ell, you've got flowers," he said, not noticing her mood had slipped to the wrong side of geniality.

"Enough about the flowers. Show me what you're got," Carol snapped.

Kevin covered the desk with the print-outs Stacey had given him, arranging them in four groups. "These are the photos Nick Sanders emailed to us. They've been taken by four separate cameras. The ones that we're interested in are these three' He pointed to a trio of shots that Carol immediately recognized as being of Swindale. "According to Stacey's program, they were shot on the same camera that took the picture of Tim Golding that turned up on Ron Alexander's computer."

A slow, satisfied smile crept across Carol's face. "So it's fair to assume that one of these three Park Rangers took that photo of Tim?" she said.

"Looks that way."

"How do you want to proceed?" Carol asked.

"Well, given that we know the camera in question was bought for cash in Birmingham, it's not likely to be one of the ones that belongs to the National Park. So I thought I'd ask Derbyshire to do a simultaneous search of their homes and offices, bring in any cameras they find and see if we get a match."

Carol considered the idea. "Too much wriggle room," she said. "We start searching, we alert the killer that we're on to him. It gives him time to concoct an alibi, or even to disappear. No. Get their home addresses from the National Park. Take three teams down to Derbyshire, get on their tails and, when you're all in place, bring them in simultaneously. Arrest them on suspicion of murder. Then we'll ask Derbyshire to do the searches while we're questioning them back here. I want this guy scared, I want him off his patch, I want him sweating."

"Where am I going to get three teams from?" Kevin asked.

"Go and see DI Merrick. Tell him I said you could have five bodies." She raised a warning finger. "But not Sam Evans."

Kevin frowned. "But it was him that got Sanders to send us the pix in the first place."

"Exactly," Carol said. "But he didn't care enough to want to follow it through. Keep him away from the end game Kevin. Maybe it'll teach him something." She knew she was being harsh, but she wanted to rein in Sam Evans' maverick instincts, to make them work for him and not against him. It was a lesson Carol understood; it was the one she'd had most difficulty with herself in the early stages of her career. Going out on a limb was all very well, but you had to learn how to tell the solid wood from the rotten. And she suspected Evans was still a long way from that knowledge.

I'm savouring every minute of this, I admit it: the cops running around in circles because I've spirited away one of their own; front-page headline in the evening paper and an editorial slagging off the force hierarchy for putting an officer in harm's way without adequate back-up. Of course, it wasn't incompetence that cost them Paula Mclntyre, it was my superiority. But I forgive the media that lack of insight, because it serves to make the police even more powerless. And power is like energy: finite. If one group loses it, somebody else benefits. And in this instance, it's me. I have the power to manipulate them, to frustrate them and to make fools of them.

My power is evident all around me. Even when I'm alone in my home, the wonders of modern technology allow me instant access to Paula's terror and pain. And my trained monkey brings me the digital videos at regular intervals. I can watch her, debased and helpless, on my TV screen or computer monitor while I lie on the sofa, naked and glorious. Whatever I want done to her, I can make it happen. I stroke my body, imagining her mouth on me, doing my bidding, her eyes fixed on mine, anxious to please. Imagination can be so much better than the reality, which so often disappoints. Not that I'm averse to taking my pleasure when it presents itself. I've always had a taste and a talent for making women do what I want. But compared to this exercise of total domination, that's just an appetizer. Soon the blades will slice into her cunt, the blood will start to flow and pool between her legs, and her body will arch and twist in a frenzy of pain ... Sometimes I play one of the other videos, one of the ones that takes it all the way. But those make me come too quickly, and then I have to start all over again enjoying Paula.

The only thing that worries me is how I'm going to improve on this one.

After Kevin left, Carol had found it impossible to settle. She'd tried to call Tony, but only reached voice mail and answering machine. She'd had a cup of coffee with Stacey, congratulating her on her inspired work and insisting she accept Jonathan's flowers. She'd spent half an hour in the murder room with Don Merrick, growing depressed at the dozens of names their street trawl had attached to the unidentified man who had snatched Paula. Finally, she'd decided to do what she'd previously criticized Merrick for; she needed to get out on the streets, to feel she was doing something more constructive than reviewing everyone else's work.

At first, she'd just walked around Temple Fields, speaking to the officers who were still knocking on doors and canvassing passers-by. It never hurt to offer the troops a word of encouragement, to let them see you were putting in the hours, just like them. As she chatted to one of the young uniformed officers, she noticed Dee Smart slipping into a well-lit doorway opposite. Carol ended the conversation with a metaphorical pat on the back and headed across the street and into Stan's Cafe.

