The Mermaids Singing

5

As to… the mob of newspaper readers, they are pleased with anything, provided it is bloody enough. But the mind of sensibility requires something more.

After he’d seen Carol to her car, Tony walked across the campus to the general stores and bought a copy of the evening paper. If publicity was what Handy Andy craved, he’d finally achieved it. Fear and loathing stalked the pages of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times . Five of them, to be precise. Pages 1, 2, 3, 24 and 25, plus an editorial, were devoted to the Queer Killer. If the nickname was anything to judge by, the police were already leaking like a Cabinet committee.

‘You’re not going to like being called the Queer Killer, are you, Andy?’ Tony said softly to himself as he walked back to his office. Back behind his desk, he studied the paper. Penny Burgess had had a field day. The front page screamed, QUEER KILLER STRIKES AGAIN! in banner headlines. In smaller headline type, readers were told, POLICE ADMIT SERIAL KILLER STALKS CITY. Beneath was a lurid account of the discovery of Damien Connolly’s body, and a photograph of him at his passing-out parade. The turnover on pages two and three was a sensationalist summary of the three previous cases, complete with sketch map. ‘Bricks without straw, right enough,’ Tony said to himself as he flicked through to the centre spread. GAYS TERRIFIED BY QUEER KILLER MONSTER left the reader in no doubt who the Sentinel Times had decided were at risk. The copy focused on the supposed hysteria gripping Bradfield’s gay community, complete with interior shots of cafes, bars and clubs that made the scene look seedy enough to pander to the readers’ prejudices.

‘Oh boy,’ Tony said. ‘You’re really going to hate this, Andy.’ He turned back to the editorial.

‘At last,’ he read, ’police have admitted what many of us have believed for some time. There is a serial killer on the loose in Bradfield, his target the young, single men who frequent the city’s sordid gay bars.

‘It’s a disgrace that the police have not warned the city’s homosexuals to be on their guard before now. In the twilight world of anonymous pick-ups and casual sex, it cannot be difficult for this predatory monster to find willing victims. The police’s silence can only have made it easier for the killer.

‘Their reluctance to speak out has probably increased the gay community’s existing suspicion of the police, making them fear that the authorities value the lives of gay men less than those of other members of the community.

‘Just as it took the murders of “innocent” women rather than prostitutes to make the police pay full attention to the Yorkshire Ripper, it is wrong that a police officer has had to be murdered before Bradfield Metropolitan Police takes this Queer Killer seriously.

‘In spite of this, we urge the gay community to cooperate fully with the police. And we demand that the police investigate these horrific killings diligently and with compassion for the concerns of Bradfield’s homosexuals. The sooner this vicious killer is caught, the safer we all will be.’

‘The usual mixture of self-righteousness, indignation and unrealistic demands,’ Tony said to the Devil’s Ivy on his windowsill. He clipped the articles and spread them across the desk. He switched on his micro-cassette recorder and spoke.

‘ Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times, February 27th. At last, Handy Andy has made the big time. I’m wondering how important that is to him. One of the tenets of profiling serial offenders is that they crave the oxygen of publicity. But this time, I’m not so sure he’s too bothered about that. There were no messages after the first two killings, neither of which received that much publicity after the initial discovery of the bodies. And although there was a message directing the police to the third body via a newspaper, that note made no claims about the earlier killings. I had puzzled over that until Inspector Carol Jordan offered an alternative explanation for the note and accompanying video, namely that without direction, the body may have lain undiscovered for some time. So, while Handy Andy may not be obsessive about creating headlines and panic, it’s clear he wants the bodies found while they are still recognizably his work.’ He switched off the cassette with a sigh. Although he’d turned his back on the academic circus years before, he couldn’t escape his training; every stage of the process had to be on record. The prospect of this investigation providing the raw material for articles or even a book was something Tony found hard to resist.

‘I’m a cannibal,’ he said to the plant. ‘Sometimes I disgust myself.’ He shovelled the clippings together and tucked them into his press-cuttings folder. He opened the boxes and took out the stacks of document wallets they contained. Carol had labelled them all neatly. Fluent capitals, Tony noted. A woman comfortable with the written word.

