ony could imagine all too vividly how he would have been teased as an adolescent. "We're the same age, you know. To the very day. I feel our fates are inextricably linked. We're like two sides of the same coin. Jacko is the public face and I am the private."

"It must have taken years to amass all this material," Tony said.

"I've dedicated myself to maintaining the archive," Hawsley said primly.

"I like to think I have a better overview of Jacko's life than he does himself. When you're so busy living it, you don't have time to sit and reflect on it the way I do. His bravery, his common touch, his warmth, his compassion. He's the complete man of our time. It's one of life's little paradoxes that he had to lose part of himself to gain that pre-eminence."

"I couldn't agree more," Tony said, naturally falling back into the conversational techniques that years of working with the mentally ill had delivered into his repertoire. "He's an inspiration, is Jacko." He sat back and let Hawsley's adulation flow over him, pretending to fascination when what he felt was disgust for this killer who disguised himself so well that the innocent and ill fell for his every pretence.

Eventually, after Hawsley had relaxed enough to inch back from the edge of his chair into an approximation of comfort, Tony said, "I'd love to see your photograph albums."

The crucial dates were carved on his memory. "For the purposes of our study, we're going to be looking at precise points in people's careers," Tony said as Hawsley opened the cabinet and started taking down albums.

Every time Tony mentioned a month and year, Hawsley chose a particular volume and laid it on the coffee table in front of Tony, open at the appropriate pages. Jacko Vance was clearly a busy man, doing between five and twenty appearances a month, many of them related to charity fund-raising, often for the hospital in Newcastle where he did volunteer work.

Hawsley's memory for detail when it related to his idol was phenomenal, a mixed blessing for Tony. On the plus side, it gave him plenty of time to scrutinize the images before him; the minus side of the equation was that his droning voice came close to sending Tony into a hypnotic trance. Soon, however, Tony felt a quiver of excitement that snapped him back to full attentiveness. There, just two days before the first of Shaz Bowman's cluster of teenage girls had disappeared for good, was Jacko Vance opening a hospice in Swindon. In the second of Hawsley's four photographs of the event, Tony saw a face he'd memorized, right next to Jacko Vance's gleaming head. Debra Cressey. Fourteen when she vanished. Two days earlier, gazing up adoringly at Jacko Vance as he signed an autograph, she'd looked like a girl in paradise.

Two hours later, Tony had identified another missing girl next to Vance, this time apparently in conversation with her. A third possibility was straining upwards on tiptoe to steal a kiss from a laughing Vance. But her head was half-turned from the camera, making it hard to be certain.

Now all he had to do was to extract the photographs from Hawsley. "I wonder if I could borrow some of these photographs?" he asked.

Hawsley shook his head vigorously, looking deeply shocked. "Of course not," he said. "It's vital that the integrity of the archive is maintained. What if I were called on and there were missing items from the inventory? No, Dr. Hill, I'm afraid that's completely out of the question."

"What about negatives? Do you still have them?"

Clearly offended, Hawsley said, "Of course I do. What kind of sloppy operation do you think I'm running here?" He rose and opened the cupboard in the wall unit. Negative storage boxes were stacked on the shelves, each as obsessively labelled as the videos. Tony shuddered inwardly, imagining the painstaking listing of every negative in the box. Not so much anal retentive as banal retentive.

"Well, could I borrow the negatives so I can have them copied?" he asked, determinedly keeping the edge of exasperation out of his voice.

"I can't let them out of my possession," Hawsley said stubbornly.

"They're significant."

It took another fifteen minutes to find the acceptable compromise. He drove Philip Hawsley and his precious negatives to the local photographic shop where Tony paid an extortionate sum to have prints made of the relevant photographs while they waited. Then he drove Philip Hawsley home so he could replace the negatives in their proper place before their companions noticed they'd gone.

Driving down the motorway to the next name on his list, he allowed himself a short moment of triumphalism. "We're going to get you, Jack the Lad," he said. "We are going to get you."

