n the giant TV screen, Paula once more stood on a misty street corner. The man in the parka approached and touched her arm. The dialogue boomed out, still crackly but more clear than it had been in Carol's earpiece the night before. Paula and the man rounded the corner and the screen faded to static. The soundtrack continued to the point where it ended as abruptly as a slap to the face. There was absolute silence in the room as the lights went back on. Most of the team looked about as shit as Carol felt. Showtime, she thought, squaring her shoulders and stretching her fingers like a pianist. "OK," she said. "That's the last we saw of Paula. She is still missing. Our job is to find her. Dr. Hill believes the chances are good that Paula is alive. This killer wants his victims found while they're fresh. The fact that we haven't found Paula suggests she's not a victim yet. So let's get to her before that changes. Does anyone recognize that voice? Does that man look familiar? These are the questions we need to be asking. "We have photographs of Paula at the back of the room. There are also stills from the video available to you. And we've got a limited number of microcassette recorders with tapes of the man's voice that you can play to people in Temple Fields, see if we can get an ID that way. There should be more tape machines available later in the day.

"I'm splitting you into three teams. DI Merrick will remain here, collating information as it comes in via statement readers and HOLMES operators. Sergeant MacLeod from uniform will be in charge of the team extracting details from the council tax registers of every property in Temple Fields. DS Shields will be in charge of the team who will interview every tenant and resident in the area, assisted by information from Sergeant MacLeod's team. No stone unturned, people. We've got an officer out there depending on us. And we're not going to let her down." Carol's voice rang out with a confidence she didn't entirely feel. But it was her job to make them feel gung-ho, and she was determined to succeed. As they filed out, she called, "DI Merrick, DS Shields and DC Chen, a word, please."

The remnants of her squad gathered around her. "You've all worked closely with Paula. Is there anyone we should inform about what's happened? Parents? Partner?"

"Her mum and dad live in Manchester," Merrick volunteered. "I can get an address. Do you want me to go and talk to them?"

"No, it's fine, Don. Get me the address and I'll deal with it myself." If anyone's going to get a kicking, it should be me. "So, that's it? Parents, no partner?"

"She hasn't got a girlfriend at the moment," Jan said absently.

Merrick rounded on her angrily. "What do you mean, a girlfriend?"

Jan gave Merrick a pitying look. "A lover, a significant other, whatever. Who happens to be female, in Paula's case."

"Bullshit," Merrick exploded. "Paula's not a dyke."

Jan snorted with laughter. "You're living under her roof and you hadn't noticed she's gay? Call yourself a detective?"

Carol did a double-take. Her DI was living with one of her

DCs? Who happened to be gay? And she'd known nothing of it? There was something seriously amiss with the bush telegraph on this squad, which she'd have to rectify once they had recovered Paula and things had returned to something approaching normal. It wasn't that Carol wanted prurient gossip; simply that, if the squad was to work properly, she had to understand the personal dynamics.

"In your dreams, Shields. You're talking shite," Merrick said contemptuously.

Jan shook her head, her cherub's face registering amusement. "If you say so, Inspector." Merrick glared at her, frustrated.

Stacey, who had been watching the exchange like a Wimbledon spectator, suddenly spoke up. "What does it matter who she likes to sleep with? She's not been abducted because she's gay or straight, she's been abducted because she's a cop and we put her out there to do our dirty work. And I'm going back to my computer to do what I can to put things right. Ma'am?" She looked to Carol.

"I couldn't have put it better myself, Stacey. For Christ's sake, you two, get with the programme. We've got a job to do. Shall we get on with it?"

Tony stared at the man curled up on the bed with his back to the room. Again, Tyler had refused to come either to Tony's office or to an interview room. But this time, Tony was not to be denied. He was going to prise something from the man. If Paula Mclntyre didn't come out of this alive, he knew Carol would never work as a police officer again, and much as he found that idea personally attractive, he knew he couldn't sit idly by while she lost the one thing that had shaped her sense of herself as an adult.

He pulled up a chair close to the bed and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He gathered his thoughts, focused his energies and spoke conversationally. "It's not nice, is it? Knowing you've been dumped in favour of somebody else?" Tyler didn't move a muscle.

"I mean, when you hear voices, the least you expect is that they'll be faithful to you. Not abandon you like a pair of worn-out shoes just because you can't deliver the goods any more." Tyler's leg twitched.

"I can see that's a notion that upsets you. And no wonder. I'd be upset in your shoes. You've been cast adrift, Derek. I bet you thought your voice was going to get you out of here, didn't you? I bet that's why you played the "mad not bad" game, because the voice told you to keep your mouth shut. So one day you could start talking again and we'd think you were cured." A definite movement, Tony thought. The shoulders tightened, the legs drew further up.

