'm your friend, and I'm glad you're not going there again." She leaned over and hugged him, her breasts swinging against his chest. Hastily, she pulled back, embarrassed by the sudden flare of surprised interest in his face. "I'll see you in the afternoon briefing, then."

Merrick watched her go, conscious of her backside moving under her robe. He'd been disciplining himself, not allowing himself to appreciate her body, her air of contained sexuality. But now, finally, he was beginning to wonder whether he was in with a chance after all, whether her offer of the spare bed was really the disinterested kindness of a friend or something more. It was a cheering thought to take with him to the grimness of the murder room.

Carol waltzed into the station, conscious that her mood was not appropriate to what her day held. For the moment, she didn't care. She'd moved mountains in the night, shifted her world on its axis and she was going to savour the feeling for as long as she could. It wasn't that Jonathan had been the greatest lover she'd ever had; he'd been too cautious, too solicitous, too damn anxious about his steps in the ritual dance. The cynical cop's reaction occurred to her: perhaps he had culled his textbook responses from the very book he'd given her. Even if that were true, it didn't really matter. What was important was that she'd crossed the invisible, intangible line that had separated her from a crucial part of herself. She hadn't exorcized the rape. But she'd moved beyond it. Her body was hers again.

Jonathan had left shortly after six, and she hadn't been sorry to see him go. He'd tried to pin her down to another date, but she'd sidestepped neatly, calling on work to shelter her from an encounter she didn't want. She liked him well enough, but she didn't want to slip heedlessly into some sort of relationship with him. He wasn't the one she wanted to be with; but she'd always known that she couldn't expect Tony to be the one to bring her back to sex. That was a journey she would have to make without him. But having made it opened possibilities for them that had been closed down since Berlin.

She took the stairs two at a time and walked into the squad-room radiating confidence and good humour. Stacey glanced up casually from her computer at her entrance then did so obvious a double-take that it was almost comic. "Good morning, Stacey," Carol said cheerfully.

"Morning, ma'am," Stacey said automatically.

"I've got a good feeling about today," Carol said. "You know how sometimes it feels like this is going to be the day when something breaks, when finally we get what we need to move forward?" Stacey nodded. "Well, that's exactly how I feel this morning."

"Dr. Hill sent a document file for you," Stacey said, not sure how else to respond to what seemed like unfounded optimism. Machines she could do; but people left her bemused, constantly searching for a way to exert the same mastery she applied so effortlessly to the cyber world.

Carol's mood sobered suddenly. "What is it?" she asked.

"He's done a profile on the Tim Golding case. I printed it out. It's on your desk."

"Thanks." Carol was already moving, making for her office. She snatched up the print-out as she shrugged out of her coat and started reading. At once, she recognized the familiar opening disclaimer:

Re: Tim Golding

The following offender profile is for guidance only and should not be regarded as an identikit portrait. The offender is unlikely to match the profile in every detail, though I would expect there to be a high degree of congruence between the characteristics outlined below and the reality. All of the statements in the profile express probabilities and possibilities, not hard facts.

A perpetrator of sexual homicide produces signals and indicators in the commission of his crimes. Everything he does is intended, consciously or not, as part of a pattern. Uncovering the underlying pattern reveals the killer's logic. It may not appear logical to us, but to him it is crucial. Because his logic is so idiosyncratic, straightforward traps will not capture him. As he is unique, so must be the means of catching him, interviewing him and reconstructing his acts.

This is a supplement to the draft profile I prepared earlier at the request of Dl Merrick. As I stated previously, the perpetrator is likely to be male, between the ages of 27 and 42. He will probably live alone. It is likely that he has superficial social skills but he is unlikely to be capable of forming close friendships with either sex. In this case, given the age of the victim, I believe it to be unlikely that he has ever had a sexually functional relationship with any adult. He will have obsessive personal traits and may have an interest in the sort of hobby that provides an outlet for obsessional list-making such as train spotting birdwatching or philately. He is probably intelligent and functional enough to hold down a job, but it will not involve teamwork. He will prefer a role that allows at least the illusion of autonomy -and will ideally spend much of his working day alone.

I believe that the same perpetrator is responsible for the abduction and probable murder of Guy Lefevre. However, given that only the body of Tim Golding has been discovered to date, I will confine myself initially to the specifics of his case.

