ony yanked the chair forward and leaned on the desk. His face was inches from hers. "What is sexual homicide about?" he demanded.

Carol knew the answer to this one. "The perverted gratification of desire."

"Good, good," he said, moving even closer. "How many lovers have you had?"

Flustered, Carol looked away. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"More than one, right?" he continued insistently.

Carol gave in. It was easier than the alternative. "More than one," she agreed.

"And have any of them ever behaved identically in bed?" Tony asked, as if the answer would settle an important argument.

Carol started to see a glimmer of where he was going with this. "No." Tony's intense blue eyes were irresistible. In spite of herself, she grew tense at his physical closeness. Whether he recognized that or not, he gave no clue.

His voice dropped, becoming intimate and gentle. "My particular needs can only be met by one specific ritualistic process. I need you bound to the bed, I need you clothed, I need your voice stilled by a leather gag, I need you in my power and I need to destroy the manifestation of your sexuality." He took a deep breath and pulled back. "What are the chances that there are two of us out there who want exactly the same thing?"

Comprehension dawned on Carol. She relaxed now the immediacy of the intimacy had receded. "Point taken. But we're still left with an identical MO. Which is a problem for me."

Tony leaned back and his voice changed. Carol recognized the shift. Now he was thinking out loud, unformed conclusions bumping into each other. It had taken him a while to be comfortable enough with her to riff like this, but now it was almost as if he saw her as an extension of himself in these moments of verbal reverie. "Unless of course someone wanted to get rid of Sandie specifically and thought it would be clever to do it in a way that made us run around like headless chickens looking for an impossible killer."

"I suppose that's conceivable," Carol said reluctantly.

"I mean, if it wasn't for the history, tying it into past cases, it wouldn't be that far out of the ordinary. Extreme, but not extraordinary."

"Jesus, Tony," Carol protested. "You think what he did to her wasn't extraordinary?"

"Divorce your personal response from your professional one, Carol," he said quietly. "You've seen worse than that. A lot worse. Whoever did this still has a lot to learn about sexual sadism."

"I'd forgotten how far from normal you are," she said wearily.

"That's why you need me," he said simply. "Probably the only really interesting aspect of it is that she wasn't undressed. I mean, if you go to the trouble and expense of going back to a room with a hooker, I'd have thought you'd want her to take her clothes off. I know I would. Otherwise, you might as well just do it in the back of the car or up against a wall."

"So what does that say to you?"

"Rape." The word hung in the air between them. For months it had been unspoken and unspeakable. But now it was out in the open. Tony raised his shoulders in an apologetic shrug.

Carol struggled to stay in the professional zone. "Why do you say that? There's no sign of a struggle back there. Presumably Sandie agreed to be tied up. Presumably he'd agreed to pay her."

"Absolutely. But he wants it to feel like it's rape. So he doesn't want his victim undressed. That way he can fool himself that he's a rapist."

It was Carol's turn to look puzzled. "He wants to pretend he's a rapist? And then he kills them? Why can't he just pretend to be a murderer?"

Tony sighed. "I don't know that yet, Carol."

It's ironic, but he's calmer now the streets are full of cops. It's what he expected, and it's always comforting when what he expects happens, even if it's bad shit. Because at least then he knows it's not something worse.

He was doing a bit of business in the toilets at Stan's Cafe when he saw the blue strobe of their lights through the high frosted-glass window. One set of lights could have been anything, but three together had to be Sandie. And he didn't panic. He's proud of that. Before the Voice, he probably would have run, just as a matter of principle. But now he carried on selling rocks to the nervy black kid, acting surprised when he tried to hurry the action along because of the bizzies outside.

The kid had barely walked out the door when the conversation started. "They've found her," the Voice said, warm and caressing. "They're going to be all over Temple Fields tonight. They're going to want to talk to everybody. They're going to want to talk to you. And that's fine. Just fine. You know what you're going to say, don't you?"

He gave the door a nervous glance. "Yeah. I know."

"Humour me. Let me hear it again," the Voice coaxed.

