e spread his hands. "I don't know. I didn't pay attention. I just wiped the whole thing. The email and the attachment."

"Presumably it was someone who had sent you things before?"

"I'd advise you not to answer that, Ron." Scott laid a hand on his arm again.

Carol glared at the lawyer. "You seem to be losing sight of what's at stake here, Ms Scott. A child is missing. We both know the chances are he's dead. I'm trying to find out what happened to him, and that's all I care about."

"Very commendable, Chief Inspector. But my concern is my client's best interests. And I will not sit quietly by while you draw him into potentially incriminating statements."

Carol gathered herself together and turned her attention back to Alexander. "Ron, can you remember anything that might lead us to the person who sent you this picture?"

He shook his head. "Honestly, if I knew anything useful, I'd tell you. I want to help, I really do."

"OK. Let's try a different tack. Why do you think he sent it to you? Why would he have thought this was the kind of thing you might like to see?"

"I don't think .. ." Scott began.

"It's all right," Alexander said. "I don't know the answer to that either. Everybody gets unsolicited email. Spam blockers don't get rid of it all." He sat back in his seat, clearly more relaxed now he'd figured out how to play the game.

Carol felt irritation rising. "Fine. If that's how you want to play it, Mr. Alexander, that's the way we'll go." She pushed her chair back. "This interview is over. But I should tell you that we're going to be trawling every byte on your hard disk. We're going to follow your footsteps round the web. You may think you've cleaned up your computer, but our technicians are going to demonstrate just how misguided you are. You've had your chance, Mr. Alexander. And you just blew it."

Carol marched out of the interview room and headed back to her office, not even bothering to check if Paula was following her. "Stacey? My office, now," she said as she crossed the squad room Paula and Stacey arrived together. "What did we get from the techies on Ron Alexander's computer?" Carol asked Stacey, waving a hand to indicate they should sit down.

"Not as much as they'd hoped for," Stacey said. "People are so dim about this stuff. Alexander thought he'd erased everything from his hard disk. He probably panicked when he saw the earlier newspaper reports about Operation Ore. But like most people, he thought if he just deleted them then emptied the Recycle Bin, they were gone for good. And like most people, he never bothered to reformat or even de frag -'

"Defrag?" Paula asked faintly.

Stacey rolled her eyes. "It's when you'

"Never mind," Carol said. "So there was still stuff lurking there?"

"Well, yes, of course there was. File fragments, some complete files. Like the-photo of Tim Golding."

"And can we find out where that came from?"

Stacey shook her head. "Not a trace. It's an orphan."

Paula opened her mouth but before she could speak, Carol said hastily, "Never mind, Paula, we get the idea. That's a blow, Stacey." She rubbed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. The lead that had seemed so promising the day before was turning into another dead end. "What about his email service provider? Any chance they could help?"

Stacey shrugged. "Depends when he got the email. They're not really techies, ISPs, just bean counters," she said disparagingly. "They're only interested in billing, not in keeping records of traffic. Most only keep detailed records for a week. Some for a month. If he got that attachment more than a month ago, we've got no chance. And we'd need a court order before they'd hand over the information anyway."

"So we're screwed." Carol's flat statement hung in the air.

Stacey pushed her hair behind her ear. Her self-satisfied smile and her dark almond-shaped eyes made her resemble a cat. "Not necessarily. Images like this, there's more to them than meets the eye. Literally. You sometimes get other information encoded in them."

Carol perked up. "Like the sender's details?"

Stacey's sigh fell just short of obvious exasperation. "Nothing that straightforward. You might get the serial number of the camera that took the picture. Or the registration number of the software the photographer used to process the image electronically. Then it's a matter of contacting the manufacturer or the software licence holder and seeing what information they can provide."

"That's scary," Paula said.

"It's bloody good news," Carol corrected her. "So what are we waiting for?"

Stacey stood up. "It's going to take time," she warned.

"Doesn't everything?" Carol leaned back in her chair. "Anything you need, Stacey, just let me know. Paula, find out who Ron Alexander's ISP is and see what they can tell us. It's time we brought Tim Golding home."

The doorbell came as a welcome relief. Tony pushed aside the philosophical text on the mind body problem that had been stretching his brain and hurried down the hall. He opened the door to find Carol leaning against the porch, a bulging plastic carrier in one hand. "You ordered a take away she said.

"You took your time. It's at least twenty-two hours since I placed my order," he said, stepping back and following her down the hall. "The kitchen's straight ahead."