Each victim had a pathology report and a preliminary forensic report. The witness statements were divided into three groups: Background (victim), Witness (scene of crime) and Miscellaneous. Selecting the Background (victim) files, he walked his wheeled chair across to the table where his personal computer stood. When he’d arrived at Bradfield, the university had offered him a terminal linked into their network. He’d declined, not wanting to waste time learning a new set of protocols when he was perfectly at home with his own PC. Now, he was glad he didn’t have to add data security to the list of worries that kept him awake at nights.

Tony called up the customized software that would allow him to make comparisons between the victims, and started the long slog of inputting the data.

Five minutes in the Scargill Street station was enough to make Carol wish she’d gone straight home. To get to the office she’d been allocated for the duration of the investigation, she had to walk the length of the main squad room. Copies of the evening paper were strewn over half the desks, mocking her with their thick black headlines. Bob Stansfield was standing with a couple of DCs halfway down the room and he called to her as she passed. ‘The good doctor knocked off already, has he?’

‘From what I’ve seen of the good doctor, Bob, he could give some of our bosses a few lessons in working overtime,’ Carol said, wishing she could think of some sharper putdown. Doubtless it would come to her hours later in the shower. On the other hand, maybe it was as well she hadn’t come up with something too devastating. Better not alienate the lads any more than her assignment had already done. She stopped and smiled. ‘Anything new?’ she asked.

Stansfield detached himself from his juniors, saying, ‘Right, lads, get on with it.’ He moved over to Carol’s side and said, ‘Not as such. The HOLMES team are working flat out, smacking all we’ve got so far into the computer, see what correlations they can come up with. Cross has ordered us to pull in all the nonces again. He’s convinced one of them’s our best bet.’

Carol shook her head. ‘Waste of time.’

‘You said it. This bastard’s not got form, I’d put money on it. Kevin’s got a team going out tonight to try something a bit different, though,’ he added, taking out and lighting his last cigarette. He tossed the packet in a nearby bin, an expression of disgust on his face. ‘If we don’t get a fucking break soon, I’m going to have to put in for a raise to cover my bloody nicotine consumption.’

‘Me, I’m drinking so much coffee I’ve got a permanent case of the jitterbug boogies,’ Carol said ruefully. ‘So what’s this idea of Kevin’s?’ Gently does it. First the rapport, then the question. Funny how getting information out of colleagues followed the same rules as interrogating suspects.

‘He’s got an undercover team going out on the gay scene, concentrating on the clubs and pubs with a reputation for S amp;M.’ Stansfield snorted. ‘They’ve all been down Traffic this avvy, scrounging leather trousers off the bike boys.’

‘It’s worth a try,’ Carol said.

‘Yeah, well let’s hope Kevin’s not sending in a bunch of closet pansies like Damien Connolly turned out to be,’ Stansfield said. ‘Last thing we want is a bunch of CID fairies ending up wearing their own handcuffs.’

Carol refused to dignify the comment with a reply and moved off towards her office. She’d got her hand on the door when Cross’s voice boomed down the room. ‘Inspector Jordan? Get your body in here.’

Carol closed her eyes and counted to three. ‘Coming, sir,’ she said cheerfully, turning back and walking the length of the room to Cross’s temporary office. He’d only been in there a day, but already he’d marked it like a tomcat spraying his territory. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Half-drunk polystyrene cups of coffee strategically placed on window ledge and desk top had butts floating in them. There was even a girlie calendar on the wall, proof that sexism was alive and well and working in the advertising industry. Hadn’t they realized yet that it was the women who stood in the supermarkets deciding which brand of vodka to buy?

Leaving the door open in a bid for air, Carol walked into Cross’s office and said, ‘Sir?’

‘What’s Wonder Boy come up with then?’

‘It’s a bit early for conclusions, sir,’ she said brightly. ‘He’s got to read through all the reports I copied for him.’