"I was round and about, just like usual. Dropped in at Stan's, had a couple of beers in the Queen of Hearts. I never saw Sandie all night. I sometimes used to see her down the end of Campion Boulevard, but I never saw her last night."

"And if they ask you for alibi names?"

"I just act thick. Like I can't tell one night from another. Everybody knows I'm a bit slow, so they won't think anything of it."

"That's right. Vague is good. Vague is what they expect from you. You did a great job last night. Wonderful footage. When you get home tonight, there'll be a little reward waiting for you."

"You don't have to Ao that," he protested, meaning it. "I'm sorted."

"You deserve it. You're a very special young man."

He felt a warm glow inside, a warm glow that's still there. Nobody but the Voice has ever thought anything about him was special, except his educational needs.

So now he's out there, mooching around like usual. He checks out the cops, a mixture of uniforms and obvious CID. They're working their way down both sides of the street. He could go back to Stan's and wait for them to come to him, or he could amble towards them like a fool with nothing to hide.

He recognizes one of the CID from before, when they were all over Temple Fields a couple of years ago. A big Geordie. Geordie didn't treat you like shit. He changes his angle of approach to come close to Geordie and the woman he's working with. They're talking to a punter, but he's got nothing to say, he can't wait to be away. He's probably given them a moody name and address and he wants to skip before they catch him out.

They step back and the punter scuttles off sideways like a crab. The cop looks up and sees him. He's got that "I know you but I can't put a name to you' look. He gives Geordie a stupid grin and says hi. Geordie says he's Detective Inspector Merrick.

He repeats the name a couple of times to fix it good and proper because he knows the Voice will want to know everything. He tells Geordie his name and address almost before he asks and the woman cop writes it down. She's not bad looking. A bit on the skinny side, but he's learning to like them like that. The cop asks if he'd heard about Sandie and he says yes, everybody's talking. And he comes out with the lines that the Voice has carved on his brain. Word perfect.

They ask if he saw anybody acting strangely. He laughs loudly, playing up to the image of the Gay Village idiot. "Everybody acts strange round here," he says.

"You're not kidding," the woman cop mutters under her breath. "Can anybody vouch for your movements last night?"

He looks puzzled. Mr. Merrick says, "Who saw you around? Who can confirm where you were last night?"

He opens his eyes wide. "I dunno," he says. "Last night, it was just the same as every other night, you know? I don't remember stuff too good, Mr. Merrick."

"You remembered you didn 't see Sandie," the woman chipped in. Smart-arsed cow.

"Only because that's what everybody's talking about," he says, feeling a tickle of sweat at the base of his spine. "That's a big thing, not a little thing like who was in the cafe or the pub."

Mr. Merrick pats him on the shoulder. He takes a card out of his pocket and tucks it into his hand. "If you hear anything, you give me a call, right?" And they're off, ready for the next friendly little chat.

Not a flicker of doubt. Not a breath of suspicion. He fooled them. They were talking to an assassin and they had no idea. So who's the thickie now?

Carol eased the door shut, not wanting to disturb Michael and Lucy. She was aware how even slight noises carried in the high-ceilinged loft. She slipped out of her shoes and padded through to the kitchen at one end of the open-plan living space. The concealed fluorescent strips that cast light on the work top were turned on, revealing her cat Nelson sprawled on his side, soaking up the warmth. He twitched one ear as she approached and let out a low rumble that the charitable might have interpreted as a welcome. Carol scratched his head, then noticed the sheet of paper he was half-obscuring. She slid it out from under him, ignoring his wriggle of protest. "Hi, Sis. Lucy's doing an armed robbery in Leeds tomorrow and Thursday, we got last minute tickets for the opera so I'm staying over there with her tonight. See you Thursday night. Love, M."

Carol crumpled the paper and tossed it in the bin, allowing herself to be momentarily wistful about the prospect of a night at the opera in good company. Anything was better than thinking about a night alone in the apartment. Opening the fridge to take out the half-eaten tin of cat food, she was drawn irresistibly to the bottle of pinot grigio sitting in the door. She took both out, fed the cat and contemplated the wine.