Dee was already seated alone at a table with a mug of tea and a cigarette. Carol took the chair opposite and smiled. "Hi, Dee."

Dee rolled her eyes. "Look, I've told you lot everything -you know more about me than my ex-husband. You're very bad for business, you know that?"

"And I appreciate your help, Dee. But something new's come up that I wanted to run past you. Did Sandie ever mention someone called the Creeper?"

Dee stared at her, open mouth revealing an unappetizing array of ugly fillings and stained teeth. "The Creeper?"

Carol gave an apologetic shrug. "I know, it sounds ridiculous. But did Sandie ever talk about anyone by that name?"

Dee shook her head, incredulity in her expression. "You're asking me about the Creeper?"

Carol's attention quickened. This wasn't the reaction she'd expected. Dee's incredulity was not sparked by the nickname but by the very fact that Carol was asking the question. "You know who I'm talking about," Carol said, knowing she was right.

Dee snorted. "You think I'm going to tell you, of all people?"

This wasn't making any sense. "What do you mean, me of all people?"

Dee said nothing. She shifted in her chair, as if she wanted to put visible distance between herself and Carol.

Carol persisted. It would have been impossible for her to do otherwise. "Dee, if you know anything, anything at all, you'd better tell me. There's a woman's life at stake, and I'm not playing games. If I have to arrest you for police obstruction, I will."

Dee crushed out her cigarette and stood up. "You think you frighten me with your threats? Listen, cop, there are people out there I'm a lot more scared of than I am of anything you can do to me. I don't know what the fuck you're on about, OK?"

Carol jumped to her feet, trying to get between Dee and the door. But Dee pushed her to one side and picked up speed. "Dee!" Carol shouted. A hush fell on the cafe as every pair of eyes turned towards them.

"Fuck off! I got nothing to say to you," Dee shouted desperately over her shoulder as she barged out of the door.

Carol flushed scarlet, aware she was the remaining centre of attention. She felt a touch on her arm and swung round, ready to rip into anyone who was willing to have a go. "Tony?" she said, taken aback. "I didn't see you. Are you stalking me?" She wondered for one mad moment if he was on some mission to protect her.

"No, Carol. I've been walking and thinking." He steered her towards the corner table in the rear where he'd been nursing a coffee and absorbing the atmosphere when Carol had arrived.

"You only had eyes for the woman you were talking to," he said.

"That was Dee Smart."

"The one who shared the room with Sandie?"

Carol folded her arm's across her chest. "I fucked that up so badly." She pursed her lips, furious with herself. "She knows something about the Creeper. As soon as I mentioned him, she freaked out. She knows something and she sure as hell isn't going to tell me now."

"What exactly did she say?"

Carol closed her eyes and summoned to her service her gift of perfect recall. "She said, "You think I'm going to tell you, of all people?" And then she said, "You think you frighten me with your threats? Listen, cop, there are people out there I'm a lot more scared of than I am of anything you can do to me."

"Interesting," Tony said.

"Meaning what?"

"Not sure yet. There's something I'm close to, but I'm not quite there," he said slowly. Carol knew there was no point in pushing him. Even though his hypotheses sometimes sounded like the product of a mind deranged, he never put them forward till he was sure they had assumed the shape of validity. She'd just have to wait till he was ready, frustrating though that might be when a life was at stake.

"It'd be nice if you could make it soon," she grumbled.

"Do you want me to have a chat with Dee?"

Carol considered. It probably wasn't such a bad idea. "You think you might get somewhere?"

He spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. "Well, I'm not a cop. And I'm not a woman."

She couldn't resist. "I had noticed."

He pulled a face. "Maybe Dee will too." He pushed his chair back.

"Tony .. ." Carol began.

He gave her a quizzical look. "Yes?" She sighed. "Nothing. It'll keep. This isn't the place." He glanced around. "I see what you mean. Later, then." She watched him leave, wondering when exactly would be the right moment to tell Tony she thought his boss might be a serial killer.

Sam Evans didn't believe in luck. Suckers believed in luck. He believed in hard work, preparing the ground and seizing the moment. That was the difference between making it big and never getting off the slow track to nowhere. So you had to go looking for whatever it was that would give you the edge. And that was what Evans had been doing all day. He was desperate to get off Carol Jordan's shit list. He didn't mind undermining her, but he didn't want her trying that on him. Besides, although he craved the attention of his bosses, this was definitely the wrong kind of attention and he needed to make it history, and fast. So in spite of the repetitiveness of his task, he'd had his antennae tuned for that little something a bit out of the ordinary. Tony Hill's account of Tyler and the Creeper seemed to offer the breakthrough he'd been looking for. It would be good to find someone who fit the bill.

