was scared," he said. "I couldn't see if you really were the police. For all I knew you could have been going to rob me."

"Aye, right." At the car, they shoved him in the back seat and turned on the interior light. "Nasty bump you've got there," the officer observed. "It's not much of a disguise, though, Mr. Sanders. We were expecting you. But we thought you'd be heading towards the Hermit's Castle, not running away from it."

Sanders said nothing, mostly because he couldn't think of anything to say. A single tear slithered from the corner of his eye and trickled slowly down his cheek.

The older officer nodded. "Fine. Constable Mackie is going to stay here with you while I go and take a wee look down by the sea. I'll not be long."

The hospital had discharged Tony under the mistaken belief that he was going straight home to bed. Instead, he asked the taxi driver to take him to the police station. He was tired and in pain, but there was still work to be done. He knew the only practical thing he could do to help Paula was to advise Carol on the interview techniques that might penetrate Jan Shields' de fences So going home wasn't an option.

He arrived to find Carol deep in frustrated discussion with John Brandon. Jan Shields was refusing legal representation. She was also refusing to say anything whatsoever in a formal interview. Brandon looked surprisingly relieved to see Tony. "How are you?" he asked, his expression one of concern and bonhomie.

"Sir," Carol said, her voice a warning.

"I know, Carol, I know. But let me at least run it past him."

"Sir, Dr. Hill has suffered a traumatic experience tonight. He's been attacked and injured, he's exhausted and probably stuffed full of painkillers," she said plaintively.

"Only local anaesthetic," Tony said. "I refused the painkillers. I thought I might need to have my wits about me if I was going to be questioned about planting evidence and illegal entry."

Carol rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "This is not the time or the place," she muttered.

"Tony, we have a very unusual situation," Brandon said. "As you know, we have Jan Shields in custody. She is refusing to speak to anyone other than you. She says she will consent to a taped interview, but only if it's conducted by you. Anybody else and she will go no comment."

"Would it be admissible evidence in court?" Tony asked.

Brandon shrugged. "I don't know. I'll let the lawyers worry about that. What I'm concerned about is recovering Paula Mclntyre alive. If Carol's right, then Shields knows where she is. I'm willing to take a chance on losing the product of your interview with her if it means getting to Paula. What do you say?"

"I think she just wants to play games with you, Tony," Carol interjected.

"You're probably right," he acknowledged. "But so's John. If there's any chance of saving Paula, I have to take it."

Tony took a last look over the notes Sam Evans had given him from his interview with Honey then took a deep breath and walked into the interview room. Jan Shields sat at the table, looking as relaxed as if she were conducting the interview. As he crossed the room, her eyes never left him. "Nice of you to come by, Dr. Hill," she said. "I imagine our positions will soon be reversed, just as soon as we can persuade a detective who isn't DCI Jordan to look at the evidence. Not that I'm saying you two are in cahoots. No, I think you acted entirely off your own bat. But you did it for her, and I'm sure she feels obliged to stand by you now."

"You might as well save it for the tape," he said genially, pressing the twin buttons as he'd been instructed. He intoned the date, time and names of those present. "Just for the benefit of the tape," he said, 'can you make clear the circumstances of this interview?"

"Certainly. I have waived the right to legal representation at this point. I have refused to communicate with any police officer and I have asked to speak to you, Dr. Hill. The reason for this is that I wanted to confront personally the man who broke into my home and planted evidence there that would tend to incriminate me." "I don't think I've ever encountered anyone with a stronger taste for power," Tony said conversationally. "When did it start? What was the point where you understood that life had dealt you a crap hand? How did you come to realize that nobody gives power, that it has to be taken? What made you realize you could strip other people to the core and steal their power from them? How did you learn the hypnotic techniques you used on Carl and Derek? I tell you, it's going to be tough for you from now on, Jan. Because it's like a drug to you, isn't it? You can't give it up, can you? Even now, when you must know in your heart that it's over, you still need to play the power games."

"You're the one whose career is over, Dr. Hill. You broke into my house."

Tony shook his head. "I had the set of keys you lent me."

"Why would I lend you my keys?"

"I wanted to borrow your set of NYPD Blue videos and you didn't know what time you were going to get off work." He pushed back in his chair. "Any fiction you produce, I can counter it. But the weapon I've got that you can't trump is truth."

"I don't think so." She smiled.

"We'll see, shall we? Let's start with your sexual abuse of prostitutes."

He thought he spotted a momentary flash of unease, but it was gone before he could be sure. "You must be confusing me with someone else. I don't pay for sex."