In her battle for restoration, Carol had resisted the easy comfort of drink, nervous of its easy promise of oblivion. She'd told herself she didn't want to sleepwalk through the aftermath of the rape. She wanted to deal with it, to unpick its effects and put herself back together in something approximating the right order. But tonight she wanted erasure. She couldn't bear the thought of closing her eyes and seeing the images she'd brought home from the mortuary. Without anaesthetic, there was no way she was going to sleep. And without sleep, there was no way she could effectively lead the hunt for Sandie Foster's killer. Carol raked through the cutlery drawer for the corkscrew and hurriedly opened the bottle. Full glass in hand, she leaned against the work top and buried her fingers in Nelson's fur, grateful for the beat of his heart against her skin.

Before last night, she'd had nothing in common with Sandie other than their gender. But what had happened to the prostitute had given her a sort of kinship with the woman charged with hunting down her killer. They both possessed a victim-hood that had been conferred because they'd both been guilty of being female in a world where some men believed they deserved never to feel powerless. Sandie hadn't merited what had happened to her any more than Carol had.

Carol drank steadily, topping up her glass whenever it fell below the halfway mark. She understood the terror Sandie must have known as she realized there was no escape from her attacker. She knew that sense of utter helplessness, knew the absolute fear of the prey that has no defence against the predator. But in one crucial sense, perverse though it sounded, Sandie had been luckier than Carol. She hadn't had to find a way to live with what had been done to her.

Tony stood by Carol's side, his eyes focused on Sandie Foster's lifeless face. He didn't mind being present at postmortems If he was honest, it intrigued him to watch the pathologist uncovering the messages contained by the dead. Tony read corpses too, but his was a different text. What they had in common was that they both received communication from the killer via the conduit of his victim.

The body lay in a pool of halogen light, the surrounding room a collage of shadows. Dr. Vernon, the pathologist, stooped over the body. It offered a gruesome illustration in contrast. Below the waist, Sandie's body was still caked in blood, a study in scarlet. Above the waist, she was apparently untouched. The plastic bags covering her hands partially obscured the bruising at her wrists, allowing the illusion of wholeness to persist. "Poorly nourished," Vernon said. "Underweight for her height. Signs of intravenous drug use' He pointed to the needle tracks on her arms.

He leaned forward and gently probed her mouth open. "Slight bruising on the inside of the mouth. Most likely as a result of the gag we removed earlier. Some indications of long-term amphetamine abuse."

"I know you hate it when we jump the gun," Carol said.

"But can you give me any indication on cause of death yet?"

Vernon turned and gave her a wintry smile. "I see you haven't acquired patience in your time away from us, Carol. So far, I see nothing to contradict the obvious. She bled to death as a result of injuries inflicted vaginally. The tissue in the area is macerated almost beyond recognition. Not a pleasant way to go."

"She didn't die quickly?" Carol asked. Tony could feel anxiety vibrating from her. He could also smell stale alcohol on her breath. He'd only managed four hours' sleep himself; God alone knew how little sleep Carol had managed to squeeze in between the bottle and the morgue. It certainly hadn't been enough, judging by the bruised smudges under her eyes.

Vernon shook his head. "No. No arterial bleeding. This was slow exsanguination. She would have been alive probably for an hour or more, in terrible pain and shock."

There was a long silence as they absorbed the information. Tony hoped Carol was not contemplating Sandie's suffering too closely. He gave himself a mental shake. He had to stop concentrating on Carol. He had a job to do, and while that job might be easier if he could help Carol on a personal level, he had to keep enough distance to allow himself to do what he was paid for. Mapping the mind of a murderer was never an easy task, and he couldn't afford to ignore an opportunity as good as this for finding a way in.

A long, slow, painful death. "He watched her die," he said softly.

Carol's head jerked round. "What?"

"That's the whole point of a lingering death. The killer wants to savour what he's created. He'll have recorded it as well. Video, probably. But you might want to check the room for fibre-optic cameras. It's possible he wanted to watch the discovery of the body too."

"He stayed around till she was dead?"

