he witness statements were divided into three groups: Background (victim). Witness (scene of crime) and Miscellaneous. Selecting the Background (victim) files, he walked his wheeled chair across to the table where his personal computer stood. When he'd arrived at Bradfield, the university had offered him a terminal linked into their network.

He'd declined, not wanting to waste time learning a new set of protocols when he was perfectly at home with his own PC. Now, he was glad he didn't have to add data security to the list of worries that kept him awake at nights.

Tony called up the customized software that would allow him to make comparisons between the victims, and started the long slog of inputting the data.

Five minutes in the Scargill Street station was enough to make Carol wish she'd gone straight home. To get to the office she'd been allocated for the duration of the investigation, she had to walk the length of the main squad room. Copies of the evening paper were strewn over half the desks, mocking her with their thick black headlines. Bob Stansfield was standing with a couple of DCs halfway down the room and he called to her as she passed.

"The good doctor knocked off already, has he?"

"From what I've seen of the good doctor. Bob, he could give some of our bosses a few lessons in working overtime," Carol said, wishing she could think of some sharper putdown. Doubtless it would come to her hours later in the shower. On the other hand, maybe it was as well she hadn't come up with something too devastating. Better not alienate the lads any more than her assignment had already done. She stopped and smiled.

"Anything new?" she asked.

Stansfield detached himself from his juniors, saying, "Right, lads, get on with it." He moved over to Carol's side and said,

"Not as such. The HOLMES team are working flat out, smacking all we've got so far into the computer, see what correlations they can come up with.

Cross has ordered us to pull in all the nonces again. He's convinced one of them's our best bet. "

Carol shook her head.

"Waste of time."

"You said it. This bastard's not got form, I'd put money on it.

Kevin's got a team going out tonight to try something a bit different, though," he added, taking out and lighting his last cigarette. He tossed the packet in a nearby bin, an expression of disgust on his face.

"If we don't get a fucking break soon, I'm going to have to put in for a raise to cover my bloody nicotine consumption."

The, I'm drinking so much coffee I've got a permanent case of the jitterbug boogies," Carol said ruefully.

"So what's this idea of Kevin's?" Gently does it. First the rapport, then the question. Funny how getting information out of colleagues followed the same rules as interrogating suspects.

"He's got an undercover team going out on the gay scene, concentrating on the clubs and pubs with a reputation for S&M."

Stansfield snorted.

"They've all been down Traffic this avvy, scrounging leather trousers off the bike boys."

"It's worth a try," Carol said.

"Yeah, well let's hope Kevin's not sending in a bunch of closet pansies like Damien Connolly turned out to be," Stansfield said.

"Last thing we want is a bunch of CID fairies ending up wearing their own handcuffs."

Carol refused to dignify the comment with a reply and moved off towards her office. She'd got her hand on the door when Cross's voice boomed down the room.

"Inspector Jordan? Get your body in here."

Carol closed her eyes and counted to three.

"Coming, sir," she said cheerfully, turning back and walking the length of the room to Cross's temporary office. He'd only been in there a day, but already he'd marked it like a tomcat spraying his territory. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Half- drunk polystyrene cups of coffee strategically placed on window ledge and desk top had butts floating in them. There was even a girlie calendar on the wall, proof that sexism was alive and well and working in the advertising industry.

Hadn't they realized yet that it was the women who stood in the supermarkets deciding which brand of vodka to buy?

Leaving the door open in a bid for air, Carol walked into Cross's office and said,

"Sir?"

"What's Wonder Boy come up with then?"

"It's a bit early for conclusions, sir," she said brightly. "He's got to read through all the reports I copied for him."

Cross grunted.

"Oh aye, I forgot he's a bloody professor." He spat the word out sarcastically.

"Everything in writing, eh? Kevin's got some more stuff on the Connolly business; you'll have to catch up with him. Was there anything else, Inspector?" he asked belligerently, as if she were the one who had imposed herself on him.

