he worst of it was, he recognized his own behaviour. How many times had he sat across the table from a multiple rapist, arsonist or killer and watched them reach the point in their reliving of events where they could no longer face themselves. Just like him, they closed down. They couldn't disconnect a phone, but they closed down just the same. Eventually, of course, with the right therapy, they breached the walls and managed to confront what had brought them there. That was the first step towards recovery. Part of Tony prayed that Angelica knew enough about the theory and practice of psychology to stick with him till he too could break down the barriers and stare into the face of whatever it was that had bred this sexual and emotional cripple.

But the other part of him hoped she'd never call again. Never mind 'no pain, no gain'. He just wanted no pain.

John Brandon scrupulously wiped his plate with the last piece of nan bread and smiled at his wife.

"That was great, Maggie," he said.

"Mmm," his son Andy agreed through a mouthful of lamb and aubergine curry.

Brandon shifted awkwardly in his chair.

"If it's all right with you, I think I'll pop back down to Scargill Street for an hour. Just to see how things are going."

"I thought ranking officers like you didn't have to work evenings,"

Maggie said good-humouredly.

"I thought you said the troops didn't need you breathing down their necks?"

Brandon looked sheepish.

"I know. But I just want to see how the lads are going on."

Maggie shook her head, a resigned smile on her face. "I'd rather you went down and got it out of your system than you sat all night fidgeting in front of the telly."

Karen perked up.

"Dad, if you're going back into town, can you drop me at Laura's? So we can work on our history project?"

Andy snorted.

"Work on how you're going to get off with Craig McDonald, more like."

"You know nothing," Karen huffed.

"Will you. Dad?"

Brandon got up from the table.

"Only if you're ready now. And I'll pick you up on my way back."

"Oh, Dad," Karen complained.

"You said you were only going to be gone an hour. That's not nearly long enough for us to do all we want to."

It was Maggie Brandon's turn to snort with laughter.

"If your father's back before half past nine, I'll make Scotch pancakes for supper."

Karen looked at each parent in turn, the anguish of choice written on her fourteen-year-old face.

"Dad?" she said.

"Can you pick me up by nine o'clock?"

Brandon grinned.

"Why do I feel like I've been stitched up?"

It was just after half past seven when Brandon arrived in the HOLMES room. Even that late, every terminal was occupied. The sound of fingers hitting keyboards clicked away under the quiet conversations taking place at a few of the desks. Inspector Dave Woolcott sat beside one of the collators, who was pointing out some detail on the screen. No one looked up when Brandon entered.

He walked over behind Woolcott and waited till he had finished talking to the constable on the terminal. Brandon suppressed a sigh.

It was definitely time he started thinking about retirement. It wasn't just the bobbies that looked young to him now; even the inspectors didn't look old enough to be out of probationer's cap bands.

"Keep trying for a match, Harry, cross-ref with the CROs," he heard Woolcott say. The lad on the keyboard nodded and stared into his screen.

' "Evening, Dave," Brandon said.

Woolcott swung round in his chair. Registering who the newcomer was, he got to his feet.

"Evening, sir."

"I was on my way home, and I thought I'd swing by and see how you were doing," Brandon lied smoothly.

"Well, sir, it's early days. We'll have teams working round the clock for the next couple of days, feeding in all the statement details from the earlier cases as well as PC Connolly's. I'm also liaising with the team manning the hot-line phones. Most of it's the usual spite, vengeance and paranoia, but Sergeant Lascelles is doing a good job of prioritizing the messages."

"Anything coming out yet?"

Woolcott rubbed his bald spot in the reflex gesture which his second wife claimed had caused the problem in the first place.

"Bits and pieces. We've got a few names of blokes who were out and about in Temple Fields on at least two of the nights in question, and those are being actioned. We've also been hammering the PNC with car index numbers that have shown up regularly around the times of the killings. Luckily, ever since the second killing. Inspector Jordan's had somebody clocking car numbers round the gay village. It's a long job, sir, but we'll get there."

