ould you go a quick curry?"

Tony glanced at his computer screen, then back at Carol's drawn face and tired eyes. He liked her, even though he didn't want to get close, and he needed her on his side.

"Just let me save this file, and I'm out of here. I can come back later and finish this."

Twenty minutes later they were attacking onion bhajis and chicken pakora in an Asian cafe in Greenholm. The other customers were students and those of the terminally right-on tendency who hadn't quite adjusted to the fact they were no longer studying anything except political correctness.

"It's not exactly Good Food Guide, but it's cheap and cheerful, and the service is quick," Tony apologized.

"Fine by me. I'm more egg on toast than Egon Ronay. My brother got the gourmet genes in our family," Carol said. She glanced quickly around her. Their table for two was less than a foot away from the next.

"Did you bring me here deliberately so we couldn't talk about work? Some psychologist's ploy to refresh my mind?"

Tony's eyes widened.

"I didn't even think of that. You're right, of course, we can't talk about it in here."

Carol's smile lit up her eyes.

"You can have no idea how much pleasure that gives me."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Tony broke the silence. That way, he stayed in control of the subject.

"What made you decide to be a copper?"

Carol raised her eyebrows.

"Because I like oppressing the underprivileged and hassling racial minorities?" she tried.

Tony smiled.

"I don't think so."

She pushed her plate to one side and sighed.

"Youthful idealism she said.

"I had this crazy idea that the police should be there to serve and protect society from lawlessness and anarchy."

"It's not such a crazy idea. Believe me, if you dealt with the people I used to handle, you'd feel relieved that they weren't on the streets."

"Oh, the theory's fine. It's just the practice that's such a bummer.

It all started when I read sociology at Manchester. I specialized in the sociology of organizations, and all my contemporaries despised the police force as a corrupt, racist, sexist organization whose sole role was to preserve the illusory comfort of the middle classes. To some extent, I agreed with them. The difference was that they wanted to attack institutions from the outside, whereas I've always believed that if you want fundamental change, it has to come from inside. "

Tony grinned.

"You little subversive, you!"

"Yeah, well, I guess I didn't realize what I was getting into. David knocking out Goliath was a piece of piss compared with trying to change things in the police."

"Tell me about it," Tony said with feeling.

"This national task force could revolutionize the clear-up rate on serious crimes, but the way some senior officers carry on, you'd think I was setting up a scheme to allow paedophiles to retrain as child minders."

Carol giggled.

"You mean, you'd rather be back in the locked ward with your nutters?"

"Carol, sometimes I feel like I've never left. You've no idea what a refreshing change it is to work with people like you and John Brandon."

Before Carol could reply, the waiter arrived with their main courses.

As she spooned out lamb and spinach, chicken karahi and pilau rice, Carol said,

"Does your job create the same problems with having a private life as the police service does?"

Instantly defensive. Tony answered with a question. "How do you mean?"

"Like you said earlier, you get obsessed with the J0^- You spend your time dealing with shit heads and animals ' " And that's just your colleagues," Tony butted in.

"Yeah, right. And you come home at night after dealing with broken bodies and fractured lives and you're expected to sit down and watch the soaps and act like normal people do."

"And you can't because your head's still plugged '" to the horrors of the day," Tony finished.

"And with your job, you have the added complication of shift work."

"Exactly. So, do you get the same problems?"

Was she asking out of idle curiosity or was this an oblique way of finding out about his private life? Sometimes Tony wished he could just switch off the part of his head that had to analyse every statement, every gesture, every intricate piece of body language and just revel in the pleasure of eating dinner with someone who seemed to enjoy his company. Suddenly aware that he had left too long a pause between the question and the answer. Tony said,

"I'm probably even worse at switching off than you. Men generally seem to get much more obsessive than women. I mean, how many female train spotters, stamp collectors or football fanatics do you know?"

"And that interferes in your personal relationships?" Carol persisted.

"Well, none of them have ever gone the distance," Tony said, struggling to keep his voice light.