"I didn't say you paid for it. We've got a statement from a young woman saying you coerced her into violent sex by threatening her with arrest if she wouldn't co-operate."

Jan laughed, a delighted gurgling chuckle. "They're coming out of the woodwork tonight, aren't they? Dr. Hill, one of the perennial risks of working vice is malicious accusation. I can produce plenty of women with whom I have had consensual, non-violent sex. I don't need to threaten street hookers to get laid. I think, on balance, any court will take the word of a career cop with commendations over that of some junkie whore."

"It's not a chance I'd be willing to take," Tony said, his manner mild and relaxed. "Let's move on to the hard physical evidence I found in your house. Not just the computer, Jan. I found your stash. The photographs, the CD-ROMs. They'll have your prints on them."

She sighed and looked down at the table. "You've caught me out there, Dr. Hill. Maybe I'll make it easier on myself if I just come clean now. Yes, I do possess the material you're talking about. But all I'm guilty of is withholding evidence. That material arrived anonymously in the post at my home. Maybe you have some idea where it came from? I know I should have turned the evidence in, but .. ." She spread her hands in a disarming gesture. "What can I say? I'm not proud of this. I wanted to make a name for myself. I wanted to solve these crimes myself. Yes, I should have handed it over to DCI Jordan. But I wanted the glory for my seif She lifted her gaze and met his eye. She gave him the twinkling cherub smile. "I can only say how sorry I am."

Tony couldn't help a sneaking admiration for her. He'd never seen anyone hold it together so well on the surface. He'd interviewed more than his share of stone-cold psychopaths, but he'd never encountered such supreme control. "I've got to say, I don't know how you did it. It must have been a hell of a challenge, to get Derek and Carl to carry out your bidding so precisely. I've seen some skilled hypnotherapists in my time, but I doubt any of them could have exerted this level of mind and impulse control."

She shook her head pityingly. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said.

"No? I'd have thought you'd have wanted to share the secrets of your success. You could make a lot of money teaching people like me how to achieve complete control over another human. Even if they are only pretty pathetic specimens like Carl and Derek." Nothing. Not a twitch. He tried another tack. "It's a shame Carl Mackenzie's dead. I'm sure he had an interesting tale to tell."

"I think so too. And I suspect I'm more sorry than you that he's dead, because he could certainly have exonerated me. If someone was directing these murders which I'm not convinced is true, by the way Carl would have been able to reassure you that person was not me."

"An interesting thought, Jan. But there is one person who can still set our minds to rest on this point. Once he realizes his voice isn't the omnipotent creature it pretends to be, once he knows we've got you in custody, Derek Tyler's going to talk. Derek is alive and well, and he will talk, I promise you."

This time, her smile was cruel, her eyes dark with a savage humour. "I wouldn't be too sure about that. About any of it, in fact."

A sudden chill crept into Tony's heart. His mind flashed up the image of Jan leaning against the wall inside Bradfield Moor. How long had she been there waiting for him? Had she been anywhere near Derek Tyler? Had she had the chance to activate some long-buried suggestion?

"What's up, Doc?" Jan asked, clearly enjoying the confusion she could read on his face. "Remembered something?"

Tony leapt to his feet and ran for the door. Carol emerged from the observation room at the same moment. They met in the corridor. "She came to Bradfield Moor to fetch me," he said urgently. He went for his phone, keying in the number of the hospital one-handed. "This is Dr. Hill, I need to speak to the duty charge nurse." He looked at Carol as he waited to be connected. "You need to get over there. Bring Derek Tyler here, keep someone with him twenty-four seven until I can persuade him to make a statement. He mustn't be left alone. She'll have programmed him to self-destruct." He turned his attention to the phone. "Vincent? It's Tony Hill. This is really important. How was Derek Tyler today?"

"Funny you should ask, Doc. He seemed quite bright, almost cheerful. Silent as usual, but a bit more animated somehow."

"When did you last check on him?"

"Lights out, I suppose. There's no reason why he would have been checked again."

Fuck. "Vincent, can you do me a favour? Can you go and check on him yourself? Right now?"

The nurse sounded bemused. "Sure, but .. ."

"And Vincent? Call me back as soon as you've done that." He ended the call. "Why are you still here, Carol? We need to get Tyler before it's too late. I need to talk to him."

"Wouldn't it be better if you went and interviewed him there?"

He shook his head. "Suicide watch there means observations every fifteen minutes. But you can put somebody in with him round the clock. That's what we need if we're going to keep him alive. Carol, you have to trust me on this."