"Dr Hill has a suggestion, sir. About the burn marks on PC Connolly's body. He wondered if there was anyone on the HOLMES team who could do statistical pattern analysis."

"What the bloody hell is statistical pattern analysis?" Cross said, dumping the end of his cigarette into a coffee cup.

"I think it means-' " Never mind, never mind," Cross interrupted.

"Go and see if anybody down there knows what the hell you're on about."

"Yes, sir. Oh, and sir? If we can't do it here, my brother works in computers. I'm sure he could do it for us."

Cross stared at her, his expression unreadable for once. When he spoke, he was all affability.

"Fine. Go ahead. Mr Brandon gave you carte blanche, after all."

So that's what a passing buck sounds like, Carol thought as she headed downstairs to the HOLMES room. A five- minute conversation with a harassed Inspector Dave Woolcott confirmed what she'd already suspected. The HOLMES team had neither the software nor the expertise to carry out the analysis Tony wanted. As Carol walked down to the canteen in search of Kevin Matthews, she hoped Michael could deliver in complete confidence. Keeping quiet about technological developments was very different from resisting the urge to gossip about a high-profile murder enquiry. If he let her down, she could kiss goodbye to a future outside Personnel.

Kevin was hunched alone over a cup of coffee, a plate with the remains of a fry-up next to him. Carol pulled out the chair opposite him.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Be my guest," Kevin said. He looked up and gave her the ghost of a grin, pushing his unruly ginger curls back from his forehead.

"How's it going?"

"Probably a lot easier than it is for you and Bob."

"What's this Home Office boffin like, then?"

Carol considered for a moment.

"He's cautious. He's quick, he's sharp, but he's not a know-all, and he doesn't seem to want to tell us how to do our job. It's really interesting watching him work. He looks at things from a different perspective."

"How do you mean?" Kevin asked, looking genuinely interested.

"When we look at a crime, we look for physical clues, leads, things that point us to who we might want to talk to or where we might want to look. When he looks at a crime, he's not interested in all that stuff. He wants to know why the physical clues happened the way they did so he can work out who did it. It's as if we use information to move us forward and he uses it to move him backwards. Does that make sense?"

Kevin frowned.

"I think so. You think he's got what it takes?"

Carol shrugged.

"It's early days yet. But yeah, on first impressions, I'd say he's got something to offer."

Kevin grinned.

"Something to offer the investigation or something to offer you?"

"Piss off, Kevin," Carol said, tired of the innuendo that followed her round the job.

"Unlike some, I never shit on my own doorstep."

Kevin looked momentarily uneasy.

"Only joking, Carol, honest."

"Jokes are supposed to be funny."

"OK, OK, sorry. What's he like to work with, though? Nice bloke, or what?"

Carol spoke slowly, measuring her words.

"Considering he spends his working life getting inside the minds of psychopaths, he seems pretty normal. There's something quite ... closed off about him. He keeps his distance. Doesn't give much away. But he treats me like an equal, not like some thick plod. He's on our side, Kevin, and that's the main thing. I'd guess he's one of those workaholics who's more interested in getting the job done than anything else. And speaking of getting the job done, Popeye says you've turned something up on PC Connolly?"

Kevin sighed.

"For what it's worth. One of the neighbours came home from work at ten to six. She knows the time because the shipping forecast had just started on the car radio. Connolly was on his drive, closing the bonnet of his car. He had overalls on. The neighbour says he must have been working on the car, he was always at it. By the time the neighbour got out of her car and into the house, Damien was reversing his car into the garage. The same neighbour came out about an hour later on her way to a game of squash, and she noticed Connolly's car parked on the street. She was a bit surprised, because he never left the car sitting out, especially after dark. She also noticed that the light was on in Connolly's garage. And that's about the size of it."

"Is it an integral garage?" Carol asked.