Cross grunted. ‘Oh aye, I forgot he’s a bloody professor.’ He spat the word out sarcastically. ‘Everything in writing, eh? Kevin’s got some more stuff on the Connolly business; you’ll have to catch up with him. Was there anything else, Inspector?’ he asked belligerently, as if she were the one who had imposed herself on him.

‘Dr Hill has a suggestion, sir. About the burn marks on PC Connolly’s body. He wondered if there was anyone on the HOLMES team who could do statistical pattern analysis.’

‘What the bloody hell is statistical pattern analysis?’ Cross said, dumping the end of his cigarette into a coffee cup.

‘I think it means – ’

‘Never mind, never mind,’ Cross interrupted. ‘Go and see if anybody down there knows what the hell you’re on about.’

‘Yes, sir. Oh, and sir? If we can’t do it here, my brother works in computers. I’m sure he could do it for us.’

Cross stared at her, his expression unreadable for once. When he spoke, he was all affability. ‘Fine. Go ahead. Mr Brandon gave you carte blanche, after all.’

So that’s what a passing buck sounds like, Carol thought as she headed downstairs to the HOLMES room. A five-minute conversation with a harassed Inspector Dave Woolcott confirmed what she’d already suspected. The HOLMES team had neither the software nor the expertise to carry out the analysis Tony wanted. As Carol walked down to the canteen in search of Kevin Matthews, she hoped Michael could deliver in complete confidence. Keeping quiet about technological developments was very different from resisting the urge to gossip about a high-profile murder enquiry. If he let her down, she could kiss goodbye to a future outside Personnel.

Kevin was hunched alone over a cup of coffee, a plate with the remains of a fry-up next to him. Carol pulled out the chair opposite him. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Be my guest,’ Kevin said. He looked up and gave her the ghost of a grin, pushing his unruly ginger curls back from his forehead. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Probably a lot easier than it is for you and Bob.’

‘What’s this Home Office boffin like, then?’

Carol considered for a moment. ‘He’s cautious. He’s quick, he’s sharp, but he’s not a know-all, and he doesn’t seem to want to tell us how to do our job. It’s really interesting watching him work. He looks at things from a different perspective.’

‘How do you mean?’ Kevin asked, looking genuinely interested.

‘When we look at a crime, we look for physical clues, leads, things that point us to who we might want to talk to or where we might want to look. When he looks at a crime, he’s not interested in all that stuff. He wants to know why the physical clues happened the way they did so he can work out who did it. It’s as if we use information to move us forward and he uses it to move him backwards. Does that make sense?’

Kevin frowned. ‘I think so. You think he’s got what it takes?’

Carol shrugged. ‘It’s early days yet. But yeah, on first impressions, I’d say he’s got something to offer.’

Kevin grinned. ‘Something to offer the investigation or something to offer you?’

‘Piss off, Kevin,’ Carol said, tired of the innuendo that followed her round the job. ‘Unlike some, I never shit on my own doorstep.’

Kevin looked momentarily uneasy. ‘Only joking, Carol, honest.’

‘Jokes are supposed to be funny.’

‘OK, OK, sorry. What’s he like to work with, though? Nice bloke, or what?’

Carol spoke slowly, measuring her words. ‘Considering he spends his working life getting inside the minds of psychopaths, he seems pretty normal. There’s something quite… closed off about him. He keeps his distance. Doesn’t give much away. But he treats me like an equal, not like some thick plod. He’s on our side, Kevin, and that’s the main thing. I’d guess he’s one of those workaholics who’s more interested in getting the job done than anything else. And speaking of getting the job done, Popeye says you’ve turned something up on PC Connolly?’

Kevin sighed. ‘For what it’s worth. One of the neighbours came home from work at ten to six. She knows the time because the shipping forecast had just started on the car radio. Connolly was on his drive, closing the bonnet of his car. He had overalls on. The neighbour says he must have been working on the car, he was always at it. By the time the neighbour got out of her car and into the house, Damien was reversing his car into the garage. The same neighbour came out about an hour later on her way to a game of squash, and she noticed Connolly’s car parked on the street. She was a bit surprised, because he never left the car sitting out, especially after dark. She also noticed that the light was on in Connolly’s garage. And that’s about the size of it.’