"It's a funny thing, but I've noticed over the years that with most people who hear voices, at some level they're using the voice as their excuse. Now me, if I thought the Virgin Mary was telling me to kill prostitutes, I wouldn't do it, because I've got no deep-seated desire to kill prostitutes. But a man who secretly believed prostitutes were evil would use the voice as an excuse to do what he thought was the right thing. Like Peter Sutcliffe claimed when he was trying to play the "mad not bad" game."

Tony deepened his voice, aiming for warmth and sympathy. "But I don't think that's how it was with you, Derek. I don't think you used the voice. I think the voice used you. And now it's using somebody else. Face it, Derek, you're not as special as you thought you were."

Suddenly Tyler uncoiled and rolled over. He jerked into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, his face inches from Tony. Tony maintained his expression of compassion and concern. Time to play his ace. "You've been loyal to the voice, but it's let you down. It's left you here to rot. It's found somebody else to do its bidding. It's betrayed you, Derek. So you might as well return the favour."

The silence dragged out between them for a long minute. Then Tyler leaned even closer. Tony could feel the heat of the other man's breath against his skin. "I've been waiting for you," he croaked.

Tony nodded gently. "I-know, Derek."

His eyes opened so wide Tony could see the iris as a perfect circle against the white. "I'm supposed to be slow. All these doctors, they're supposed to be clever. But they never got it."

"I know'

"They all thought it was the voice of God or something. But I'm not daft, you know. I might be slow, but I'm not daft."

"I know that too. So whose voice was it?"

Tyler's lips curled back in a triumphant sneer. "The Creeper."

"The Creeper?" Tony tried not to show disappointment. "Who's the Creeper?"

Tyler withdrew a few inches and tapped the side of his nose. "You're so bloody smart, you figure it out." Then, in one single fluid movement, he rolled back into his foetal crouch, facing the wall.

If they'd only sussed it out soon enough, it could have been a field day for Bradfield's opportunist criminals. Every available officer was out on the streets in a kaleidoscope of encounters.

On a corner near the sex shop, putting potential customers off, PC Danny Wells: "Have you seen this woman in the past twenty-four hours?" The photograph of Paula, grinning at the camera on a girls' night out with her colleagues. "Do you recognize this man?" The video still. It could be anybody, really, Danny thought. "Listen to this voice. Do you recognize it?" Play, stop, rewind.

In the news agent down the street from Paula's pitch, DS Jan Shields. The Asian behind the counter had the air of a man puffed up with righteous indignation. "Have you seen this woman?" Paula's photo placed on a pile of morning papers. A shake of the head. "Do you know this man?" The video still placed next to Paula. A shrug.

"How do I know? It could be anybody. It could be you," he said insolently.

"Do you own this property?"

"No, I just rent the shop."

"Only the shop? What about the upper floors?"

"Flats. Nothing to do with me."

"OK. I'm going to need the name and contact details of your landlord."

The shopkeeper scowled. "Why is this your business? Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, there's a problem, but it's probably not yours. Can I see your back room?"

Suddenly his bluster was replaced with apprehension. "Why do you want to do that? It's just a storeroom."

Jan, not in any mood to argue, leaned on the counter. "Listen, I don't give a toss if you've got wall-to-wall smuggled fags back there; that's not what I'm looking for. Just let me take a look, OK? Then I'll be out of here. Otherwise, I'll be on the phone to Customs and Excise right now, pal."

He glared at her, then lifted the counter flap to let her through. "I can explain .. ."

And in the offices of Bradfield Metropolitan Council, Sergeant Phil MacLeod. He stood at the head of a group of five officers at the reception desk of the local taxation office. The woman behind the desk looked dubious. "We shut at twelve today. It's Saturday," she said.

"Not today you don't. This is a murder inquiry."

She looked perplexed and frightened. "I don't know what the procedure is," she said.

"It's a matter of public record. All you need to do is show me the council tax register for these streets." Sergeant MacLeod produced a list of the streets of Temple Fields.

"I'm going to have to get my boss."

"Whatever. Just do it," MacLeod snapped.

And in a house converted from former Victorian glory to an aggregate of bed sits DC Laura Blythe. She knocked on a door. No reply. She walked down a hallway smelling of curry and cabbage and knocked on the next door. A bleary-eyed young man in boxers and a T-shirt opened up. Blythe produced her warrant card. "DC Blythe, Bradfield Police. We're looking for woman who has been abducted. I wonder if I might take a look inside your flat?"

"Do what?" He looked flabbergasted.

