allum Donaldson felt right. He fit the profile. He lived alone in a remote cottage between Chapel-en-le-Frith and Castleton. He was an avid birdwatcher who often led school trips into the Peak Park to show them the bird life. He was technologically adept he had a state-of-the-art computer and a pager that automatically alerted him to the arrival of any rare species in the UK. Kevin had found him awkward and uncomfortable in their preliminary interview, and if he'd had to pick a killer from the three, Donaldson would have been his chosen one.

He gathered his papers together and walked into the interview room. He'd barely started the twin tape-decks and made the formal introduction when Bronwen Scott said, "My client wishes to make a statement."

Kevin couldn't hide his surprise. He smiled, wondering if it was really going to be that easy after all. "Fine. Let's hear it."

Scott perched a pair of rimless glasses on the end of her nose and cleared her throat. "My name is Callum Donaldson and I am employed as a ranger with the Peak National Park Service. I wish to make a statement regarding a Canon Elph digital camera which is presently in my possession. I purchased this camera on approximately 15th September of this year from my colleague Nick Sanders."

Scott paused and looked up. Kevin understood she was enjoying the sight of the rug being pulled out from under his feet and he struggled to remain impassive. She allowed herself a tight little smile and continued. "I paid him one hundred and fifty pounds for the camera. I paid this sum by cheque. The transaction took place in the Red Lion pub in Litton. Among those present were David Adams of Litton Mill and Maria Tomlinson, also of Litton Mill. I am willing to allow access to my bank records to verify this transaction and I am confident that David Adams and Maria Tomlinson will remember the occasion since we all took photographs with the camera in the pub that night."

Scott handed him the statement, written out in her neat italic hand. "Duly signed and witnessed," she said. "How soon will you be releasing my client?"

Kevin stared dully at the piece of paper, seeing his good night crumble before his eyes. He knew he should still ask his prepared questions, but suddenly time was of the essence. "I'll need to speak to DCI Jordan," he stalled. "Interview terminated at seven forty-three p.m.," he added, getting to his feet and hurrying out.

He ran down to the custody suite. "When did you let Sanders go?" he asked the sergeant.

"When you said. About forty minutes ago," the sergeant said.

"Who's driving him back?"

"They both declined the offer of transport. Said they'd seen enough of us for one day, they'd rather get back under their own steam."

"Fuck," Kevin exploded.

"We got a problem?"

"Too fucking right. We've let the wrong one go," Kevin growled. He reached across and grabbed the phone. "I need to speak to Buxton CID," he told the switchboard. When the phone was finally answered, he identified himself then said,

"I need to speak to DC Thom .. . What do you mean, he's gone home?" After a prolonged conversation that led Kevin through three different officers, he finally secured a reluctant promise to go to Nick Sanders' cottage in Chelmorton and rearrest him when he arrived back home. Provided Kevin could have the request ratified by a senior officer.

He took the stairs two at a time and found Carol in her office, signing off on a stack of paperwork. She looked up expectantly, knowing how confident Kevin had been of a result. Quickly, he outlined what had happened. "Oh, Christ," Carol said, making no attempt to hide her dismay. "Not your fault, Kevin, but .. . oh, Christ. Leave it with me, I'll speak to Derbyshire. And you'd better release Donaldson on police bail before Bronwen Scott starts waving the bloody Human Rights Act at us."

As she watched Kevin go, she thought, Actually, it was my fault. They should have waited until they had the search results in from Derbyshire before interviewing the three men. But Kevin had been eager to get going and he was concerned that Derbyshire would drag their heels over the searches out of sheer bloody-mindedness. And because of the terms of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, they could only hold the men for thirty-six hours before they'd have to go before the magistrates who would probably not understand the complex evidence relating to the camera and so would throw out the request for extended custody. Kevin had told her Derbyshire were becoming increasingly restive at what they perceived to be the big city boys expecting them to do the shit work. So, against her better judgement, she had sanctioned a series of preliminary interviews.

Carol squeezed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She was making too many mistakes. It wasn't like her. It frightened her, with Paula's life at stake. Screwing up was bad enough on its own, but concern over screwing up could make her hesitate fatally; failure to reach a decision could be as damaging as making the wrong one in a case of this sensitivity. She sighed and made the call to Derbyshire. Then she reached for her coat. Time to go and see what Tony was being so mysterious about. And maybe she could get at least one of her worries off her chest at the same time.