All Simon Mcneill really knew about Tottenham was that they had a second-rate football team and they killed a copper during a riot some time in the eighties when he'd still been at school. He didn't expect the natives to be friendly, so it was no surprise when his appearance at the local electoral roll office was greeted with less than rapture. When he explained what he wanted, the stick insect in a suit behind the counter cast his eyes heavenwards and sighed. "You'll have to do it yourself," he said grudgingly. "I haven't the staff to spare, especially with no notice at all." He showed Simon into the dusty archives, gave him a ten second run-down on the filing system and left him to it.

The results of his search were not encouraging. The street where Jacko Vance had grown up had consisted of about forty houses back in the sixties. By 1975, twenty-two of the houses had disappeared, replaced, presumably, by a block of flats called Shirley Williams House. The eighteen remaining houses revealed a steady turnover of registered electors, few people seeming to remain for more than a couple of years, particularly during the grim poll tax years of the mid-eighties. Only one name remained constant throughout. Simon pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the beginning headache. He hoped Tony Hill was right, that all this would bring them closer to nailing Shaz's killer. The image of her face rose painfully before him, her startling blue eyes bright with laughter. It was almost more than he could bear. No time to brood, he told himself as he shrugged back into his leather jacket and set off to find Harold Adams.

Number 9 Jimson Street was a tiny terraced house in dirty yellow London brick. The little oblong of garden that separated it from the street was choked with empty beer cans, crisp packets and take away food containers. A scrawny black cat stared up malevolently as he opened the gate, then sprang for freedom with a chicken bone in its teeth. The street smelled of decay. The desiccated shell who opened the door after much rattling of bolts and turning of locks looked as if he must have already been an old man when Jacko Vance was a boy. Simon's heart sank.

"Mr. Adams?" he asked, without much hope of intelligent response.

The old man cocked his head in an effort to defeat his stoop and look Simon in the eye. "You from the council? I told that woman already, I don't need a home help and I don't want meals on wheels." His voice sounded like a hinge in desperate need of oil.

"I'm from the police."

"I never saw anything," Adams said swiftly, moving to close the door.

"No, wait. It's nothing like that. I want to talk about somebody who lived here years ago: Jacko Vance. I want to talk about Jacko Vance."

Adams paused. "You're one of them journalists, aren't you? You're trying to con an old man. I'm going to call the police."

"I am the police," Simon said, waving his open warrant card in front of faded grey eyes. "Look."

"All right, all right, I'm not blind. You lot are always telling us, you can't be too careful. What d'you want to talk about Jacko Vance for? He hasn't lived here for ... let me see, must be seventeen, eighteen years now."

"Could I come in and have a chat, maybe?" Simon said, half-hoping Adams would send him off with a flea in his ear.

"I suppose so." Adams pulled the door wide and stood back to let Simon enter. He caught a whiff of the old man smell of spilled urine and stale biscuits before he turned into the living room. To his surprise, the place was spotless. There wasn't a speck of dust on the screen of the huge TV set, not a mark on the lace-edged arm protectors on the easy chairs, not a smear on the glass of the framed photographs that lined the mantelpiece. Harold Adams was right; he didn't need a home help.

Simon waited for the old man to settle in his own chair before he sat down.

"I'm the last one left," Adams said proudly. "When we came here

in 1947, it was like a big family, this street. Everybody knew everybody's business and, just like a family, they was always falling out. Now, nobody knows anybody, but they still fall out just the same."

When he grinned, Simon thought, his face looked like the skull of a predatory bird whose eyes had somehow survived.

"I bet they do. So you knew the Vance family pretty well?"

Adams sniggered. "Not much of a family, you ask me. His dad, called himself an engineer, but as far as I could see, all that meant was he had an excuse for disappearing at the drop of a hat for weeks on end.

Mind you, it wouldn't surprise me if he earned a bob or two. He was always dressed better than the street, if you get my meaning. Never spent a shilling on the house or the wife and kid that he didn't have to, though."

"What was she like?"

"Off her head. She had no time for that lad, not even when he was a babe in arms. She'd stick him out the front in his pram and just leave him there for hours. Sometimes she even forgot to take him in when it started raining and my Joan or one of the other women would have to go and knock on her door and tell her. My Joan used to say that some days she was still in her dressing gown at dinner time."