‘Is it an integral garage?’ Carol asked.

‘No, but it’s attached to the house, and there’s a door from the garage leads into the kitchen.’

‘So it looks like he was snatched from the house?’

Kevin shrugged. ‘Who knows? There’s no sign of a struggle. I spoke to one of the SOCOs who turned the place over, and he said not to hold our breath.’

‘Sounds just like the first two.’

‘That’s what Bob says.’ Kevin pushed his chair back. ‘I better get weaving. We’re going out on the town tonight.’

‘I might bump into you later,’ Carol said. ‘Dr Hill wants a tour of the crime scenes at the sort of time when the bodies were dumped.’

Kevin got to his feet. ‘Just don’t let him talk to any strange men.’

Tony took the plastic container of lasagne out of the microwave and sat down at the breakfast bar in his kitchen. He’d input all the data that he could find on the four victims, then he’d transferred the files to a floppy disk so he could work on it at home while he waited for Carol to arrive. As soon as he’d reached the tram stop, he’d realized he was ravenous. Then he remembered he’d eaten nothing since his breakfast cereal. He’d been working with such concentration, he hadn’t even noticed. He found the hunger curiously satisfactory. It meant he was too involved in what he was doing to be conscious of himself. He knew from long experience that his best work came when he lost self-consciousness, when he could immerse himself in the patterns of another human being, locked into that other’s idiosyncratic logic, in tune with a different set of emotions.

He attacked the food with gusto, shovelling it down as quickly as possible so he could get to his computer and carry on with his victim profiles. There were still a couple of forkfuls left in the dish when the phone rang. With no pause for thought, Tony snatched up the phone. ‘Hello?’ he said cheerfully.

‘Anthony,’ the voice said. Tony dropped the fork, tipping the pasta out on the worktop.

‘Angelica,’ he said. He was back in his own world, anchored within his own head at the sound of her voice.

‘Feeling more sociable today?’ the sweet huskiness asked.

‘I wasn’t feeling anti-social yesterday. I just had things to do I couldn’t ignore. And you distract me,’ Tony said, wondering why he bothered to justify himself to her.

‘That’s the general plan,’ she said. ‘But I missed you, Anthony. I was so horny for you, and when you discarded me like an old sock, all my pleasure in the day was over.’

‘Why do you do this with me?’ he demanded. It was a question he’d asked before, but she had always deflected him.

‘Because you deserve me,’ the voice said. ‘Because I want you more than anyone in the world. And because you don’t have anyone else in your life to make you happy.’

It was the same old story. Cut off the question with some flannel. But tonight, Tony wanted answers, not flattery. ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.

The voice chuckled softly. ‘I know more about you than you can possibly dream. Anthony, you don’t have to be alone any more.’

‘What if I like being alone? Isn’t it fair to assume that I’m alone because I want to be?’

‘You don’t look like a happy boy to me. Some days, you look like you need a hug more than anything in the world. Some days, you look like you haven’t slept for more than a couple of hours. Anthony, I can bring you peace. Women have hurt you before, we both know that. But I won’t. I can stop it hurting. I can make you sleep like a baby, you know that. All I want is to make you happy.’ The voice was soothing, gentle.

Tony sighed. If only… ‘I find that hard to believe,’ he stalled. Right from the start of these conversations, part of him had wanted to slam the phone down on this exquisite torture. But the scientist in him wanted to hear what she had to say. And the damaged man inside had enough self-awareness to know he needed to be cured, and that this might just be the way. He reminded himself of his earlier resolve not to let her get under his skin, so that when the time came, he could walk away without pain.

‘But you let me try.’ The voice was so self-assured. She was confident of her power over him.

‘I listen, don’t I? I join in. I haven’t put the phone down yet,’ he said, forcing artificial warmth into his voice.