She stopped in at the murder room, where Merrick was still ploughing through statements, his eyes heavy, his shoulders bowed. He looked up as she entered and slowly shook his head. Carol moved round the room, a supportive word for everyone. She ended up at his side, a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find her, Don," she said. "Why don't you go home and get some rest?"

His face twisted in pain. "Home? Ma'am, I'm living in her house. Going home just makes it worse. It feels like a reproach."

Carol cursed herself for her insensitivity. "Can't you go back to Lindy and the kids? Just for a few nights?"

"Too late for that. She's not even speaking to me."

Carol squeezed his shoulder. "Check yourself into a hotel, Don. Charge it to the inquiry. But get some rest, please."

He gave her a crooked smile. "I will if you will, ma'am."

"Touche. But I am at least leaving the building now, Don. You should do the same."

She was halfway down the corridor, lost in thought, when the familiar sight of Jonathan France swaggering towards her in his bike leathers jolted her back to earth. He grinned and quickened his step, not taking in the frozen expression on Carol's face.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in?" she demanded.

His step and his smile faltered. "I wanted to see you. The guy on the front counter remembered me being here before, so he let me come up." He looked hurt. "I thought you'd be pleased to see me," he added plaintively.

In reply, Carol threw open the nearest door, which led into an empty meeting room. "In here," she indicated with a jerk of the head. He followed her, perking up at the prospect of privacy, in spite of the contra-indications. Carol shut the door behind them and glared at him. "What did you think you were doing, sending those flowers here?"

Shock flattened his features. "I thought you'd like them."

"So why not send them to my house?"

He shrugged. "You're never there."

"The florist would have left them with a neighbour. But no, you sent them here. Didn't it occur to you that a police station is a gossip factory? That my private life is now the subject of speculation from the canteen to the Chief Constable's office?"

"I didn't think .. ."

"No, you didn't. I'm running two major murder inquiries here, and the last thing I want is this kind of distraction."

Stung, he rounded on her. "Distraction? That's how you see me? A distraction?" Carol shrugged. Two patches of colour burned on his cheekbones. "You used me," he said, light dawning. "You used me to prove to yourself you could get past the rape."

She raised her eyebrows. "You got what you wanted too -an image of yourself as the strong, sensitive saviour. But that wasn't enough for you, was it? You wanted it to matter to me, you wanted to be the man who would heal my heart. Well, Jonathan, I've got news for you. You never came near my heart, because somebody else has first claim to that."

As so often happens in the throes of emotional argument, he seized on the least relevant point. "You told me you weren't seeing anybody else. That night we had dinner, you told me."

Carol clenched her fists. "I'm not seeing anybody else. Not in the sense you mean. But you can't reduce relationships to the simplicity of playground games."

"You were dishonest," he said bitterly. "You were never emotionally available."

She shook her head vehemently. "I never said I was. You presumed. You saw what you wanted to see and you presumed the rest."

"I don't deserve this," he said, his voice shaky.

Carol's anger suddenly fizzled out, leaving her hollow and weary. "No," she said. "You probably don't." She opened the door. "I'm not ungrateful, Jonathan. And I would have liked it if we could have been friends. But that's not going to happen now."

He stepped through the open door. "I don't envy him, this man you love," he said bitterly.

"That's the first sensible thing you've said tonight," Carol said sadly. "Goodbye, Jonathan."

She watched him go, feeling the last traces of adrenaline leave her. Christ, how much worse could it get tonight?

Tony sat at his desk, staring out at the cityscape that flowed down the hill towards the centre of Bradfield. In the distance, the office towers in the financial district showed irregular squares of light like half-completed seaside bingo games. "You're out there somewhere," he said softly. "Making your plans, figuring out how to get us to play your game, deciding what to do with Paula." A picture was starting to form in his mind of the person behind these crimes. It had been a struggle to grasp the shadowy mind of the puppetmaster, but at last he was piecing it together, gradually making sense out of the jumble of information in his head. Convincing Carol was going to be a lot harder, he thought.

He saw her car draw up and ran downstairs to let her in. He was shocked by how drained she looked. Her eyes were hollow, her skin slack and pale. "You look shattered," he said, stepping aside to let her in.