It had grown dark and chill on the streets of Temple Fields yet still he hadn't found a crack he could pry open. But just when he had almost given up hope, he felt that prickle along his hairline that told him he was on to something. He'd stopped a bleary-eyed young hooker and thrust Paula's picture under her nose. She'd looked away too hastily and shivered. Evans was prepared to bet that it wasn't because of the cold night air.

"Let's go for a drink, you and me," he said, taking her elbow and steering her into the nearest pub. Luckily for him it was low-life enough not to be bothered by his choice of company. He found a table near the back of the room and asked her what she wanted to drink.

When he came back with the Bacardi Breezer and his own pint of Guinness, she was still there. "So, how come you know Paula?" he asked.

She swigged from the bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It made her look about twelve. "She was nice to me after Jackie died. She reminded me of Jackie, you know? Like, kind. But still a no-shit."

"That's Paula all right. So, what's your name?" He placed a hand flat on his chest. "I'm Sam."

"Hi, Sammy. I'm Honey. So, has he got Paula, then? The geezer that did Jackie?" She dug a pack of cigarettes out and offered him one.

"Looks that way."

"So you're really out to get him now, then?"

"We were always out to get him. I expect Paula told you that."

Honey shrugged one shoulder. "So she said. But, like, I knew you wasn't going to get your knickers in too much of a twist about a pair of dead prossies."

"You knew Jackie?"

Honey sighed out a thin stream of smoke. "That's why Paula wanted to talk to me. To see if I knew anything about who'd topped her. She even got me to look at some photos of geezers. But there wasn't anybody I knew."

Evans wasn't about to let it go. "You've had time to think since then, though. Have you remembered Jackie being scared of anybody?"

Honey gave him a derisive look. "In this game, you'd be daft if you weren't scared out your mind half the time."

"But was there anyone in particular that bothered Jackie?" Evans swirled his glass nonchalantly, making the creamy head stick to the inside.

"After I spoke to Paula, I remembered Jackie once warned me off a punter. I was going to get in his car and she practically dragged me out. Said he'd smacked her about one time and dumped her without paying."

The door to the bar opened and Jan Shields walked in. Evans caught her out of the corner of his peripheral vision and gently shook his head. Either she didn't see the gesture or she had something that wouldn't wait. She headed towards them. "What kind of car?" Evans asked quickly.

"One of them big four-wheel-drive jeep things. A black one."

The connection sparked in Evans' mind: Aidan fucking Hart. He'd been right and Jordan had been wrong. If he fit the frame as this Creeper that Tony Hill reckoned was involved in the murders, that alibi didn't necessarily clear him. "You don't know what make?" he asked urgently. "What model?"

Honey cast her eyes upwards. "Do I look like somebody who knows about cars, Sammy?"

Jan arrived at the table and sat down. Honey jumped as if she'd been stroked with a cattle prod. She grabbed for her fags and began to slide off the banquette. Jan put up a hand to stop her. "It's all right, Honey, I'm not wearing my Vice hat. Nothing so trivial."

Honey ducked under the hand. "Yeah, well, I've got my rent to earn. See ya, Sammy."

"Shit," he said as Honey disappeared back to the streets. "I thought I was getting somewhere with that one."

Jan looked apologetic. "Sorry, mate. My past working Vice has its downsides as well as its advantages. How're you doing?"

Evans pushed the remains of his drink away from him. He wasn't about to share his ideas with anybody else. "Getting nowhere slowly. You?"

"Likewise. Nobody's ever heard of Tony Hill's Creeper. Not a hooker, not a pimp, not a punter. Waste of time, if you ask me."

Evans got to his feet. "So, nothing new there, then. Let's go make some more people miserable."

Jan fell into step beside him. "I keep seeing Paula's face. It's as if she's haunting me. Like I've failed her."

"What do you think the chances are of us getting her back alive?"

Jan closed her eyes momentarily, as if a stab of pain had hit her. "My honest opinion?"

"Yeah."

"I think Tony Hill's full of shit. I think she's dead already."

Kevin closed the door of the interview room behind him. He'd just spend forty minutes with the last of the three Park Rangers they'd arrested on suspicion of murder. He'd been determined to interview all three himself, in spite of the complaints of the duty solicitors about being kept waiting. But he hadn't found a single discrepancy in their stories to offer any leverage. Nick Sanders, Callum Donaldson and Pete Siveright all denied having taken the photographs of Swindale.