"No, but it's attached to the house, and there's a door from the garage leads into the kitchen."

"So it looks like he was snatched from the house?"

Kevin shrugged.

"Who knows? There's no sign of a struggle. I spoke to one of the SO COs who turned the place over, and he said not to hold our breath."

"Sounds just like the first two."

"That's what Bob says." Kevin pushed his chair back.

"I better get weaving. We're going out on the town tonight."

"I might bump into you later," Carol said.

"Dr Hill wants a tour of the crime scenes at the sort of time when the bodies were dumped."

Kevin got to his feet.

"Just don't let him talk to any strange men."

Tony took the plastic container of lasagne out of the microwave and sat down at the breakfast bar in his kitchen. He'd input all the data that he could find on the four victims, then he'd transferred the files to a floppy disk so he could work on it at home while he waited for Carol to arrive. As soon as he'd reached the tram stop, he'd realized he was ravenous. Then he remembered he'd eaten nothing since his breakfast cereal. He'd been working with such concentration, he hadn't even noticed. He found the hunger curiously satisfactory. It meant he was too involved in what he was doing to be conscious of himself. He knew from long experience that his best work came when he lost selfconsciousness, when he could immerse himself in the patterns of another human being, locked into that other's idiosyncratic logic, in tune with a different set of emotions.

He attacked the food with gusto, shovelling it down as quickly as possible so he could get to his computer and carry on with his victim profiles. There were still a couple of forkfuls left in the dish when the phone rang. With no pause for thought. Tony snatched up the phone.

"Hello?" he said cheerfully.

"Anthony," the voice said. Tony dropped the fork, tipping the pasta out on the work top

"Angelica," he said. He was back in his own world, anchored within his own head at the sound of her voice.

"Feeling more sociable today?" the sweet huskiness asked.

"I wasn't feeling anti-social yesterday. I just had things to do I couldn't ignore. And you distract me," Tony said, wondering why he bothered to justify himself to her.

"That's the general plan," she said.

"But I missed you, Anthony. I was so horny for you, and when you discarded me like an old sock, all my pleasure in the day was over."

"Why do you do this with me?" he demanded. It was a question he'd asked before, but she had always deflected him.

"Because you deserve me," the voice said.

"Because I want you more than anyone in the world. And because you don't have anyone else in your life to make you happy."

It was the same old story. Cut off the question with some flannel.

But tonight. Tony wanted answers, not flattery. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

The voice chuckled softly.

"I know more about you than you can possibly dream. Anthony, you don't have to be alone any more."

"What if I like being alone? Isn't it fair to assume that I'm alone because I want to be?"

"You don't look like a happy boy to me. Some days, you look like you need a hug more than anything in the world. Some days, you look like you haven't slept for more than a couple of hours. Anthony, I can bring you peace. Women have hurt you before, we both know that. But I won't. I can stop it hurting. I can make you sleep like a baby, you know that. All I want is to make you happy." The voice was soothing, gentle.

Tony sighed. If only . "I find that hard to believe," he stalled.

Right from the start of these conversations, part of him had wanted to slam the phone down on this exquisite tenure. But the scientist in him wanted to hear what she had to say. And the damaged man inside had enough self- awareness to know he needed to be cured, and that this might just be the way. He reminded himself of his earlier resolve not to let her get under his skin, so that when the time came, he could walk away without pain.

"But you let me try." The voice was so self-assured. She was confident of her power over him.

"I listen, don't I? I join in. I haven't put the phone down yet," he said, forcing artificial warmth into his voice.

"Why don't you do just that? Why don't you put down this phone and go upstairs to your bedroom and pick up the extension there? So we can be comfortable?"

A cold stab of fear hit Tony in the chest. He struggled to frame the question professionally. Not,

"How do you know that?" but,

"What makes you think I've got a phone in the bedroom?"

There was a pause, so brief that Tony couldn't be certain he wasn't imagining it.