Carol looked around, taking in the pine units and the tiled breakfast bar. "Very eighties," she said.

"Is it? You think that's part of the reason I got it so cheap?"

She smiled. "Could be. It looks in good nick, though."

"All the drawers work, which is a definite improvement on anywhere I've ever lived before. Now, do you want to eat first or tour the cellar?"

"What I'd really like is a glass of wine. It's been a frustrating day."

"OK. Wine we can do." He reached for an opened bottle of Australian shiraz cabernet and poured them each a glass. "Here's to ... I don't know, what should we drink to?"

"An end to frustrations? For both of us?"

Tony raised his glass and chinked it against hers. "That's as good as anything. An end to frustrations." He watched her drink, noting the dark shadows under her eyes and the wariness in her body language. She was, he thought, a long way from herself. "So, would you like to see the cellar sorry, basement flat?"

Carol smiled. "Why not?"

She followed him back into the hall. He opened a door that looked as if it should be the cupboard under the stairs. Instead, it gave on to a narrow, steep flight of steps illuminated by a bare lightbulb. Tony led the way into a surprisingly high-ceilinged space. "This would be the living room," he said, ushering her into a large room that had two shallow but wide windows set high in the walls. "It gets a fair bit of natural light. And we could put glass panels in the outside door and build a little porch at the bottom of the steps for security," he added eagerly. "I already suggested that to the builder. I know it's hard to imagine now, with the walls still being bare brick, but all this will be plaster boarded Wood floors. It'll look really nice."

It was a good size. Plenty of room for all she would need, Carol thought. The bedroom was almost as big as the living room, with a surprisingly large bay window. Carol looked around, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It's not bad, you know. I can imagine waking up here."

Tony looked at the floor, suddenly embarrassed. "Good," he said. "Think about it."

On the way back upstairs, he showed her the recently installed toilet and shower room. White tiled walls gleamed bright under their ceiling spotlights. Clean, fresh, untainted. New, she thought with a surge of excitement. A place without ghosts. "I don't need to think about it," Carol said. "When's it going to be ready?"

Tony grinned like a small boy. "The builder reckons three weeks. Can you stand it at Michael's till then?"

Carol leaned against his breakfast bar. "I can stand anything if I know it's going to end. You think you can stand having me as your downstairs neighbour?"

"Only if you promise always to have milk." He pulled a wry face. "I'm very good at running out of it." Carol smiled. "I'll stock up on

UHT."

"Waiting is never easy. Especially when he knows exactly what he's waiting for. By the time he got out on the street today, he was expecting cops everywhere, police tape cordoning off the ginnel where Sandie worked. He was expecting huddles of people on street corners, muttering about murder and mutilation. He was expecting uniformed officers with clipboards asking people where they were and what they were doing last night.

He remembers what it was like last time. The whole of Temple Fields felt like it had overdosed on whiz. Everybody talking nineteen to the dozen like speed freaks, even the miserable gits who never normally had the time of day for him or anybody else. Until the bizzies walked in. Then silence fell like somebody dropped a blanket over everybody's head.

That's what he expected this time. But when he went into Stan's Cafe and ordered his usual bacon butty and mug of tea, it was just like any other day. A few of the working girls clustered round greasy tables, taking the weight off their feet for half an hour. A couple of kids from the rent rack cuddling cups of coffee. Various eyes clocking him, wondering if he was carrying any gear. Looking away in disappointment when he gave them a slight shake of the head. He'd get hassle off Big Jimmy when he showed up to collect today's stock. He'd bollock him for being late. He'd hoped the excitement on the street would give him an excuse, but there isn't any.

So he finished his breakfast and moseyed on round to Big Jimmy's flat for some stuff to sell. Luckily, the big man wasn't in and he only had to deal with that fuck wit scag head Drum who's too far out of the world to care what anybody else is doing. Within the half-hour he was back on the pitch, doing the business, hoping nobody wondered where he'd been all morning. Hell, most of them had probably still been out cold themselves.

But now it's evening, and still nothing's stirring on the streets. It makes him uneasy. Part of him begins to wonder if he dreamed the whole thing. He almost wants to walk round to Sandie's pitch to see if she's standing on her usual corner, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

He wishes the Voice was here right now to tell him what's going on. But since he delivered, he's heard nothing. He begins to wonder if he's been abandoned, if all the promises were a dream too.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Tony raised his glass and reached across the debris of the Chinese. "Here's to one of our rare non-Catholic meals." They chinked glasses.

"Non-Catholic meals?" Carol frowned.

