hapter 32

Steve thrust his arm out to prevent the lift doors closing. They opened fully and he stepped in, coming face to face with DC Joanne Gibb. "Morning, Joanne," he said.

"Morning, boss. Am I allowed to ask how the grovelling went?"

Steve pulled a face. "Let's just say we're heading in the right direction. Dr. Cameron is putting me in touch with one of her graduate students who will do the analysis. If I can find some money to pay for it."

"But we could be making real progress here," Joanne protested. "Surely Commander Telford's going to see the sense in following up this lead?"

Steve smiled. "I think I can persuade him to share our view." The lift shuddered to a halt at their floor. "Wish me luck. I'll see you and Neil in my office in fifteen minutes."

He turned down the corridor, walking past blank-faced doors until he came to his immediate superior's office. Steve knocked and waited for the invitation to enter. Commander David Telford was sitting behind what Steve would have bet was the tidiest desk in the building. Not a single scrap of loose paper blemished its polished surface. Pens clustered in a metal holder, a pad of paper sat by the phone, and that was it. The walls were blank save for Telford's framed commendations and his business studies degree from Aston University. "Sit down, Steve," he said, his face stern. He was determined to obliterate from the collective memory of the Metropolitan Police the notion that anyone other than Steve Preston was to blame for the Francis Blake fiasco. Steve understood that, and knew it was the reason why Telford or Teflon, as he was known to the lower ranks continued to treat him as if he brought a bad smell into the office with him.

"Thank you, sir." Sometimes playing the game was a killer, but Steve cared too much about catching criminals ever to consider seriously the alternative.

"Still no progress, then?" Telford's question implied the answer he wanted to hear. He cared more about image than justice, Steve knew. Finding Susan Blanchard's killer was not at the top of Tenon's agenda. Better that his team never found the real killer so the world could go on thinking the Met had been cheated of Francis Blake by the trial judge rather than their own maverick operation.

"On the contrary, sir. I think we've opened up a new line of inquiry." Painstakingly, Steve went through the fresh evidence about the cyclist and what Joanne's trawl of records had produced. "Now I need budget authorization to commission a geographic profile based on this cluster of cases so we can develop viable suspects," he concluded.

Telford frowned. "It's all a bit tenuous, isn't it? Nothing in the way of hard evidence, is there?"

"The problem with this case all along has been the absence of hard evidence, sir. The lack of forensics at the crime scene, the relative lack of witnesses, the lack of apparent relationship between killer and victim. It's obvious that the killer has some experience in covering his tracks, and that suggests he's committed sexually motivated attacks before. This is the most promising line of inquiry we've had since we began the investigation, sir."

"Clutching at straws," Telford complained.

"I think it's rather more than that, sir." The words, 'with respect' hovered on Steve's lips, but he held back, unwilling to utter that particular lie. "It's a valid investigative strategy. Sooner or later, we're going to come back under the spotlight over this case if we don't resolve it. When that happens, I'd like to be able to say we left no avenues unexplored."

"I thought Dr. Cameron had publicly refused ever to work with us again?" Telford was off on another tack, unsettled by Steve's subtle threat of publicity.

"It wouldn't be Dr. Cameron doing the analysis, sir. We would be commissioning another member of her department."

Telford cracked a smile. "One in the eye for her, then."

Steve said nothing. Perhaps malice would win where common sense had failed.

Telford swivelled in his chair and appeared to study his degree certificate. "Oh, very well, do your analysis." He turned abruptly back to Steve. "Just don't screw up this time, Superintendent."

Steve walked back to his office, his hands fists. How sweet it would be to find Susan Blanchard's killer, he thought. OK, Telford would take the public credit, but everybody inside the force would know the truth. Justice served, in every possible way.

He pushed open the door of his office, where he found DC Neil McCartney and Joanne waiting for him. Neil was a large untidy man in his mid-twenties. Steve had never seen him look anything other than mildly dishevelled and he was incapable of sitting in a chair without looking as if he was sprawling. He often wondered what the lad had looked like in uniform. His appearance alone would probably have guaranteed that he'd be booted up to CID at the earliest possible opportunity. It also hadn't hurt that he was a good policeman; shrewd, thoughtful and tenacious to the point of bloody-mindedness.

"All right. We've got the go-ahead for the geographic profile," Steve announced as he squeezed round Neil's awkwardly arrayed legs. "I'll take the material over to the university personally as soon as we've finished up here. So, Neil, what's Blake been up to?"

