ony hit the 'save' key on his computer and sat back with a satisfied smile. This was as good a place to stop as any. Tomorrow morning, he'd complete the detailed checklist of characteristics he'd expect to find in Handy Andy, and outline proposals for potential courses of action by the police officers on the case.

"You done?" Carol asked.

He turned to see her leaning back in the chair, her pile of folders closed.

"I didn't realize you'd finished," he said.

"Ten minutes ago. I didn't want to disturb the flying fingers."

Tony hated others studying him the way he studied them. The idea of being a patient on the receiving end of his own probing was one of those nightmares that he woke from in a sweat.

"I've had it for tonight," he said, making a copy of his file on a floppy disc which he then pocketed.

"I'll give you a lift home," Carol said.

"Thanks," Tony said, getting to his feet.

"I can never be bothered bringing the car into town. To tell you the truth, I don't much like driving."

"Can't say I blame you. The city traffic's hell on wheels."

When Carol pulled up outside Tony's house, she said, "Any chance of a cup of tea? Not to mention a pee?"

While Tony put the kettle on, Carol slipped upstairs to the bathroom.

She came downstairs to the sound of her own voice issuing from his answering machine. She paused at the foot of the stairs, spying on him as he leaned against his desk, pen and paper in hand, listening to his messages. She enjoyed her growing sense of familiarity with his face and the lines of his body. Her voice ended and the machine beeped.

"Hi Tony, it's Pete," the next voice announced.

"I've got to be in Bradfield next Thursday. Any chance of a bed and a beer Wednesday night? Congratulations on getting on board the Queer Killer investigation, by the way. Hope you catch the bastard." Beep.

"Anthony, my darling.

Wherever can you be? I'm lying here, longing for you. We've got some unfinished business, lover boy. "

At the sound of the voice. Tony straightened up and he turned to stare at the machine. The voice was husky, sexy, intimate.

"Don't think you can-' Tony's hand shot out and cut the voice off abruptly.

So much for not being involved with anyone, Carol thought bitterly.

She stepped forward through the doorway.

"Let's just forget the tea.

I'll see you tomorrow," she said, her voice cold and brittle as ice on a winter puddle.

Tony whirled round, panic in his eyes.

"It's not what it seems," he blurted out without thought.

"I've never even met the woman!"

Carol turned out of the doorway and walked down the hall. As she rumbled with the lock. Tony spoke coldly.

"I'm telling you the truth, Carol. Even though it's actually none of your business."

She half turned, found a smile from somewhere and said, "You're quite right. It is none of my business. Till tomorrow, Tony."

The closing of the door reverberated through Tony's head like a jackhammer.

"Thank God you're a psychologist," he said bitterly as he slumped against the wall.

"A layman might have really buggered that one up. You really believe in making the job a piece of piss, don't you. Hill?"

OJJ WAew Gareth half smiled at me on the tram, I was convinced that my dreams were on the point of fulfilment. Because of an unexpected crisis at work, and all the extra overtime that entailed, I hadn't been able to follow him for more than a week.

His image had lulled me to sleep when I came home at all hours from work, and his voice throbbed hungrily in my ears, but I needed to see him in the flesh. I'd set my alarm clock to give me plenty of time to be outside his house before he left for work, but I was so exhausted I slept right through it. When I started into wakefulness, I realized my only chance was to catch up with his tram a couple of stops further down the line.

The tram was pulling in as I ran on to the platform. I eagerly scanned the first section, but couldn't see him. Anxiety rose in my throat like bile. Then I saw his gleaming head, sitting right by the door of the second carriage. I pushed through the crowd and managed to stand right next to him, my knees brushing his. At the physical contact, he looked up. His grey eyes crinkled at the corners and a smile flickered on his mouth. I smiled back and said, "Sorry."

"No problem," he said.

"This tram gets busier by the day."

I wanted to continue the conversation, but for once I could think of nothing to say. He returned to the Guardian and I had to settle for watching him out of the corner of my peripheral vision while I pretended to stare out at the passing cityscape. It wasn't much, I know, but it was a start. He had acknowledged me; he knew I existed. Now, it could be only a matter of time.

Shakespeare got it right when he said,

"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." That way at least there would be fewer liars at large. Even the words sound the same; lawyer, liar. I should have expected nothing else from a man who speaks one day for the plaintiff, the next for the defendant.

I'd parked just round the corner from Gareth's house, where I could watch him come home without being seen, thanks to the tinted windows of my jeep. His house had no hedge, so I could see right into his living room from my vantage point.