"I just need to satisfy myself that she's not here."

"You think I've kidnapped somebody?" Incredulity and confusion.

"No, but she went missing very near here and it's my job to eliminate people from our inquiry. So, can I take a quick look?"

"You got a warrant?"

Blythe lowered her voice and went for menacing. "Don't make me get one. I'm having a very bad day." She produced Paula's photo. "I'm not interested in anything else. Just her."

He gave a bemused shake of the head and pushed the door open to reveal the scuzzy chaos within. "She's not my type, love," he said ironically.

Carol stood in the doorway of Tony's office at Bradfield Moor. It looked like everywhere he'd ever worked so crowded with books and paper it was impossible to discern any fundamental architecture. He was like a squirrel, building the same nest around himself year after year. "You left a message on my phone? Sounded urgent."

He looked up from his computer and smiled. "Thanks for coming. I thought you'd just phone."

"I was already heading out of town. I'm on my way to see Paula's parents." She came in and sat down.

"Ah."

"Quite. So, what have you got for me?"

"Tyler talked," Tony said.

"You're kidding," she exclaimed.

"Don't get too excited." He ran through the conversation then looked expectantly at Carol.

She ran her hands through her hair. "The Creeper? That's it?"

He nodded eagerly. "I told you Derek Tyler hadn't got the wit to commit organized of fences like this off his own bat. These murders weren't Tyler's idea. It was never his set-up."

"So we're back to your theory of some puppetmaster pulling Derek Tyler's strings? And now he's back at his old tricks?"

"That's one possibility. It would mean he's found someone as suggestible as Tyler, which can't have been that easy. But maybe he's spent the last two years plucking up the courage to do it himself."

"Oh God," she groaned. "You know how crazy this sounds?"

"I know. But it's the one thing that makes sense of all the information we have. Either the ringmaster has someone new to control or he's doing it himself."

An anxious thought crept into Carol's mind. "What sort of person would be able to control another person to this degree?" she asked, almost reluctant.

Tony frowned. "You'd be looking at a strong personality. Someone with the ability to charm people, to get under their skin. They'd know a lot about brainwashing techniques. They would probably have developed skills in hypnosis."

"Someone like you, in fact?" Carol tried to make it sound like a tease but failed.

Tony gave her an odd look. "They'd have to have better social skills than me," he said ironically. "But yes, a practising clinical psychologist could probably do it." He tilted his head to one side. "Carol, what are you not telling me?"

"Nothing," she said with a nervous laugh. This wasn't the time to mention Evans' obsession with Aidan Hart. First she wanted to figure out what she thought herself. "I need to find the connection to Tyler. Whoever the Creeper is, he was in Tyler's life back then. And I need to get the teams on the streets asking if anyone's-heard of the Creeper."

Tony studied her for a long moment, puzzling over her words. Then he stood up and reached for his coat. "And I need to think. I'm going back to where Paula went missing." He paused on his way out the door. "She's still alive, Carol. I'm sure of it."

And the kaleidoscope shifted. Inside a chi-chi pub with bed-and-breakfast rooms on the upper floors, DC Sam Evans. The publican was thirty-something, shaved head, leather waistcoat over a bare torso and leather trousers, polishing glasses with a bar towel. The questions, the photos and the tape. The publican shrugged. "Doesn't ring any bells, mate."

"So how many rooms do you have?"

"Eight doubles and two singles."

"I'd like to take a look at them."

"Four of them are occupied." The publican put down his towel.

"I'd especially like to take a look at those ones."

The publican leered at Evans. "Into voyeurism, are you, pet?"

Evans leaned on the bar. He fixed the publican with a menacing stare. "When does your licence come up for renewal? Sir?"

And in a room not fifty yards from the pub, Paula lay glassy-eyed on the bed, the fly captured by the spider. Her mouth was so dry her lips were gummed to the gag. Her captor had been back again to change the tape, but this time he'd left her alone, contenting himself with brandishing the dildo in her face. She had never been so afraid in her life. Her mind was beginning to slip its cogs, strange ideas tumbling over each other in her head. What if this was her punishment for doubting Carol Jordan? What if this was her punishment for being gay? Nothing made sense any more. All she lived for was the opening of the door and for it not to be him on the other side of it.

And on the streets that formed the web around the spider's prey, life went on in patterns too deep-set to be altered by the heavy weight of the police presence. People were more cautious than usual, but still the regular transactions continued. Dee had already found another fuck pad to entertain her customers in; that afternoon, she was bouncing mechanically on top of an office furniture sales rep whose wife was walking their two children home from school while he grunted under Dee. Honey was scoring a wrap of heroin from Carl Mackenzie, both of them well aware that the cops swarming the streets wouldn't have cared if it had been a kilo of pure Chinese white.

And a killer was swaggering on the streets of Temple Fields, wrapped in a sense of contemptuous invulnerability.

Alone in the elite squad's room, Stacey Chen noted the arrival of new email. Seeing there was an attachment, she ran it through her personal virus checker, then, satisfied it was safe to do so, she opened it. It came from Nick Sanders, a ranger in the Peak National Park, and included his log from July as well as a couple of dozen photographs of Chee Dale and Swindale. As she flicked through them, another program activated itself. Stacey had set up a capture program to analyse every JPEG file that her machine encountered, classifying them according to camera serial number when it could be found. She planned to offer the software to the paedophile investigation unit to help them sort files from a variety of sources into associated batches so they could see possible connections between different individuals, but she needed to be sure she'd ironed out any bugs first.

As she turned back to the files she'd been working on previously, one of the SO COs came in. "DCI Jordan around?" he asked.

"She's gone to Manchester. Can I help?"

He dropped a file on her desk. "We managed to extract DNA from the contaminated sample on Jackie Mayall. It's a bit degraded not good enough to run against the national database for a positive match, but certainly enough for elimination purposes. It won't nail your guy absolutely, but it'll give you a decent pointer if you get the right man."

"Cheers. I'll make sure she sees it as soon as she gets back," Stacey said absently, her mind already turning back to the task in hand.

She was surprised when she looked back at the screen to see a flashing window in the centre. Camera match it said. She sighed. Probably the same old glitch she'd been trying to solve for a week or two now. Instead of reading a group of images from the same source as a single batch, it was picking each of them up individually and telling her they were in fact matches against something already on the system. She'd thought she'd finally ironed it out, but clearly she'd been mistaken. All it would be telling her was that some of the photos in Sanders' attachment had been taken by the same camera as each other. Hardly earth-shattering stuff, and something she was going to have to work harder to sort out before she could let anybody else loose with the program. With no great hopes, she clicked on the window. And sat there staring, hardly able to believe the evidence of her eyes.

"Holy shit," she muttered, reaching for the phone.

It had taken Tony longer than he would have liked to make it to Temple Fields. As he'd been leaving Bradfield Moor, he'd been collared by Aidan Hart demanding a case conference on one of Tony's patients. "Not now, Aidan," he'd said impatiently.

"Yes, Tony, now. This is one of the mornings you're contracted to work here, after all," Hart had said implacably.

"You know that's just a formality. I put my hours in hell, I put more than my hours in at times that suit me and my patients."

Hart had tried a conciliatory smile. "What's so important that it can't wait a couple of hours?"

Tony ran a hand through his hair. "It's the prostitute killer. He's kidnapped a police officer. I think she's still alive."

"Surely that's a matter for the police? They don't expect you to search for her, do they?" Hart said, aiming for impish irony.

"No. But I've got something from Tyler and I need to figure out how it moves us forward."

Hart looked startled. "Tyler talked to you?"

"A bit. We've got a nickname for the killer. Or at least, the person behind the killer."

Hart's eyes widened. "A nickname?"

"I can't tell you, Aidan. It's still confidential."

Hart's tongue flicked at the corners of his mouth. "I think I understand confidentiality, Tony."

"Even so .. ."

"OK, OK. But what do you mean by "the person behind the killer"?"

Tony frowned. "I haven't got time for this now, Aidan. I need to get into town."

Hart clamped a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Tony. I need you at this case conference." He steered him back down the corridor. "So, what's this about a person behind the killer?"

"It's just an idea. I'm not really ready to talk about it," Tony hedged, uncomfortable at what was starting to feel like an intrusion into the other part of his professional life. He'd clammed up then and sat through the case conference, his spirit chafing but his sense of duty requiring him to support his patient as best he could.

Eventually, however, he'd escaped. Now he was back on the streets of Temple Fields, retracing the steps of Paula's abductor, trying to figure out where he might have come from. As he walked, his lips moved, but he didn't notice the stares he earned from other pedestrians. Twice, he was stopped by police officers, brandishing photos of Paula, officers who were mildly embarrassed when he explained who he was and what he was doing.

"So where is she? Why haven't you given her back to us? You gave us all the others. Why not Paula? We know you've got the power. What are you trying to prove?" he said under his breath as he walked, the questions taking him round in circles that were far smaller than the ones his feet were tracing on the pavements and alleys.

He rounded another corner and walked straight into Jan Shields and Sam Evans, deep in conversation in the lee of a betting-shop awning. Not bothering with preliminaries, he said, "The Creeper what does that mean to you?"