"As far as we can tell, nothing of any great interest. Sleeping late, going out for a paper and a pint of milk and a couple of videos most mornings, then back home. Down the bookies some lunch times a couple of pints in the local boozer then a walk in the park. Back to the flat and apparently staying in watching TV, judging by the flickering at the window. Nothing sinister, nothing dodgy. Which is just as well, with us running minimal surveillance one-on-one. For all we know, he could be up to all sorts when we're not around. Some days when we are there, he doesn't put his nose across the door. He could have a harem in there and we'd be none the wiser."

Steve nodded sympathetically. "I know it's less than satisfactory. But we'll just have to keep as close an eye on our friend Mr. Blake as we can. Until we come up with a better active lead, he's the only thing we've got. It might be an idea to have a discreet word with the people in the downstairs flat, see if they've seen or heard any sign of company. But only if we're sure they're not mates. I don't want to alert Blake to our continued interest. What do you think, Neil?"

Neil wrinkled his nose. He'd worked for bosses who didn't like to be told their suggestions might not work. But he'd learned enough about Steve Preston to know that speaking his mind would seldom be held against him. Especially in such close company as they were at present. "I don't reckon it, guy," he said. "They're a youngish couple, mid-twenties, I'd say. They look `>-3-' like the kind that think we're the bad guys, know what

I mean? They'd probably think it was their bounden duty to tell Blake the pigs were sniffing round."

It wasn't what Steve had been hoping to hear, but he trusted Neil's judgement. "Is John on him today?" he asked.

"Yeah." Neil yawned.

"OK. So why don't you take yourself off for the rest of the day, Neil? Get your head down."

"You sure, guy?"

"I'm sure. Joanne can keep things ticking over here. If we need you, we'll shout."

Neil unfurled his body from the chair and stood up, stretching luxuriously. "I'm not going to argue. Fuck me, more than eight hours to sleep in. My body might collapse with the shock." He slouched out of the room.

"Do you want me to hold the fort then, boss?" Joanne asked.

"Yeah. I'm going over to the university to see some bloke called Terry Fowler. Dr. Cameron left a message that she's made all the arrangements. I don't know how long I'll be depends how much I have to brief this Fowler. And I'm supposed to drop in on Dr. Cameron herself when I'm done. So I'll see you when I see you."

It felt strange walking into the psychology department and not heading straight for Fiona's office. The porter gave him directions to the cubicle on the third floor that Terry Fowler shared with another graduate student. Steve knocked on the door and was surprised to hear a woman's voice invite him to come in.

He stuck his head round the door. There were two computer desks, one vacant, the other occupied by a young woman with spiky platinum-blonde hair, scarlet lipstick and glasses with heavy black frames. Her ears gleamed with silver from three sets of piercings and a pair of ear-cuffs. Steve smiled. "Sorry to bother you. I'm looking for Terry Fowler."

The woman cast her eyes upwards in a parody of exasperation. Then she grinned and pointed at her head. "You found her. Theresa Fowler at your service. Fiona playing the old trick of working on your gender assumptions?"

Irritated with Fiona for setting him up as the perfect model of the prejudiced policeman, Steve walked in with an apologetic shrug. Nothing like starting at a disadvantage, he thought. "What can I say? I fell for it.

I apologize. I'm not usually prone to sexist assumptions." He extended a hand. "Steve Preston."

"Pleased to meet you, Superintendent." Her handshake matched his; firm, no nonsense, nothing to prove. "Don't worry about it. Psychologists find it hard to resist playing silly games. It goes with the territory. Grab a chair and make yourself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you can on one of those instruments of torture."

Her smile was infectious, and he found himself returning it. "Call me Steve, please." He pulled up a plastic bucket chair and sat down. "I take it Fiona has briefed you more fully than she briefed me?"

She shook her head. "Only in the most general terms. She said you had a group of cases you wanted me to run through the crime linkage system. Then if there's a cluster, I've to do a geographical profile. And you're going to pay me, which is a major plus, I have to tell you." Terry leaned back in her chair, unconsciously showing off a slim body in black jeans and T-shirt.

"There's a little bit more to it than that," Steve said, opening his briefcase and taking out the file Joanne had compiled. He had added four unrelated cases, to test the accuracy of the crime linkage programme, but he wasn't going to tell Terry that. "First of all, I have to stress that this material is highly confidential."

"My lips are sealed," Terry said, pushing them together in a tight pout.