"Did she drink, then?"

"I never heard that, no. She just didn't like the kid. Cramped her style, I suppose. When he got older, she just let him run wild, then when people went to complain, she'd come down on him like a ton of bricks. I don't know what went on behind closed doors, but sometimes you'd hear that kid sobbing his heart out. Never did no good, mind."

"How do you mean?"

"He was a nasty piece of work, that Jacko Vance. I don't care what they say about him being a hero and sportsman, he had a nasty streak a mile wide. Oh, he could be all charm when he thought it would get him somewhere. He had all the wives in this street wrapped round his little finger. They were always giving him little treats, letting him watch telly round their house when his mum locked him out." Adams was enjoying himself. Simon suspected it wasn't often these days that his malice was allowed free rein. He was determined to make the most of it.

"But you knew different?

Adams sniggered again. "I knew everything that went on in this street.

I caught that little bugger Vance once round the back of the lock-up garages off Boulmer Street. He had a cat by the scruff, you know, so it couldn't fight him off. He was dipping its tail in a jar of petrol when I came round the corner. And there was a box of matches on the ground beside him." The momentary silence was eloquent. "I made him let the cat go, then I kicked his arse for him, good and proper. I shouldn't think I stopped him, though. Cats were always going missing round here.

People used to comment on it. Me, I had my own ideas."

"Like you said, a nasty piece of work." It was almost too good to be true. Simon had spent too much time preparing for his assignment in Leeds not to recognize the accepted markers for psychopathy in a background history. Torturing animals was textbook stuff. And this man had seen it first hand. He couldn't have found a better source if he'd searched for weeks.

"He was a bully, an' all. Always picking on the little kids, daring them to do dangerous things, getting them hurt, but he never laid a finger on them himself. It was like he set it up to happen and then stood back and watched. Me and Joan, we were glad our two were grown and gone by then. And by the time the grandkids came along, Vance had discovered he could throw a silly spear further than anybody else. We hardly saw him after that, and good riddance to bad rubbish, if you ask me."

"You'll not find many people with a bad word to say about that man," Simon said mildly. "He saved some lives, you can't argue with that. He does a lot of work for charity. And he gives up his time to work with the terminally ill."

Adams screwed up his face in a sneer. "I told you, he likes watching.

He probably gets a kick out of knowing they'll be dead soon and he'll still be strutting around like Lord Muck on the telly. I'm telling you, sonny, Jacko Vance is a nasty piece of work. So, what are you after him for?"

Simon smiled. "I never said I was after him."

"So what d'you want to go around talking about him for, then?"

Simon winked. "Now, you know I can't reveal the details of a police investigation, sir. You've been extremely helpful, I will say that much. If I was you, I'd keep an eye on the television for the next few days. With a bit of luck, you'll find out exactly why I came here." He got to his feet. "And now, I think I'd better be on

my way. My senior officer will be very interested in what you have to say, Mr. Adams."

"I've been waiting years to say it, sonny. Years, I've been waiting."

Barbara Fenwick had been killed six days before her fifteenth birthday.

If she'd lived, she'd have been almost twenty-seven. Her mutilated body had been found in a walker's hut on the moors above the city, strangled.

There were signs that she had had sexual intercourse against her will, though there had been no trace of sperm either inside or outside her body. What made the crime unusual was the nature of her injuries. Where most psychopathic killers disfigured the sexual organs of their victims, this killer had crushed the girl's right arm to a bloody pulp, shattering bones and tearing muscle till it was difficult to reconstruct which fragment went where. Even more interestingly, the pathologist had been insistent that the injuries were consistent with the application of increasing pressure rather than a single, terrible impact.

It had made no sense to the investigating officers.

The finders of Barbara's body were in the clear, having been camping and hiking together for the previous six days. Her parents, who had been distraught since her disappearance five days previously, were also under no suspicion. The girl had been alive and well for a couple of days after they had reported her missing and her stepfather had been in the company of his wife and at least one police officer ever since. The parents had said all along that their daughter was happy at home, that she would never have run away, that she must have been abducted. The police had been sceptical, pointing out that Barbara's best clothes were missing and that she had told her parents a lie about her movements following school the day she disappeared. Added to that, she'd bunked off school, and not for the first time.