I knew his habits by now. He arrived home just after six, went through to the kitchen for a can of Grolsch, and returned to the living room where he drank his beer and watched TV. After about twenty minutes, he'd fetch some food from the kitchen pizza, TV dinner, baked potato. Cooking clearly wasn't his forte. When we were together, I'd have to take over responsibility for that side of our life.

After the news, he'd leave the room, presumably to do some work in another room of the house. I imagined law books arrayed on pine shelves. Then, he'd either return to the TV later in the evening, or walk down to the pub on the corner for a couple of lagers.

Gareth needed someone to share his life, I thought as I waited for him to come home. I was just the person to do that. Gareth was going to be my Christmas present to me.

At a quarter past five, a white Volkswagen Golf slipped into a parking place just beyond Gareth's house and a woman got out. She leaned back into the car and picked up a briefcase bulging with files and a shoulder bag. I thought she looked vaguely familiar as she walked down the pavement. Petite, light-brown hair pulled back in a heavy plait, big tortoise shell glasses, black suit, white blouse with a froth of lace at the throat.

When she turned in at Gareth's gate, I couldn't quite believe it. for the few seconds it took her to get to the door, I told myself she was his estate agent, his insurance agent, a colleague dropping off some papers. Anything. Anything.

Then she opened the flap of her bag and took out a key. My mind screamed

"No!" as she inserted the key into the lock and let herself in. The living-room door opened and she dumped her briefcase by the set tee Then she was gone again. Ten minutes later, she was back, wrapped in Gareth's big white to welling dressing gown.

Frankly, I was with Shakespeare all the way.

"Twos the season to be jolly, so I forced myself not to let my disappointment colour my mood. Instead, I concentrated on researching my next project. I wanted something appropriate to the season, some good old barbaric Christian symbolism. There's not really a lot you can do with a manger and swaddling clothes, so I allowed myself some artistic licence and went for the other end of the life.

Crucifixion as a form of punishment was probably borrowed by the Romans from the Carthaginians. (Interesting, isn't it, how the Romans referred to everyone else as the barbarians. ) The Romans adopted it roundabout the time of the Punic Wars, and initially, it was a punishment reserved for slaves only. Which seems appropriate enough, since that was the only role I expected Gareth to be fit for now.

Later in the days of empire, it became a more general punishment, meted out to any locals who had the temerity to misbehave after the Romans had kindly come along and conquered sorry, civilized them.

Traditionally, the felon was flagellated, then forced to carry the crossbeam through the streets to the place where a tall stake had been driven into the ground. Then he was nailed to the crossbeam and hauled up by a system of pulleys. His feet were sometimes nailed, sometimes tied to the stake. On occasion, death by exhaustion was given a helping hand by the soldiers, who broke the legs of the victim, which must have allowed him a merciful lapse into unconsciousness, for my purposes, however, I decided to opt for the more decorative St Andrew's Cross. For one thing, it would place more interesting stresses on Gareth's muscles. For another, should he rise to the occasion, it would make access a lot easier.

Interestingly, crucifixion was never used as a punishment for soldiers except for the crime of desertion. Maybe the Romans had the right idea after all.

But who meantime was the victim, to whose abode he was hurrying? For surely he could never be so indiscreet as to be sailing about on a roving cruise in search of some chance person to murder? Oh, no: he had suited himself with a victim some time before, viz. " an old and very intimate friend.

Brandon stared bleakly at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. Torn Cross might have been a long way from the ACC's idea of the perfect copper, but he'd always appeared to be a good thief-taker. Antics like tonight's served only to raise a question mark over his whole career. Just how many other people had Cross fitted up over the years without anyone being any the wiser? If Brandon hadn't himself bent the rules and taken Tony on their illicit search, no one would have doubted the 'evidence' Torn Cross had turned up. No one except Stevie McConnell would have known that two of Cross's three 'finds' had arrived with him. The mere thought of the consequences of that was enough to send a prickle of cold sweat down Brandon's back.

Cross had left Brandon with no option but to suspend him. The disciplinary hearing that would inevitably follow would be painful for all concerned, but that was the least of Brandon's worries. He was far more troubled about the effect on the murder squad's morale.

The only way to combat it was to take direct responsibility for the enquiry himself. Now, all he had to do was convince the Chief that he was right. With a sigh, Brandon pulled the last sheet of paper out of the machine and inserted another page.

His memo to the Chief Constable was brief and to the point. That only left one task before he could crawl home to bed. Sighing, Brandon glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes to midnight. He pushed the typewriter away from him and started writing on a sheet of his personal memo paper.