If he's in there, Brandon thought. It was he who had been adamant that this was a case for the HOLMES team. But this killer was unlike any he'd seen or read about. This killer was careful.

Brandon didn't know much about computers. But one adage had stuck: garbage in, garbage out. He hoped fervently that he hadn't given his men a job that should have gone to the Cleansing Department.

Carol's eyes snapped open, heart pounding. In her dream, a heavy cell door had slammed shut, leaving her a prisoner of cold, sweating windowless walls. Still groggy from sleep, it took her a moment to realize that the familiar weight of Nelson's body wasn't lying across her feet. She heard footsteps, the rattle of keys being thrown on a table. A narrow sliver of light spilled through the few inches of open door Nelson required for his comings and goings. She rolled over with a groan and grabbed the clock. Ten past ten. Robbed of twenty minutes' precious sleep by Michael's noisy return.

Carol stumbled out of bed and pulled on her heavy to welling bathrobe. She opened her bedroom door and walked into the enormous room that made up most of the third-floor flat she shared with her brother. Half a dozen floor-mounted up-lights of different heights cast a warm and elegant glow on the room. Nelson appeared from the kitchen doorway, bouncing lightly on the stripped-wood flooring. Then he crouched and, in a leap that seemed to defy gravity, bounded into the air, touching briefly on a tall thin speaker before landing delicately on top of a blond wood bookcase. From there, he stared superciliously across the room at Carol, as if to say,

"I bet you can't do that."

The room was about forty feet by twenty-five. At one end, a group of three two-seater sofas covered with quilted throws surrounded a low coffee table. At the opposite end stood a dining table with six chairs in the style of Rennie Mackintosh. Near the sofas was a TV and video on a black trolley. About half of the back wall was occupied by shelves crammed with books, videos and CDs.

The walls were painted a cool dove-grey, except for the far wall, which was exposed brickwork, with five high arched windows looking out over the city. Carol walked across the room till she could just see the edge of the black ribbon of the Duke of Waterford canal below. The city lights glittered like a cheap jeweller's window.

"Michael?" she called.

Her brother stuck his head out of the narrow galley kitchen, looking surprised.

"I didn't realize you were home," he said.

"Did I wake you?"

"I was getting up soon anyway. I've got to go back to work. I was just grabbing a few hours," she said resignedly. "Is the kettle on?"

She walked across to the kitchen and perched on a high stool while Michael made tea and carried on building himself a sandwich with ciabatta, beef tomatoes, black olives, spring onions and tuna.

"Eat?" he asked.

"I could handle one of those," Carol admitted.

"How was London?"

Michael shrugged.

"You know. They like what we're doing, but could we have it finished yesterday."

Carol pulled a face.

"Sounds just like the Sentinel Times's editorials about the serial killer. What exactly is it you're doing at the moment anyway? Is it explainable in words of one syllable to a tech no-illiterate?"

Michael grinned.

"The next big thing is going to be computer adventure games with the same quality as videos. You film real stuff and digitize it and manipulate it to produce game play that's as real as a movie. So we're on to the next, next big thing. Imagine you're playing a computer adventure, but all the characters are people you know. You're the hero, but not just in your imagination."

"You've lost me now," Carol said.

"OK. When you install the game on your computer, you'll plug in a scanner and scan photographs of yourself and anybody else you want in your game. The computer reads that information, and translates it into screen images. So instead of Conan the Barbarian leading the quest, it's Carol Jordan. You can import pies of your best friends or your lust objects to be your companions in the game. Anybody you don't like, you turn into the baddies. So, you could have an adventure with Mel Gibson, Dennis Quaid and Martin Amis, and fight enemies like Saddam Hussein, Margaret Thatcher and Popeye," Michael explained enthusiastically as he stuffed the ingredients into the bread. He dumped the sandwiches on plates and together they walked back into the living room and sat staring out over the canal as they ate.