She hesitated for a second, then said, "OK, you've got it." She took off down the corridor at a fast clip and Tony walked into the observation room. He stared through the one-way mirror at an apparently untroubled Jan Shields. Her arrogance was monumental. Even when she knew her nickname was being bandied around in the investigation, she hadn't cut and run. She'd just carried on blithely, clearing up every potential problem before it caused her any difficulty. The scary thing was that she'd almost got him believing in her invincibility. She seemed to have an almost plausible answer for everything. She could, he feared, make a jury love her just enough to believe her. Or at least forgive her.

The minutes ticked by and Tony grew more and more restless. The longer the wait, the more he feared the worst. Four, five minutes at most from the nurses' station to Tyler's room. A minute to check, then the walk back. Ten minutes, no more. That's how long it should-take Vincent to get back to him if all was well.

Ten minutes stretched to fifteen, fifteen to twenty. When his phone finally rang, Tony almost dropped it in his haste to answer it left-handed. "Hello? Vincent?"

"It's me," Carol said. Those two words told Tony all he needed to know.

"Shit," he said.

"I got here five minutes ago," she said. "The place is in an uproar. They just found Derek Tyler dead in his room. Apparently he swallowed his tongue."

"I don't believe it," Tony groaned.

"Believe it," Carol said grimly. "This case is going belly-up and we're no nearer to finding Paula. I could weep."

"You and me both."

"I'll see you back at the station. Tony don't go back in to Jan until I get back, OK?"

"Yeah. We need to figure out where we're going with this." If indeed there was anywhere left to go.

The police station Stacey had returned to a few hours earlier bore little resemblance to the one she had left. Nothing travels faster than bad news within an organization as driven by information as the police. For days, Paula Mclntyre's abduction had fuelled conversation and ambience alike with a mixture of outrage, hindsight and criticism. Everybody had an opinion. But the news of Jan Shields' apparent betrayal had delivered a shock-wave to Bradfield police that had created something like the moment after an explosion when air and sound have been sucked from the epic entre Corridors were hushed, movements subdued, faces angry and baffled. When she'd walked into the murder room, Stacey had felt hostile eyes on her, as if by having been present at the event she was somehow responsible for so brutal a blow to the force's self-esteem. Already, she knew, people would be rewriting history; some searching for ways to exculpate Shields; others who had been close colleagues distancing themselves from her; still others claiming always to have known she was dodgy. The fallout was going to be grim and painful.

Back at her own desk, Stacey dry-swallowed two paracetamol caplets and scrunched her face into an expression of concentration. It didn't take her long to determine that there was no easy route to the location of the webcam from the image on the screen. It made her stomach churn to see her colleague staked out like that, and she made a mental promise to Paula that she would make sure the images disappeared for good from every computer they'd ever contaminated once Paula was rescued. There was no way the sleaze bags were going to get their hands on this. Paula wasn't going to end up as late-night entertainment for scummy vice cops. Or anybody else.

One of the officers from the HOLMES computer team had taken on the task of wading through all the easily accessible files on the laptop's hard disk. So far, he'd found nothing except a depressing amount of hardcore porn.

Stacey wasn't interested in what was visible. She knew that a criminal as organized as Jan Shields was not going to have left crucial information in plain view. She would have deleted anything incriminating and, because of her involvement with the paedophile investigations, she'd probably have learned to take basic steps to clean up her hard disk regularly.

That didn't mean there wasn't anything to find, and Stacey was determined to find it. After an hour's intensive investigation, she'd managed to isolate only three stray file fragments. At first glance, they'd looked like gibberish. But Stacey had tools at her disposal and it didn't take her long to translate the jumbled symbols into splintered words and phrases.

The first fragment yielded nothing of interest. It looked like the remains of an email attachment, probably one of the thousands of jokes that circled the globe, given text such as 'wim in the pool' and 'so god sai' and 'out of the fish'.

The second fragment hit Stacey like a shot of vodka. '.. . rent in ad van .osit in cashed sit at !%.. .tron Lane, Temp .. .rl Macke.. ." While the printer wheezed into life, she ran down the hall to the murder room, where a large-scale map of Temple Fields hung on the wall. She traced the street names with her finger. There it was. Citron Lane. The alley behind the street where Paula had disappeared.

Excitement welling up, she hurried back to her desk. The symbols ! and % were the shifted versions of 1 and 5. She'd got it.

