arol's reply was cut off by the banging of the yard gate as it was thrown open. They both swung round. Framed in the doorway was one of the biggest men Tony had ever seen. He had the solid brawn of a prop forward run to seed, his beer gut preceding his massive shoulders by a good half-dozen inches. His eyes protruded like boiled gooseberries from a fleshy face, the source of Detective Superintendent Torn Cross's nickname. His mouth, like that of his cartoon namesake, was an incongruously small cupid's bow. Mousey hair fringed a bald spot like a monk's tonsure.

"Sir," Carol greeted the apparition.

Pale eyebrows furled in a discontented scowl. Judging by the deep lines between his brows, it was a familiar expression.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he demanded, waving a stubby finger at Tony.

Automatically, Tony noted the bitten nail. Before he could respond, Carol spoke smartly.

"Sir, this is Dr Tony Hill from the Home Office.

He's responsible for the National Crime Profiling Task Force feasibility study. Dr Hill, this is Detective Superintendent Torn Cross. He's in overall charge of our murder enquiries. "

The second half of Carol's introduction was drowned out by Cross's booming response.

"What the hell are you up to, woman? This is a murder scene. You don't let any old Torn, Dick or Home Office pen pusher walk all over it."

Carol closed her eyes fractionally longer than a blink. Then she said in a voice whose cheerful tone astonished Tony,

"Sir, Mr Brandon brought Dr Hill with him. The ACC thinks Dr Hill can help us profile our killer."

"What d'you mean, killer? How many times do I have to tell you? We've not got a serial killer loose in Bradfield. We've just got a nasty bunch of copycat queers. You know what the trouble is with you fast-track graduates?" Cross demanded, aggressively leaning towards Carol.

"I'm sure you'll tell me, sir," Carol said sweetly.

Cross stopped momentarily, with the slightly baffled air of a dog who can hear the fly but can't see it. Then he said,

"You're all desperate for glory. You want glamour and headlines. You don't want the bother of proper coppering. You can't be arsed grafting on three murder enquiries so you try to knock 'em all into one to minimize the effort and maximize the press coverage. And you," he added, wheeling round towards Tony.

"You can remove yourself from my crime scene right now. The last thing we need is bleeding-heart liberals telling us we're looking for some poor sod who wasn't allowed to have a teddy bear when he were a lad. It's not mumbo jumbo that catches villains, it's police work."

Tony smiled.

"I couldn't agree more. Superintendent. But your Assistant Chief Constable seems to think that I can help you target your police work more effectively."

Cross was too old a hand to fall for civility.

"I run the most effective team in this force," he retorted.

"And I don't need some bloody doctor telling me how to catch a bunch of homicidal poofters."

He turned back to Carol.

"Escort Doctor Hill off the premises.

Inspector. " He managed to make her rank sound like an insult.

"And when you've done that, you can come back here and fill me in on what you've managed to find out about our last killer."

"Very good, sir. Oh, by the way, you might like to join the ACC. He's giving an impromptu press conference round the front." This time, the sweetness was tinged with acerbity.

Cross gave a perfunctory glance at the body lying exposed in the yard.

"Well, he's not going any place, is he?" he remarked.

"Right, Inspector, I'll expect a report just as soon as I've finished with the ACC and the press." He turned on his heel and stormed out as noisily as he'd arrived.

Carol put a hand on Tony's elbow and steered him out of the gate.

"This is going to be worth seeing," she muttered in his ear as she ushered him down the alley in Cross's wake.

Half a dozen reporters had joined Penny Burgess behind the yellow plastic tapes. John Brandon faced them. As they grew closer, they could hear the cacophony of questions the press were hurling at the ACC. Carol and Tony hung back as Cross pushed past a constable standing at Bran- don's shoulder and shouted,

"One at a time, ladies and gentlemen. You'll all get heard."

Brandon half turned towards Cross, his face expressionless.

"Thank you. Superintendent Cross." t, iicr voice cutting through the momentary quiet like the cry of some bird of ill omen.

There's no reason to suppose . " Cross started.

Brandon cut across him icily.

"Leave this to me, Torn," he said.

"As I said a moment ago, this afternoon we have found the body of a white male in his late twenties or early thirties. It's too soon to be one hundred per cent certain, but there are indications that this killing may be connected to three previous homicides that have taken place in Brad- field over the last nine months."

"Does that mean you're treating these murders as the work of one serial killer?" asked a young man with a tape recorder thrust forward like a cattle prod.

"We are examining the possibility that one perpetrator is responsible for all four crimes, yes."

Cross looked as if he wanted to hit someone. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides, his brows so low they must have cut his vision to a slit. Though it's only a possibility at this stage," he said mutinously.

