ut someone else was going to be angry too. When he read tonight's paper, the killer was going to be more than a little put out.

Torn Cross stubbed out his cigarette and slurped from his mug of tea.

He folded his paper and placed it on the table in front of him and stared out of the cafe window. He lit another cigarette. He'd set out to provoke the Queer Killer. Provoked, he'd start to get careless, to make mistakes. And when Stevie McConnell did that, Torn Cross would be ready and waiting. He'd show those sorry bastards in command how to catch a killer.

Tony was back in the office by ten to three. Even so, he wasn't early enough to beat Carol.

"Inspector Jordan's here," Claire said as soon as he opened the outer office door. She gestured with her head towards his office.

"She's in there waiting. I told her you'd be back."

Tony's responding smile was strained. As he gripped the door handle, he clenched his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. Nailing what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face. Tony opened the door and stepped into his office.

At the sound of the door, Carol turned away from the window she'd been staring out of and gave him a cool, appraising look. Tony closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

"You look like a man who's just stepped in a puddle that's deeper than his shoe," Carol remarked.

That's an improvement, then," Tony said with more than a trace of irony.

"Usually I feel like I've stepped in a puddle that's deeper than my head."

Carol took a step towards him. She'd rehearsed what she was going to say.

"There's no need to feel like that with me. Last night ... well, you were less than candid and I misread the signals. So can we please forget the whole thing and concentrate on what's important between us?"

"Which is?" Tony sounded impersonal as a therapist, his question conversational rather than challenging.

"Working together to nail this killer."

Tony pushed himself away from the door and made for the safety of his seat, careful to keep the desk between them at all times.

"That's fine by me." He gave a crooked smile.

"Believe me, I'm far better at professional relationships than the other kind. Think of it as a lucky escape."

Carol walked round to the opposite side of the desk and pulled up a chair. She crossed her trouser-clad legs and folded her hands in her lap.

"So let's have a look at this profile."

"We don't have to behave as if we're strangers," Tony said quietly.

"I respect you, and I admire the way you're so open to learning new aspects of the job. Look, before ... before what happened last night, we seemed to be moving towards a friendship that went beyond work.

Was that such a bad thing? Couldn't we settle for that? "

Carol shrugged.

"It's not easy making friends after you've exposed your weaknesses."

"I don't think showing someone you're attracted to them is necessarily a weakness."

"I feel foolish," Carol said, not quite sure why she was opening up like this.

"I had no right to expect anything from you. Now, I'm angry with myself."

"And with me too, I expect," Tony said. This was proving less traumatic than he had imagined. His counselling techniques hadn't rusted over from lack of use, he thought with relief.

"Mostly with myself," Carol said.

"But I can deal with that. The important thing for me is that we get the job done."

The too. It's pretty rare for me to find a police officer who seems to have a grasp of what I'm trying to do. " He picked up the papers on his desk.

"Carol ... This isn't about you, you know. It's about me. I have problems of my own that I need to deal with."

Carol stared at him long and hard. He felt a quick twitch of panic as he realized he could not read her eyes. He had no idea what she was feeling.

"I hear what you're saying," she replied, her voice cold.

"Speaking of problems," she added, 'haven't we got some work to do? "

Carol sat alone in Tony's office with his profile of the serial killer. He had left her to read it while he worked next door with his secretary, catching up on the correspondence that had piled up since Brandon had hijacked him only a handful of days before. She couldn't remember ever having been so fascinated by a report in her entire career. If this was the future of policing, she desperately wanted to be part of it. At last, she came to the end of the main body of text and turned to a separate sheet.

Points to pursue: i. Had any of the victims ever mentioned to a friend relative that they had been the subject of an unwanted homosexual approach? If so, when, where and from whom?