"I don't doubt it," he said stiffly, determined to keep things formal. "But I couldn't help noticing that you share this office. So whenever you leave the office, you're going to have to take this file with you unless you can be sure it will be secure in here."

"OK."

"Even if you're only popping out to the loo or the coffee machine."

"Point taken." She smiled and raised her hands palms outwards in a placatory gesture. "It's cool, Steve. I understand."

"I don't mean to teach you to suck eggs."

Terry shook her head. "Hey, you've never worked with me before, how are you to know I'm not some ditzy blonde?" She widened her eyes, her mobile face a question.

Steve's turn to grin. "Fiona doesn't hate me that much. OK, here's what I've got for you. Six rapes and four serious sexual assaults. As Fiona said, I want you to see if there are grounds for believing any or all of them to be linked. If you get a cluster, I'm keen to see what the geographic profile produces. If we get that far, I then want you to enter another location into the geographic profile to see what happens."

Terry raised one eyebrow. It should have looked pretentious but somehow she avoided that. "Is the other location in the file?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't want to influence the way you're thinking. Once I see the results, then we'll take it from there."

"Fine by me. How quick do you need it?"

Steve spread his hands. "Yesterday?"

"Yesterday costs extra. But for the regular fee, you can have it tomorrow. On one condition."

Steve tilted his head slightly, his face suspicious. "One condition?"

"You have dinner with me tomorrow." Her smile was the calculated flirt of a woman who expects to get her own way.

Steve felt hot blood flushing his cheeks. "I have dinner with you?"

"Is it such a strange idea?"

He forced himself to cling on to his professional reserve. "I just don't think it's a very good one."

"Why? You're not married, are you?"

"No, but

"So, what's the problem?"

"I'm not in the habit of mixing business and pleasure," he said, aware as he spoke that he sounded like the kind of stuffed shirt he'd always prayed he'd never become.

"Where else do people like us meet interesting dinner companions? We don't have to talk about work, you know," Terry said. "I won't quiz you about your ten greatest cases if you don't ask me to define Piagetian theory. Come on, what have you got to lose? Even if you have a totally crap time, it's only going to be for a few hours. And I won't tell if you don't."

Pleasantly bewildered but still wary, Steve ran a hand through his dark hair. "This is all rather sudden."

She shrugged. "Life's too short. You've got to seize the moment."

"But why me?"

"God, you lot know how to ask questions, don't you?" Now she was laughing, even white teeth gleaming like the big bad wolf. "Because you've got a brain and a sense of humour, because you're a nice-looking geezer and because you're not a gee ky psychologist. Four very good reasons. So, you going to have dinner with me, or what? It's OK if it's no, I can take it. I'm a big girl. And I'll still do your analysis, no hard feelings."

Steve shook his head, entirely disorientated by the way the meeting had deviated from his expectations. "OK, let's do it," he found himself saying, realizing as he spoke that the idea was genuinely exciting.

"Good call, Steve. I'll ring you tomorrow when I've got something for you, OK?" She was already reaching eagerly for the file.

Understanding he was being dismissed, Steve got to his feet. "Er ... about dinner? Where shall I book? What sort of food do you like?"

She shrugged. "You choose. I don't eat meat but I love fish. And I never met a cuisine I didn't like."

"Why am I not surprised? Thanks, Terry." He walked down the corridor to the flight of stairs that would take him to Fiona's office, grinning from ear to ear. He couldn't quite believe what had just happened. He'd been blown away by the charisma of a stranger. He'd thrown aside one of his strongest principles, and he was feeling more light-hearted than he had for months. Maybe at last his luck was on the turn.

Chapter 33

Steve's smile didn't survive his encounter with Fiona. When he walked into her office, she was staring blankly at her computer screen, hands linked behind her head. "Isn't it a lovely day?" he said blithely, settling on her sofa.

Fiona looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "It is?"

"I think so," he said cheerfully. "I've just had a very interesting encounter with Terry Fowler."

"Oh good," Fiona said absently. "She's very efficient. I'm sure she'll do an excellent job for you." Her voice tailed off and she frowned at the wall above his head.

"Earth to Fiona ... Is there anybody home?"

"I'm sorry, Steve, I didn't sleep much last night. I'm ... a bit distracted."

"You wanted to see me about something?" he reminded her.

Fiona scowled and squeezed the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb. "I know. It all made perfect sense when I left the message, but now ... Well, I don't know if I'm overreacting."

Fiona this distracted was too unfamiliar an experience for Steve to take lightly. "Let's hear it," he said. "Then we can both decide."