"I don't know if that's down to the job, or to me. Mostly, the last thing they've screamed at me as they walked out the door hasn't been, " you and your bloody nutters", so I guess it must be me. how about you? Ho^ ^y you handle the problems of the job?" ^ < ^ f Carol'^forltcfflP^^^^p^urney to her mouth and she chewed of curry before she answered.

"I've found that men aren't very sympathetic towards shifts unless they do them too. You know, you're never there with the tea on the table when they've got to rush out to that vital squash match.

Add to that the difficulty of getting them to understand why the job drives you inside your head and what are you left with? Junior doctors, other coppers, fire fighters, ambulance drivers. And in my experience, there aren't many of them who want a relationship with an equal. I guess the job takes too much out of us for us to have much left over. The last guy I was involved with was a doctor, and all he wanted to do when he wasn't working was sleep, fuck and party. "

"And you wanted more?"

"I wanted the occasional conversation, maybe even a movie or a night out at the theatre. But I put up with it because I loved him."

"So what made you end it?"

Carol stared down at her plate.

"Thanks for the compliment, but I didn't. When I moved up here, he decided that driving up and down the motorway was a waste of good shagging time, so he dumped me for a nurse. Now it's just me and the cat. He doesn't seem to mind the irregular hours."

"Ah," Tony said. He had heard the real pain under the surface, but for once, all his professional skills didn't seem adequate to the response.

"How about you? You involved with anyone?" Carol asked.

Tony shook his head and carried on eating.

"Nice bloke like you, I'd have thought you'd have been snapped up ages ago," Carol said, the tease in her tone covering something Tony wished he was imagining.

"Ah, but you've only seen the charming side. When the moon's full, I sprout hair on the palms of my hands and bay at the moon." Tony leered melodramatically at Carol. "I am not what I appear to be, young woman," he growled.

"Oh, Grandmamma, what big teeth you've got!" Carol said in falsetto.

"All the better to eat my curry with," Tony laughed. He knew this was the point where he could have moved the relationship forward, but he had spent too long constructing his de fences against precisely these moments of weakness to let them down that easily. Besides, he told himself, he had no need of a relationship with her. He had Angelica and bitter experience had taught him that was all he could handle and still function.

"So how did you get into this soul-destroying line of work?" Carol asked.

"I discovered while I was working on my DPhil that I hated getting up on my hind legs and talking to an audience, which kind of ruled out academic work. So I went into clinical practice," Tony said, slipping easily into a flow of anecdotes about his work. He felt himself relax, like a man walking on a frozen lake who realizes he's back on dry land.

They spent the rest of the meal on the safer ground of their careers, and Carol asked the waiter for the bill when he came to clear off the table.

"I'm picking up the tab, OK? Nothing to do with feminism; you're a legitimate business expense Carol said.

As they walked back to Tony's office, he said, "So, back to work. Tell me about your day. "

The swift switch away from the personal back to the case confirmed to Carol the need to play it cool with Tony. She'd never seen anyone back off so fast at gentle flirtation. It was puzzling, all the more since she sensed he liked her. And she had no doubts about her capacity to attract men. At least tracking Handy Andy with him gave her space and time to build a bridge between them.

"We got a break this morning. At least, that's what we're all hoping."

Tony stopped abruptly and turned to face Carol.

"What kind of a break?" he demanded.

"Don't worry, you're not being ignored," Carol said.

"It's something that would be a minor detail in most investigations, but because we've got so little to go on here, it's got everybody excited. There was a torn fragment of leather on a nail by the gate in the Queen of Hearts's yard. Forensic did a rush job on it, and it turns out that it's very unusual. It's deerskin, and it comes from Russia."

"Oh, my good God," Tony said softly. He turned away and took a couple of steps.

"Don't tell me, let me guess. You can't get it in this country, and you'd probably need to send someone to Russia to source it, it's so obscure. Am I right?"

"How the hell did you know that?" Carol asked, catching him up and grabbing his sleeve.

"I've been expecting something like this," he said simply.

"Like what?"

"An outrageous red herring that'll have the entire police force running around like headless chickens."

"You think this is a red herring?" Carol almost shouted. "Why?"