‘Why don’t you do just that? Why don’t you put down this phone and go upstairs to your bedroom and pick up the extension there? So we can be comfortable?’

A cold stab of fear hit Tony in the chest. He struggled to frame the question professionally. Not, ‘How do you know that?’, but, ‘What makes you think I’ve got a phone in the bedroom?’

There was a pause, so brief that Tony couldn’t be certain he wasn’t imagining it. ‘Just guessing,’ she said. ‘I’ve got you sussed. You’re the kind of man who has a phone by the bed.’

‘Well guessed,’ Tony said. ‘OK. I’m going to put the phone down and I’ll pick up in the bedroom.’ He replaced the receiver and hurried through to his study, where he switched the answering machine over to ‘record’ mode. Then he picked up the phone again. ‘Hello? I’m back,’ he said.

‘Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’ Again that low, sexy chuckle. ‘We are going to have some real fun tonight. Wait till you hear what I’ve got lined up for you tonight. Oh, Anthony,’ she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. ‘I’ve been dreaming about you. Imagining your hands on my body, running your fingers over my skin.’

‘What are you wearing?’ Tony asked. It was, he knew, the standard question.

‘What would you like me to be wearing? I have an extensive wardrobe.’

Tony bit back the crazy urge to say, ‘Fishermen’s waders, a tutu and a rainmate.’ He swallowed hard and said, ‘Silk. You know how I like the feel of silk.’

‘That’s why you love my skin. I take a lot of trouble to keep myself in perfect condition. But just for you, I’ve covered some of my skin with silk. I’m wearing a pair of black silk French knickers and a sheer black silk camisole. Oh, I love the feeling of silk against my body. Oh, Anthony,’ she groaned. ‘The silk’s rubbing against my nipples, gently, like your fingers would. Oh, my nipples are hard as rocks, sticking up, inflamed with you.’

In spite of himself, Tony began to feel the stirrings of interest. She was good, no two ways about it. Most of the women he’d heard on the chatlines had sounded stale and bored, their responses predictable and stereotypical. Nothing in their conversations had aroused anything other than scientific interest in him. But Angelica was different. For one thing, she sounded like she meant it.

She moaned softly. ‘God, I’m wet,’ she breathed. ‘But you can’t touch me yet, you’ve got to wait. Just lie back, that’s a good boy. Oh, I love to undress you. I’ve got my hands under your shirt, my fingers are running over your chest, stroking you, touching you, feeling your nipples under my fingers. God, you’re wonderful,’ she sighed.

‘That’s nice,’ Tony said, enjoying the caress of her voice.

‘That’s just the beginning. Now I’m straddling you, unbuttoning your shirt. I’m leaning over you, my nipples inside the silk brushing against your chest. Oh, Anthony!’ her voice exclaimed in pleasure. ‘You really are pleased to see me, aren’t you? You’re hard as a rock underneath me. Oh, I can’t wait to get you inside me.’

Her words froze Tony. The erection he’d felt hardening inside his trousers died like a snowflake in a puddle. They were there again. ‘I think I’m going to disappoint you,’ he said, his voice cracking.

That sexy chuckle again. ‘No way. You’re already more than I dreamed. Oh, Anthony, touch me. Tell me what you want to do to me.’

Tony could find no words.

‘Don’t be shy, Anthony. There are no secrets between us, nowhere we can’t go. Close your eyes, let the feelings flow. Touch my breasts, go on, suck my nipples, eat me, let me feel your hot wet mouth all over me.’

Tony groaned. This was almost more than he could bear, even in the interests of science.

Angelica’s voice was more breathy now, as if her words were arousing her as much as they should have been arousing him. ‘That’s right, oh God, Anthony, that’s wonderful. Oh-oh-oh,’ she said in a shuddering moan. ‘See, I told you I was wet. That’s right, plunge your fingers deep into my cunt. Oh God, you’re the best… Let me… let me, oh God, let me get at you.’

Tony heard the sound of a zipper down the phone line. ‘Angelica…’ he started to say. It was falling apart again, just as it always did, spiralling out of control like a wounded bird.