"To Detective Inspector Kevin Matthews. From John Brandon, ACC (Crime). Re: Steven McConnell. Following the suspension of Superintendent Cross, I will assume direct command of the murder squad. There are no grounds for charging McConnell with anything other than assault. McConnell should be released on bail pending a court date for the assault charge, and on separate bail to return to Scargill Street in a week so that we can question him further if more evidence arises. In view of his refusal to give us any information about his contacts, or any names of people he might have introduced to Gareth Finnegan and Adam Scott, we should pursue any contacts he does make. A warrant for a tap on his phone should also be obtained, on the basis of his connection to Scott and Finnegan, and the contact we now know he had with Damien Connolly in a professional capacity. Our enquiries into the four related murders should continue on a broad front, though I suggest that, following his release on bail, we maintain close surveillance of McConnell.

There will be a case conference of senior officers tomorrow at noon. "

He signed the memo and sealed it in an envelope. How to make friends and influence people, he thought as he walked downstairs to the desk sergeant. Brandon prayed that Tony Hill was right about Stevie McConnell. If Torn Cross had been right to follow his instinct, it would be more than the morale of the CID that would be at risk.

Carol slumped over the dining table, chin resting on her folded forearms, one hand tickling Nelson's belly.

"What do you think, boy? Is he just another lying bastard, or what?"

"Prrrt," the cat said on a rising intonation, his eyes closed to slits.

"I thought you'd say that. I agree, I know how to pick them," Carol sighed.

"You're right, I should have kept my distance. That's what happens when you make the running. You get the knock backs They don't usually come from that far out of left field, though. At least now I know why he kept backing off. Better off without him, cat. Life's tough enough without playing second fiddle."

"Mrrr," Nelson agreed.

"He must think I'm brain dead, expecting me to believe that a total stranger leaves messages like that on his answering machine."

"Rowrr," Nelson complained, rolling over on to his back, batting her fingers with his paws.

"All right, so you think it's ridiculous too. But the man's a psychologist. If he was going to make something up to explain the fact that he'd lied to me, he'd make it a damn sight more plausible than funny phone calls. All he had to say was that it was somebody he'd finished with who wouldn't take the message." Carol rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, yawned and stood up in one languid movement.

The door to the box room Michael used as a study opened and he stood framed in the doorway.

"I thought I heard voices. You could talk to me, you know. At least I answer you."

Carol gave a tired smile.

"So does Nelson. It's not his fault we don't speak cat. I didn't want to disturb you; I could see you were working."

Michael walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a small Scotch.

"I was only play-testing, trying to spot the glitches in what we've done so far. No big deal. How's your day been?"

"Don't ask. They've moved us over to Scargill Street. It's a hellhole. Imagine going back to doing your calculations on an abacus, and you get the picture of my current working environment. The atmosphere's shit, and Tony Hill's spoken for. Apart from that, everything's magic." Carol followed Michael'sexample and poured herself a drink.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked, perching on the arm of one of the sofas.

"Thanks, but no thanks." Carol swallowed her drink in one, shuddered at the kick of the spirit and said,

"I've brought you a set of pictures, by the way. How soon can you take a look at them?"

"I've scrounged some computer time with the software tomorrow evening. That do you?"

Carol put her arms round Michael and gave him a hug. "Thank you, bro," she said.

"My pleasure," he said, returning the embrace.

"You know how I love a challenge."

"I'm going to bed," she said.

"It's been a long one."

No sooner had Carol turned out the light than she felt the familiar thud of Nelson landing on the foot of the bed. It was reassuring to feel his warmth against her legs, though it was no substitute for the body she'd hoped for earlier in the evening. Of course, as soon as her head hit the pillow, her sleepiness vanished. The exhaustion was still there, but her mind was racing. Please God, by tomorrow afternoon, the awkwardness between her and Tony would have evaporated. The sting of humiliation would still be there for her, but she was a grown-up and a professional. Now she knew he was off limits, she wouldn't place him in a difficult position again, and now he knew she knew, maybe he'd be able to relax. Either way, the profile should provide more than enough neutral ground between them.

She could hardly wait to see what he'd come up with.

On the other side of the sleeping city. Tony too lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tracing imaginary road maps in the cracks round the plaster rose. He knew there was no point in switching out his bedside lamp. Sleep would elude him, and in the darkness, he'd start to feel the slow choke of claustrophobia closing in on him. Counting sheep had never appealed; the slow watches of the night were when Tony Hill became his own therapist.