Tony nodded. "High risk. He's confident, this one. He knew enough about Sandie's routines to feel safe that they weren't going to be disturbed. He's probably paid her to have sex before so he could check out the lie of the land. He won't have been able to manage intercourse, but he'll have wanted to talk, to find out her regular patterns. You should ask around, see if she mentioned anything to any of her mates."

Carol filed the information away for future action. Vernon unpeeled the plastic bags from Sandie's hands and began taking scrapings from under her nails. "Any thoughts on time of death?" Carol asked.

"An imprecise science at the best of times," Vernon said drily. "My best guess would be somewhere between midnight and eight yesterday morning."

"No way to tell if she had sex before she was attacked, I suppose?" Carol asked.

"No chance. The damage to the surrounding tissues is so severe it will be impossible to tell whether there was any ante-mortem bruising. If it's any comfort to you, there's no apparent sign of any gross anal penetration."

Before Carol could respond, the door behind them opened. Tony glanced over his shoulder. That single look told him the woman who had entered was a police officer. There was something unmistakable about her casual air of authority in this context. She wore a long black leather coat, the collar turned up against the blustery weather outside, making her look as if she was auditioning for a feminist version of The Matrix. She barely glanced at the body on the table before crossing to Carol.

"Morning, DCI Jordan," she said. "Mr. Brandon said I'd find you here."

Carol hid her surprise, though not from Tony. He knew her well enough to read the faint rise of the brows, the slight widening of the eyes. "Sergeant Shields," she said. "What brings you here?"

"Mr. Brandon didn't call you?" Jan's face showed consternation.

"No."

"Ah. I expect he's left a message on your voice mail I tried to call you myself earlier-and I couldn't raise you. Anyway, he's seconded me to your team for this investigation. He said you were a sergeant under strength and thought it might be useful to have someone on the team who knows the street scene."

"That makes sense." Carol's voice had ice at its heart. Already Brandon seemed to be reneging on his promise to give her a free hand, and she didn't like what that said about her.

"He seemed to think so," Jan said, turning towards Tony. "And this must be the man who reads our minds."

Tony assumed the expression of a man who's heard it all before. "Only if you're a sexually motivated serial offender."

Jan laughed. "My secrets are safe, then." She held out a hand. "I'm Jan Shields."

Tony returned the handshake. Strong, warm hand. Exactly what he'd expect from someone who'd just demonstrated how sure of herself she was.

Jan turned back to Carol. "Another one bites the dust, eh?"

"In a particularly unpleasant way," Carol said repressively.

Jan shrugged, stepping forward to see better what Vernon was doing. "It's a high-risk occupation."

"So is being a cop," Carol said. "But when one of us dies, we get a little respect."

Jan gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound callous. But when you've been in Vice as long as I have, they all start to look like meat while they're still on the hoof."

Tony didn't find Jan's attitude surprising. He'd met too many cops and clinical psychologists on the edge of burnout not to have some sympathy with the defensive positions they adopted. He took a step away, moving closer to the table. "Did you do the postmortems two years ago?" he asked.

Vernon nodded. "I did."

"What do you think?" Tony asked.

"If I didn't know better, I would say this woman had been the victim of the same killer. The pattern of the wounds is quite distinctive. Unique, really. The only time I've seen it before was in the murders Derek Tyler was found guilty of."

"What did he use? A knife of some sort?"

"As I recall, Tyler never gave up the weapon. At the time, I surmised it was something home-made," Vernon said. "The wounds certainly don't match any implement I've ever come across. And I did ask one of my colleagues who's an expert in tool marks for an opinion."

"So, what kind of home-made?" Carol interjected.

Vernon studied the blade of his scalpel. "It's hard to be certain. The wounds are consistent with a narrow, flexible blade. A razor blade rather than a craft knife. But there are dozens, hundreds of cuts. The best guess my colleague and I could come up with was something along the lines of a latex dildo with a series of razor blades inserted quite deeply into it."

Carol's intake of breath was audible. "Jesus," she said.

"Danger, nutters at work," Jan said bitterly. "That right, Dr. Hill?"