It had made no sense to the investigating officers.

Barbara Fenwick hadn't been a wild, troublesome teenager. She wasn't known to the police, her friends denied she drank more than the occasional can of sweet cider and no one thought she'd ever experimented with drugs or sex. Her last boyfriend, who had chucked her a month before to go out with someone else, said they'd never gone all the way and he thought in spite of her sexy looks she was probably, like him, a virgin. She'd been doing reasonably well at school and had ambitions to train as a nursery nurse.

The last reliable sighting of her had been on the local bus to Manchester on the morning of her disappearance. She'd told the neighbour who had spotted her that she was going to the Dental Hospital for an appointment to do with her wisdom teeth. Her mother said Barbara didn't have any sign of wisdom teeth, a fact borne out by the pathologist.

It had made no sense to the investigating officers.

There had been nothing in her behaviour to suggest a girl about to go off the rails. She'd been out to a disco with a bunch of friends on the Saturday night before her disappearance. Jacko Vance had been there, making a celebrity appearance, signing autographs for charity. Her friends said she'd had a great night.

None of this had made any sense to the investigating officers.

But it made a lot of sense to Leon Jackson.

The stone slab was so well engineered that it didn't even make the sinister grating sound of a horror film. When a small electrical current applied pressure to a particular, precise point, it simply pivoted silently through 180 degrees to reveal the steps that led to the small crypt that no one would any longer suspect existed beneath the converted chapel. Jacko Vance flipped the switch that flooded the crypt with harsh fluorescent light and descended.

The first thing he noticed was the smell, hitting him before his head was far enough underground to be able to see the creature that had once been Donna Doyle. The putrefaction of pulverized flesh mingled with the stale smell of unwashed fevered skin and the acrid reek of the chemical toilet. He felt his stomach turn, but told himself he'd smelled worse in the terminal ward as gangrene devoured the bodies of people who had already had as much amputated as could reasonably be excised. It was a lie, but one that stiffened his sinews.

At the bottom of the steps, he stood and stared at the pathetic creature pressing herself against the cold stone wall as if she expected to be able to push her way through it and so escape him. "God, you're disgusting," he said contemptuously, taking in her matted hair, foul wounds and the dirt she'd gathered bumping into things in the dark.

He'd left her boxes of breakfast cereal and she had water from the tap on the rising main. There was no excuse for her to be in this state; she could have made an effort to clean herself up instead of sitting on the mattress in her own filth, he thought. The leg irons allowed her enough freedom of movement for that, and the pain from her arm hadn't been enough to stop her from eating, judging by the open packets lying around her. He was glad he'd opted for a plastic-covered mattress so he could hose off her disgusting presence when he'd finished with her.

"Look at yourself," he sneered, swaggering across the room towards her, unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it over a chair that was well out of her reach. "Why should I want anything to do with a mess like you?"

The whimpering noise that came from Donna's bruised lips was wordless.

With her undamaged hand, she grabbed at the blanket in a poignant attempt to cover her nakedness. In one swift step, Jacko was towering over her, yanking the rough woollen cover away from her. With his prosthetic arm, he smashed her across the face and she fell back on the mattress, tears spilling and mingling with the blood and mucus from her nose.

Vance stepped back and spat at her. Coolly, he stripped himself, folding his clothes and placing them neatly on the chair. He was hot and hard, ready for what he'd come there for. He'd had to wait longer than usual, longer than he'd wanted because of that inconvenient bitch Bowman. After the discovery of her body he hadn't dared come near the place until he'd seen off the police, wary of attracting their notice.

And even if Tony Hill thought he had something on him, there was no proof and no one to pay him any attention. It was safe to come back for another dose of what made life worth living, the sweet allotment of vengeance, the savour of suffering.