Tony rubbed his hands over his face and ran them through his hair.

"Carol, this guy has been so careful. He's been almost clinical in his obsession with leaving no clues. Serial killers have typically got high IQs, and Handy Andy is certainly one of the cleverest I've ever come across, either personally or in the whole literature. Yet suddenly, out of nowhere we get not just any old clue, but a clue so obscure that it could only possibly be left by a tiny segment of the population. And you're standing here telling me you think this is for real? That'sexactly what he's trying to achieve. I bet the lot of you have been running around like blue- tailed flies all day trying to suss out where this obscure piece of Russian leather came from, haven't you? Oh, and don't tell me, let me guess. I bet there's now a whole squad tracking back through Stevie McConnell's life trying to establish where the hell he got it from."

Carol stared at him. It seemed so blindingly obvious when he explained it like that. Yet not one of them had questioned the validity of the leather scrap.

"Am I right?" Tony asked, more gently this time.

Carol pulled a face.

"Not a whole squad. Just me and Don Merrick and a couple of DCs. I've spent most of the day on the phone talking to governing bodies in weightlifting and body-building, trying to establish if McConnell's ever been on a national or regional team that either competed in Russia or competed against Russians. And Don and the lads have been grilling travel agencies trying to check if he's ever been on holiday there."

"Oh, Christ," Tony groaned.

"And?"

"Five years ago, he was one of a team of weight lifters from the North West who competed in an event in what was then Leningrad."

Tony took a deep breath.

"The poor unlucky bastard," he said.

"I don't expect the idea that this was deliberately planted to have occurred to any of you," he added.

"I don't mean that patronizingly.

I realize how much closer you are to all of this and how desperately you want to catch this bastard. I just wish someone had told- me earlier, before it assumed this major significance for everyone. "

"I did try to phone you this morning," Carol said.

"You still haven't said where you were."

Tony held his hands up.

"I'm sorry. I'm overreacting. I was in bed, asleep, with the phones turned off. I was exhausted after last night, and I knew I couldn't concentrate on writing the profile unless I had some sleep. I should have checked my answering machine when I got up.

Sorry, I shouldn't have had a go. "

Carol grinned.

"I'll let you off this time. Just save the fearsome bit for when we catch Handy Andy, huh?"

Tony pulled a face.

"Shouldn't that be " if"?"

He looked so vulnerable and fallible, his shoulders slumped, his head down, that Carol's impulses overrode zoo the decision she'd taken only minutes before to play it cool. She stepped forward and pulled Tony into a tight hug.

"If anyone can do it, you can," she whispered, rubbing the side of her head against his chin like a cat marking its territory.

Brandon stared at Torn Cross, his face a mask of horror. "You did what?" he demanded.

"I searched McConnell's house," Cross said belligerently.

"I thought I said categorically that we had no right to do that? No judge in the land is going to accept that arrest for common assault in the street gives sufficient grounds for suspicion of murder."

Cross smiled. It was a rictus that would have raised a Rottweiler's hackles.

"With respect, sir, that was then. Once Inspector Jordan had established that McConnell had been to Russia, the picture changed.

Not a lot of people have had access to obscure Russian leather jackets, after all. It puts him in the frame. And there's more than one JP around that owes me one. "

"You should have cleared it with me," Brandon said.

"The last order I gave on the subject was no search."

"I tried, sir, but you were in a meeting with the Chief," Cross said sweetly.

"I thought I'd better strike while the iron was hot, being as how we don't have him banged up indefinitely."

"So you wasted more time searching McConnell's house," Brandon said bitterly.

"Don't you think you and your men could have been better employed?"

"I haven't told you yet what we found," Cross said.

Brandon felt his chest constrict. He wasn't a man given to premonitions, but the sinking foreboding that gripped him now was as palpable as any solid fact he'd ever examined.

"Think very carefully about what you say next. Superintendent," he said cautiously.

A momentary frown of puzzlement flashed over Cross's features, but he was too full of the message he bore to worry about the ACC's words.

"We've got him, sir," he said.