They'd been happy enough to identify the other shots they had taken, but they were all adamant that they hadn't photographed the secret dale. They'd all denied ever having seen Tim Golding or Guy Lefevre other than via the media. They all claimed their worksheets would show they'd been nowhere near Bradfield on the day of his abduction. That in itself was pretty worthless, however, since they all finished work at six and neither boy had been taken till after seven. Plenty of time to get from the Peak Park to Bradfield.

Bronwen Scott followed him out of the room. The solicitor looked depressingly fresh and alert. "You've got nothing on my client," she said. "I'm going to make representations to the custody sergeant that Callum Donaldson should be released."

Kevin leaned against the wall. As always when he was tired, his skin had paled to the colour of milk, his freckles standing out like miniature stigmata. "Nobody's going anywhere till we get the results of the searches that Derbyshire Police are carrying out on our behalf."

"That could take hours," she protested.

"So go home. We'll call you when we're ready with the outcome of those searches and to reinterview," he said, not bothering to hide his hostility. "One of those three men abducted and killed two young boys. So your convenience isn't very high on my list of priorities, Ms Scott."

She raised her eyebrows. "I had hoped that DCI Jordan might introduce the concept of civility round here. Clearly I was wrong." She swept past him towards the custody suite. As she reached the door, the custody sergeant yanked it open.

"Kevin," he shouted, "I've got some DC from Buxton on the line for you."

Bronwen Scott turned as he hurried down the corridor. Her mouth looked as if she'd just bitten a pickle. Kevin enjoyed beaming broadly at her as he brushed past. "Looks like you might not have so long to wait after all." He snatched up the phone and introduced himself. For a couple of minutes he listened, saying nothing more than, "Yeah ... yeah ..." Finally, he said, "Give me that make and model and serial number again." He reached for a pen and paper and scribbled down the details. Then: "Thanks, mate. I owe you one. Let me have the paperwork soon as."

He replaced the receiver and turned to give Bronwen Scott the full benefit of his smile. "Derbyshire Police have just informed me that they have found a camera whose serial number corresponds to the camera that took the photographs of Swindale and the photograph of Tim Golding. Guess where they found it?"

Scott's lip curled in disdain. "Get on with it, Sergeant."

"They found it in the bedroom of your client." He leaned against the custody counter and folded his arms. "I guess you won't be going anywhere in a hurry, will you, Ms Scott?"

Driving round Temple Fields at night was a different experience from being a pedestrian, Tony thought. The perspective on the terrain was quite different. Walking around, the prostitution impinged, but it wasn't hard to ignore. Behind the wheel, the sex for sale was totally in his face; the vendors set out their stalls for the carriage trade, not the foot traffic.

On his first pass through, Tony was so absorbed in the distinctive feel of the night streets that he missed Dee. Second time round, he saw her on a corner, kerb side legs apart, leaning towards the road. He slowed and pulled up beside her. As his window went down, she stepped forward and dipped, offering a view of her cleavage. "What's it to be, then?"

"You're Dee?"

"That's right. Somebody recommend me, did they, sweetheart? Well, you came to the right place. What are you after?"

Tony felt faintly flustered. It was all so much more complicated in reality. "I'm not a punter, Dee. I just want to talk to you."

She backed up a step, but kept the cleavage on show. "You a cop?" she said suspiciously.

He gestured at the car then at himself. "Does this look like "cop" to you? No, I'm not a cop."

"In that case, you want to talk, it'll cost."

Tony nodded. It seemed reasonable. People paid to talk to him, after all. "Fine. I'll pay. Do you want to get in?"

Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside a smart cafe bar on the edge of the financial district. Dee had tried to talk in the car, but he had asked her to wait. "I'm not good at navigating and talking," he said. "We'll only end up in the middle of nowhere."

They walked together to the entrance, where, to Dee's obvious astonishment, Tony held the door open for her. As they walked in, the unmistakable cube of a bouncer approached them. "Hang on a minute, where do you think you're going?" he demanded, all belligerence and brashness.

"What's it to you, meathead?" Dee snapped.

"We don't want your type in here," the bouncer said.

Tony intervened with a suaveness he could only achieve when it was nothing personal. "And what type would that be?"

"Keep out of it, pal," the bouncer advised him.

"This lady is with me. We came here for a quiet drink," Tony said politely.

"Not in here, you don't."

Dee put a hand on his arm. "Leave it, Tony. We'll go somewhere else."