She nodded. "Makes as much sense as anything else. I woke up in the middle of the night. You know, the way I do sometimes. No obvious reason, but I couldn't get back to sleep. So I went upstairs to surf the web for a while, and I ended up in a chat room where people were discussing the Jane Elias murder. And the general consensus seemed to be that the Garda have arrested the wrong man."

Fiona took a deep breath. "Now, I know you have a fairly low opinion of the kind of people who hang around in news groups in the middle of the night in cyberspace, but a couple of the people who had posted actually know this guy and they're saying he just doesn't have what it takes to plan or to carry out so complex a scheme. Now, if the police do have the wrong man and if Jane's murder was nothing to do with her relationship with her Garda Siochana lover, then logic suggests that the same person might have murdered Jane Elias and Drew Shand."

"That's reaching, Fi, and you know it. Different countries? Totally different MO and no signature that we know of?"

"There is a signature of sorts, Steve. Both Drew and Jane were award-winning authors who wrote serial killer thrillers that have been successfully adapted for TV or film. And they were both killed in ways that mirror deaths that are described in the very books that were adapted." Fiona was focused now, her previous abstraction history.

"It's not a conventional signature," was the only protest Steve could find.

"I know. But I've been working another case the Spanish one with an unconventional signature, and I suppose that's why I'm probably more open to the idea than I normally would be. So, humour me. Just for the sake of argument, let's say it's a possibility that the two crimes have the same perpetrator."

Steve nodded. "OK. Out of purely academic interest, let's see where that takes us."

"Where it takes us is that Georgia Lester is missing. Having had at least one death threat letter which, when she discovered Kit had also had one, scared her more than a little. Kit, who knows her as well as anyone, seems to think the papers are right and she's gone to ground as some kind of bizarre publicity stunt. You said last night it's possible she's been abducted. Either of these may be the case. For all I know, the police are negotiating with a kidnapper as we speak. That's something I imagine you could find out with relative ease if you were minded to. But there is another possibility."

"I have a sinking feeling I know where you're heading with this," Steve said.

"I think Georgia could be the third victim of a serial killer. If that's the case, then for the signature to hold, it would follow that she's been murdered in the manner of one of the victims in a serial killer novel. Agreed?"

Steve decided to go along with Fiona for the time being. "Theoretically, yes."

"After I'd been on-line last night, I checked out Georgia's output. She's only published one strictly serial killer novel, And Ever More Shall Be So.

Which was made into a film. She's an award winner she's won the Crime Writers' Association Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year twice. She fits all the criteria, Steve. So last night, I skimmed the book." Fiona paused, pushing her hair back from her face, revealing dark smudges beneath her eyes.

She continued, her voice now the calm, dispassionate tone of the lecturer imparting information. "The killer in And Ever More Shall Be So does abduct his victims. He uses the trick of pretending to have broken down in a country lane, but in broad daylight so they won't be suspicious of him. Then he takes the victims back to his lair, where he strangles them. Finally he skins and dismembers them and wraps them up like joints of meat."

Steve stared at Fiona for a long moment. It was a grisly prospect, but if he accepted her basic premise, it was an inevitable conclusion. "And you think this might be what's happened to Georgia Lester?"

Fiona looked him straight in the eye. "I'm scared shitless that this is what has happened to Georgia. Tell me I'm being paranoid here, Steve."

"You're the psychologist, Fi. You know it's only paranoia when it's groundless. What you're telling me might be pretty far-fetched, but it's not entirely without foundation." Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. However sceptical he was trying to sound, part of him was entirely convinced by Fiona's thesis. "In the book, what does he do with the remains?"

"The killer's a wholesale butcher in the town where his victims live. He's got a big freezer that's supposedly obsolete. He keeps it padlocked shut. That's where he puts his packages of human flesh. So if I'm right, the logical place to look for Georgia Lester right now would be Smithfield Market. They live in the City, you see, her and Anthony."

Steve closed his eyes. He wondered just how he was going to convince the detectives searching for Georgia Lester that they were going to need a search warrant for Smithfield Market. "One more question," he finally said. "Do you think there's a connection with the death threat letters?"

Fiona shrugged. "I don't know. My first reaction was that the writer of the letters wasn't a killer. There's no boasting about the murders in any of the letters I've seen, which I'd expect if the letter-writer was the killer. And generally speaking, people who write anonymous threatening letters have a different mind-set from those who actually kill. But the more this goes on, the less certain I feel about trusting my judgement. If there is someone out there killing writers at the same time as someone else is sending those same people death threats, it's hard to believe it's pure coincidence."

"We don't know whether Jane Elias or Drew Shand had any letters similar to the ones sent to Kit and the others, though, do we? And the Garda told me they hadn't found anything like that among her papers." While he was willing to accept Fiona might have made a case for a serial killer, Steve was reluctant on a personal level to believe the letters held a direct threat. If they did, that meant his closest male friend could be the next target. And that was a prospect that chilled him to the bone.

Fiona stared numbly at him. His words washed over her, making no impression on the worm of anxiety that wriggled inside her. "All I know is that if there is a serial killer out there, Kit is almost certainly on his list, whether or not the letter-writer and the murderer are one and the same. He fits all the criteria, just like Georgia. You've got to do something about this, Steve."

Chapter 34

Fiona was uncharacteristically silent as they walked through the busy Holborn streets from her office to the quiet cafe-bar where Steve had arranged the meeting. Her mood seemed matched by grey skies and tall, dark Victorian buildings that hemmed them in as they headed down towards Farringdon Road. In an attempt to distract her, he said, "Does your graduate student make a habit of pro positioning strange men?"

"You mean Terry?"

"She asked me out to dinner."

"I see her impulse control hasn't improved any." Fiona sounded amused.

"She makes a habit of this kind of thing?" Steve demanded, unaccountably deflated by the thought.

"Propositioning men? I don't think so, no. But she is irrepressibly drawn to following her urges, hunches and inspirations without pause for thought."

"Ah," he said.

"It's just what you need, Steve. Someone to jolt you out of your rut," she said, slipping her arm through his and giving it a squeeze.

"Is that how you see me? A man stuck in a rut?"

"You must admit, you're a creature of habit and caution. A brief encounter with a charismatic whirlwind like Terry could be just what you need."

"You think that's all she's in the market for, then? A brief encounter?" Steve said, trying to keep his tone light to match Fiona's.

"I have no idea. Sorry, I didn't mean to suggest she saw you as nothing more than a plaything. And it's not as if she has a reputation for playing the field. I've been working with Terry for nearly two years now, and all I've ever seen her do with blokes is put them in their place. Which is usually very firmly at arm's-length. Not," she added hastily, 'that there's anything wrong with that. I've seen too many students distracted because they're the most attractive woman in the seminar group and they can't resist the lure of other people's lust."

"But Terry's not one of those, that's what you're saying?"

They side-stepped to allow a woman with a push chair to pass. "Definitely not. She's well aware of her charm, but to her credit, she doesn't trade on it. When she started her PhD, she was living with someone, but they split up ... oh, it must be eighteen months ago. Since then, I don't know of anybody significant. So she must have really taken a liking to you." She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him.

"You know a lot about her," Steve observed.

"You're fishing. Which I assume means you said yes?"

"I did."

Fiona raised her eyebrows. "Good for you. Time to live a little, Steve. Let yourself go. And I think Terry's the perfect woman to do it with. She's bright and she's talented. And she's good fun."

Steve smiled. T'd worked that much out for myself. I suspect I'm going to have to keep my wits about me with Ms Fowler."

"Which is no bad thing in a relationship," Fiona commented with a wicked grin.

"Hey, steady on. We're only having dinner, not moving in together."

Fiona said nothing, merely pinning him with an inquisitive look as she let go of his arm to turn into the cafe-bar. It had opened on the crest of the city's coffee craze, the decor Home Front nineties, with every wall a different off-primary colour, tall aluminium vases crammed with exotic foliage scattered strategically around. The chairs were low wraparound armchairs that gripped the hips, the tables knee-high and stained the colour of herbal teas. The background music was generic Britpop played just loud enough to cover the hissing and spluttering of the coffee machines. It was marginally too far from the university for it to attract the student population. Mid-morning, only half a dozen tables were occupied. Steve led the way to a corner table at the rear, where they were unlikely to be overheard. From the elaborate menu of hot and cold beverages, Fiona ordered a cappuccino, Steve an Americano. He produced his cigars and lit up, blowing a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling.

Fiona smiled. "You only do that when you're nervous," she said.

"I do?"

"I've noticed it before. When you're feeling twitchy, you blow smoke rings."

"So that's all I am to you, a walking laboratory rat," he said affectionately.