Carol leaned her head on the steering wheel and felt the pain from her stressed muscles spread across her shoulders in a tight series of cramps. She couldn't get her head round Jan Shields. How much evidence could the woman wriggle out from? She'd clearly used all her experience in the job to figure out the perfect set of excuses and explanations for every aspect of her criminal activity. Carol was used to bluster from captured criminals, but she knew this went far beyond bluster into the realms of a kind of perverted credibility.

All of which she could possibly learn to live with if only she could bring Paula home. But that prospect looked no more likely now than at any point since her abduction.

Wearily she straightened up and started the engine just as her phone rang. "Carol Jordan," she said dully.

"It's Stacey," the voice said. "I've got it, I think."

"Got what?" Carol couldn't let herself believe.

"Where Paula is a bed sit at 15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Rented in Carl Mackenzie's name. We searched it on the night, but it was Sergeant Shields who led the search team and gave it the all clear."

Carol felt her throat suddenly closing with emotion. "Thank you, Stacey," she managed to say before she choked up completely. "I'll take it from here." She ended the call and dialled Merrick's number. No reply. Where the hell was he? She didn't have time to chase him now, but she'd kick his arse when he finally reappeared. Cursing Merrick under her breath, she tried Kevin's number. He answered on the second ring. "Kevin 15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Meet me there. Bring a team. Do not, I repeat, do not go in till I get there. Is that clear?" She ended the call, shoved the car in gear and reached for her radio mike with one hand.

"DCI Jordan to control. Paramedic unit required at 15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Repeat, paramedic unit required at 15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Over."

The radio crackled acknowledgement of her message. "And I need someone to get over there with a set of bolt cutters she added as an afterthought.

"Did you say bolt cutters the radio operator asked.

"Yeah. The kind that cut through handcuffs."

The room was on the third floor. As Stacey had said, Jan Shields had been responsible for giving the all clear to the building beyond the gate in the wall. Even if she hadn't managed to annex that search for herself, it would have been easy for officers in a hurry to miss its existence. At some time in the past, someone had created a double door. When the landing door was opened, it revealed a shallow cupboard with dusty shelves. But on closer examination, hidden under one of the shelves was a keyhole and a countersunk handle. The building was on the list of properties whose tenants were still to be queried with landlords. Another day and they'd have tied Carl Mackenzie's name to it.

Kevin Matthews and Sam Evans threw themselves at the inner door. It collapsed in a shatter of splinters and dust. Carol pushed her way through and entered ahead of them, heart in her mouth. At first sight, she thought they were too late. Paula lay motionless wn the bed, eyes closed, unmoving. The room stank of sweat and piss. "Get those cuffs off her," Carol ordered, grabbing the corner of the sheet and yanking it free so she could cover Paula's nakedness. Evans rushed past her, bolt cutters in his hand.

"Oh Jesus, Paula," he moaned as he worked the bolt cutters on the handcuff chain.

The paramedics crowded in, demanding room to do their job. Carol leaned over Paula and stroked her head. Her skin was warm and feverish, and Carol's heart sang. She stepped back to let the paramedics work, just as the metal on the second set of cuffs snapped under Evans' strength.

"How is she?" she asked anxiously as the paramedics started their tests.

"She's alive. But she's very weak," one said without taking his eyes off her.

"Don't you dare lose her," Carol said, backing towards the landing. She reached for her phone and called Tony. He answered on the first ring. "Tony, we found her. We found Paula."

"Alive?"

"Yes. Alive."

"Thank God," he sighed.

When she came off the phone, Carol was surrounded by delighted detectives congratulating themselves and each other. The jubilation was so overwhelming that nobody, not even Carol, noticed the face that was missing. They were making so much noise she almost didn't hear her mobile ringing. She moved back into the room where Paula was being moved on to a stretcher so she could hear the call more clearly.

The voice at the other end was unfamiliar. "Is that DCI Jordan?"

"Yes, speaking. Who is this?"

"This is Inspector Macgregor. I'm up here in Achmelvich," he said, his voice gruff and solemn.

"Have you got Nick Sanders?" Carol hardly dared hope. But she could think of no other reason why someone of Macgregor's rank would be in a hamlet at this time of night unless a major arrest had happened. It was almost too good to be true. They'd found Paula, they had Jan Shields under arrest, and now they'd captured the man who had abused and murdered Tim Golding and Guy Lefevre.

There was a pause. Then Macgregor spoke, his voice packed with reservations. "Aye. We do have Sanders in custody."

"Is there a problem?" she asked, sidestepping to let the paramedics past with their burden. She reached out to brush her fingers along Paula's arm as she passed.