He dropped to his knees on the mattress, forcing the teenager's legs apart with a rough hand, relishing her protests, her futile attempts at prevention, her sad little cries of repudiation. As he thrust into her, he let his full weight fall on her injured arm.

Donna Doyle finally produced a coherent sound. The scream that echoed round the grim little crypt was, unequivocally, "No!"

Carol yanked open the door and practically dragged Tony into the cottage. "We were beginning to wonder if you'd got lost," she said, marching ahead of him to the dining table where a wide-mouthed Thermos of soup sat next to a couple of loaves of olive bread and a selection of cheeses.

"Accident on the motorway," he said, dropping a folder on to the table and sinking into a chair. He looked disoriented and sounded preoccupied.

Carol poured two mugs of soup and passed one to Tony. "I need to talk to you before the others get here. Tony, this isn't just an academic exercise any more. I think he took another one a few days before he killed Shaz."

Suddenly she had all his attention. Whatever had been on his mind when he'd walked through the door was thrust aside and his dark blue eyes burned into hers. "Evidence?" he demanded.

"I had a hunch, so I put out a Misper request nationwide. I got a call this afternoon from Derbyshire. Donna Doyle. Aged fourteen. From Glossop. About five miles from the end of the Mjy." Carol gave him a copy of the fax the local CID had sent her. "The mother put this flyer together because the police weren't terribly worried. The usual pattern, you see. She left the house to go to school in the morning, with an excuse for not being home until late. Her best clothes were missing. Premeditated runaway, case not so much closed as discreetly ignored. But I had a chat with the WPC who interviewed the mother before they lost interest. I didn't lead her; she volunteered that a couple of nights before she went missing, Donna had been out with one of her friends at a charity do where Jacko Vance was the guest of honour."

"Shit," Tony exhaled. "Carol, depending on what he does with them, she could still be alive."

"I didn't even want to think it."

"It's possible. If he keeps them before he kills them and we know a lot of serial offenders do that for the power charge it gives them chances are he won't have risked going near her since he murdered Shaz. Christ, we've got to find a way to locate his killing ground. And soon." They looked at each other with the constricting realization that another life could depend on how well they did their jobs. "He's got a cottage in Northumberland," Tony said.

"He's not going to be doing it on his own doorstep," Carol objected.

"Probably not, but I wouldn't mind betting that his killing ground is a short drive from there. What have the team got?" he said grimly.

Carol glanced up at the clock. "I don't know. They're due here any minute. They were meeting in Leeds and coming on together. They've all checked in, and it sounds like we've hit a lot of pay dirt."

"Good." Before he could say more, they both heard the sound of an engine labouring up the hill to the cottage. "Here comes the cavalry, by the sounds of it."

Carol opened the door and the trio trooped in, all looking remarkably pleased with themselves. They piled into chairs round the table, pulling off jackets and coats and dumping them on the floor, eager to begin. Tony ran a hand through his hair and said, "We think he took a girl just before he killed Shaz. She could still be alive." It gave him no pleasure to watch the light bleed out of their eyes, to see their faces change from the glow of satisfaction to the pinched pale of anxiety. "Carol?"

Carol relayed the information she'd already given Tony, while he went to the kitchen and poured out the coffee he'd smelled brewing. When he returned, he said, "We're not going to have the luxury of time to draw out a detailed profile and brainstorm all the elements of it. We're going to have to go hell for leather to get evidence and do what we can to save another life. So. Let's hear how we've all been doing. Kay, why don't you kick off?"

Succinctly, Kay reported on her interviews with the bereft parents. "The bottom line is that they're all telling the same story. There are no significant discrepancies, either with what they originally told the police, or with each other's version of events. I managed to pick up a photograph of one of the girls with Jacko Vance, and I have established that they all went to events in their local area within a few days of their disappearance. But no stronger connection than that. Sorry."

"You've nothing to apologize for," Tony said. "You did a great job. It can't have been easy, getting this much out of people who are still suffering because their child is on the missing list. The picture is helpful, too, because we can tie that down very specifically. Good job, Kay. Simon?"