Tony frowned. It made no sense. Nothing added up. If the police had captured the wrong man, the real killer should have reacted by taking another victim then and there. Sexually motivated murderers didn't like other people being given credit for their handiwork. To wait two years to strike again was all wrong. He needed to talk this through. "Carol?" he said softly.

But her attention was elsewhere. She indicated Tony with a movement of her head without looking at him directly. "Jan, Dr. Hill thinks our man had been with Sandie before. Can you find out who she hung around with, see if she mentioned a punter who wanted her to talk about herself? Chances are he couldn't maintain an erection."

Jan snorted. "That hardly narrows it down. You'd be amazed how many punters can't get it up when it comes to it. That's often why the girls get smacked around. But yeah, I'll see what I can come up with." She pulled her coat collar closer. "I'll hit the bricks, then. Gatch you later."

Tony watched her melt into the shadows, waiting till he heard the door close behind her before returning to Carol's side. The room was quiet save for the clink of metal on metal as Vernon exchanged one instrument of deconstruction for another. "Carol, I keep coming back to what I said earlier. This is an impossible scenario. If Derek Tyler really did commit the murders he was convicted of, it's beyond the bounds of credibility that somebody else would find satisfaction in such a precise replication of his crimes. It goes against every psychological truth I know. Somebody's setting the scene, creating what they want us to see."

"But the forensics'

"I know what you said," Tony interrupted her. "But your team needs to look at those files, to see if there was any possibility of a mistake. And if there was, you need to start looking at men who've been recently released from prison or from Bradfield Moor after a two-year stretch. That's the only explanation for the time lag. Because I'd stake my reputation on the fact that whoever killed those women two years ago also killed Sandie Foster."

Carol stared at him, the glimmering of an idea at the edge of her consciousness. "Tony? What if that's exactly what our killer is gambling on?"

"Sorry?" he looked puzzled.

Carol's words tumbled over each other in her excitement. "What if the person who murdered Sandie Foster is gambling on the fact that we'll be forced to draw precisely that conclusion? What if killing Sandie was incidental? What if the killer's real intent is to have Derek Tyler's conviction set aside?"

Tony cocked his head to one side, considering. "That would work? You could base an appeal on that? In spite of the overwhelming evidence against Tyler?"

"You could have a damn good try. Especially with someone like you in the witness box staking your not inconsiderable reputation on it."

"Ah," he said. "So I take it you don't want me shouting that from the rooftops?"

"Especially not when there are lawyers or journalists present," Carol said. "But what do you think? Is it motivation enough?"

"Hard to say. It would have to be somebody who cared passionately about Derek Tyler and who was smart enough to figure out how to pull our strings. It's not a likely scenario, but it's possible." He smiled. "This is why we work so well together. You think like a detective, I think like a nutter."

After the morgue, it was almost a relief to be back inside Bradfield Moor. Front-desk security told him where to find Derek Tyler. Because he'd been classified as a non-violent inmate, he was allowed to eat his meals with others in the same category in the dining room. It was a low-ceilinged barn of a room that smelled of chip fat with undertones of overcooked brassicas. The walls had been painted indigo and yellow in line with what Tony privately considered to be the junk science of colour therapy. Any beneficial effects that the decor might have provoked were probably compromised by the scuffs and stains that marked the paintwork from floor to ceiling. Through the security-glass windows there was a view of a shrubbery that consisted mostly of spotted laurel and rhododendrons. If they weren't depressed when they came in here, Tony thought, they soon would be.

He asked one of the orderlies to point out Tyler, then he helped himself to a tray of macaroni cheese and peas, choosing a table off to one side, where he could observe the man who had been found guilty of the murders of four prostitutes over a period of six months, a man who had blamed his urge to kill on the voice in his' head A few of the other inmates glanced Tony's way, some openly staring. But nobody made any attempt to approach him.

Tyler was a lanky, scrawny individual in his mid-twenties. He hunched over his sausage, egg and chips like a miser with a hoard of gold, head down so Tony could see little of him apart from the top of his shaved head and the tattoos on his skinny forearms.

Tony absently munched his way through his lunch, washing the bland food down with strong tea. Tyler showed none of the physical tics of the obsessive compulsive. He ate with preternatural slowness, as if he were stretching the meal out as long as he could. It seemed a pretty good strategy for passing the time, Tony decided.