"Why did you have to ring tonight?" he murmured.

"I like Carol Jordan. I know I don't want her in my life, but I didn't want to hurt her either. Hearing your blandishments on the answering machine must have felt like a smack in the face, after me saying there wasn't anybody in my life.

"An outsider would say we hardly know each other, everything that happened tonight was an overreaction. But outsiders don't understand the bonding, the intimacy that springs out of nowhere when you're working closely together on a manhunt, when the clock's ticking the next victim's life away."

He sighed. At least he hadn't blurted out the one thing that might have convinced Carol he wasn't lying, the truth he'd so carefully kept locked inside himself. What was it he told his patients?

"Let it out. It doesn't matter what it is, speaking it is the first step in taking away the pain."

"What a load of crap that is," he said bitterly.

"It's just another one of the tricks in my magic bag, designed to legitimize my prurient curiosity, tailored to unleash the twisted minds of the fuck-ups who are driven to act out their fantasies in a way society can't accommodate. If I'd told Carol the truth, said the i-word, it wouldn't have taken my pain away. It would only have made me feel even more of a worthless piece of shit. It's all very well for old men to be impotent. Men my age who can't get it up are a joke."

The phone rang, startling him. He rolled over, scrambling for the receiver.

"Hello?" he said, his voice tentative.

"Anthony, at last. Oh, how I've missed you!"

His surge of anger at the languid, husky voice died as soon as it flared. What was the point in raging at her? She wasn't the problem. He was.

"I got your message," he said, resigning himself. She hadn't caused the awkwardness with Carol; there would have been no grounds for awkwardness at all if he hadn't been such a pathetic excuse for a man. No point in even thinking about relationships with nice, normal women. He would have blown it with Carol, just as he'd always blown it with women as soon as they got close. The best he could hope for was telephone sex. At least it generated a kind of equality; it allowed men to fake not just orgasm but erection too.

Angelica chuckled.

"I thought I'd leave you something nice to come home to. I hope you're not too tired for some recreation."

"I'm never too tired for your kind of recreation," Tony said, swallowing the self-disgust that threatened to overwhelm him. Think of it as therapy, he told himself. Tony lay back and let the voice flow over him, his hand straying down his chest towards his groin.

The cleaners were gossiping by the lift as Penny Burgess emerged on the third floor of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times office. She walked down the newsroom, snapping on lights as she passed, humming tunelessly under her breath. She tossed her bag on the desk by her computer terminal and logged on. She executed the commands that took her into the library database, and pressed the key for 'search'. Five options were offered: i. Subject; z. Name; 3. By-line; 4. Date; and 5. Pictures. Penny hit z. At the 'surname' prompt, she typed

"Hill'. At the 'forename' prompt, she keyed in " Tony', and at the 'title' prompt, she entered,

"Dr'. Then she sat back and waited while the computer sorted through the gigabytes of information stored in its huge memory. Penny flipped open her cigarette packet and pulled out her first cigarette of the day. She was only a couple of drags into it when the screen flashed " Found (6)'.

Penny retrieved the six items and called them up on her screen. They appeared in reverse order of date. The first was a two-month-old cutting from the Sentinel Times. It had been written by one of the news reporters. Although she'd read it at the time, she'd completely forgotten about it. As she read it. Penny whistled softly.

INSIDE THE MIND OF A KILLER

The man the Home Office have chosen to spearhead the hunt for serial killers spoke today about the latest slaying that has terrified the city's gay community.

Forensic psychologist Tony Hill is one year into a major study funded by the government which will lead to the setting up of a criminal profiling task force similar to the FBI unit featured in The Silence of the Lambs.

Dr Hill, 34, was formerly the chief clinical psychologist at Blamires Hospital, the maximum-security mental unit which houses Britain's most dangerous criminally insane offenders, including mass murderer David Harney and serial killer Keith Pond, the Motorway Madman.

Giving his verdict, Dr Hill said,

"I have not been called in by the police to consult on any of these cases, so I know no more than your readers do about them."

Either Dr Hill had been lying to her colleague, or his formal involvement with the case came after the interview. If that was the case. Penny could see how to exploit it in a way that would appeal to her editor. She could picture the headline now. 'police follow best's lead in murder hunt. " She quickly flicked through the rest of the piece. It didn't tell her anything she didn't already know, although she was interested that Dr Hill had speculated that the discrepancies in the third killing might mean there were two killers out on the streets. That was an idea that seemed to have sunk without trace. It was something to ask Kevin about next time she managed to get him on the end of a phone.