Evans shrugged. "Virginia Creeper? Brothel Creepers?"

Jan shook her head. "Not a clue. Sounds like a nickname, but it's not one I've ever heard."

Tony nodded. "Pimps have nicknames, don't they?"

"Some of them, yeah. But, like I keep saying, we don't have many pimps left around here," Jan said.

"Can you ask around, see if anyone's ever heard it?" Tony asked.

"Sure. But what's the relevance?" Evans asked.

Tony looked about him as if the answer might be lurking in one of the adjacent buildings.

"Tony?" Jan prompted.

"I think it's someone Derek Tyler knew," Tony said, collecting himself. "Someone who might be able to shed some light on these killings."

"I don't remember seeing that in his file," Evans said.

"It's not in his file. He told me himself." Tony was still looking around, his mind already somewhere else.

"You got Tyler to talk?" Evans asked, incredulous.

Distracted, Tony took half a step beyond them. "Not nearly enough," he mumbled. "And I don't think he's going to give me any more till I can prove I deserve it."

He walked away, unaware of their looks of astonishment. He carried on to the end of the street, then traced a path through the lanes and alleys till he was in the place where Paula was last heard. "I thought so," he said. "There had to be a circle."

He leaned against the gate, entirely oblivious of its significance. "You like to send us messages. So why have you gone off the air? You're the Creeper. You love the sound of your own voice. So why aren't you talking to us any more? Is it something we've done? Something we've said? Or is it the opposite?" He groaned and put his head in his hands. "I wish I could work out what the hell is going on here."

Kevin was already waiting for Carol when she returned to the office. She'd driven back from Manchester in the grip of conflicting emotions. Her encounter with Paula's parents had been harrowing. Paula's father, a self-employed electrician, had already been in a state of panic at her request that they both meet her. He was convinced she was coming with news of his daughter's death. Mrs. Mclntyre had seemed frozen, as if trying to hold back time so she wouldn't have to absorb what Carol told her.

Once Carol had explained the situation, her father's fear had turned predictably to anger. He wanted answers that Carol couldn't provide and he wanted to blame someone. Carol weathered the storm of his anger, did what she could to reassure them and eased out of the drab three-bed roomed semi with promises to keep them informed of any developments.

But the encounter had left her drained and guilty. The excitement she'd felt at Stacey's news had made her feel even more guilty; how could she take pleasure in anything when Paula was in the hands of a ruthless killer who savoured death too much to allow her to live indefinitely?

As if that wasn't enough, she had the troubling problem of what to do about Aidan Hart. If Tony's bizarre hypothesis was right and a master manipulator had induced someone else to commit his crimes for him, she couldn't ignore what Sam Evans had uncovered about the clinical director of Bradfield Moor. No one was better placed to know every detail of Derek Tyler's crimes. He'd indisputably been in Temple Fields just before Sandie Foster's murder. And he had precisely the sort of skills Tony had outlined as necessary for that sort of mind control over another.

She knew she should discuss it with Brandon, but until she had something stronger to lay before him, she was reluctant to put herself so firmly in the wrong. She wanted to talk it over with Tony, but she was concerned about the possible conflict of interest. She'd never met Hart herself and knew little about Tony's relationship with his boss. She knew they weren't close, if only because nobody was close to Tony. Except possibly her. But she didn't want to put him in a difficult position if Hart was someone he liked and respected.

So she was glad of Kevin's presence because it meant she had something concrete to do, something that left no brooding space. "Good news, isn't it?" she said, throwing her coat on top of the filing cabinet.

"That Stacey's bloody amazing," Kevin agreed. "It would never have occurred to me to do what she did."

"Me neither. Where is she, by the way?"

"Gone to get a vase. Apparently we don't have one."

Carol did a double-take. "A vase?"

"You know, tall thing, you put flowers in it." The grin was cheeky.

"Thank you, Kevin. And why do we need a tall thing for putting flowers in?"

"Because you got a bouquet," he said, clearly delighted to be scoring a point off the boss.

"I got a bouquet?" she echoed, feeling stupid. "Where?"

He gestured with his thumb in the direction of the main office. "Stacey sat them in her wastepaper basket while she went to get a vase."

Carol was already on her way back into the squad room She rounded Stacey's desk and stopped short at the huge bunch of roses and lilies propped up against the desk. "Oh, fuck," she muttered, reaching for the card pinned to the cellophane.

She ripped it open and her heart sank as she read: Welcome back to the world. You're a very special woman. Love, J. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she said, screwing it into a ball and remembering at the last minute to stuff it in her pocket rather than toss it in the bin. She strode back into her office and gave Kevin a tight smile. "So, what have we got?"