"Clear?" he asked.

"As it needs to be," Carol said.

"So once you've got this software up and running, presumably you could use it to put people in compromising positions? Like blue movies?"

Michael frowned.

"Theoretically. Your average computer nerd wouldn't even know where to begin. You'd no need to know what you were doing and you'd also need seriously expensive hardware to get decent quality stills or videos off your computer."

"Thank God for that," Carol said, with feeling.

"I was beginning to think you were creating a Frankenstein's monster for blackmailers and tabloid journalists."

"No chance," he said.

"Anyway, close analysis would show it up. So what about you? How's your quest coming along?"

Carol shrugged.

"I could do with a few super heroes to help out, to be honest."

"What's this profiler like? He going to shake things up a bit?"

Tony Hill? He already has. Popeye's going around with a face like a melted wellie. But I'm hopeful we might get something constructive put of him. I've had one session with him already, and he's bursting with ideas. He's a nice guy as well, no hassle to work with. "

Michael grinned.

"That must be a refreshing change."

"You're not kidding."

"And is he your type?"

Carol pulled a piece of crust off her bread and threw it at Michael.

"God, you're as bad as the sexist pigs I work with. I haven't got a type, and even if I did and Tony Hill was it, you know I won't mix work with pleasure."

"Given the fact that you work all hours and spend all your spare time asleep, I guess you're looking at a lifetime of celibacy," Michael replied drily.

"So is he gorgeous, or what?"

"I hadn't noticed," Carol said stiffly.

"And I doubt whether he's even noticed I'm female. The man's a workaholic. In fact, he's the reason I'm working again tonight. He wants to see the scenes of crime at around the time the bodies were dumped so he can get a feel for it."

"Shame you've got to go out again," Michael said.

"It's ages since we've had a night in with (he telly and a few bottles of wine. We see so little of each other just now, we might as well be married."

Carol smiled ruefully.

"The price of success, eh, bro?"

"I guess so." Michael got up.

"Oh well, if you're going to work, I might as well do a couple of hours before I sack out."

"Before you go ... I need a favour."

Michael sat down again.

"As long as it doesn't involve doing your ironing."

"What do you know about statistical pattern analysis?"

Michael frowned.

"Not a lot. I did a little bit when I was doing part-time jobbing work while I was doing my PhD, but I don't know what's state of the art right now. Why? You want something looking at?"

Carol nodded.

"It's a bit grisly, I'm afraid." She outlined the sadistic injuries to Damien Connolly.

"Tony Hill has an idea they might yield some kind of a message."

"Sure, I'll have a look for you. I know a bloke who's almost certainly got the latest software in the field. I'm sure he'd let me have some time on his machine to fiddle about with this," Michael said.

"Not a word to anybody what it's about," Carol said.

Michael looked offended.

"Of course not. What do you take me for?

Listen, I'd rather get on the wrong side of a serial killer than you.

I'll keep my mouth shut. Just get the stuff to me tomorrow, and I'll do my best, OK? "

Carol leaned over and rumpled her brother's blond hair. Thank you. I appreciate it. "

Michael grabbed her in a quick hug.

"This is seriously weird territory, little sis. Be careful out there, huh? You know I can't afford the mortgage on this place alone."

"I'm always careful," Carol said, ignoring the small voice inside her warning not to tempt fate.

"I'm a survivor."

" I wanted you the first time I saw you," I said softly.

"I've wanted you for so long."

Adam's lolling head straightened slightly. I pressed the remote record button on the tripod-mounted video camera. I didn't want to miss a thing. Adam's eyelids, heavy from all that chloroform, struggled open to a slit, then suddenly snapped wide as memory kicked in. His head thrashed from side to side as he tried to see where he was, how he was restrained. As he took in his nakedness, spotted the details of the soft leather wrist and ankle cuffs, and realized that he was fastened to my rack, a moan of what sounded like panic escaped from behind the tape over his mouth.