"Thanks to Carol, I was able to track down the fiancee who chucked Jacko after his accident. If you remember, Shaz put forward the theory it was that emotional event, coupled with the shock of his accident, that tipped him over the edge into killing. Well, from what I heard, he maybe didn't have that far to fall.

"According to Jillie Woodrow, there was nothing normal about Jacko's bedroom habits. Right from the start of their sex life, he had to be in control. She was supposed to be passive and adoring. He hated her touching him sexually and, on occasion, he actually slapped her for laying hands on him. He became more interested in S&M pornography and wanted her to act out fantasies from magazines and books and from his own imagination. She didn't mind being tied up, she says, and she didn't much mind the spanking or the whipping, but when he started on the hot candle wax and the nipple clamps and the outsize vibrators, she drew the line." He glanced down at the brief notes he'd made to ensure he got through his report without missing out anything crucial.

"She reckons that somewhere around the time his athletics career took off and he started banking big money, he began going to prostitutes.

Nothing seedy, nothing low rent or street corner. From what he let slip, she thinks he had a couple of expensive call girls that he used, women who would either go along with the more extreme stuff that he wanted, or else they'd lay on the kind of lassies that it didn't matter if he messed up. Junkies, that sort of thing. According to Jillie, she was desperate to get out, but she was terrified of how he'd react.

Outside the bedroom, he was the perfect partner. Solicitous, kind, generous, but incredibly possessive. So, after the accident, she grabbed the chance with both hands. She figured if she told him while he was in the hospital, he wouldn't be able to react. And he'd be stuck in there long enough to cool

down and get over her." Simon looked up and was surprised by how grim Tony looked.

"And we all know what happened next, don't we?" Tony said. "Micky Morgan. The marriage of convenience."

The faces around the table went from incomprehension to shocked amazement as he filled them in on what he'd heard first from Chris Devine and then from Micky herself. "So we're seeing some fascinatingly aberrant behaviour here," he said. "Still hard to stand anything up that a senior officer would stake his arrest record on, but we know now, don't we?" They didn't have to say anything. The answer was in their eyes.

"There's more," Simon said, launching into Harold Adams's tale.

"Man, the more we find out, the more incredible it is that Jack the Lad is still walking the streets," Leon sighed, lighting his third cigarette since he'd walked in. "Wait till you hear what I've dug up." He passed on the meagre information he'd obtained from Jimmy Linden in a matter of minutes. "Then he told me about this retired jour no Mike Mcgowan. This guy has forgotten more about sport than we'll ever know. He's got archives the British Library would kill for. I tell you, it took me half the night to get through the stuff he's got on Jack the Lad. And then I found this."

With a flourish, Leon produced a brittle clipping and five photocopies of the article. It came from the Manchester Evening News and dealt with the murder of Barbara Fenwick. Emphasized in yellow highlighter, one paragraph stood out. '"Barbara was no party girl, according to her friends. Her last Saturday night out was typical. She was one of a group who went to a disco where sports hero Jacko Vance was making a charity appearance." This was just fourteen weeks after the accident," Leon pointed out.

"He didn't hang about, did he? Got stuck right into the charity work," Simon said.

"Well, we never doubted that he was driven," Tony commented. "So, is there any evidence that Vance actually met this girl?"

"The high point of her night out was getting his autograph." Leon passed round copies of the summary he'd prepared from the police evidence store. "They wouldn't let me photocopy the files, so I had to do this. I reckon she was his first victim," he said confidently.

"And I reckon you're right," Tony breathed. "Oh, this is good, Leon, this is really good. He got better after this. My God, those hill walkers must practically have stumbled over him. Look, it says they saw what they thought was a Land Rover heading off down the track just after they came over the ridge. Jack the Lad got a fright. He realized he needed a proper killing ground, a place where he wasn't going to be disturbed. We think that might be in Northumberland, by the way. Near his cottage. But without more information ... " He rubbed his hands over his face. "A twelve-year-old case, though. Where's the evidence?"

Leon looked slightly downcast. "They don't know. They moved all the unsolved stuff to a new location about five years ago, and all the forensics on this case have either got lost or misfiled. Not that there was much, according to the abstract. No prints, no body fluids. Some tyre tracks, but that's no use a dozen years on."