The next cutting was from the Guardian, and announced the setting up of the Home Office programme for developing a national task force to deal with serial offenders. The project was to be based at Bradfield University. The article gave her more background on Dr Hill, and she jotted down his career details in her notebook. No dummy, this guy.

She'd have to handle him carefully. She tapped her teeth with her pen and wondered why the Sentinel Times hadn't run a feature on the study, with a profile of Dr Hill. Maybe they tried and had been knocked back. She'd have to check with her colleagues on Features.

The next two cuttings were from a national tabloid, a two-part series on serial killers that had been timed to coincide with the general release of The Silence of the Lambs. Dr Hill was quoted in both articles, talking in general terms about the work of psychological profilers.

The last two cuttings dealt with one of his most prominent patients, Keith Pond, the so-called Motorway Madman. Pond had abducted five women from motorway service areas, then savagely raped and murdered them. At the time of his trial, only two of the bodies had been found. But after extensive therapy with Dr Hill, Pond had revealed the whereabouts of the other three bodies. Dr Hill had been hailed as a worker of miracles by the bereaved family of one of the victims.

One of the two pieces had attempted a profile of Dr Hill, but they had scant information to go on. As usual, the journalist hadn't let that stand in the way of a good story.

Tony Hill, who has never married, is devoted to his work. A former colleague said,

"Tony's a workaholic. He's married to the job.

"He's totally driven by the desire to understand what ni^kes his patients tick. There's probably not another psychologist in the country who has his knack of get- -.(ig inside their twisted minds and working out what m^kes them do what they do.

"I sometimes thought he related better to mass murderers than he did to normal punters."

The reclusive Dr Hill lives alone and is notorious fgt not mixing socially with colleagues. Apart from g^iidying the minds of serial killers, the only hobby he apparently indulges in is hill-walking. On weekends he regularly drives to the Lakes or the Yorkshire mies and tramps the fells.

pounds like a real barrel of laughs," Penny said aloud g^bling more notes on her pad. She returned to the menu, where she selected the fifth option. Again, she enterec p py's name for a picture search. The data banks reve alec there was one stoc^ picture on file. Penny called it up and star^ at the ^ace tnlat sppc^red on her screen.

"Gotcha!" she cried. She had only seen him once before, but now she kne^ wn0 ^"" l Jordan's new sidekick was.

pgpny leaned back in her seat, savouring her third ciga rent' an<^ rsgi^ered that the newsroom was starting to fil One quick phone call, then she could afford the time to treat herself to a fry-up in the canteen. Reaching for the phone she dialed Kevin Matthews's home number. H< oick^ "P on t*le second '" "Matthews," came the sleepY voice "ble.

t^i, Kev, it's Penny," she said, savouring the stunnec .Igoce that greeted her announcement.

"Sorry to both el at home, but I thought you'd rather answer my ques t.^ there than in the office."

^h-what? " he stuttered. Then, muffled,

"Yeah, it's work qq back to sleep, love."

'plow long has Dr Tony Hill been on the team? "

"How did you hear about that? Shit, that's supposed to be top secret!" he exploded, his nervousness transforming itself into anger.

"Tut, tut. Kev, she'll never get back to sleep if you yell like that.

Never mind how I know, just be grateful you can put your hand on your heart and deny it came from you. How long, Kev? "

He cleared his throat.

"Just a couple of days."

"Was it Brandon's idea?"

"That's right. Look, I really can't talk about this. It's supposed to be kept under wraps."

"He's doing a profile, right?"

"What do you think?"

"Working with Carol Jordan? Brandon's blue-eyed girl on this one, is she?"

"She's the liaison officer. Look, I've got to go. I'll talk to you about this later on, OK?" Kevin tried to sound menacing, but failed.

Penny smiled and slowly exhaled a mouthful of smoke. "Thanks, Kev. I owe you a very special one." She replaced the handset, cleared her screen and opened a story file.

"Exclusive. By Penny Jordan," she typed. Never mind breakfast. She had far more interesting stuff to do.

Tony was back in front of his screen by half past eight. Instead of the guilt he'd expected to feel about his erotic encounter, he felt refreshed. Giving himself permission to indulge himself with Angelica had somehow released and relaxed him. Surprising though he found it under the circumstances, he'd actually become aroused as she'd talked him through an outrageous, imaginative sexual encounter. He hadn't actually managed to sustain his erection as far as orgasm, but because there was no one there to share his failure, it hadn't seemed to matter. Maybe a few more calls from Angelica would be all he needed to contemplate the reality with something less than abject panic.