"Just guessing," she said.

"I've got you sussed. You're the kind of man who has a phone by the bed."

"Well guessed," Tony said.

"OK. I'm going to put the phone down and I'll pick up in the bedroom." He replaced the receiver and hurried through to his study, where he switched the answering machine over to 'record' mode. Then he picked up the phone again.

"Hello? I'm back,"

he said.

"Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin." Again that low, sexy chuckle.

"We are going to have some real fun tonight. Wait till you hear what I've got lined up for you tonight. Oh, Anthony," she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper.

"I've been dreaming about you. Imagining your hands on my body, running your fingers over my skin."

"What are you wearing?" Tony asked. It was, he knew, the standard question.

"What would you like me to be wearing? I have an extensive wardrobe."

Tony bit back the crazy urge to say,

"Fishermen's waders, a tutu and a rain mate He swallowed hard and said,

"Silk. You know how I like the feel of silk."

"That's why you love my skin. I take a lot of trouble to keep myself in perfect condition. But just for you, I've covered some of my skin with silk. I'm wearing a pair of black silk French knickers and a sheer black silk camisole. Oh, I love the feeling of silk against my body. Oh, Anthony," she groaned.

"The silk's rubbing against my nipples, gently, like your fingers would. Oh, my nipples are hard as rocks, sticking up, inflamed with you."

In spite of himself. Tony began to feel the stirrings of interest.

She was good, no two ways about it. Most of the women he'd heard on the chat lines had sounded stale and bored, their responses predictable and stereotypical. Nothing in their conversations had aroused anything other than scientific interest in him. But Angelica was different. For one thing, she sounded like she meant it.

She moaned softly.

"God, I'm wet," she breathed.

"But you can't touch me yet, you've got to wait. Just lie back, that's a good boy. Oh, I love to undress you. I've got my hands under your shirt, my fingers are running over your chest, stroking you, touching you, feeling your nipples under my fingers. God, you're wonderful," she sighed.

"That's nice," Tony said, enjoying the caress of her voice.

"That's just the beginning. Now I'm straddling you, unbuttoning your shirt. I'm leaning over you, my nipples inside the silk brushing against your chest. Oh, Anthony!" her voice exclaimed in pleasure.

"You really are pleased to see me, aren't you? You're hard as a rock underneath me. Oh, I can't wait to get you inside me."

Her words froze Tony. The erection he'd felt hardening inside his trousers died like a snowflake in a puddle. They were there again.

"I

think I'm going to disappoint you," he said, his voice cracking.

That sexy chuckle again.

"No way. You're already more than I dreamed. Oh, Anthony, touch me. Tell me what you want to do to me."

Tony could find no words.

"Don't be shy, Anthony. There are no secrets between us, nowhere we can't go. Close your eyes, let the feelings flow. Touch my breasts, go on, suck my nipples, eat me, let me feel your hot wet mouth all over me."

Tony groaned. This was almost more than he could bear, even in the interests of science.

Angelica's voice was more breathy now, as if her words were arousing her as much as they should have been arousing him.

"That's right, oh God, Anthony, that's wonderful. Oh-oh-oh," she said in a shuddering moan.

"See, I told you I was wet. That's right, plunge your fingers deep into my cunt. Oh God, you're the best ... Let me ... let me, oh God, let me get at you."

Tony heard the sound of a zipper down the phone line. "Angelica ..."

he started to say. It was falling apart again, just as it always did, spiralling out of control like a wounded bird.

"Oh, Anthony, you're beautiful. That's the most beautiful cock I've ever seen. Oh, let me taste you ..." Her voice tailed off with the sound of sucking.

The blood rushed to Tony's face in a sudden wave of shame and anger.

He slammed the phone down and immediately took it off the hook again.

Jesus, what kind of a man couldn't even get it up over the phone? And what kind of scientist couldn't divorce his own pathetic failings from the exercise of objective data collection?