It is clear that the killer is very familiar with the crime scene. He knew that the car park would be deserted at the time of day he chose to arrive. He knew he would be able to transport Tim Golding to Swindale without interference. He knew he would be able to use Swindale for his purposes without interruption. Therefore he must have a high degree of familiarity with the area. By taking Tim Golding to this particular spot, the killer is signalling that this is his place, somewhere special to him. When looking at suspects, a search of their home/workplace/computer will almost certainly uncover photographs or even paintings of the dale. I would suggest canvassing universities to see whether their field trips include Swindale; local amateur geological societies; climbing organizations; old railway enthusiasts; and of course, the Peak National Park ranger service, who, as well as being familiar with the area, are likely to know which other groups frequent Chee Dale and Swindale. I would also recommend a trawl of the literature; guide books, rambling publications. If this trawl proves negative, it strengthens the case against any putative suspect who can be shown to be familiar with the terrain.

It is likely that the killer may previously have attempted to lure other victims to Swindale. I would recommend checking with local police for any reports of stranger approaches to children in this area. The killer may have used the children's natural curiosity about their environment to draw them in (see below).

I have been giving further consideration to the means of Tim Golding's abduction. Given the absence of witnesses to support the theory that he was snatched from the street, and given we now know we have a perpetrator who is comfortable in a more rural environment, I would suggest that the killer made his contact with the victim AFTER he had left the street and made his way down the railway embankment. Given his familiarity with the countryside, the perpetrator could have found a credible approach to the boy along the lines of having something to show him: a fox's earth, a badger's sett, a bird's nest. (This is even more probable in the case of Guy Lefevre, who was looking for birds' nests at the time of his disappearance.) Alternatively, playing on the boy's interest in trains, he could have posed as a railway enthusiast or employee promising him access to some special treat. There are several points further down the line where it would have been easy to take a child from the trackside to a parked vehicle with a low risk of being seen. In support of this contention, I offer the fact that this freight line runs away from Bradfield in the direction of the Peak District. Its terminus is a mere dozen miles as the crow flies from Swindale. The line moves from what we know now is our perpetrator's territory into Tim Golding's home territory. This is a connection that should not be ignored. We should also therefore consider the possibility that the perpetrator may be a railway worker or a railway enthusiast, particularly since part of the route he must have walked Tim Golding down is a former railway track.

He is more likely to live near the body dump than to the place where he originally picked up Tim Golding. He is more comfortable in the country than in an urban environment.

The perpetrator will also have private access to a computer. Given that the image of Tim Golding ended up on the computer of a known paedophile, it would be worth liaising with colleagues involved in the investigations into internet child pornography. It may well be that they have cases pending against others who have seen images of Tim Golding. These offenders may be willing-to reveal their sources in exchange for some sort of deal. It may also be that in the vast volume of information held by Operation Ore but not yet acted upon is the name of our perpetrator. It may be worth running any names that crop up in the Tim Golding investigation against those in Operation Ore's databanks.

Finally, I would like to return to the disappearance of Guy Lefevre. As previously outlined, I believe there is a strong likelihood that whoever was responsible for the abduction of Tim Golding was the same person who took Guy Lefevre. That being the case, I think it is extremely likely that Guy's body will also be found in Swindale. The killer is clearly comfortable with his choice of body dump and his ability to get his victims there. It's likely he had already tested it out on Guy. When Tim's remains are clear of the grave, I suggest exploring the area immediately beneath him. If that produces no result, I would recommend widening the search to the rest of the dale.

Carol reread the profile. "Thank you, Tony," she said softly. As always, his concision and his insight had moved her inquiry further forward. She could go into the briefing this morning with a series of positive suggestions. Hitting the team with definite lines of inquiry always provoked their best work.

The only thing niggling at the back of her mind was why he had chosen to email the profile to her rather than bringing it in himself and going through it with her. They had always found it productive to test his hypotheses in argument and discussion. And there was no mention of a proposed visit to the crime scene. It cut into her good mood and made her feel uneasy.

Carol shrugged the thought aside and picked up her phone.

"Stacey, can you find out who's in charge of the SO COs we've been working with in Derbyshire? I need them to go back to Swindale and look for another body."

Evans was looking pleased with himself. "It's a start, at least," he said. They were sitting in a tearoom in Tideswell, a pile of hot buttered tea cakes on a plate in front of them next to a couple of slices of lemon meringue pie. Kevin had arrived first after supervising the further excavation of Tim Golding's grave. A mere fifteen inches below the first set of bones, more human remains had been unearthed. Carol Jordan had been right on the money, Kevin thought, pleased that his boss was so evidently back on form.