"I fucked up on the Tim Golding interviews. It looks like we ended up cutting the right man loose and holding on to the wrong one. Kevin seems to think the suspect is confident enough to go home so we can rearrest him. I'm not so sure. We're getting nowhere on the search for Paula. Don and Jan are at each other's throats because Jan says Paula's gay and Don says she's not. And Sam Evans thinks somebody died and made him God. The "only one who's not doing my head in is Stacey, and that's because she only talks to machines." She took off her coat and threw it over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. "Where are we?"

"You want a drink? Or are you still working?"

"Yes, and yes. I'm waiting to hear from Kevin, but I'm out of the office now for the night unless something breaks on Paula."

"Kitchen, then. I'll open a bottle."

While Tony got the drinks, Carol settled herself at the kitchen table. "I just gave Jonathan his marching orders," she said.

Tony had his back to her, which he was grateful for. It meant she missed the leap of joy in his eyes, the smile that lit up his face. "And how do you feel about that?"

Carol snorted with laughter. "Oh, Tony, you're such a fucking shrink."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Sorry. But it wasn't a shrink question. It was a friendly enquiry."

"I feel pissed off with him for pushing me into a corner. He sent the most ridiculous bouquet of flowers to the office, then he turned up there this evening. If he'd have just let it lie, we could have been friends. But it was that presumption, you know?"

Tony brought the glasses to the table. "I know. "You slept with me, so how can you resist loving me?"

"Exactly. And you know how I get when I'm cornered."

He winced. "Not a pretty sight."

"I was horrible to him," she admitted. "But I didn't want there to be any room for doubt. I haven't got the time or the energy for that right now." She sipped her drink gratefully. "I just hope I haven't blown him as an expert witness."

"I shouldn't think so. Given his behaviour so far, I suspect he'll want to impress you with his magnanimity. And of course, he'll want to believe that once a bit of time has passed, you'll realize what a good thing you let go by you. Don't worry, Carol, he'll be back." Tony raised his glass to her.

She groaned. "I hate you sometimes," she said.

"You're going to hate me even more when you hear what I have to say."

"Oh yes," she said. "There was a reason why I'm here, wasn't there? OK, spill."

He'd never been good at the politics of information. Direct, uncomfortable, unvarnished, that was how his delivery always went. Even for Carol, he couldn't do diplomacy. "Somewhere at the heart of this case, you're going to find either a cop or someone who's tight with the cops. A SOCO, that sort of thing."

Carol's hand stopped halfway to her mouth. Carefully, she replaced her glass on the table. "That's a hell of an allegation."

"It's what makes sense. I believe Derek Tyler could not have constructed these crimes. Tyler's of low intelligence. He's stubborn, but he's also suggestible. If he was going to kill a prostitute off his own bat, he wouldn't have planned it like this. It would have happened on the street, with a knife or a half-brick. There would have been forensics all over the place. You'd have had him in custody the same night. He's not a sophisticated game player like our killer. But nobody fitted up Derek Tyler. So we come to the Creeper. Because there's one irresistible psychological fact here: Derek Tyler could not have imagined those crimes. This is somebody else's fantasy. Somebody else pulled the strings."

"What if it's Tyler who's pulling the strings now? Getting someone else to do the crimes so he won't have to do the time?" She knew she should tell him about Hart. But she wanted to see where he was going with this, untainted by her suspicions.

Tony shook his head. "Believe me, Carol. I've spent time with him. He just isn't smart enough."

"So if it's the Creeper who's behind it all, why wait two years to start again?"

Tony closed his eyes and laid his hands palm down on the table. "Because I'm careful. Because I want the dust to settle. Because it takes time to find another Derek Tyler. Because I don't have the desire to get my own hands dirty. Because the joy comes from exercising power twice over. Not just the power over the victim but also the power over the killer. And this time around, the power over the police." He opened his eyes. "But mostly because I don't want to be caught, and it takes time to arrange things in such a way that I can protect myself."

"OK. That all makes some sort of sense," Carol said grudgingly. "What I don't see is how it points to a cop."

"I spoke to Dee tonight."

"And?"

"She won't tell us what we want to know about the Creeper. And she won't tell us because she doesn't trust us to protect her. That suggests either a cop or someone who is owed a duty of care by the cops. Someone on the team. Or even an informant .. .?"

Carol shook her head. "No, I'm sorry, I don't buy it. It's just as likely that the Creeper is somebody out there who she sees as powerful enough to breach whatever protection we put round her. That doesn't spell cop to me. It could just as well be a pimp, a dealer."

"She doesn't have a pimp. Jan says they've cleared out most of the hard nuts. And why would she imagine a dealer could breach witness protection?"

Carol gave him a cynical, knowing look. "Because there is a perpetual assumption that drugs squad cops are bent, that you don't get to be a high-level dealer without having some cop in your pocket."

Tony slumped in his chair. He'd given it his best shot, but he hadn't really expected her to go for it. "Do me a favour: keep it in mind."

She drained her glass and reached for the bottle. "I appreciate your input on this, I really do. But I think you're way off beam."

"Fair enough," he said.

"Not the theory, Tony. I think that's nothing short of brilliant. But where you're pointing the finger, that's where you're off the mark," she said.

Puzzled, he paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. "What have I missed?"

"Someone with the skills to brainwash another person. Someone who has access to Derek Tyler, who can make sure he never tells what he knows. Someone who was in Temple Fields the night Sandie Foster was killed."

Tony's eyes widened. "What are you saying, Carol?"

"I'm saying that Aidan Hart fits your profile better than any cop."

Tony snorted with laughter. "Aidan Hart? You're kidding me."

"Aidan Hart had sex with Sandie Foster the night she died. We traced his car and he admitted it. He had an alibi for the time of the murder so I didn't pursue it. But Sam Evans did. And he discovered that Hart uses prostitutes two or three times a week. I didn't think that was grounds for suspicion either. But if you're right, and the same person has orchestrated both series of murders, the alibi is worthless and everything else becomes more significant."

Tony shook his head, struggling to take in what Carol was saying. "No, that can't be right. The man's a buffoon. A careerist buffoon."

"Or maybe he's just very good at presenting a fake front?" Carol said.

Tony swallowed a mouthful of wine, his brow furrowed in thought. "It doesn't work, Carol. It doesn't fit with what Dee said. There's no reason why she should know who Hart is, never mind be shit scared of him."

"No? What do we know about her mental-health history? A man with Hart's pow eT could write her up as delusional, have her sectioned, surely? Locked away forever?"

Tony looked doubtful. "I don't know .. ." He jumped to his feet and paced. "Wait a minute," he said triumphantly. "Two years ago. When Derek Tyler was active. Hart wasn't here then. He was still at Rampton. He's been in post here less than a year. He can't have been the man behind Derek Tyler's crimes. And if you concede that Derek couldn't have conceived those murders on his own, you have to concede that the same person is behind both series. Which rules out Aidan Hart."

Carol stared at him. "You're sure about that? He couldn't have been seconded here?"

"I'm sure as I can be. But it won't be hard for you to check out." Tony pulled a rueful face. "I'm sorry to rob you of a suspect. But, leaving aside the practicalities, I just don't figure Hart for this. I just don't think he's got what it takes."

She sighed, not entirely convinced but unable to find a counter-argument. "Fuck. Oh well, at least I don't have to make a fool of myself with Brandon." She finished her drink. "I need to get some sleep. It's been a shit of a day."

"Keep me posted, yeah?" He walked her to the front door.

On the threshold, she turned and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning into him and kissing his cheek. "Thank you," she said.

"What for?" He was surprised.

She grinned. "You're the psychologist, you work it out."

Then she was gone, leaving him alone to continue his journey into the dark spaces of someone else's mind.

Morning dawns sunny for a change, and I imagine those dull-witted coppers seeing it as a good omen. That's the thing about superstitions. The morons who believe in them never seem to consider that, by their very nature, omens must be indiscriminate. They look out their bedroom window and see the perfect rainbow arcing across the landscape and decide it means good fortune for them without realizing that it means precisely the same for their next-door neighbour who is their sworn enemy. So if the sunny morning is a good omen for my enemies, it must be one for me too.

I check out the webcam again. The refresh rate isn't brilliant, even with broadband, but at least it lets me keep an eye on Paula in real time. Except when that fuck wit leaned on the pause button by mistake the first time he changed the videotape. At least he noticed what he'd done and put it right before he left. He won't do that again in a hurry; I made my displeasure known and it reduced him to a pathetic jelly, desperate to win back my good graces.

So there she is, spread out the way I like her. I start to feel aroused by the sight, but I haven't got time to enjoy it, so I force myself to think of more practical things. I've never kept one this long before, and it does present certain problems. I know she can go without food for a long time, but I'm not sure how long she can manage without water. I don't mind her getting delirious, but I don't want her to die. Not until I decide the time is right. And when it is, she'll die the way I dictate, not according to her physiology. I decide to check it out on the net when I get a minute.