"Mostly, when we eat together, it's in the middle of a case." He picked up a piece of pancake. "Here is my body which I sacrificed for you." He ate the pancake, then raised his glass again in mock-ceremony. "Here is my blood which I shed for you."

Carol nodded, getting it. "Only, in our case, the confession comes after the communion."

"Only if we're right."

She pulled a rueful face. "Right, and lucky." She took his glass from him and sipped from the opposite side. She felt a crackle of electricity in the curiously intense moment. Before she could hand back the glass, the intimacy was shattered by the insistent ring of her mobile. "Damn," she said, scrabbling for her bag.

"Speaking of lucky .. ." Tony muttered.

"DCI Jordan," Carol said.

Don Merrick's familiar voice sounded in her ear. "We've got a body. I think you'll want to see this one."

Carol stifled a sigh. "Fine. You'll have to send a car for me, I've had a couple of glasses of wine." Tony stood up and started shovelling the tinfoil containers into their plastic bag.

"No problem, ma'am. You at your flat?"

"Actually, no, Don. I'm at Dr. Hill's house." She caught Tony's glance and raised her eyes heavenwards as she gave Merrick the address. She was aware of muffled conversation at the other end of the phone. Then Merrick came back on.

"I've asked a car to pick you up there."

"I'll see you shortly, Don," Carol said, ending the call. She drained her glass of wine and said, "Seems we've got a body." She got to her feet. "I didn't exactly mean the evening to end like this."

Tony picked up the dirty plates. "Well, it's probably best to stick to what we know we're good at."

Temple Fields' tawdry glitter was blurred by the slant of autumn rain. The car tyres hissed on the block paving of the pedestrianized zone at the heart of the area. The driver turned into a narrow side street. Redbrick and seedy, it harboured shop fronts with little allure and small entrepreneurial businesses with bed sits on the floors above. Halfway down, access was blocked by a pair of parked police cars. Vague figures hurried beyond the cars, heads down against the weather. As the car pulled up, Carol lowered her head, took a deep breath and climbed out.

Approaching the squad cars, Carol saw that the entrance to a smaller ginnel was closed off by crime-scene tape. Her stomach lurched in anticipation of what she was about to be confronted with. Please God, let it not be sexual. She ducked under the tape, giving her name and rank to the officer logging access to the scene, and spotted Paula standing at a grubby door leading to a stairwell. Seeing Carol, she broke off her conversation with a uniformed officer and turned to Carol.

"It's upstairs, chief. Not a pretty sight."

"Thanks, Paula." Carol paused on the threshold, snapping a pair of latex gloves over her hands. "Who found the body?"

"One of the street girls. Dee. She and the dead girl used to share the room. Somewhere to take punters."

"Was Dee with a punter, then?"

Paula gave a grim little smile. "According to Dee, as soon as he realized there was something wrong, he was out of there like a rat off a sinking ship."

"Where's Dee now?"

"On her way back to the nick to make a statement. With Sam."

Carol nodded in satisfaction. "Thanks, Paula." She edged past a fingerprint technician lifting prints from the narrow banister and headed up. At the top of the steep, uncarpeted stairs, an open door cast an oblong of pale light on to the landing. The air was thick with the coppery smell of blood and the darker, deeper stink of human excrement. Though she'd been steeling herself against it, Carol felt herself slide into flashback and almost lost her footing. But the sight of the SO COs coolly going about their business anchored her back in the present, banishing the kaleidoscope of images that threatened to overwhelm her. Further up and further in.

As she reached the doorway, Carol was conscious of Merrick and Kevin turning to look at her. At first, she concentrated on the external details, working up gradually to deal with what lay at the heart of the room. It was a spartan space, shoddy and cheaply decorated with old stained wood chip emulsioned in what had once been magnolia. A pine bedstead, a couple of armchairs that looked like they were rescued from the tip, a sink, a card table and not much else. Nothing to distract her from the body on the bed.

The woman was tied down, her legs and arms spread in a hideous parody of ecstasy. Her blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. It wasn't hard to read panic and pain there. Her short bleached blonde hair was plastered to her head; the sweat of fear had soaked it and time had dried it into a stiff helmet. She was still dressed, her skirt a blood-soaked ruck around her hips. A sea of gore engulfed her lower body and soaked the thin, sagging mattress. Carol cleared her throat and moved closer. "That's a hell of a lot of blood," she said.

"According to the police surgeon, she pretty much bled out," Merrick said. "He reckons it took her a while to die."