Tyler had progressed to his last few mouthfuls when Aidan Hart slipped into the chair next to him. "I didn't expect to see you in today," he said.

"It's all right, I won't be claiming overtime," Tony said.

"There's better grub in the staff restaurant, you know."

"I know. But I wanted to take a look at a patient."

Hart nodded. "Derek Tyler." Noting Tony's look of surprise, he said, "Security told me when I came in. What's your interest?"

"Bradfield police found a murder victim last night. They've asked me to consult on the case." At the mention of the police, Hart perked up, his eyes gleaming with interest. Tony reckoned he'd been right when his first instinct had placed Aidan Hart firmly in the box marked 'careerist'. Just what he needed. More of the professional politics he was so bad at. He'd have to be very careful how he handled this. "On the surface, it looks like a copy of Derek Tyler's murders."

Hart stroked his cleanly shaved chin. "Interesting."

"Oh yes, it's that, all right." Tony finished his tea. "He looks a bit young for this kind of offence."

"I guess the profile has to be off the mark sometimes," Hart said smoothly. "Given that we're working with the law of averages."

"Which is why I always warn the cops it's not an exact science. So, what can you tell me about him?"

Hart looked across at Tyler, who had come to the end of his meal and was staring down at his empty plate. "Very little. He's one of the most unco-operative patients I've ever come across. Don't get me wrong. It's not that he's disruptive -quite the opposite. He's totally passive. In one sense, he's no trouble at all. But in another, he's completely intractable. He won't participate in any aspect of the therapeutic regime. He won't speak. He's not catatonic. He just chooses not to."

"Ever had any trouble with him?"

"Only once. They've got integral radios in their rooms. They can choose from half a dozen preset stations, and we can use the system to broadcast announcements. Derek never uses his, but somehow something went wrong with it. The radio came on and it couldn't be turned off. And Derek lost it. Smashed the room up, went for the nurses. We had to sedate him, and he wouldn't go back in his room until we had the radio removed."

Tony gave a small smile. "Interesting," he said. If Hart noticed the echo, he didn't react.

"But not very illuminating."

Tony let the comment lie. He wasn't ready to share his thoughts with anyone, least of all someone he felt an instinctive mistrust towards. "What do we know about him before the killings?"

Tony watched the eye movements that indicated Hart was accessing memory not lies. "Not a lot," Hart said after a short pause. "Borderline special needs. According to the report from his GP, he was highly suggestible, eager to please, mild obsessive compulsive. But nothing to merit treatment. And nothing to indicate he was heading for a career as a serial killer. Then again, GPs what do they know?" His smile was comp licit one expert to another, calculated to build an alliance. Tony read it for "what it was and instinctively fought against it. Hart pushed his chair back. "Do you want to meet Derek?"

"I'd appreciate it if you could arrange it. It'd be good if I could talk to him in his room."

Hart looked surprised. "That's not normal procedure. We usually talk to patients in one of the interview suites."

"I know. But I'd like to see him on his turf. I'd like him to feel he has a measure of control. And you've said yourself, he's not violent."

Tony could see Hart weighing up the arguments and deciding to keep his powder dry. "All right. I'll page you when we're set up. But you'll be wasting your time, you know. He's not spoken to a member of the medical staff since the day he arrived here."

Tony didn't take his eyes off Derek Tyler as Hart bustled off. He spoke under his breath: "You like the voice, don't you, Derek? You like to listen to it. You don't want anything to interfere with it. So what do I have to do to make you want to listen to mine?"

When she'd woken up only three hours after falling into bed, Carol had blamed lack of sleep for the way she felt. But as the morning had worn on, it became clear to her that she was in fact hung over. She felt as if someone was cutting through her brain with cheese wire after cruelly turning the lights several hundred watts higher. Still, it was almost worth it for the dreamless stupor that had kept the nightmare images of Sandie Foster's death at bay. She swigged from a bottle of water and surveyed her team. They all looked fresher than she felt. She walked out of her office and took up station in front of the white board that was already adorned with photos of Sandie, alive and dead.