Before she could reply, a tall black woman in a caramel-coloured business suit toting a briefcase walked into the cafe and looked around her. Seeing Steve, the woman headed purposefully towards them. As she approached, Fiona took in the details. Low-heeled court shoes, powerful calves. Hair cut close to her head, high cheekbones, a parakeet nose and dark eyes behind fashionable oval-framed glasses. It was hard to gauge her age, but given that Fiona knew she was a Detective Chief Inspector, she had to be in her mid thirties at least. When she reached their table, the woman nodded to Steve and reached a hand out to Fiona. "Dr. Cameron? It's an honour to meet you. I'm Sarah Duvall. City of London Police."

They shook hands and Duvall sat down opposite Fiona. "Good to see you again, Steve," she added with a curt nod.

"Thanks for coming, Sarah. I know you're up to your eyes at the moment," he said.

"Aren't we all?" Duvall replied. The waiter arrived with the coffees and Duvall asked for a large espresso. Fiona wasn't in the least surprised. Something had to have fuelled this brisk no-nonsense woman through the ranks of the City police and it wouldn't have been supportive praise. "So, Steve tells me you wanted to talk to me about the Georgia Lester inquiry," Duvall said, giving Fiona a sharp look of appraisal.

"To be honest, the more I think about it, the more I think I'm probably wasting everybody's time," Fiona hedged, aware she was not operating in her usual assertive mode and wondering whether she was actually feeling slightly intimidated by the other woman.

"I'm willing to be the judge of that," Duvall said. "So, if you'd care to lay it out for me?"

Fiona began at the beginning, with Drew Shand's murder, and outlined the hypothesis she'd already explained to Steve. Duvall listened in silence throughout, her features immobile, her body still as standing water. When Fiona came to the end of her theory, Duvall simply nodded. "I see," she said. She picked up her cup and sipped her coffee.

"I don't think you're wasting my time at all," she finally said. She glanced at Steve. "I can speak frankly here?"

"Fiona understands issues of confidentiality," he confirmed.

Duvall picked up her teaspoon and stirred her espresso thoughtfully. "The main investigation into Georgia Lester's disappearance is being handled by Dorset Constabulary, since that is where she was last known to be and where her car was subsequently found. My involvement has come about because her London residence is on our patch. Certain inquiries needed to be made in London, and it was decided that these should be handled at a level rather more senior than would deal with most missing persons. For reasons I'm sure you'll appreciate." Fiona nodded, impressed with Duvall's incisive and logical manner.

"There have been suggestions, as you rightly point out, that Ms Lester has engineered her own disappearance as a publicity stunt. And to some degree, we have been allowing that assumption to run. However, I do not believe that to be the case. Apart from anything else, she had already engaged a bodyguard to accompany her on her book tour, which I don't think she'd have done if she was planning to disappear as a publicity stunt. Also, her husband's distress is clearly genuine, and I have been assured by everyone I've interviewed that she would not deliberately cause him such anxiety. We have been monitoring Mr. Fitzgerald's telephone and his mail, with his full consent, and there have been no communications seeking a ransom. And there would have been by now if she had been abducted. I think we can be fairly sure of that.

"As you suggest, this leaves the unpalatable option that Ms Lester is dead, and not by her own hand. There is nothing to suggest she has met with a fatal accident. And so, I have been proceeding as if I were dealing with the early stages of a murder inquiry. I find what you have to say both disturbing and also curiously satisfying, because it chimes entirely with my own instincts about this case. I do wish someone had told me about these death threat letters before now, however."

Fiona looked penitent. "That's partly my fault, I'm afraid. Georgia wanted to take them to the police, but my partner, Kit, was opposed to the idea. He thought they were crank letters and he didn't want to be seen to be publicity-seeking after Drew Shand's murder. I should have been more insistent. I'm sorry."

Duvall nodded. There was no concession in her face, no attempt to reassure Fiona. Her expression said that Fiona really should have known better, and Fiona smarted under it. "I'll want to see them as soon as possible," was all Duvall said, however.

"I'll get them to you later today," Fiona promised. "They're back in my office. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking straight. I should have brought them with me."

Duvall's lips tightened in silent agreement.

"So how do we proceed from here?" Steve asked, anxious to move away from the edginess between the women to more productive territory. "I can't see you getting a warrant to search Smithfield Market on the basis of what Fiona's given you."

Duvall took another sip of her coffee. A technique designed to give room for thought, Fiona decided. "I can try," she said eventually. More coffee. "We have one or two very understanding magistrates in the City. And we do have a very good relationship with the market authorities. We actually have a squad of officers based in Smithfield itself. What might help me, Doctor, is if you could tell me a little about what sort of person you believe is committing these crimes and whether they are likely to strike again." She gave a tiny, tight smile. "Prevention is always a good note to strike with magistrates."