Carol struggled with the emotions tormenting her and tried to remember how to do her job. "He's been and gone already?"

"Yeah, so happened he was at a dinner at the Queensbury. We'd hardly got here ourselves."

"So, what have we got?" she asked.

Merrick consulted his notebook. "Sandie Foster, twenty-five, prostitute, convictions for soliciting and possession. But before we get into that .. . ma'am, this is the identical MO to a series of four murders that happened two years ago, not long after you left us."

"Were all the victims clothed, like this?"

"Like I said, it's identical."

"Well, maybe this time we can solve them."

Merrick and Kevin exchanged a glance. Kevin looked faintly apologetic. "That's the thing, guy. We already did."

"What?" Carol said.

Merrick shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. "Kevin and I worked the case. Derek Tyler he pleaded guilty. He's in a secure hospital."

"Could we have got the wrong man?"

Merrick shook his head, his lower lip jutting in stubborn denial. "No room for doubt. The forensics nailed him. DNA, fingerprints, the lot. Derek Tyler. He pleaded guilty. He even made a confession of sorts, claiming the voices in his head told him to do it. And as soon as Tyler was arrested, the killings stopped. Even more proof, as if we needed it. They locked him up in Bradfield Moor and he refused to say another word about the murders."

"Can we check if Tyler has been released?" Carol asked.

"I already have. I just-came off the phone. Tyler is tucked up in bed, sleeping far better than he has any right to, so it's not him."

"Perhaps we missed something last time."

"The forensics nailed him," Merrick insisted.

"Maybe we should talk to Dr. Hill," Kevin said. "Making sense of things is his line, isn't it?"

"Good idea, Kevin," Carol said. Tony was always complaining he was never called in early enough on complex murder inquiries. She stepped outside the room and dialled Brandon's mobile. When he answered, she briefly outlined the circumstances. "On the face of it, it looks impossible," she said. "I'd like to bring Dr. Hill in for a consultation."

"Isn't it a little early for that?" Brandon asked.

"Normally I'd agree with you, sir, but if there's any possibility we're looking at a copycat, I think he could give us a quick answer. Like he did the first time we all worked together." Carol held her breath while Brandon considered.

"All right, go ahead. We'll talk more fully in the morning."

As the call ended, Carol stepped to one side to allow the mortuary staff access to the crime scene. "Does Dr. Vernon know about this?" she asked.

The one bringing up the rear nodded. "Yeah, he wants to cut and shut early tomorrow, he's got some conference or other to go to. He said to tell you he'll be ready to roll at seven."

Merrick and Kevin joined her on the landing, to allow the technicians room to manoeuvre the dead woman into the body bag. "Kevin, Sam's interviewing the woman who found the body. I want you to come back to the station with me and sit in with him. You worked the case before, there might be something you pick up on that Sam wouldn't know about.

Don, you and Paula start organizing door-to-door inquiries. We need to talk to all the street girls and rent boys we can get our hands on, as well as bar staff, punters and the like. Find out where Sandie Foster worked. Somebody must have seen her with her killer." She stripped off her gloves and shoved her hands in her pockets, unconsciously hunching her shoulders. "And let's all keep an open mind for now."

Kevin found Sam Evans slouched against the wall outside one of the interview rooms. "How's it going?" he asked.

"Am I glad to see you," Evans groaned. "That woman in there most definitely does not like people of colour. How come we say one word out of place and we get hit with a complaint of racism, but she gets to call me a jungle bunny?"

Kevin winced. "You want me to take a crack at her?"

"Be my guest." Evans waved a hand at the door. "I can't get a single word out of her. I'm going for a smoke."

He handed Kevin a folder and walked off. Kevin opened it and saw a single sheet of paper that told him nothing more than name, age and address. "You weren't joking, were you, Sam?" he said softly.

Kevin looked through the spy hole in the door to see a bleached-blonde woman in a short, tight, black dress. The notes said she was twenty-nine but, from this distance, she looked closer to nineteen. She was pulling her skimpy jacket close to her as if the room was chill. She was smoking, and judging by the thickness of the air, it wasn't her first cigarette. So much for Brandon's non-smoking policy. Kevin remembered the first day he'd tried to enforce it. The suspect he'd been interviewing had threatened him with a complaint under the human rights legislation for cruel and unusual punishment. He wasn't going to be telling Dee Smart to put her fag out. She was the nearest they had to a useful witness so far, and this case was far too important to take chances with.