Letting her drink will be a problem. If he takes the gag off, she'll try to scream. It should be possible to drip water into her mouth through her teeth, but I'm not convinced the trained monkey can manage something so delicate. I might have to do it myself. Far from ideal. Not because there's any danger she'll live to tell the tale, but because if she saw me it would destroy the mystique.

The tip of my tongue slides between my teeth as I watch her. She's good enough to eat.

Another fantasy to keep for later. But for now, there's work to be done.

Paula was oblivious to the dawn. Inside her brightly lit prison there was no day or night, just endless mute brilliance. When she closed her eyes, the light burned red through her eyelids, reminding her of the sea of blood that had made islands of Sandie Foster and Jackie Mayall. Her head hurt, a dull ache that had started at the base of her skull and crept forward like the vanguard of an enemy army till her brain felt as if it would burst.

She could no longer keep her thoughts under control. Something would pop into her mind, but before she could examine it, it would slither away or morph into something different. Memories segued and elided into each other, people turned up in places she knew they'd never been, their mouths uttering things she knew they'd never said. Lovers shape-shifted into colleagues, old school friends shimmered and reformed as relative strangers. It was unnerving.

Sometimes she could barely remember who she was and how she'd got here. Her limbs felt heavy, as if they belonged to someone much bigger and softer. But that was more bearable than the agonizing cramps that shot through her arms and legs at unpredictable intervals.

The only clear knowledge Paula still managed to hold on to was that someone would come for her. She no longer knew who it would be; but she knew that, sooner or later, one way or another, it would end.

Tony closed the front door behind him and stood for a moment, savouring the sun on his face. He'd slept better than he'd expected but didn't want to think about why that might be. The sudden image of Paula Mclntyre's face flashed into his mind and all at once, his pleasure in the morning evaporated. He hoped desperately that he was right, that she was still alive.

He got into the car and turned the key in the ignition. It coughed, wheezed like an emphysemic octogenarian and died. He frowned and tried again. A click, then nothing. He looked around as if there might be an answer inside the car. There was, of course. After Carol had returned to the office, he'd gone out for a Chinese take away And he'd left the lights on. "Bugger," he sighed. Even if he could have laid hands on his roadside assistance membership card, he didn't have time to wait for the patrolman to turn up and jump-start him. And Carol had already left. He'd have bet serious money on her having a set of jump leads tucked away in her boot.

Grumpy now, he got out of the car and set off for the bus stop. He knew there was a bus that went near Bradfield Moor, but knew too from the complaints of visitors that the bus stop was a mile from the hospital gates.

Forty minutes later, a bus pulled up in the middle of nowhere and Tony got out. He stood for a moment, trying to figure out exactly where he was, then set off up a nearby lane. Freed from the clammy fug of the bus and its uneasy assortment of passengers, he let his mind run free over its problem.

"Two kinds of people are drawn to power: those who have it and those who don't," he mused as he trudged on. "That's where we have to start from.

"Those who don't have it usually don't have it for a good reason. Maybe they're not very bright or not very motivated or not very organized. Doesn't sound like you, does it?"

He was silent for a while, mulling it over. "So we should probably assume that you have access to some degree of power. Which would work, if you're a cop only Carol thinks I'm completely off the page on that one. The thing about having power is that those who have it always want more. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. And you like corruption, don't you? You like the taste and the smell of it. If you're a cop, you're a bent cop." He stopped for a moment, digesting the implications of that thought.

"And that's why Dee's so scared of you. Because she already knows you don't play by the rules." He was startled out of his reverie by a vast black all-terrain vehicle pulling up alongside him. The tinted window on the passenger side slid down and Tony found himself looking into the smug face of Aidan Hart. Given what he had learned from Carol about Hart's sexual proclivities, it was hard to resist the knowing remark that would wipe the smile from his mouth forever.

"Are you walking for pleasure or would you like a lift?" his boss asked.

Tony grinned. "All things considered," he said, "I think I'd rather walk."

"This is getting to be a bit of a habit," Carol said, walking into her office with Kevin at her heels. "People will talk."

Kevin gave a tired smile. "I don't think so. They all know I'm too cheap to send expensive bunches of flowers."

"Kevin," she said, her voice a dark warning.

"Sorry, guy," he said ruefully.

"So, where are we up to?"