1. The killer is a stalker. His first encounter with his victims probably takes place quite a long time before he kills weeks rather than days. Where is he encountering them? It may be something as banal as where they take their dry-cleaning, where they have their shoes heeled, where they buy sandwiches, where they have tyres or exhausts put on their cars. Given that they all lived close to the tram network, I think we should check whether the victims regularly used the trams to go to and from work, or to go out in the evenings. I suggest that in-depth background checks are done, going through bank accounts, credit-card statements and anecdotal evidence from colleagues, girlfriends and family members. This may help develop suspects.

3. Is there any indication that the victims were keeping the night in question free for any particular purpose? Gareth Finnegan lied to his girlfriend about it - did any of the others?

4. Where is he doing his killing? It's unlikely to be in his home, since he will have calculated the possibility of being arrested, and will have taken pains to avoid leaving forensic traces there. It's also got to be big enough for him to build and use the torture engines we are assuming in these cases. It may be an isolated lock-up garage, or a unit on an industrial estate which is deserted at night. Bearing in mind that he almost certainly lives in Bradfield, it's possible that there exists an isolated rural property that he has undisturbed access to.

5. He must have found out about instruments of torture somewhere so that he could construct his own. It might be worth checking with book shops and libraries to see if any of their customers has enquired about or ordered books on torture.

Carol flicked back a few pages, rereading a couple of paragraphs which had particularly struck her first time through. She found it hard to credit how quickly Tony had assimilated the stacks of files she'd delivered. Not only that, but he'd drawn out of them the key points that created for the first time in Carol's mind a picture, albeit shadowy, of the man she was hunting.

But the profile raised questions in her mind. At least one of those questions didn't seem to have occurred to Tony. She wondered if it wasn't referred to because he had dismissed it out of hand. Either way, she had to know. And she had to find a way of asking that didn't sound like an attack.

I hated to keep Gareth hanging on, but I had to leave him for one little errand. In his car, I'd found a few of the Christmas cards his company sent out to favoured clients, already signed by all the partners. Inside one, with a fountain pen, a stencil set and Gareth's blood, I'd written in block capitals, 'a merry christmas to all your

READERS; YOUR EXCLUSIVE CHRISTMAS GIFT IS WAITING IN THE SHRUBBERY OF

CARLTON PARK BEHIND THE BANDSTAND. COMPLIMENTS OF THE

season from santa claws. " It wasn't easy to write with the blood; it kept congealing on the nib, which I had to clean every few letters.

Luckily, there was no shortage of ink.

I addressed a Jiffy bag to the editor of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times and put the card in it, along with a video I'd made a couple of weeks before, when I'd started to plan what to do with Gareth. I'd already decided to change my modus operandi slightly.

Temple Fields was bound to be risky now, even if the queens were too drunk or stoned to be vigilant, the police would be keeping an eye open for more than the occasional cottaging poof. But the nature trail through the shrubbery of Carlton Park is almost as notorious a pick-up area.

Early on a rainy Sunday morning, when there was nobody about, I'd driven out to Carlton Park with my cam corder I started off by the wrought-iron bandstand. I walked around it, filming it from every angle. It wouldn't take long before somebody in the BEST office recognized the landmark.

After all, Carlton Park is the biggest park within the city boundaries, and there's a brass-band concert there every Sunday from April to September. I deliberately kept the cam corder at chest level rather than on my shoulder; I've read of instances where correct estimates of height have been made simply from the angle photographs have been taken from. If some forensic scientist was going to draw any conclusions from this video, I wanted to be sure they would be the wrong ones.

Leaving the bandstand behind, I walked down the nature trail towards the shrubbery. I panned across the general area where I thought I'd dump the body, then stopped filming. I passed nobody on my way back to the jeep. That was probably just as well, since I was grinning from ear to ear at the thought of the news editor puzzling over my Christmas message.

The message would also serve two other functions. It would minimize the time it took to identify Gareth's body, which meant the publicity machine would have plenty of fodder to keep it going through what was always a slack news period. Secondly, it would send the police on a wild goose chase, working out who could have had access to the Christmas cards.