He walked in and treated her to his best sympathetic smile. "Thank fuck," she said. "A human being."

"You have a problem with my colleague?" Kevin said, a sympathetic smile on his face.

"He gives me the creeps," she muttered. "He's got that Ali G chip on his shoulder. "Is it because I is black?" No, mate, it's because you is an arse hole Somebody should tell him even whores are higher up the food chain than the shit on his shoe. Where does he get off, looking down his nose at me?"

"He's a bit lacking in the social skills department."

"You can say that again." She blew out a stream of smoke and scowled. "So are you going to treat me any better?"

Twenty minutes later, the two of them were almost cosy. The mugs of tea he'd brought as an ice-breaker were empty, and they'd got through the hardest part, the actual discovery of the body. "Just how long had this arrangement been going on?" Kevin asked conversationally.

Dee lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "About three months, I suppose. Sandie used to share the room with another girl, Mo, but she moved back to Leeds so Sandie asked me to come in with her."

"How did it work in practice?"

Dee flipped open her cigarette packet and looked in disgust at the three remaining cigarettes. "You're going to need to find a fag machine if we're going to be at this much longer."

"Don't worry about that. Tell me about the arrangement." Kevin gave her his best sympathetic smile.

Dee scowled. It brought the fine lines on her skin into sharp relief, making her look her age. "Sandie has the early shift. Most nights she likes to knock off about ten. She's got a kid. A little lad, Sean. Her mum looks after him. Sandie likes to get home in time to get a decent kip before she gets him up in the morning for school. Any time after half past ten, the room was mine."

Kevin tried not to think how Sean would be feeling when he woke up tomorrow morning to discover his mother had been murdered. Instead, he concentrated on what Dee was saying. "So how come you didn't find her there last night?" he asked.

"I wasn't working last night." She clocked the look of surprise on his face. "If you must know, I had the shits. I must have eaten something dodgy. There was no way I could turn tricks, the state I was in."

It made sense. Even whores could throw a sickie, Kevin thought. "So as far as you knew, everything was normal? When you went up with your punter you expected the room to be empty?"

Dee closed her eyes and shuddered at the memory. "Yeah."

"Had you seen Sandie at all earlier in the evening?"

Dee shook her head. "I wouldn't have unless I was working, and I wasn't. I had a couple of drinks in the Nag's Head before I got started, but I never saw Sandie."

"Where did she normally work?"

"Down the end of Campion Boulevard. Just past the mini-roundabout."

Kevin pictured it in his mind's eye. Only fifty yards down the side street and Sandie would have been at the entrance to the alley where the shared room was. "What about regulars?" he asked.

Dee suddenly lost her composure. Her eyes welled up with tears and her voice emerged as a strangled wail. "I don't know. Look, we shared the room and the rent, we didn't live in each other's pockets, I don't know what she did or who she did it with."

Kevin reached across the table and took her hand. Astonishment overcame her emotional outburst and her mouth fell open. "I'm sorry. We just need to explore every possibility if we're going to have any chance of catching him."

Dee snorted derisively, pulling away from him. "Listen to you. Anybody would think it was a respectable mother of three who'd been killed, not some throwaway tart."

Kevin shook his head sorrowfully. "I don't know who you've been listening to, Dee, but we don't treat anybody as a throwaway victim here. My guvnor wouldn't stand for it."

Dee looked momentarily uncertain. "You mean that?"

"I mean it. Nobody on this investigation is giving any less than a hundred per cent. Now, I want you to come upstairs with me and look at some photographs. Will you do that for me, Dee?"

"All right," she said. It was hard to say who was the more surprised.

After midnight, the fluorescent lights in Carol's office seemed indecently bright, turning skin tones grey. Carol was reading the scant computer files on Derek Tyler's murders when the door opened and Tony walked in. "It's rubbish, you know," he said without preamble.

Carol, accustomed to the vagaries of his conversational style, humoured him. "Thanks for coming in. What's rubbish?"

"Copycats. They don't happen. Don't exist not in sexual homicide." He dropped into the chair opposite her desk and sighed.

"What are you saying, Tony? That Derek Tyler managed to be in two places at once?"

"I don't know anything about Derek Tyler until I read the files. What I do know is that whatever we've got here, it's not a copycat."

Carol struggled to make sense of what she was hearing. "But if the MO is the same .. .?"

"Then you've got the same killer." He gave her an apologetic smile and shrugged.

"That's not possible. From what Don says, and from what I've read here, there was no doubt on the forensics. And Derek Tyler is behind bars."