"Sanders never went home last night. After he left here, he disappeared into thin air. Siveright says Sanders told him he was going to visit friends in Bradfield and then he set off on foot. We've got Sanders withdrawing cash from the ATM in the Woolmarket about ten minutes after he left here. We've spoken to his colleagues at the park and I've alerted ports and airports but nothing's come up."

"Shit," Carol said. "We need to put out an urgent press release with a photo. I want him caught, Kevin. I don't want him disappearing into some underground paedophile support network. He'll have contacts. People who will hide him. People who will give him transport, money, shelter."

Before Kevin could speak, there was a knock at the door. "Come in," Carol said impatiently.

Stacey hovered on the threshold. "Sorry to interrupt, but I just came up with something on Nick Sanders I thought you might both want to hear."

Carol waved her in. "Please tell me you know where he is," she said with a half-smile.

Stacey frowned, as if uncertain whether Carol was serious. "No. But I do have something that strengthens our case against him. You know he sent us his log from July with that report of the alleged flasher?"

"When he was being so "helpful"," Kevin said, his hands making speech marks in the air.

"Well, I dug a bit deeper. Guess what? That log was altered within an hour of the first news reports of a body being found in Swindale. He made up that log entry to divert attention away from himself." Stacey looked pleased with herself.

"Thanks, Stacey, that's really useful. Well done," Carol said. As she spoke, Don Merrick stuck his head round the door.

"Can I come in?" he asked. Carol nodded. "I was looking for Kevin, actually," he said. He consulted a sheet of paper. "We've had an anonymous call from a punter claiming to be a former friend of Nick Sanders. The friendship ended because he caught Sanders taking pictures of his young son in the bath. He kept quiet at the time because he didn't want his kid being put through the ordeal of an investigation, but when a mate who works for the Peak Park told him Sanders was a suspect and that he'd legged it, he decided to come forward. Anyway, he reckoned Sanders would head for open country. He's got the skills to live off the land. Apparently there's a place in Sutherland, in the north-west of Scotland Achmelvich Bay," he said, stumbling over the unfamiliar name. "Sanders was the warden at the Youth Hostel there years ago. We checked that out, by the way. It's on the CV he submitted to the Ranger Service. Anyway, according to our caller, Sanders f 323

spoke about something called the Hermit's Castle. He couldn't remember much about it except that some guy from London built it right out on the headland. Like a concrete pillbox, only smaller. Lived in it for a year, wouldn't speak to a soul. The caller said Sanders might head for there. I think we should check it out," Merrick concluded eagerly.

"It's a pretty long shot," Carol said.

Kevin made a noncommittal gesture! "We could ask the local boys to keep an eye out."

"If he worked up there, he probably knows the local boys," Merrick pointed out. "I think Kevin should go. There's a flight to Inverness at noon."

Carol considered for a moment, then shook her head. "It's too insubstantial. Kevin, speak to the local lads, ask them to check it out. But discreetly, yes? If there's any trace of Sanders, we'll follow it up. In the meantime, we concentrate on getting an appeal out nationally. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a briefing to prepare."

There was pitifully little to impart at the morning briefing. And they all knew it. The determination of the morning before was tinged with desperation. They all knew that with every passing hour the chances of finding Paula alive diminished dramatically.

"We'll continue to follow up on the council-tax data," Carol said, trying to keep the energy in her voice high. "I want us to speak to every landlord and tenant within the search area on the map here. I know it's a scattergun approach, but until we have something to narrow it down, we will do whatever it takes to find Paula. Inspector Merrick has the full list of assignments for today. In addition, I want you to ask in every interview whether the subject has ever heard anyone referred to as the Creeper." She was conscious of a dubious stirring in the room.

"I'm aware it sounds bizarre. But this is good information.

Derek Tyler has said nothing for two years. While it's possible he may have mischief in mind, Dr. Hill is inclined to think he hasn't the wit to mislead us on this. So bear it in mind.

"The good news from forensics is that we do have DNA. Unfortunately, the sample is not of sufficiently high quality to run it for comparison against the national database." Groans all round. "However," she said, raising her voice, 'it's good enough for elimination purposes. And I'm told that if we do get the right person, there will be enough common ground for it to have evidential value."

She turned and pointed to the large scale map of Temple Fields. "She's there somewhere. So let's find Paula."

As the briefing ended, officers moved in clusters towards Don Merrick, who looked as if he hadn't slept in this lifetime. "Sam," Carol called over the hubbub. He turned and gave her an enquiring look. "A moment, please."