He patted her hand. "No, Dee. We won't." He turned to the bouncer, ice and steel on full display. "You have no basis for refusing my friend entry. She is dressed no less discreetly than at least three other women in here. She's not touting for trade, unlike the financial services jerks at the bar, and also unlike many of your other customers, she's not going to be using your toilet to take drugs. So unless you can come up with a compelling reason why we shouldn't, we are going to sit at one of your tables while we have a drink and a chat." He nodded politely to the bouncer and steered Dee past him.

The bouncer, baffled, stared after them like a bull who'd just missed the matador. Tony chose a table, pulled out a chair for Dee then sat down opposite her. She grinned at him. "How did you get away with that?"

Tony looked pained. "Natural charisma?"

Dee laughed, a deep, throaty sound that spoke of Embassy Regal and too many late nights. "Balls of steel, more like."

"Ah, that's what the problem's been all these years .. ." Tony looked up as the cocktail waitress approached and dumped a bowl of Japanese rice crackers on the table. He suspected the swiftness of her arrival came from curiosity to see the man who had bested the bouncer. Tony smiled sunnily at her. "Good evening. My friend would like .. .?" He gave Dee a questioning look.

"Rum and black," Dee said.

"And I'll have a glass of your shiraz cabernet. Thanks." The waitress departed, giving them a final curious glance.

Dee scrunched down in the leather armchair, savouring its comfort. "So, what is it you want to talk to me about?"

"I think you know."

Dee tipped her head back and sighed, as if to say she'd known it was too good-to be true. "Is this to do with what that woman cop was asking me about?"

Tony said nothing, simply fixing her with an expectant look.

Dee jackknifed forward, leaning across the table towards him. "What's she to you, then? Why are you doing her dirty work for her if you're not a cop?" she asked savagely.

"I'm a psychologist."

"A shrink? You going to make me lie down on a couch and tell you about my childhood?" she said scornfully.

"I don't have a couch."

Dee gave a louche smile. "Pity. I wouldn't mind lying on a couch for you."

"Life is full of disappointments, Dee. Why are you so scared of the Creeper?"

"Who said I was scared?" The defiance was so fake it was almost laughable.

"Why else would you refuse to tell us what you know when there's a woman's life at stake? I don't think you're keeping schtum out of loyalty."

Dee looked away. "Why should I stick my neck out for some copper?" She shifted impatiently in her seat. "You've no idea what you're dealing with here, do you?"

"Whatever it is, we can protect you. Who's the Creeper, Dee?"

Now she was angry, covering up her fear with spitting rage. "You don't get it, do you? You might not be a cop, but you're still on the team. The only ones you look after are your own. Yeah, I'm scared. And I'm right to be scared. Nothing you can promise me can make any difference." Suddenly she was on her feet, grabbing her bag.

"Wait, Dee!" Tony said urgently. But she walked away without a backward glance. "You haven't even had your .. ." The waitress approached with her tray balanced at shoulder level. '.. . rum and black," he sighed.

He sat alone for a long time, staring into his red wine and occasionally over at the glass of rum and black currant opposite him. Thoughts flashed in and out of his mind as he struggled to make a logical sequence from what he knew and what he surmised. The early-evening crowd dispersed, and the bar entered a hiatus before it would come alive again after nine. When he was almost the only person left in the place, he took out his phone and dialled the familiar number.

"Carol Jordan," he heard.

"It's me. Can we talk?"

"I'm in the office. Do you want to come round?"

The last place he wanted to have this particular conversation. "I don't think so," he said. "Can you come to mine?"

"I'm in the middle of something," she said. "It looks like we're close to cracking Tim Golding and Guy Lefevre."

"That's great news. But I do need to talk to you, and not in the office."

He heard her sigh. "Give me an hour. I'll meet you at your place. And, Tony .. .?"

"Yes?"

"This better be good."

Under pressure from the solicitors representing Nick Sanders and Pete Siveright, Kevin had released both men. He'd had no real choice once he'd given them the disclosure that was their right; namely, that the results of the searches had produced no evidence against their clients. Once Bronwen Scott had indicated she'd had enough time to consult with Callum Donaldson, he gave himself a few more minutes to prepare.

He anticipated that Scott would advise Donaldson to go 'no comment', but he didn't want to take any chances.

Kevin felt the low thrum of excitement in his veins that always came when he was so close to a result he could touch it. These days, every good arrest, every conviction felt like another step towards rehabilitation. It was as if his previous disastrous mistake was a stain, like a street vandal's spray-painted tag. And everything that went well was another brushful of paint towards covering up the blemish. One day, there would only be a freshly painted wall, and he'd finally be back on track again.