"Good morning," Carol said, trying to imitate an energy she didn't possess. "Sandie Foster died at some time between midnight and eight a.m. on Tuesday morning. Which means she was probably attacked somewhere between ten on Monday night and four on Tuesday morning. Given that she normally knocked off at ten, we can assume she was in the company of her killer before then. According to Dr. Vernon, she bled to death and it would have taken her at least an hour to die. Dr. Tony Hill, who will be working with us on this case, believes that the killer probably stayed with her while she bled out. So we're looking for someone who has two or three hours they can't account for in that time period." She turned to the white board and wrote up the crucial times.

"Preliminary forensics indicate we're not going to have much to go on here. Plenty of prints, but none on the handcuffs or the bedstead. They've been wiped clean. The top of the table was green baize, so nothing for us there either. Chances are the remaining prints are from punters who had nothing to do with this. Nevertheless, if and when we get any matches, we need to follow up on that. So far, we've not found any traces of sperm. The blood boys are checking to see if they can find any blood that isn't Sandie's, but that's a slim chance." Carol perched on the edge of a desk, forcing her thoughts into order.

"I know you're all aware of the similarities between this case and a series of murders that took place two years ago. However, there is nothing to suggest that Derek Tyler's conviction was unsafe. I've read the files, and even without his admission of guilt, that case was as open and shut as we're ever likely to get. So while we treat this as an individual case, we should be aware that it's possible Derek Tyler had a fan a couple of years ago. A sick bastard who sees it as his role to replicate Derek's crimes. It might even be the case that someone is trying to get Derek Tyler out of Bradfield Moor and sees this as the way to do it. Make a case for linkage between the murders, and you make a case for a miscarriage of justice."

"Don't you think that's a bit far-fetched, ma'am?" Don Merrick interjected.

"At this stage, Don, I'm not ruling out anything, however off the wall it might seem." Carol noticed Paula catch Merrick's eye and give him a small shake of the head. Indicating that she thought her guvnor had lost it? Or was Carol just being paranoid? Was Paula acting out of team solidarity, signalling it wasn't appropriate for Don to question the boss's judgement when there were others present? Carol cleared her throat and continued. "We all know this is not a straightforward murder because of the resemblances to the previous series. But I want that knowledge to stay in this room. Nobody talks to the press. Leave that to me and Mr. Brandon. Now, what have we got?"

Not much, Carol thought miserably as she listened to the team run through the scant high points of their results so far. Nobody admitted to having seen Sandie with a punter after nine o'clock. Sandie's distraught mother knew nothing of the details of her daughter's other life; it had been tacit between them that what Sandie did to earn their keep was something not to be spoken of in the family home. The only lead they had was that Sandie had been seen getting into a black Freelander 4x4 around half past eight. An obliging prostitute had noted the last three digits of the number plate.

"OK," Carol sighed. "Kevin, get on to the number plate. Chances are it's not our man, but at least if we can find out when he dropped her off, we narrow down the time frame for our killer. Don, Paula I want you to collate all the interviews from the street last night. Work with Stacey to draw up a plan of who was where, when. Then we'll have an idea who might be worth re interviewing Stacey, I want you to carry on working on Ron Alexander's computer files as well. Let's not lose sight of our other priorities. Jan, you're with me. Sam, you can start backtracking on Derek Tyler's known associates. The rest of you I want out on the streets in Temple Fields saturation coverage. I want everybody who was out and about on Monday night interviewed."

The room filled with the hubbub of conversation as officers organized themselves. Jan Shields wove through the bodies and reached Carol as she was about to enter her office. "What have you got in mind for us?" Jan said conversationally, following Carol inside.

"Kevin did a good job with Dee Smart, but I think she might have more to give us. It's always worth trying a different approach. And I thought you might know some of the levers to pull."

Jan leaned against the door frame. "Sure. We're probably wasting our time, but you never know."

"It's better than spinning our wheels." Carol was opening and closing her drawers, looking for the paracetamol she was sure she'd stashed there. No trace. She was going to have to manage without.