I stepped out of the shadows behind him and moved into his line of vision, my body oiled and shining in the bright lights. I had stripped down to my underwear, carefully chosen to show off my superb body to its best advantage. When he saw me, his eyes opened even wider. He attempted to speak, but all that came out was a strained mumble.

"But you decided you couldn't allow yourself to want me, didn't you?"

I said, my voice hard and accusing.

"You betrayed my love. You didn't have the courage to choose a love that would have exalted us both.

No, you ignored your real self and went for a stupid little bimbo, that trashy tart. Don't you realize? I'm the only one in the world who understands, really understands, what you need. I could have given you ecstasy, but you chose the safe, pathetic option. You didn't have the nerve for a marriage of true minds and bodies, did you? "

Drops of sweat were trickling down his temples, in spite of the coolness of the cellar. I moved forward and stroked his body, running my hand over his pale, muscular chest, fluttering my fingers over his groin. He flinched convulsively, his dark-blue eyes pleading.

"How could you betray what I know is in your heart?" I hissed, digging my nails into the soft flesh above the wiry curls of his dark pubic hair. He tensed against me. I thrilled to the sensation. I took my hand away and admired the scarlet half-moons my nails had left in his skin.

"You know you belong to me. You told me. You wanted me, we both know you did."

Another groan from behind the gag. Now the sweat had spread to his chest, droplets matting the thick dark hair that tapered down his abdomen into a thin line pointing to his cock lying curled and useless as a slug between his legs. Even though it was obvious that he didn't want me, the very sight of his vulnerable nakedness aroused me. He was beautiful. I could feel the blood flowing faster, feel my flesh expanding, ready to take him, ready to explode. I hated myself for that weakness, and I turned away before he could see the effect he was having.

"All I wanted was to love you," I said quietly.

"I didn't want it to be like this." My hand strayed to the handle of the rack and caressed the smooth wood. I turned my head and gazed at Adam's beautiful face.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, I started to turn the handle. His body, already taut, tightened against the pull of the straps. His effort was wasted. The gears on the winding mechanism multiplied my small exertion till it equalled the strength of several men. Adam was no match for my machine. I could see the muscles of his arms and legs bulge, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath.

"It's not too late," I said.

"We could still be lovers. Would you like that?"

Desperately, he moved his head. There was no mistaking it, it was a nod. I smiled.

"That's more like it," I said.

"Now all you have to do is show me you mean it."

I ran one hand over his damp chest, then rubbed my face against the fine dark hairs. I could smell his fear, taste it in his sweat. I buried my head in his neck, sucking and biting, nibbling his ears. His body stayed rigid, but I felt no trace of an erection beneath me.

frustrated, I pulled away. I leaned over him and, in one swift agonizing movement, I yanked the tape away from his mouth.

"Aagh!" he yelled as the adhesive ripped his skin, rasping on the faint stubble. He licked dry lips.

"Please, let me go," he whispered.

I shook my head. 7 can't do that, Adam. Maybe if we were really lovers . "

*J won't tell anyone," he croaked.

"I promise."

"You betrayed me once," I said sadly.

"How can I trust you now?"

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I didn't realize ... I'm sorry." But there was no penitence in his eyes, only desperation and fear. I'd played this scene so many times in my head. fart of me exulted that I'd predicted the shape of it so well, that the dialogue was almost identical to the scenario I'd conjured up. Part of me felt an inexpressible sadness that he was exactly as weak and faithless as I'd feared. And yet another part of me was almost uncontrollably excited by what lay ahead, whether love or death, or both.

"It's too late for words," I said.

"It's time for actions. You said you wanted us to be lovers, but that's not what your body's saying.

Maybe you're scared. But there's no need to be. I'm a generous person, a loving person. You could find that out for yourself. I'm going to give you one last chance to atone for your betrayal. I'm going to leave you now for a while. When I come back, I expect you to be able to control your fear and show me how you really feel about me. "