"I'm not a behavioural psychologist," Fiona said. "I'm an academic. I don't do profiling based on stuff about whether your killer wet the bed or was abused by a drunken father. I leave that to the clinicians who have a range of experience to draw on."

Duvall nodded. "I know. Personally, I prefer a little intellectual rigour in criminal investigation," she said wryly. "But based on what you know of this sort of killer, is there anything you can tell me?"

"These killings are fuelled by rage. Most serial homicides are sexual in their nature, but occasionally there are other motives. For example, the missionary type, who sees his goal as ridding the world of a particular group of people who don't deserve to live. I've recently been working on such a case with the Spanish police. In that instance, I'd characterize the motivation as loss."

"Loss?" Duvall interrupted.

"Most adults develop their sense of self as a complex matrix of interlocking factors," Fiona explained. "So if we lose a parent, if our lover leaves us, if the career we had worked so hard for is shattered, we feel bereft and upset but we don't lose our sense of who we are. But there are some people who never achieve that sort of integration. Their sense of self becomes entirely bound up with one aspect of their lives. If they lose that element, they are entirely cast adrift from the normal checks and balances. Some commit suicide. A smaller group turn the rage and pain outwards and seek their revenge on those they perceive to be somehow responsible."

"I see," Duvall said. "And you think that's what may have come into play here?"

Fiona shrugged. "That's what my experience would lead me to think."

Steve leaned forward. "So what sort of person would see serial killer thriller writers as his nemesis?"

"Or her nemesis," Duvall interjected. "We're equal opportunity coppers in the City, Steve. Unlike the Met." Again that thin, tight smile behind the barb.

Steve shook his head. "If it's a serial, it's a man. Drew Shand was a gay man who was last seen leaving a gay pub with another man who has not come forward as a witness. So we have to assume he was the killer."

Duvall inclined her head in concession. "I'll grant you that. For now, at least." She turned to Fiona again. "Humour us, Doctor. What sort of person would want to kill these writers?"

Fiona refused to allow herself to feel patronized or intimidated. She had a point to make and Sarah Duvall wasn't going to keep her from making it. "Creative writing. It's a field where passions run high. I know, I live with a writer. I suppose it could be a deranged fan stalker out to make a name for himself, a Mark Chapman type of killer. But they mostly stop at one. That's enough to make the statement. And they're not usually sophisticated enough to develop so complex a killing structure.

"It could be a wannabe writer who is eaten up with resentment at the success of others. In his parallel universe he might believe they've ripped off his plots, stolen his ideas, either by conventional means or by creeping into his mind while he's asleep. I would characterize the writer of the death threat letters as being most likely to fit in that category, based on their content.

"Or it could be a writer whose career has gone into terminal decline. Maybe someone who sees those particular writers as having snatched the success he should have had." Fiona spread her hands. "I'm sorry, I can't be more specific than that." Duvall, she noticed, was looking sceptical.

"I'd never have imagined that anyone could feel so threatened by writers that they'd want to kill them," Steve said.

"Whoever is doing this has become obsessed with the notion that this particular group of writers has somehow done him a deep and destructive wrong. And this is his way of righting that wrong," Fiona said.

Duvall frowned. "It's not as if writing books changes anybody's life."

"You don't think the pen is mightier than the sword, then?" Fiona asked.

"No, I don't," Duvall insisted. "Book are just ... books."

"Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me? That's what you think?"

Duvall considered. "I don't think I've ever read anything that changed my life. For good or ill."

'"Poetry makes nothing happen"," Fiona said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Something W. H. Auden wrote. Do you think the same thing is true of film and TV?" Fiona asked Duvall. This was between them now, Steve sidelined as they stared intently at each other.

Duvall leaned back in her chair, considering. "We're always being told by your colleagues that when kids watch violence on TV, they copy it."

"There's certainly anecdotal evidence of that. But whether it influences our behaviour directly or not, I think what we read and what we watch alters our view of the world. And I can't help wondering if this killer is someone who doesn't like the way that these writers and the adaptations of their books have presented the world," Fiona parried.

"Sounds a bit far-fetched to me."

Fiona shrugged. "But strange as it seems, logic seems to dictate that if Georgia is dead and if these killings are linked, the motive lies in what the victims have written."

Duvall nodded. "The victim as teaching aid."