The police might even decide that someone connected with Gareth through work had decided to bump him off and make it look like a copycat killing by dumping the body in a gay cruising area. just the sort of thing a deranged and disillusioned client would do. If I got really lucky, they might even give the bitch a hard time, too.

I drove into the city centre to post the packet at the main post office. There were enough last-minute panicking gift-givers for me to be unremarkable. I stopped at an off licence on the way back to buy a bottle of champagne. I don't normally drink when I'm working, but this was a special occasion.

When I got back, Gareth was semi-conscious, mumbling incomprehensibly.

"Santa's here," I said cheerfully as I came down the stairs. I popped the cork on the champagne and poured two glasses. I took one over to Gareth and, standing on tiptoe, I gently lifted his lolling head. I held the glass to his lips and tilted it.

"You'll enjoy this," I said.

"It's vintage Dom Perignon."

His eyes snapped wide open. for a moment, he looked bewildered, then he remembered and he fixed me with a look of pure hatred. But he was parched, and couldn't resist the champagne. He swallowed it greedily, not savouring it rR at all. Then he belched in my face, a look of strange satisfaction in his eyes.

"Wasted on you," I said angrily.

"Like all the fine things - in life." I stepped back and slashed the glass across his face. 'or It shattered against his nose, cutting his cheek to ribbons.

I was glad Auntie Doris wouldn't be coming back. She'd a had that set of six fragile crystal glasses as a silver-wedding P6 present, and she'd never used them, terrified that someone ca' would break one.

She'd been right to be concerned. R Gareth shook his head.

"You're evil," he slurred.

"Pure w evil."

"No, I'm not," I said softly.

"I'm justice. Remember justice? It's what you're supposed to stand for." 1 "Twisted, evil bastard," he replied. I couldn't believe he still had the stamina for bravado.

It was time to show him who was boss. I'd already pinned his hands to the cross with a couple of cold chisels. The blood had congealed around them, black and hard. How it was the turn of his feet.

When he saw me pick up my tools from the workbench, he finally cracked.

"There's no need for this," he said desperately.

"Please. You could still let me go. They'd never find you. I've no idea where we are. I don't know who you are, where you live, what you do for a living. You could move away from Bradfield and they'd never find you."

I took a step closer. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over, trickling through the blood on his cheek. They must have stung, but he never flinched.

"Please," he whispered.

"It's not too late. Even if you killed those other men. Was it you who killed them?"

He was smart, I had to give him that. Too smart for his own good.

He'd just earned himself some more suffering. I turned away and dropped the chisel and club hammer on the workbench. Let him think I was having second thoughts. Let him spend the night convinced I was going to have mercy. That would make Christmas Day all the sweeter.

I shut the cellar door behind me and went upstairs to bed, armed with my videos and the best part of a bottle of vintage champagne. I was having the best Christmas I'd ever had. I remembered all those years of desperate hope, praying that this would be the year my mother would buy me presents like other children got. But all she'd ever done was let me down. Now I'd worked out that the only person who could give me what I craved was myself; I knew that for the first time in my life, I could look forward to the kind of Christmas other people have, filled with surprises, satisfaction and sex.

I took a step closer. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over, trickling through the blood on his cheek. They must have stung, but he never flinched.

"Please," he whispered.

"It's not too late. Even if you killed those other men. Was it you who killed them?"

He was smart, I had to give him that. Too smart for his own good.

He'd just earned himself some more suffering. I turned away and dropped the chisel and club hammer on the workbench. Let him think I was having second thoughts. Let him spend the night convinced I was going to have mercy. That would make Christmas Day all the sweeter.

I shut the cellar door behind me and went upstairs to bed, armed with my videos and the best part of a bottle of vintage champagne. I was having the best Christmas I'd ever had. I remembered all those years of desperate hope, praying that this would be the year my mother would buy me presents like other children got. But all she'd ever done was let me down. Now I'd worked out that the only person who could give me what I craved was myself; I knew that for the first time in my life, I could look forward to the kind of Christmas other people have, filled with surprises, satisfaction and sex.