The investigating officers. That's who we need to talk to. But before we discuss what comes next, I'd better tell you what I've come up with.

It's pretty meagre compared to the huge strides you three have taken, but it does give us a handy chunk of circumstantial evidence." Tony opened his folder and fanned out an array of photographs. "I've done the rounds of the zealots. I have to say it was very like being back working in a secure mental hospital. At the risk of baffling you with professional jargon, they're all a few bricks short of a wall. However, after enduring the histories of their assorted obsessions with Jacko Vance, what we've got is a selection of photographs of Jacko taken at events where we know our putative victims were also present. Four of the pics put him next or near to one of our missing girls. In another five or six, it's possible that the girl in the picture is one of ours, but by no means certain without computer enhancement." He leaned over and began carving himself a chunk of bread.

"With Kay's pick-ups, that makes five. We've got an overlap," Carol said.

"I don't suppose it's enough to start an official investigation?" Tony asked without hope. He started to slice some cheese.

Carol pulled a face. The trouble is, there's no connection to my patch.

If one of these girls had disappeared from East Yorkshire, I'd be willing to have a go at getting something moving, but I can't find one.

Even so, I don't know where we could take any investigation. All we've got is highly circumstantial; it's nowhere near enough to bring him in for questioning, never mind a search warrant."

"So you don't reckon we could convince West Yorkshire to take

another look at Vance, even with this much?" Kay asked.

Simon snorted. "Are you kidding? Given what they think about me? Every time I see a cop car on the road, I start sweating. Anything we come up with is tainted because they're convinced I'm the killer and you're protecting me. I don't think they're going to believe a word we say."

"Point taken," Kay said.

"What we need is a witness who saw him with Shaz after she's supposed to have left his house. Ideally, someone who saw them in Leeds," Leon suggested.

"Ideally, a bishop of the Church of England," Carol said cynically.

"Don't forget, it has to be somebody whose word would stand up against the people's champion."

The hand that was cutting the cheese slipped and Tony sliced the edge off his index finger. He jumped to his feet, blood dripping from the wound. "Shit, fuck and God damn it," he exploded. He thrust his finger into his mouth and sucked.

Carol grabbed the paper napkin wrapped round the Thermos to catch drips and bandaged it round his finger, gripping it tightly. "Klutz," she said briskly.

"It was your fault," he said, subsiding into the chair.

"My fault?"

"What you said. About unimpeachable witnesses."

"Yes?"

"The camera doesn't lie, right?"

"Depends if it's digital or not," Carol said ironically.

"Don't be difficult. I'm talking cameras that are already used to convict criminals."

"What?"

"Motorway cameras, Carol. Motorway cameras."

Leon snorted in derision. "Don't tell us you've fallen for that one?"

"What?" Tony said, puzzled.

"Great myths of our time number forty-seven. Motorway cameras catch villains. Not." Leon leaned back in his chair, his cynical swagger full on.

"What do you mean? I've seen those programmes on TV, police videos of car chases. And what about all those speeding convictions on the back of still photographs from the motorway cameras?" Tony demanded indignantly.

Carol sighed. "The cameras operate perfectly. But only in certain situations. That's what Leon's getting at. The still cameras only snap vehicles travelling well in excess of the speed limit. They're not going to flicker a shutter at much under ninety. And the videos are only actually turned on if there's an incident in progress or a traffic-flow problem. The rest of the time, they're just not running.

And even when they are, you'd need state-of-the-art enhancement software to get anything convincing from them."

"Wouldn't your brother know somebody?" Simon asked. "I thought he was some sort of computer whizz kid."

"Well, yes, but we haven't got anything to show him yet, and we're not likely to have," Carol objected.

"But I thought when Manchester city centre got blown to bits by the IRA, the police backtracked the route the bombers' van took using the motorway cameras?" Tony said persistent to the last.

Kay shook her head. "They thought they might have been able to pick it up on the photos of the speeders, but there wasn't enough detail ... " Her voice tailed off and her face lit up.