‘Oh, Anthony, you’re beautiful. That’s the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. Oh, let me taste you…’ Her voice tailed off with the sound of sucking.

The blood rushed to Tony’s face in a sudden wave of shame and anger. He slammed the phone down and immediately took it off the hook again. Jesus, what kind of a man couldn’t even get it up over the phone? And what kind of scientist couldn’t divorce his own pathetic failings from the exercise of objective data collection?

The worst of it was, he recognized his own behaviour. How many times had he sat across the table from a multiple rapist, arsonist or killer and watched them reach the point in their reliving of events where they could no longer face themselves. Just like him, they closed down. They couldn’t disconnect a phone, but they closed down just the same. Eventually, of course, with the right therapy, they breached the walls and managed to confront what had brought them there. That was the first step towards recovery. Part of Tony prayed that Angelica knew enough about the theory and practice of psychology to stick with him till he too could break down the barriers and stare into the face of whatever it was that had bred this sexual and emotional cripple.

But the other part of him hoped she’d never call again. Never mind ‘no pain, no gain’. He just wanted no pain.

John Brandon scrupulously wiped his plate with the last piece of nan bread and smiled at his wife. ‘That was great, Maggie,’ he said.

‘Mmm,’ his son Andy agreed through a mouthful of lamb and aubergine curry.

Brandon shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll pop back down to Scargill Street for an hour. Just to see how things are going.’

‘I thought ranking officers like you didn’t have to work evenings,’ Maggie said good-humouredly. ‘I thought you said the troops didn’t need you breathing down their necks?’

Brandon looked sheepish. ‘I know. But I just want to see how the lads are going on.’

Maggie shook her head, a resigned smile on her face. ‘I’d rather you went down and got it out of your system than you sat all night fidgeting in front of the telly.’

Karen perked up. ‘Dad, if you’re going back into town, can you drop me at Laura’s? So we can work on our history project?’

Andy snorted. ‘Work on how you’re going to get off with Craig McDonald, more like.’

‘You know nothing,’ Karen huffed. ‘Will you, Dad?’

Brandon got up from the table. ‘Only if you’re ready now. And I’ll pick you up on my way back.’

‘Oh, Dad,’ Karen complained. ‘You said you were only going to be gone an hour. That’s not nearly long enough for us to do all we want to.’

It was Maggie Brandon’s turn to snort with laughter. ‘If your father’s back before half past nine, I’ll make Scotch pancakes for supper.’

Karen looked at each parent in turn, the anguish of choice written on her fourteen-year-old face. ‘Dad?’ she said. ‘Can you pick me up by nine o’clock?’

Brandon grinned. ‘Why do I feel like I’ve been stitched up?’

It was just after half past seven when Brandon arrived in the HOLMES room. Even that late, every terminal was occupied. The sound of fingers hitting keyboards clicked away under the quiet conversations taking place at a few of the desks. Inspector Dave Woolcott sat beside one of the collators, who was pointing out some detail on the screen. No one looked up when Brandon entered.

He walked over behind Woolcott and waited till he had finished talking to the constable on the terminal. Brandon suppressed a sigh. It was definitely time he started thinking about retirement. It wasn’t just the bobbies that looked young to him now; even the inspectors didn’t look old enough to be out of probationer’s cap bands. ‘Keep trying for a match, Harry, cross-ref with the CROs,’ he heard Woolcott say. The lad on the keyboard nodded and stared into his screen.

‘’Evening, Dave,’ Brandon said.

Woolcott swung round in his chair. Registering who the newcomer was, he got to his feet. ‘’Evening, sir.’

‘I was on my way home, and I thought I’d swing by and see how you were doing,’ Brandon lied smoothly.

‘Well, sir, it’s early days. We’ll have teams working round the clock for the next couple of days, feeding in all the statement details from the earlier cases as well as PC Connolly’s. I’m also liaising with the team manning the hot-line phones. Most of it’s the usual spite, vengeance and paranoia, but Sergeant Lascelles is doing a good job of prioritizing the messages.’