Now a full fingertip search of Swindale was under way. Two dozen cops were still on their hands and knees in protective white suits inching through the vegetation. Kevin felt he deserved self-indulgence after two hours standing in the rain feeling the waves of hatred from the officers Derbyshire had loaned them for the search, but Evans seemed oblivious to the treats on the table.

"Run it past me," Kevin said.

"OK. I tracked down one of the three rangers who covers this patch. Nick Sanders, his name is. He told me that he had a report from some hikers earlier this summer of a flasher down that end of Chee Dale, near the entrance to Swindale. They'd spotted him exposing himself to a bunch of kids, and they chased him. But they lost him. Said he just seemed to disappear into thin air. Which of course fits with the entrance to Swindale. Later that afternoon, Sanders ran into them when he was doing a routine patrol and they gave him a description." Evans flipped open his notebook and read it out. "Early thirties. About five foot eight or nine, slim build, dark hair, bald on top. Wearing a Leeds Rhinos shirt, blue jeans and trainers."

"It is a start, I suppose," Kevin said, reaching for a tea cake

"But it's not like we're going to pull him based on that description."

"We could release it, though. Somebody might recognize it."

Kevin looked sceptical. "Did Sanders report it to the local lads?"

Evans' lip curled in contempt. "No. He says he meant to but it slipped his mind."

"Great. Fucking wooden tops out here."

"But he logged it in his daily report. He's going to email me a copy of it when he gets back to base. He's also going to email me a set of photos the rangers took of Swindale and Chee Dale back in July."

"What were they doing taking pictures down there?"

"It wasn't just there specifically. They did a photographic record of the whole of that part of the Wye Valley. Him and the other two guys who cover this patch were proposing a series of footpath improvements and they wanted to back it up with photographic evidence of the effectiveness of work that had been done in the past. Plus where it needed to be done now. He also told me that there was a team of conservation volunteers working in that part of the dale back in May. He didn't have names, but he says the Peak Park HQ should be able to provide those."

"Helpful bloke, your Nick Sanders," Kevin said. "I wish the turnips Derbyshire sent us were as keen to do the business. Talk about "send in the clowns .. ."

"He seemed genuinely upset about Tim and Guy," Evans said. "Nearly as upset as he was about the idea of somebody fucking with his precious park."

"Nice work, Sam. So, have you got the other two rangers lined up for a chat?"

Evans glanced at his watch. "Sorted. Gotta meet one in half an hour. Some place called Wormhill. Sounds tasty. The other one's on his day off today; I'll catch him first thing in the morning."

"Better tuck in, then. Can't be expected to work on an empty stomach."

Evans reached for a tea cake "It'd be nice to nail this one. Make up for missing out on the action in Temple Fields."

Kevin snorted. "What action? That's turning into the biggest waste of time and money this side of the Yorkshire Ripper inquiry. A career graveyard, that's what that one's going to be, mark my words. A career graveyard."

"It's brass monkeys out here." Paula's words crackled in Carol's ears. She felt for the young DC. It was hard to imagine a worse night to be out on the streets. Freezing fog hung over the canal, sending tendrils of chill mist into the streets of Temple Fields. Moisture almost too fine to merit the name rain soaked through clothes, plastering Paula's hair to her head. There were few pedestrians, and those there were hustled down the street, heads down, umbrellas up. In all conscience, Carol knew she couldn't keep Paula out there for four hours. She made a mental promise to herself to knock it on the head at ten.

"Rather her than me," Jan Shields muttered.

"She looks better in a miniskirt than you would," Merrick commented.

"And light years better than you would, Don," Carol pointed out. She chuckled suddenly. "Hey, remember when you guys had to stake out the gay club on the Thorpe case? You made such a sweet leather queen, Don."

"All right, all right, point taken," he grumbled.

"Hang about, looks like we've got some action," Jan said urgently.

The man had been walking down the street, snorkel parka hood pulled over his head, hiding his face. There was nothing suspicious about that in itself on such a night. But as he approached Paula, he slowed down. He came up to her from the side, obviously moving so quietly she hadn't heard his approach. He stretched out a gloved hand and touched her, one finger on her arm.

"Jesus Christ, are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?" Paula's voice, loud and clear. She turned to face him.

"You working?" The man's voice was barely audible. It sounded muffled, as if he was speaking through a scarf.

"What does it look like?"

"I'm looking for something a bit unusual. You up for that?"

"Depends what you have in mind."

"I'm willing to pay. Up front." His hand emerged from his pocket. It was impossible to tell from the cameras what he was holding.