Penny chipped in ahead of the opposition again.

"How will this affect your approach to the investigation, Mr Brandon?"

"As of today, we will be amalgamating the three previous murder enquiries with this latest one into a single major incident task force. We will be making full use of the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System computer to analyse the available data, and we are confident that this will enable us to develop new leads," Brandon said, his lugubrious face belying the optimism in his voice.

"Yo, go for it," Carol muttered under her breath.

"Haven't you left it a bit late? Hasn't the murderer had a head start because you wouldn't acknowledge he was a serial killer?" a voice from the rear of the pack shouted angrily.

Brandon squared his shoulders and looked stern.

"We're run clairvoyants. We don't theorize ahead of the evidence.

Rest assured, we will be doing everything within our power to bring this killer to justice as swiftly as is humanly possible. "

"Will you be using a psychological profiler?" It was Penny Burgess again. Torn Cross shot Tony a look of pure hatred.

Brandon smiled.

"That's all for now, ladies and gentlemen. There will be a statement later from the force press office. Now, if you'll excuse us, we've got a lot of work to do." He nodded benevolently towards the press, then he turned away, taking Cross firmly by the elbow. They walked back towards the alley, Cross's back rigid with fury. Carol and Tony followed a few paces behind. As they went. Penny Burgess's voice rang out behind them. "Inspector Jordan? Who's the new boy?"

"God, that woman doesn't miss a trick," Carol muttered.

"I'd better keep out of her way, then," Tony remarked. The ending up front-page news could be a serious health hazard. "

Carol stopped in her tracks.

"You mean the killer could target you?"

Tony grinned.

"No. I mean your Chief Constable would have an apoplexy."

The irresistible urge to mirror his smile hit Carol. This man was unlike any Home Office Jobsworth she'd ever encountered. Not only did he have a sense of humour, he didn't mind being indiscreet. And close up, he definitely fell into the category her friend Lucy described as 'a bit chewy'. He was showing signs of being the first interesting man she'd met in the Job for a very long time.

"You could be right,"

was all she said, managing to sound noncommittal enough for her words not to be held against her.

They reached the corner of the alley in time to see Torn Cross round on Brandon.

"With respect, sir, you just contradicted everything I've been telling them buggers since this sideshow started."

"It's time for a different approach, Torn," Brandon said coolly.

"So why not discuss it with me instead of making me look a dick head in front of that mob? Not to mention my own men." Cross leaned forward belligerently. His hand strayed upwards, index finger pointed, as if he were going to stab Brandon in the chest with it.

But common sense careerism prevailed, and the hand dropped back by his side.

"You think if I'd had you in my office and suggested a different approach I'd have got one?" There was steel beneath the mildness in Brandon's voice, and Cross recognized it.

His lower jaw jutted.

"At the end of the day, operational decisions are down to me," he said. Beneath the belligerence. Tony pictured a small boy, an aggressive bully resenting the adults who still had the power to sort him out.

"But I'm the ACC Crime and the buck stops with me. I make the policy decisions, and I've just made one that happens to impact on your sphere of operations. From now on, this is one single major incident enquiry. Is that clear, Torn? Or do you want to take it further?" For the first time, Carol saw for herself how John Brandon had climbed so far up the greasy pole. The threat in his voice was no empty posturing. He was clearly prepared to do whatever it took to achieve his ends, and he acted with all the assurance of a man used to winning. There was nowhere left for Torn Cross to go.

Cross rounded on Carol.

"Have you got nothing better to do.

Inspector? "

"I'm waiting to make my report, sir," she said.

"You told me to wait for you after the press conference."

"Before you get into that... Torn, let me introduce you to Dr Tony Hill," Brandon said, motioning Tony to come forward.

"We've met," Cross said, sullen as a schoolboy.

"Dr Hill has agreed to work closely with us in this investigation.

He's got more experience in profiling serial offenders than just about anybody else in the country. He's also agreed to keep his involvement under wraps. "

Tony gave a self-deprecating, diplomatic smile.

"That's right. The last thing I want is to turn your enquiry into a sideshow. If there's any credit going when we nail this bastard, I want it to go to your team. They'll be the ones doing the work, after all."

"You're not wrong there," Cross muttered.

"I don't want you under our feet, getting in the road."

"None of us want that, Torn," Brandon said.

"That's why I've asked Carol to act as liaison officer between Tony and us."

"I can't afford to lose a senior officer at a time like this," Cross protested.

"You're not losing her," Brandon said.

"You're gaining an officer with a unique overview of all the cases. Could prove invaluable, Torn." He glanced at his watch.

"I better be off. The Chief's going to want a briefing on this one. Keep me posted, Torn." Brandon sketched a wave and stepped back into the street and out of sight.

Cross pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up.

"You know your trouble. Inspector?" he said.

"You're not as smart as you like to think you are. One step out of line, lady, and I'll have your guts for a jock strap." He took a deep drag of his cigarette and leaned forward to blow smoke in Carol's direction. The gesture was ruined by the gust of wind that snatched the smoke away before it reached her. Looking disgusted. Cross turned on his heel and marched back to the scene of the crime.

"You meet a nice class of person in this job," Carol said.

"At least I know now which way the wind blows," Tony replied. As he spoke, he felt a drop of rain on his face.

"Oh shit," Carol said.

"That's all we need. Look, can we meet tomorrow? I can grab the files tonight and skim them beforehand. Then you can get stuck in."

"Fine. My office, ten o'clock?"

"Perfect. How do I find you?"

Tony gave Carol directions, then watched as she hurried back down the alley. An interesting woman. And attractive too, most men would agree to that. There were times when he almost wished he could find an uncomplicated response in himself. But he'd long since gone beyond the point where he would allow himself to be attracted to a woman like Carol Jordan.

It was after seven when Carol finally made it back to headquarters.

When she rang John Brandon'sextension, she was pleasantly surprised to find him still at his desk.

"Come on up," he told her.

She was even more surprised when she walked through his secretary's door and found him pouring two steaming mugs from the coffee maker.

"Milk and sugar?" he asked her.

"Neither," she said.

"This is an unexpected pleasure."

"I gave up smoking five years ago," Brandon confided. "Now it's only the caffeine that holds me together. Come through."

Carol walked into his office, fired with curiosity. She'd never been across the threshold before. The decor was regulation cream paint, the furniture identical to Cross's office, except that here the wood was gleaming, free from scuffs, scratches, cigarette burns and the telltale rings left by hot cups. Unlike most senior officers, Brandon hadn't decorated his walls with police photographs and his framed commendations. Instead, he'd chosen half a dozen reproductions of turn-of-the-century paintings of Bradfield street scenes. Colourful yet moody, often rain-soaked, they mirrored the spectacular view from the seventh-floor window.

The only item in the room that ran true to expectation was the photograph of his wife and children on the desk. Even that was no posed, studio shot, but an enlargement of a holiday snap on board a sailboat. Deduction: in spite of the impression Brandon strove to give as a bluff, straightforward, conventional copper, he was actually far more complex and thoughtful under the surface.

He waved Carol to a pair of chairs in front of his desk, then sat down in the other one.

"One thing I want to be clear about," Brandon said without preliminary.

"You report to Superintendent Cross. He's in charge of this operation. However, I want to see copies of your reports and Dr Hill's, and I want to know any theories the pair of you come up with that you're not ready to commit to paper. Think you can handle that balancing act?"

Carol's eyebrows rose.

"There's only one way to find out, sir," she said.

Brandon's lips twitched in a half smile. He'd always preferred honesty to bullshit.

"OK. I want you to make sure you are given access to everybody's files. Any problems with that, any sense that anyone's trying to stall you and Dr Hill, and I want to know about it, no matter who's responsible. I'll talk to the squad myself in the morning, make sure nobody's in any doubt about what the new rules of the game are. Anything you need from me?"

Another twelve hours in the day would be a start, Carol thought wearily. Loving a challenge was all very well. But this time, it looked like love was going to be an uphill struggle.

Tony closed his front door behind him. He dropped his briefcase where he stood and leaned against the wall. He'd got what he wanted. It was a battle of wits now, his insight against the killer's stockade.

Somewhere in the pattern of these crimes there lay a labyrinthine path straight to a murderer's heart. Somehow, Tony had to tread that path, wary of misleading shadows, careful to avoid straying into treacherous undergrowth.

He shrugged away from the wall, feeling suddenly exhausted, and headed for the kitchen, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt on the way. A cold beer, and then he could go through his scanty collection of press clippings on the three previous murders. He had just opened the fridge to grab a can of Boddingtons when the phone rang. He slammed the door shut and snatched up the extension, juggling with the cold can.

"Hello?" he said.

"Anthony," the voice said.

Tony swallowed hard.

"This isn't a good time," he said, cutting coldly across the husky contralto coming down the line. He dumped the can on the work top and popped the ring pull with one hand.

"Playing hard to get? Oh, well, that's part of the fun, isn't it? I thought I'd cured you of trying to avoid me. I thought we'd left all that behind us. Don't say you're going to regress and hang up on me again, that's all I ask." The voice was teasing, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface.

"I'm not playing hard to get," he said.

"It really isn't a good time." He could feel the slow burn of anger rising from the pit of his stomach.

"That's up to you. You're the man. You're the boss. Unless, of course, you want things different for a change. If you catch my drift." The voice was almost a sigh, teasing him with its elusive quality.

"After all, this is strictly between you and me. Consenting adults, as they say."

"So don't I have the right to say no, not right now? Or is it only women who have that right?" he said, hearing the tension in his voice as the anger rose like bile in his throat.

"God, Anthony, your voice gets so sexy when you're angry," the voice purred.

Nonplussed, Tony held the phone away from his ear, staring at it as if it were an artefact from another planet. Sometimes he wondered if what came out of his mouth were the same words that arrived in his listeners' ears. With a clinical detachment he couldn't bring to his caller, he noted that his grip on the phone was so tight his fingers were white. After a moment, he put the receiver back to his ear.

"Just listening to your voice makes me wet, Anthony," she was saying.

"Don't you want to know what I'm wearing, what I'm doing right now?"

The voice was seductive, the breathing more audible than it had been at first.

"Look, I've had a hard day, I've got a load of work to do and much as I enjoy our little games, I'm not in the mood tonight." Agitated, Tony looked desperately round his kitchen as if searching for the nearest exit.

"You sound so tense, my darling. Let me soothe all that pressure away. Let's play. Think of me as a relaxation technique. You know you'll work better afterwards. You know I give you the best time you've ever had. With a stud like you and a sex queen like me, there's nothing we can't do. And for starters, I'm going to give you the dirtiest, sexiest, horniest phone call we've ever shared."

Suddenly, his anger found a weakness in the dam and burst free.

"Not tonight!" Tony yelled, slamming the phone down so hard the can of beer jumped. Creamy froth swelled up through the triangular hole in the top. Tony stared at it in disgust. He picked up the can and threw it in the sink. The can clattered against the stainless steel, then rolled from side to side. Beer and foam spurted out in brown and cream gouts as Tony dropped into a crouch, head down, hands over his face. Tonight, faced with staring into the depths of someone else's nightmares, he absolutely did not want the inevitable confrontation with his own deficiencies that the phone calls always brought in their wake. The phone rang again, but he remained motionless, eyes squeezed shut. When the answering machine picked up, the caller disconnected the line.

"Bitch," he said viciously. "Bitch."

When my neighbours go out to work in the morning, they leave their German shepherd loose in the back yard. All day long, he lopes restlessly up and down the yard, quartering the poured concrete with the diligence of a prison officer who really loves the work. He's heavy-set, black and brindle, with a shaggy coat. Whenever anyone enters the yards on either side of his, he barks, a long, deep-throated cacophony that lasts far longer than any intrusion.

When the bin men come down the back alley to trundle our whee lie bins to their truck, the dog becomes hysterical, standing on his hind legs, forepaws scrabbling uselessly against the heavy wooden gate.

I've watched him from the vantage point of my back-bedroom window.

He's nearly as tall as the gate itself. Perfect, really.

Next Monday morning, I bought a couple of pounds of steak and cut it into one-inch cubes, like all the best recipes say. Then I made a small incision in each cube and inserted one of the tranquillizers my doctor insists on prescribing for me. I never wanted them, and certainly never use them, but I'd had the feeling they might come in useful one day.

I came out of my back door and listened cheerfully to the dog's salvo of barks. I could afford to be cheerful; it would be the last time I'd have to endure it. I plunged my hand into the bowl of moist meat, enjoying its cool, slippery feel. Then I tossed it over the wall in handfuls. I returned indoors, washed up and went upstairs to my vantage point by the computer. I chose the atmospheric world of Darkseed, calming my excitement with the gothic and macabre underworld I had come to know so well. In spite of my absorption in the game, though, I couldn't help glancing out of the window every few minutes. After a while, he slumped to the ground, tongue lolling out of his mouth. I exited from my game and picked up my binoculars. He seemed to be breathing, but wasn't moving.

I ran downstairs, picking up the holdall I'd prepared earlier, and got into the jeep. I reversed it down the alley till the tailgate was level with next-door's yard gate. I turned off the engine. Silence. I couldn't resist a certain smug satisfaction as I picked up my crowbar and jumped down. It took moments to force next-door's gate. As it swung open, I could see the dog hadn't stirred. I opened the holdall and crouched down beside him. I shoved his tongue back into his mouth and taped his muzzle shut with a roll of surgical tape. I bound his legs together, front and back, and dragged him to the jeep. He was heavy, but I keep myself in shape, and it wasn't too hard to manhandle him into the back.