Reading his acts by the light of such mute traces as he left behind him, the police became aware that latterly he must have loitered. And the reason which governed him is striking; because at once it records that murder was not pursued by him simply as a means to an end, but also as an end for itself.

The Wunch of Bankers was one of the few city-centre watering holes where Kevin Matthews felt safe meeting Penny Burgess. A fun pub with blaring rap music and decor modelled on soap operas the Rover's Return Snug, the Woolpack Eaterie, the Queen Vie Lounge, and the Cheers Beer Bar was the last place he was likely to see another copper or Penny another journalist.

Kevin made a face as his taste buds clenched on the strong bitter coffee that lurked under a swirl of foam that looked more like industrial effluent than a cappuccino. Where the hell was she? He glanced at his watch for the twentieth time. She'd promised she'd be here by four at the latest, and now it was ten past. He pushed the half- empty cup away from him and grabbed his fashionable raincoat from the banquette beside him. He was about to stand up when the pub's revolving door hissed round and disgorged Penny. She waved and headed straight over to his table.

"You said four o'clock," Kevin greeted her. "God, Kevin, you're getting really anal in your old age," Penny complained, giving him a peck on the " I thought nobody knew too. Then Carol Jordan said ^tnething that made me think she does. "

"And you think Carol's going to shop you to Internal Affairs?" penny said, failing to hide the incredulity she felt. She hadn't had many dealings with the CID's most glamorous officer, but what she knew of the inspector didn't iodine her to cast her in the role of grass.

"You don't know her. She's totally bloody ruthless. She ^nts to go all the way, that one, and she'd drop me in it SOQn as look at me if she thought it would take her a rung " P the ladder. "

Penny shook her head in exasperation.

"You're over- bading. Even if Carol Jordan has mysteriously discovered " that we're seeing each other, I'm sure she's too busy covering herself with glory from her liaison with Dr Hill to be

"Othered with shopping you. Besides, if you think about it rationally, she's got nothing to gain from getting herself a reputation with the lads as a grass."

Kevin shook his head dubiously.

"I don't know. Penny, You've no idea what it's like on this job. We're all working ^ghteen-hour days, and we're getting nowhere."

Penny stroked the inside of his thigh.

"Sweetheart, you're ^nder a lot of pressure. Look, tell you what. If it all comes ^n top and somebody fingers you. Internal Affairs are bound to come to us and front us up.

They'll be looking for corroboration. If that happens, I'll make it look like Carol Jordan's my source, OK? That should muddy the Waters. "

Kevin's smile was worth the flannel, she decided. That, and one or two other things about him. Reassured, he bounced to his feet.

"Thanks, Pen. Listen, I've got to be a place. I'll call you soon so we can get together, OK?" He leaned over and kissed her deep and hard.

"Keep me posted, lover boy," Penny said softly to his retreating back. Before he even reached the doors, her intro was taking shape.

Oh yes, she could see it now.

Bradfield police are devoting new resources to the hunt for the serial killer who has claimed four victims and placed men in jeopardy as never before.

But the extra officers will not be joining the search for the monstrous Queer Killer. Their job will be to police the police themselves.

Top brass in the force are so alarmed by the accuracy of the Sentinel Times's stories on the killings that they have set up a full-scale mole hunt to uncover the source of our stories. Instead of catching the killer, the mole-catchers will be tracking down fellow officers who subscribe to the view that the terrified public have a right to know what's going on.

Carol opened the door to the outer office and said,

"I'm all done.

Can we talk? "

Tony looked up from the computer screen absently, held up one finger and said,

"Yeah, sure, give me a minute," and finished what he was doing.

Carol retreated and took a deep breath. No matter how professional she tried to be, she couldn't help the surge of attraction she felt for this man. Ignoring it was easier said than done. Moments later.