"Read the vie." learn the killer," Steve said. "Rule one of stranger murder."

"And he is going to kill again," Duvall stated baldly.

It was the issue that Fiona wished she could avoid, the question that had been haunting her since she'd found the key passages in And Ever More Shall Be So. "Yes. Unless he's stopped, he'll kill again. And what you need to do now is draw up a list of potential victims and see they're protected."

Duvall's composure slipped momentarily and she looked at Steve for guidance. This time, it was his face that remained impassive. "I don't see how we can do that," Duvall stalled. She clearly objected to being told how to do her job by someone she perceived as an outsider.

T'd have thought it was pretty straightforward," Fiona said crisply. Now she was dealing with Kit's fate, her normal assertiveness was back in the driving seat with a vengeance. "You're looking for award-winning crime writers who have written serial killer novels that have been adapted for film or TV. Get in touch with the Crime Writers' Association. They'll be able to put you in touch with one or other of the crime buffs who will be able to give you chapter and verse."

"But there must be dozens," Duvall protested. "We couldn't possibly offer them all protection."

"At the very least, you should warn them." Fiona's voice was as implacable as her face, her hazel eyes intense in the gloom of the cafe.

Duvall's face had closed down. "That's impossible. I don't think you've thought this through, Dr. Cameron. The last thing we want is to start a panic. There's enough of a media circus as it is and we don't even know yet whether Georgia Lester is alive or dead. It would be totally irresponsible to go public at this stage."

Fiona glared at Duvall. "Some of these people are my friends. I live with one of them. If you're not going to warn them, then I certainly am."

Duvall's narrow nostrils flared. She turned to Steve. "I thought you said she understood confidentiality?"

Steve put a hand on Fiona's arm. She shrugged it off impatiently. "DCI Duvall's right," Steve said gently. "We don't know anything for sure yet and it could seriously damage our chances of putting a stop to this man if we panic prematurely. You know that, Fi. If this didn't touch Kit, you'd be the first to say we should avoid giving this killer the oxygen of publicity."

"Yes, Steve, I probably would," Fiona said angrily. "But it does touch Kit, and I owe him far more than I owe the City of London Police."

There was a dangerous silence. Then Duvall said, "By all means warn your lover to be on his guard. But I must insist that you keep it to yourselves."

Fiona snorted derisively. "These aren't idiots you're talking about here. These are intelligent men and women who live by the power of their imagination. Since Drew Shand died, the Scottish crime writers have formed a phone tree so they can check on each other daily. I've already had one of them on to me looking for reassurance. A lot of them know what I do for a living. If you do find Georgia in pieces in Smithfield, my phone is going to be red-hot. I'm not going to tell these people there's no cause for alarm."

"Fi, you know there's a big difference between suggesting they should be on their guard and telling them there's a serial killer on the loose who might be targeting them. And you also know that's a line you're perfectly capable of walking," Steve said.

Fiona pushed herself out of her chair. "You might have forgotten Lesley, Steve. But I never will. And I'm going to deal with this as I see fit, not as you think best."

Steve watched her stride out of the cafe, hair flowing with the speed of her passage. "Oh fuck," he groaned.

"I'd appreciate knowing what the hell that was all about," Duvall said. "Sir," she added more as calculated insult than an afterthought.

Steve crushed his cigar out impatiently. "She's right, I wasn't thinking about Lesley," he said, half to himself. He straightened up in his chair. "Lesley was Fiona's sister. She was murdered by a serial rapist when she was a student. They never made an arrest. It's why Fiona became a criminal psychologist. She always believed that if the university had given their female students proper warning, Lesley would have been safe. She's probably wrong, but survivors have to find someone to blame. Otherwise they end up blaming the victim, and that's even less healthy."

Duvall nodded, understanding dawning. "No wonder she's worried about the boyfriend."

"I'm worried about him too, Sarah. He's my best mate." Steve's face was stern.

"You'd better go after her, calm her down. I don't want her running around like a loose cannon in the middle of my investigation. However helpful she's been."

Steve, who liked being told what to do about as much as Duvall herself, gave her a hard stare.

Duvall held up one hand in a placatory gesture. "And when I get back to Wood Street, I'm going straight to my guvnor to get a full murder squad working the case. I'll be working on my search warrant application this afternoon. You can tell her that to reassure her."

"I will, Sarah. I'm glad you're taking this seriously. Because if anything were to happen to Kit Martin, Fiona wouldn't be the only one baying for blood."