"Bang to rights. We found one of Gareth Finnegan's firm's Christmas cards in McConnell's bedroom, and a sweater that's a dead ringer for the one Adam Scott's bird says was missing from his house. Plus a traffic ticket with Damien Connolly's badge number on it. Add that to the Russian connection, and I think it's time to charge the little arse bandit."

0f course, the discovery that one has a natural bent for something does not necessarily mean one should pursue it blindly. While I was disposing of Paul's body, this time in a dark doorway in an alley in Temple Fields, I had already decided who my next target would be. But even after so magnificent an experience as the one I'd just shared with Paul, I had no intention of repeating it with Gareth.

It was going to be third time lucky. Gareth, I already knew, was a man of rich and fertile sexual imagination. Even as I was digitizing Paul's pathetic performance into the computer, I was mourning the fact that, thanks to Gareth, I would never have the opportunity to perfect the extraordinary talent I had discovered in myself. With the resources at my command, I've been making movies like I've never seen. The ultimate snuff stuff. If I could have marketed them, I would have made a fortune. I know there's a market out there. Plenty of people would pay a lot of money to watch Paul fuck me in his death spasms on the Judas chair. And as for what I've done with Adam . Let's just say that no one's ever seen sixty-nine like it.

As a treat, I went to the cemetery where Adam had been buried a few weeks before. The funeral had featured on the local television news, which I'd video-taped and studied so I could be fairly sure where the grave was. After dark, I made my way through the graves, and found Adam's within twenty minutes. I opened the can of red spray paint I'd brought with me and sprayed

"WANKER' on one side of the grey granite, and

"POOFTER' on the other side. That should give the police something to occupy their minds.

The following evening, while I was waiting for Gareth to emerge from the firm of solicitors where he was a salaried partner, I whiled away the time with the hyperbole of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times.

This time, I'd made the front page.

GAY KILLER STRIKES AGAIN?

The mutilated body of a naked man was found this morning in Bradfield's gay village.

The murder victim had been dumped in the fire-exit doorway of the gay club Shadowlands in an alley off Canal Street in the notorious Temple Fields district.

This is the second time in two months that the body of a naked man has been discovered in the gay cruising area.

Now locals fear a perverted serial killer is stalking the city's large homosexual community.

Today's gruesome discovery was made by nightclub owner Danny Surtees, 37, as he arrived for a meeting with his accountant.

He said, "I always go into the club through the fire door at the side. I park my car in the alley. This morning, the door was blocked by something covered by a couple of black bin bags.

"When I grabbed hold of the bags to try and pull them away from the door, they just came away in my hands and I saw there was a body under them.

"He was horribly injured. There was no way he was still alive. I'm going to have nightmares about this for the rest of my life."

Mr Surtees said the doorway had been clear when he locked up his club just after three this morning.

The victim, said to he in his early thirties, has not yet been identified. Police describe him as white, yft 11 ins, slightly built, with dark-brown collar-length hair and hazel eyes. He has an old scar from an appendicectomy.

A police spokesman said,

"We believe the man was killed elsewhere and the body dumped in the alley between three and eight a.m. " We would urge anyone who was in the Temple fields area last night to come forward for the purpose of elimination. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence.

"At this stage of our enquiry, there is no evidence to connect this killing with the murder two months ago of Adam Scott."

Carl Fellowes, the full-time worker at the Bradfield Gay and Lesbian Centre, said today,

"The police say that they don't think there's a connection between these two murders.

"I don't know what makes me more worried on behalf of the city's gay community the thought that there's one nutter out there killing gay men, or the thought that there are two of them."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. One thing was clear, though.

PC Plod was a long way from covering himself in glory over this case.

I'd obviously done a good job covering my tracks.

I folded up my newspaper, finished my cappuccino and signalled for my bill. Any minute now, Gareth would emerge from his office and walk through the rush-hour streets to the tram. I wanted to be ready for him. I had something really special planned for him tonight, and I wanted to make sure he was home alone to enjoy it.

The world in general, gentlemen, are very bloody-minded; and all they want in a murder is a copious effusion of blood; gaudy display in this point is enough for them. But the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste.