ob Stansfield looked up from the pad where he'd been scribbling the names of his team.

"I take it that the other lines of enquiry that Dr Hill suggested are on the back burner for now?"

Brandon pursed his lips grimly. The euphoria had died somewhere during the briefing. The weight of the work ahead seemed unbearable, the idea of finding the killer almost as distant as it had before Terry Harding walked into the station.

"That's right. No disrespect. Tony, but your suggestions are hypotheses, and what we've got now is our first solid set of facts."

"No problem," Tony said.

"Hard evidence always comes first."

"And Carol's idea about the computer stuff ? Should we still pursue that?" Dave asked.

"Same thing applies," Brandon said.

"It's a hunch, not a fact, so yes, it goes on the back burner."

"With respect, sir," Carol chipped in, determined not to be sidelined.

"Even if Terry Harding gives us a positive ID on the make and model of the vehicle, we might be no further forward. We need other elimination factors before we can narrow things down. If I'm right about the computer, we'd be looking at such a small segment of the population that it would be significant if we did get a cross-match."

Brandon considered for a moment. Then he said,

"Point taken, Carol.

OK, we can pursue it, Dave, but not as a priority. Only as and when we have bodies freed up from the main enquiry. Right, are we all clear what we've got to do? " He looked around expectantly, registering the series of nods.

"OK, team," Brandon said, his voice stern.

"Let's go for it."

"And may the force be with you," Kevin said under his breath to Carol as they emerged from the office.

"I'd rather have the force than the gutter press," she said drily, turning her back on him. Tony, can we find a quiet corner and plan our strategy for this interview? "

"The only way you're going to get more out of him is by hypnosis,"

Tony told Carol as they talked in the corridor after an hour with Terry Harding.

"Can you do that?" Carol asked.

"I've got the basic technique. Judging by his eye movements and body language, he was telling the truth about what he saw, not making anything up or exaggerating, so he might come across with more detail under hypnosis, particularly if we have pictures to show him."

Ten minutes later, Carol was back with a sheaf of car brochures that Kevin's team had scavenged from city dealerships.

"This what we need?"

Tony nodded.

"Perfect. You sure you want me to give this a go?"

"It's got to be worth a try," Carol said.

They walked back into the interview room, where Terry Harding was finishing a mug of coffee.

"Can I go now?" he said plaintively.

"Only I'm due to fly out to Brussels tomorrow and I haven't even unpacked my bag."

"Not much longer, sir," Carol said, sitting down to one side of the table.

"Dr Hill would like to try something with you."

Tony smiled reassuringly.

"We've got some pictures of the kind of jeep you saw leaving Damien's garage. What I'd like to do, if you're agreeable, is to put you in a light hypnotic trance and ask you to look at them."

Harding frowned.

"Why can't I just look at them as I am?"

"The chances are better that you'd recognize the particular model,"

Tony explained soothingly.

"Thing is, Mr Harding, you're obviously a very busy man. Since you saw the incident, you've travelled to the other side of the world, you've had a series of important business meetings, and you've probably not had enough sleep. All of that means your conscious mind has probably filed away the details of what you saw last Sunday. Using hypnosis, I can help you retrieve that information."

Harding looked dubious.

"I don't know. Always supposing you could get me to go under, you could make me say anything."

"Unfortunately, that's not the case. If it was, hypnotists would all be millionaires," Tony joked.

"Like I said, all it does is free up the stuff you've buried because it's not important."

"What do I have to do?" Harding said suspiciously.

"Just listen to my voice and follow what I tell you," Tony said.

"You'll feel a little strange, a little spaced out, but you'll be in control at all times. I use a technique called neuro-linguistic programming. It's very relaxing, I promise you."

"Do I have to lie down, or what?"

"Nothing like that. And I'm not going to wave a watch in front of you. Are you prepared to give it a try?"

Carol held her breath, watching Harding as an assortment of expressions chased each other across his face. Finally, he nodded.

"I doubt you'll be able to get me under," he said.

"I'm a man who knows his own mind. But I'm willing to try."

"OK," said Tony.

"I want you to relax. Close your eyes if it feels more comfortable. Now, I want you to go deep down inside yourself..."

Elated with their success. Tony and Carol bounced into the murder squad room. Bob Stansfield was standing by the window, staring out at the rain-drenched street below, his shoulders slumped, a cigarette burning unheeded in his hand. He glanced round and Carol called, "Cheer up, it might never happen."

Stansfield swung round and said bitterly,

"You obviously haven't heard the news."

"What news?" Carol asked, walking over to him.

"Stevie McConnell topped himself."

Carol rocked on her heels and stumbled against a desk. Her ears were ringing and she thought she was going to faint. Instinctively, Tony moved forward and steered her into a chair.

"Deep breaths, Carol.

Deep and slow," he said softly, leaning over her, staring intently at her white face.

She closed her eyes, dug her nails into her palms and obeyed.

"Sorry," Stansfield said.

"It knocked me for six too."

Carol looked up and pushed her hair away from a forehead suddenly clammy.

"What happened?"

"Apparently he took a beating yesterday. A sex-case special, by all accounts. So, this morning he tore up his shirt and hung himself. The fucking warders never noticed, on account of they're playing at work to rule," he added savagely.

"The poor bastard," Carol said.

There's going to be hell to pay," Stansfield predicted. " I'm glad it was fuck all to do with me. At least it won't be my arse in the fire.

I mean, Brandon's bombproof, so it's going to be some poor fucker of an inspector who's going to carry the can. "

Carol looked at him as if she'd like to hit him.

"Sometimes, Bob, you really fuck me off," she said coldly. "Where's Brandon?"

"Down in the HOLMES room. Probably hiding from the Chief."

They found Brandon and Dave Woolcott closeted in the inspector's cubby hole off the main room.

"We've got a positive make, sir," Carol said, her initial exuberance flattened by Stansfield's news.

"We know what car he was driving."

Penny Burgess turned off the main road on to the Forestry Commission track that led deep into the heart of the woodland. She was aiming for a car park and picnic area in the middle of the woods. It was one of her favourite spots from which to strike off through the trees and up on to the bare grit stone edges where the wind could blow away all the accumulated dross of the week. She certainly needed it after the last few days of hard graft, big stories and not enough sleep.

The record on the radio finished and the announcer said, "And now, over to the newsroom for the headlines on the hour." The news idem followed, then a woman said in a voice altogether too bright for her subject matter,

"Northern Sound news on the hour. A man who was questioned by Bradfield police in connection with the serial killings that have terrorized the city was found dead this morning in his cell at Barleigh jail."

In her shock. Penny took her foot off the accelerator and pitched forward as the car stalled.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, her hand shooting out to twist the volume higher.

"Steven McConnell is thought to have committed suicide by hanging himself with a noose made from his own clothes. McConnell, the manager of a body-building gym in the city, was arrested last week after a street brawl involving an undercover police officer in the city's gay village," the news reader continued, sounding for all the world as if she were announcing the results of the Eurovision Song Contest.

"He was released on bail, but rearrested after attempting to flee the country. A Home Office spokesman said there would be a full enquiry into the circumstances of his death.

"The economy has never been in a better position, the Prime Minister said today ..." Penny turned the key in the ignition and did a perilous five-point turn in the narrow lane before stamping on the gas and shooting back towards the road. It was just as well, she thought, that she'd already decided to dump Kevin. After the story she was about to write, she couldn't imagine him ever wanting to see her again anyway.

Tony drummed his fingers on the back of the cab's seat, a curious restlessness possessing him. Leaving Scargill Street hadn't been easy, but he knew he had no role while the police worked on their one piece of solid evidence. The last thing they needed in that maelstrom of reproach and driven activity was for him to sit around reminding them of all the reasons why he'd never been convinced that Stevie McConnell was their man.

His consolation was that he felt certain that Angelica would phone tonight. As the taxi hissed through the wet and empty streets. Tony rehearsed the conversation. He felt a new confidence, a certainty that tonight he would have no problems, that he had finally wrestled his demon into submission thanks to her strange erotic therapy. He would tell her she had no idea how much her phone calls had meant to him. That she had helped him more than she could know. Satisfied that he had things under control, Tony sighed comfortably and cleared his mind of Handy Andy.

Penny Burgess popped the top on a can of Guinness, lit a cigarette and switched on her computer. After making a handful of phone calls to firm up the version of events she'd heard on the radio, she was fired with the self-righteous enthusiasm that only politicians, journalists and fundamentalist preachers seem capable of harnessing for professional advancement.

She inhaled a long stream of smoke, thought for a moment, then started to hammer the keys.

Bradfield's serial killer claimed his fifth victim yesterday (Sunday) when gay body-builder Stevie McConnell killed himself in a prison cell.

Police had implied that McConnell was himself the Queer Killer in a cynical bid to force the real killer's hand.

But their twisted exercise ended in tragedy when McConnell, 32, hung himself with a makeshift rope woven from his own torn shirt. He tied it to the top bunk in his solitary-confinement cell at Barleigh prison and threw himself off, strangling himself.

And last night, a police officer involved in the Queer Killer investigation admitted, "We've known for several days that Stevie McConnell wasn't the killer."

McConnell had pleaded with prison staff to put him in solitary after a barbaric attack by fellow inmates the previous day.

A source inside Barleigh prison said,

"He took a real beating. The word on the grapevine when he arrived was that he was the Queer Killer, only the police didn't have enough evidence to charge him yet.

"Prisoners don't like sex killers, and they tend to make their feelings known. McConnell got a brutal hammering. He was badly beaten up, and sexually assaulted too."

Warders are said to have turned a blind eye to McConnell's savage battering. Then yesterday (Sunday) because of a prison officers' work to rule, he was left unattended in his cell for long enough to end his life. A Home Office spokesman said there would be a full enquiry into the incident.

McConnell managed Bodies gym in the city centre, where the killer's third victim, solicitor Gareth Finnegan, was a member.

McConnell faced a minor assault charge after coming to the rescue of an undercover police sergeant who was attacked by a third man in the Temple Fields gay village.

He then tried to flee the country while he was out on bail. Police rearrested him as he was about to board a ferry for Holland, and persuaded magistrates to remand him in custody.

A police source revealed,

"What we did made people think that McConnell was the killer, and that's what we wanted.

"Serial killers are very vain, and we thought that the killer would be so outraged that we had pointed the finger at the wrong person that he would break cover and make contact.

"It's all gone horribly wrong."

A friend of McConnell's said last night,

"Bradfield police are murderers. As far as I'm concerned, they killed Stevie.

"The police really grilled him about the serial killings. They put him under all kinds of pressure.

"Even though they let him go afterwards, mud like that sticks. He got the cold shoulder at work, and out in the gay bars.

"That's why he decided to leg it. It's a tragedy. Worse than that, it's a pointless tragedy.

"This hasn't taken the police an inch closer to finding the killer."

Penny lit another cigarette and read through her copy. "Pick the bones out of that, Kevin," she said softly, hitting the keys that would save the file and transmit it via her modem to the office computer. Then, as an afterthought, she typed: Memo to news desk

from Penny Burgess, Crime Desk.

I am taking tomorrow (Monday) as time off in lieu of working extra hours last week and today. Hope this doesn't pose too many problems!

"A Land Rover Discovery, metallic grey or dark blue?" Dave Woolcott confirmed, making a note on a pad. "That's what the man said," Carol agreed. "Right. With it being Sunday, I can't get a full rundown from Swansea on every vehicle like that on our patch,"

Dave said. "What we could do, though, is get a team going round the main dealerships and the quality second-hand dealers asking for their records of anyone who's bought one," Kevin suggested. Like all of them, he was fired with an excitement only slightly tempered by the tragic news from Barleigh.

"No," Brandon said.

"That's a waste of time and personnel. There's no guarantee that the killer bought his vehicle locally. We wait until tomorrow morning. Then we go flat out."

Everyone looked disappointed, even though they recognized the force of Brandon's argument.

"In that case, sir," Carol said,

"I'd like to work with Dave compiling lists of computer hardware and software suppliers so we're ready to roll with that as soon as there are some spare bodies to hit the phones."

Brandon nodded.

"Good thinking, Carol. Now, why don't the rest of us go home and rediscover what our houses look like?"

Tony was stretched out on the sofa, trying to persuade himself he was enjoying the luxury of watching TV when the doorbell rang. The hope of company come to rescue him from his restless boredom catapulted him to his feet and down the hall. He opened the door, a smile already spreading across his face.

The smile died halfway as he registered that he was out of luck.

There was a woman on the doorstep, but she wasn't one of his friends or colleagues. She was tall, big- boned, with heavy, blunt features and a strong, square jaw. She pushed her long dark hair away from her face and said,

"I'm really sorry to trouble you, only my car's broken down and I don't know where there's a pay phone. I wondered if I might use your phone to call the AA? I'll pay for the call, of course ..."

Her voice trailed off and she smiled apologetically.

When I clocked Sergeant Merrick in the Sackville Arms, I thought I was going to pass out. I'd only gone there because I knew the detectives from Scargill Street use it. I wanted to hear what the gossip was among the murder squad. I wanted to hear them talk about me and my accomplishments. The last thing I expected was to see so familiar a face staring out at me.

I was sitting unobtrusively in the corner when I saw Merrick come in.

I debated whether to leave, but I decided that might make me noticeable. The last thing I wanted was for him to recognize me and follow me for whatever reasons of his own. Besides, why should I let a policeman drive me away from my lunch break?

But I couldn't stop the churning in my stomach in case he caught sight of me and moved across to speak to me. I wasn't afraid of him, but I first didn't want to draw attention to myself. Luckily, he was with two of his colleagues, and they were too busy discussing something me, probably, had they but known it to pay much attention to anybody else. I recognized the woman from the papers.

Inspector Carol Jordan. She looks better in the flesh than in print, probably because her hair's a lovely shade of blonde. The other man I hadn't seen before, but I filed his face away for future reference.

Carroty-red hair, pale skin, freckles, boyish features. And of course, Merrick, head and shoulders above the others, some kind of dressing on his head. I wondered how he'd come by that.

Fd never hated Merrick the way I hated some of the others, even though he'd taken me into custody a couple of times. He'd never treated me with the contempt they had. He'd never sneered at me when he arrested me. But I could see he still saw me as an object, someone not worthy of respect. He never understood that when I sold my body to sailors it was for a purpose. But whatever I did then is irrelevant now. I am different now, I am a changed person. What happened back in Seaford feels as irrelevant and remote as something I'd seen at the cinema.

In a strange way, being in the presence of the very officers who are trying to track me down was quite exciting. I got a real buzz out of being only feet away from my hunters, who didn't sense their prey.

They didn't even have enough sixth sense to realize there was something extraordinary happening, not even Carol Jordan. So much for women's intuition. I see it as a sort of test, a measure of my ability to delude my pursuers. The notion that they can catch me is so absurd, it's unthinkable.

I felt so strong after that encounter that the next day's paper hit me like a blow with a sandbag. I was walking through the main computer room when I saw an early edition of the Sentinel Times lying on some junior engineer's desk. fifth body in queer killer's rampage screamed out at me.

I wanted to rage and shout, to throw things through windows. How dare they? My handiwork is so individual, how could they mistake some blundering copycat's body for one of mine?

I was trembling with suppressed fury when I made it back to my own office. I'd wanted to ask the engineer if I could have a look at his paper, but I didn't trust myself to speak. I wanted to rush out of the office to the nearest news agent and snatch a copy off the counter. But that would have been unforgivable weakness. The secret of success, I told myself, was to behave normally. To do nothing that would make my colleagues think there was something peculiar going on in my life.

"Patience," I told myself, 'is the cardinal virtue. " So I sat at my desk, fiddling with the intricacies of a piece of software that needed rewriting. But my heart wasn't in it, and I know I wasn't justifying my salary that afternoon. By four o'clock, I could stand it no longer. I grabbed my phone and dialled the special number that broadcasts Bradfield Sound to callers.

The story was the lead item on the news bulletin, as it ought to have been.

"The body of a man found in the Temple Fields area in the early hours of the morning is not the fifth victim of the serial killer who has brought terror to Bradfield's gay community, police revealed this afternoon. As the news reader words sank in, I felt my anger depart, the hollowness inside me whole once more.

Without waiting for more, I slammed the phone down. They'd got something right at last. But I'd gone through four hours of hell because of their mistake. Every hour I'd suffered would be an hour added on to the agonies of Dr Tony Hill, I vowed.

Because the Bradfield police have now committed the ultimate absurdity. Dr Tony Hill, the stupid man who hadn't even recognized that all my crimes belonged to me, has been appointed the official police consultant to the serial-killer enquiry. The poor, deluded fools. If that's their best hope, then they clearly have no hope.

In a murder of pure voluptuousness, entirely disinterested, where no hostile witness was to be removed, no extra booty to be gained and no revenge to be gratified, it is clear that to hurry would be altogether to ruin.

The agony was so extreme Tony wanted to believe he was in a nightmare. He had never understood before how many different kinds of pain there were. The dull throb in his head; the harsh rasp in his throat; the screaming, wrenching rip in his shoulders; and the knives of cramps in his thighs and calves. At first, the pain blocked all his other senses. His eyes screwed up tight, all he knew was suffering so stark it made the sweat pop out on his forehead.

Gradually, he learned to bear the extremes of his pain, realizing that if he took his weight on his feet, the cramps would slowly subside and the excruciating tearing in his shoulders grow less. As the torment became more tolerable, he grew aware that he felt nauseous, a deep queasiness that sat in his stomach and threatened to spill over at any moment. God alone knew how long he'd been hanging here.

Slowly, fearfully, he opened his eyes and raised his head, a movement which sent a spasm of agony through his neck and shoulders. Tony looked around. Instantly, he wished he hadn't. He knew immediately where he was. The room was brightly lit, spotlights mounted on the ceiling and walls revealing a whitewashed room, its rough stone floor marked with dark stains that he knew without examination were the visible remains of the blood that had pooled and splashed there. Facing him was the blind eye of a cam corder on a tripod, a red light on the side indicating that his scrutiny was not going unrecorded. Fixed to the far wall was a magnetic strip with a selection of knives hanging neatly on it. In one corner of the room, he saw the unmistakable implements of torture. A rack; a strange contraption like a chair which he recognized but could not name at first. Something religious? Something vaguely Christian? Something treacherous, not what it seemed? A Judas chair, that was it. And on the wall, a huge wooden saltire, like some hideously perverted holy relic. A soft moan escaped from his dry lips.

Now he knew the worst, he took stock of his own position. He was naked, his skin gooseflesh in the chill of the cellar. His hands were fastened behind his back; judging by the hard edges cutting into his wrists, by handcuffs, held taut in their turn by a rope or chain or something that was obviously fastened to the ceiling. This hawser was tight enough to force his upper body forward, leaving him doubled over at the waist. Tony managed to push himself on to the tips of his toes and twist his body sideways. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a strong nylon rope leading from behind him, through a pulley, along the ceiling, through another pulley on to a winch.