‘Anything coming out yet?’

Woolcott rubbed his bald spot in the reflex gesture which his second wife claimed had caused the problem in the first place. ‘Bits and pieces. We’ve got a few names of blokes who were out and about in Temple Fields on at least two of the nights in question, and those are being actioned. We’ve also been hammering the PNC with car index numbers that have shown up regularly around the times of the killings. Luckily, ever since the second killing, Inspector Jordan’s had somebody clocking car numbers round the gay village. It’s a long job, sir, but we’ll get there.’

If he’s in there, Brandon thought. It was he who had been adamant that this was a case for the HOLMES team. But this killer was unlike any he’d seen or read about. This killer was careful.

Brandon didn’t know much about computers. But one adage had stuck: garbage in, garbage out. He hoped fervently that he hadn’t given his men a job that should have gone to the Cleansing Department.

Carol’s eyes snapped open, heart pounding. In her dream, a heavy cell door had slammed shut, leaving her a prisoner of cold, sweating windowless walls. Still groggy from sleep, it took her a moment to realize that the familiar weight of Nelson’s body wasn’t lying across her feet. She heard footsteps, the rattle of keys being thrown on a table. A narrow sliver of light spilled through the few inches of open door Nelson required for his comings and goings. She rolled over with a groan and grabbed the clock. Ten past ten. Robbed of twenty minutes’ precious sleep by Michael’s noisy return.

Carol stumbled out of bed and pulled on her heavy towelling bathrobe. She opened her bedroom door and walked into the enormous room that made up most of the third-floor flat she shared with her brother. Half a dozen floor-mounted up-lights of different heights cast a warm and elegant glow on the room. Nelson appeared from the kitchen doorway, bouncing lightly on the stripped-wood flooring. Then he crouched and, in a leap that seemed to defy gravity, bounded into the air, touching briefly on a tall thin speaker before landing delicately on top of a blond wood bookcase. From there, he stared superciliously across the room at Carol, as if to say, ‘I bet you can’t do that.’

The room was about forty feet by twenty-five. At one end, a group of three two-seater sofas covered with quilted throws surrounded a low coffee table. At the opposite end stood a dining table with six chairs in the style of Rennie Mackintosh. Near the sofas was a TV and video on a black trolley. About half of the back wall was occupied by shelves crammed with books, videos and CDs.

The walls were painted a cool dove-grey, except for the far wall, which was exposed brickwork, with five high arched windows looking out over the city. Carol walked across the room till she could just see the edge of the black ribbon of the Duke of Waterford canal below. The city lights glittered like a cheap jeweller’s window. ‘Michael?’ she called.

Her brother stuck his head out of the narrow galley kitchen, looking surprised. ‘I didn’t realize you were home,’ he said. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘I was getting up soon anyway. I’ve got to go back to work. I was just grabbing a few hours,’ she said resignedly. ‘Is the kettle on?’ She walked across to the kitchen and perched on a high stool while Michael made tea and carried on building himself a sandwich with ciabatta, beef tomatoes, black olives, spring onions and tuna.

‘Eat?’ he asked.

‘I could handle one of those,’ Carol admitted. ‘How was London?’

Michael shrugged. ‘You know. They like what we’re doing, but could we have it finished yesterday.’

Carol pulled a face. ‘Sounds just like the Sentinel Times ’s editorials about the serial killer. What exactly is it you’re doing at the moment anyway? Is it explainable in words of one syllable to a techno-illiterate?’

Michael grinned. ‘The next big thing is going to be computer adventure games with the same quality as videos. You film real stuff and digitize it and manipulate it to produce gameplay that’s as real as a movie. So we’re on to the next, next big thing. Imagine you’re playing a computer adventure, but all the characters are people you know. You’re the hero, but not just in your imagination.’

‘You’ve lost me now,’ Carol said.