"DCI Jordan," he said, 'do you have an Inspector Merrick on your team?"

A horrible suspicion formed in Carol's mind. "What's happened?" she demanded.

"Look, I'm awful sorry. There's no easy way to say this: Inspector Merrick is dead, ma'am."

Carol felt her legs collapse under her as she slid down the wall in a heap. It was too much to take in, on top of everything else that had happened in the past few hours. "No," she whispered. "That can't be right. He's supposed to be here. Sleeping. In a motel. That can't be right."

"I don't think there's any room for doubt, ma'am. He matches up with the photo ID he was carrying. It looks like he was staking the place out, waiting for Sanders. They had a fight and he took a bad blow to the head. We should have more information in the morning. I'm really, really sorry, ma'am."

Carol ended the call and let the phone fall back into her pocket. She buried her face in her hands. Then she forced herself to her feet. There would be time for her grief later. For now, she had responsibilities.

She walked slowly to the door, planting one foot carefully in front of the other like a drunk. She took a long, shuddering breath and spoke as clearly and loudly as she could. "I've got some bad news," she began.

Tony was still standing By the one-way mirror. He knew he should be elated at the news of Paula's release, but all he could taste was the bitterness of failure. He'd finally met his match; a criminal who could withstand his probing, apparently effortlessly. The techniques she had developed to control the minds of others had given her the gift of control over her own responses to a remarkable degree. Perhaps with time he could break down her barriers. But he suspected he wasn't going to be granted time with her. If this ever went to trial, she would be charming, plausible and would probably be declared not guilty. If she did lose, she might well end up in a secure mental hospital, but he could guarantee it would be a long way away from anywhere he was practising.

Paula's survival was a huge consolation, of course. On a human level, it was the best possible outcome. But it didn't balance the despair he felt as he stared down at Jan Shields' complacency.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard a knock. Tony crossed the room and opened the door. A uniformed constable stood uncertainly on the threshold. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Hill. But this just came for you." He thrust a small brown envelope at Tony. "One of the nurses from Bradfield Moor brought it in."

"Thanks," Tony said. He closed the door and studied the envelope. His name was written in straggling capitals across the front. He didn't recognize the handwriting. He ripped open the flap and pulled out a single flimsy sheet of cheap writing paper. The same straggling capitals filled half the page. Beneath them was an awkward signature which read, Tony could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes.

Dear Doctor Hill, Detective Sargent

Jan Shields is the creeper Jan Shields. Made me do it. She made tapes for me. They are behind the water tank in the roof space in 7 Romney Walk were I used to have a bed. I am not sory for what we did but I don't want to take all the blame.

There are few things more moving than the full pomp of a police funeral. Dozens of officers in dress uniforms, family and friends stunned with grief and carried along on the formal wave of an organizational farewell, the full solemnity that the Church of England can muster. Carol stood surrounded by her team, eyes front, chin tucked in, cap under her arm. John Brandon read the encomium she'd written to honour Don Merrick's memory while his boys clung to their mother, the only familiar element in this extraordinary scene.

Tony stood off to one side, his eyes never straying far from Carol and, next to her, a hollow-eyed and twitchy Paula. When he'd shown Tyler's note to Carol, she'd descended on the building where he'd had a ground-floor bed sit like one of the Furies. All her grief and rage at Merrick's death had manifested itself in the absolute determination to nail Jan Shields.

The tapes had still been there, three floors up, rammed down between the water cistern and the angle of the roof. And their chilling message was irrefutable and inescapable. The only person who didn't recognize the fact was Jan herself. But that didn't matter. No jury would free her now. Tony felt a shudder of pity for whichever establishment was unlucky enough to acquire her as an inmate.

The past few weeks had been a baptism of fire for Carol, he thought. There had been several points where he'd feared she wasn't going to make it. But she'd proved him wrong, and for once he was glad to be wrong.

Brandon reached the end of his eulogy and bowed his head. The twenty-one-gun salute crackled out across the graveyard. Carol turned her head to meet Tony's eyes. A small, almost imperceptible nod passed between them. It was, he thought, amazing how little we needed to survive.

Val McDermis grew up in a Scottish mining community then read English at Oxford. She was a journalist for sixteen years, spending the last three years as Northern Bureau Chief of a national Sunday tabloid. Now a full-time writer, she divides her time between Cheshire and Northumberland.

Her novels have won international acclaim and a number of prestigious awards. A Place of Execution won both the Anthony Award for best novel and the Los Angeles Times 2001 Book of the Year Award, while The Mermaids Singing took the 1995 Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year.