Tony joined her. He perched on the edge of his desk, his hair standing on end like Dennis the Menace from thrusting his fingers through it while he concentrated.

"So," he said.

"What's the verdict?"

"I'm impressed," she said.

"It really pulls everything together.

There were a couple of things, though. "

"Only a couple?" Tony asked, his voice close to a chuckle.

"You talk a lot about how he must be strong, to overpower his victims and move them around. Also, you speculate about how he gets them into a vulnerable position in the first place. I was wondering if maybe there were two of them."

"Go on," Tony said, no hint of frost in his voice.

"I don't mean two men. I mean a man and someone else who appears vulnerable. Maybe an adolescent boy or, more likely, a woman. I don't know, maybe even a person in a wheelchair. A partner in crime. Like ian Brady and Myra Hindley." Carol shuffled the papers, putting them back in order. Still Tony said nothing. After a few moments watching his expressionless face, she added,

"I know you've probably thought about it already, I just wondered if it was a possibility we should still bear in mind."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to look like I was ignoring you," Tony said hurriedly.

"I was reviewing the thought, weighing it against what we know and against the profile. One of the first things I considered was whether or not it was a solo. On the balance of overwhelming probability, I decided it was. Cases like the Moors Murders where you have two people acting in tandem to carry out atrocities are incredibly rare, for a kick off. Also, I'd expect to find more variation in the methodology and the pathology if there were two people involved; it's hard to believe their fantasies would coincide so exactly. But it's interesting that you've come up with it. You're right in one respect. If he's working with a woman it doesexplain how he gets close to his victims without them putting up a fight."

Tony sat staring straight ahead, brows lowered in thought.

Carol stayed motionless in her seat. Eventually, Tony turned to face her and said,

"I'm going to stick with my soloist. Yours is an interesting idea, but I can't see evidence that convinces me I should shift from the most highly probable scenario."

"OK, point taken," Carol said calmly.

"Moving on from that, have you considered the possibility of a transvestite? Like you just said, a woman could get close without them putting up a fight. What about if the woman was a man in drag? Wouldn't that have the same effect?"

Tony looked startled for a moment.

"Maybe you should think about applying to join the national task force when it's set up," he stalled.

Carol grinned.

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I mean it. I think you've got what it takes to do this kind of work.

You see, I'm not infallible. I hadn't actually considered a transvestite. Now, why did I ignore that possibility? " he mused, thinking aloud.

"There must be some subconscious reason why I rejected it before it even got to the front of my mind ..." Carol opened her mouth to speak, but he said,

"No, wait a minute, please, let me work this out." His hands ran through his hair again, rearranging the dark spikes.

She subsided, telling herself he was just as arrogant as all the rest, unable to accept he might just have missed something. Stop kidding yourself he's different, she told herself sternly.

"Right," Tony said, his voice rich with satisfaction.

"We're dealing with a sexual sadist, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Sado-masochism is the power trip of sexual fetishes. But transvestism is the diametric opposite of that. TVs want to assume the supposedly weaker role that women have in society. What underpins transvestism is the belief that women have a subtle power, the power of their gender. It couldn't be further removed from the brute transaction of pain and power that sadomasochists crave. That's not part of a TV's fantasy at all. To convince the victims that they're dealing with a woman and not a man in drag, the killer would have to be an accomplished cross-dresser. But, uniquely in my experience of clinical psychology, he'd also have to be a sexual sadist. The two just don't go together," Tony explained with an air of finality.

"The same goes for a transsexual. Probably more so, in fact, because of the counselling they have to go through before they're accepted for treatment."

"So you're ruling it out, then," Carol said, feeling unreasonably crushed.

"I never rule anything out. That's asking to make a fool of yourself in this game. What I think is that it's so unlikely that I would be loath to include it in a profile because its very inclusion might push people in the wrong direction. But by all means keep it in mind. You're thinking along the right lines." He smiled, unexpectedly, taking the sting of patronage out of his words.

"Like I said at the start, Carol, together we can crack it."