‘OK. When you install the game on your computer, you’ll plug in a scanner and scan photographs of yourself and anybody else you want in your game. The computer reads that information, and translates it into screen images. So instead of Conan the Barbarian leading the quest, it’s Carol Jordan. You can import pics of your best friends or your lust objects to be your companions in the game. Anybody you don’t like, you turn into the baddies. So, you could have an adventure with Mel Gibson, Dennis Quaid and Martin Amis, and fight enemies like Saddam Hussein, Margaret Thatcher and Popeye,’ Michael explained enthusiastically as he stuffed the ingredients into the bread. He dumped the sandwiches on plates and together they walked back into the living room and sat staring out over the canal as they ate.

‘Clear?’ he asked.

‘As it needs to be,’ Carol said. ‘So once you’ve got this software up and running, presumably you could use it to put people in compromising positions? Like blue movies?’

Michael frowned. ‘Theoretically. Your average computer nerd wouldn’t even know where to begin. You’d need to know what you were doing and you’d also need seriously expensive hardware to get decent quality stills or videos off your computer.’

‘Thank God for that,’ Carol said, with feeling. ‘I was beginning to think you were creating a Frankenstein’s monster for blackmailers and tabloid journalists.’

‘No chance,’ he said. ‘Anyway, close analysis would show it up. So what about you? How’s your quest coming along?’

Carol shrugged. ‘I could do with a few superheroes to help out, to be honest.’

‘What’s this profiler like? He going to shake things up a bit?’

‘Tony Hill? He already has. Popeye’s going around with a face like a melted wellie. But I’m hopeful we might get something constructive out of him. I’ve had one session with him already, and he’s bursting with ideas. He’s a nice guy as well, no hassle to work with.’

Michael grinned. ‘That must be a refreshing change.’

‘You’re not kidding.’

‘And is he your type?’

Carol pulled a piece of crust off her bread and threw it at Michael. ‘God, you’re as bad as the sexist pigs I work with. I haven’t got a type, and even if I did and Tony Hill was it, you know I won’t mix work with pleasure.’

‘Given the fact that you work all hours and spend all your spare time asleep, I guess you’re looking at a lifetime of celibacy,’ Michael replied drily. ‘So is he gorgeous, or what?’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Carol said stiffly. ‘And I doubt whether he’s even noticed I’m female. The man’s a workaholic. In fact, he’s the reason I’m working again tonight. He wants to see the scenes of crime at around the time the bodies were dumped so he can get a feel for it.’

‘Shame you’ve got to go out again,’ Michael said. ‘It’s ages since we’ve had a night in with the telly and a few bottles of wine. We see so little of each other just now, we might as well be married.’

Carol smiled ruefully. ‘The price of success, eh, bro?’

‘I guess so.’ Michael got up. ‘Oh well, if you’re going to work, I might as well do a couple of hours before I sack out.’

‘Before you go… I need a favour.’

Michael sat down again. ‘As long as it doesn’t involve doing your ironing.’

‘What do you know about statistical pattern analysis?’

Michael frowned. ‘Not a lot. I did a little bit when I was doing part-time jobbing work while I was doing my PhD, but I don’t know what’s state of the art right now. Why? You want something looking at?’

Carol nodded. ‘It’s a bit grisly, I’m afraid.’ She outlined the sadistic injuries to Damien Connolly. ‘Tony Hill has an idea they might yield some kind of a message.’

‘Sure, I’ll have a look for you. I know a bloke who’s almost certainly got the latest software in the field. I’m sure he’d let me have some time on his machine to fiddle about with this,’ Michael said.

‘Not a word to anybody what it’s about,’ Carol said.

Michael looked offended. ‘Of course not. What do you take me for? Listen, I’d rather get on the wrong side of a serial killer than you. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just get the stuff to me tomorrow, and I’ll do my best, OK?’

Carol leaned over and rumpled her brother’s blond hair. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

Michael grabbed her in a quick hug. ‘This is seriously weird territory, little sis. Be careful out there, huh? You know I can’t afford the mortgage on this place alone.’

‘I’m always careful,’ Carol said, ignoring the small voice inside her warning not to tempt fate. ‘I’m a survivor.’