When Push Comes To Shove

by Steve Benson

Before GTYH (and fatherhood) started to eat all my time, I spent five years or so writing this novel. It's not directly related to GTYH, but it doesn't take a genius to spot some similarities in the sentiments expressed in the story to that embodied in some of the questions. Anyway, the novel got rejected by the handful of publishers and agents I sent it to, so here it is for you to download and read.
   It's (meant to be) a psychological thriller, following the hunt for a serial killer in present day London. Give it a go. If you like it read on, if not don't bother.
   KingTw@gun-to-your-head.com

CHAPTER 1.

ANOTHER GREY DAY

Sun.. so warm. God that feels good.
   Susan Howell slept on, oblivious to the waking world, dreaming of her holidays. In her dreams she lay on an anonymous foreign beach, alongside her friends from work. The sun beat down on her chest, warming her to her very core. She chatted absentmindedly with her work mates, conversations which they'd had a thousand times before; boyfriends, night-clubs, sex. Safe subjects, holding no surprises, topics which merely reaffirmed their consensus, their alikeness, which was after all the basis on which their relationship was built. Susan felt secure and happy; two emotions which were at a premium in her waking state. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look over to where her friends lay, only to find that they had miraculously transformed into her parents, but such is the nature of dreams that she barely registered any difference.
   Noise.. music.. what ??
   All at once the beach was swamped in unbearably loud music. Dramatically the mood of the dream changed. She looked to see where it was coming from, but could see nothing. With alarm she realised that it was coming from inside her head. Now she was not enjoying this dream at all.
   At the sudden realisation that the noise was originating from her clock radio, her dream logic collapsed like a house of cards and she woke herself up with a start to find the offending device blaring away beside her.
   'Shit!'
   Twenty past seven already, she'd have to rush.
   She dressed hurriedly, picking her clothes from her wardrobe with practised ease. She didn't possess a great many outfits, but all her blouses and skirts were interchangeable, so that she could pride herself in never wearing the same combination over a two week period. Unfortunately, all her clothes were so alike that nobody was ever likely to notice this achievement.
   Susan's bedroom was small and cluttered. Posters of her favourite pop stars lined the walls, whilst small infantile knick-knacks stood on every available surface. Nowhere in the room was there any indication that it's inhabitant had successfully negotiated puberty. In one corner, yesterdays clothes lay in a heap where they had been thrown the night before. She didn't bother to tidy them, she knew her mother was only too ready to do it for her.
   After dressing, she attended to her make up. Here she slowed herself, for the mask she presented to the world was of utmost importance. Metamorphosis complete, her general appearance was what certain older, more indiscreet members of the judiciary might describe as provocative. Cheap, attractive but unremarkable.
   She came downstairs to find her mother waiting with her breakfast. Upstairs, her father slept on. After almost half a century working on the railways, he deserved to sleep in now he was retired. His wife expected no such luxury in her old age.
   Susan gulped down a coffee and a slice of toast and exchanged a few cursory remarks with her mother before pecking her on the cheek and rushing off to work. She left the small 1930's terraced house and set off at a brisk pace down the road towards the local train station. The 'tap, tap' of her three inch heels rang out in front of her, as she slipped into the stream of fellow commuters trooping down the road in regimented automation. Their faces were vaguely familiar but she knew nothing about them, had never once exchanged more than a few curt words with any of them, and had no real inclination to change this state of affairs.
   She entered the station and took up her usual position at the front of platform three, just as the train came into view.
   Perfect timing. The locomotive glided elegantly down the platform towards her. At the moment of its passing she leant away from the platform edge, as a defence both against her childish fear of being pushed under, and an irrational desire to throw herself in front of the brutal steel wheels. Susan didn't know why she felt so vulnerable at that precise moment of the train's passing. She thought it was somehow connected to the feeling she got when on a high bridge; not a fear of falling, more a fear of losing control and jumping. Either way, such thoughts were disturbing and best not dwelt on.
   The hydraulic doors slid open with a hiss and the waiting passengers surged towards them, pushing and shoving to allow themselves to board the train a split second sooner than their position in the queue decreed. That split second that could make all the difference between getting a seat and being squashed up in the doorway, forced to endure the stale smell of someone else's body odours for the forty minute journey to Waterloo.
   No such worries for Susan, she was good at this game. She used her feminine gall to full advantage, ruthlessly squeezing past men and less selfish passengers. She invariably got a seat and today was no exception. Once inside she plucked the dog eared copy of last months 'Hello' magazine from her handbag and buried her head inside it, gazing vacantly at the pages, not reading, just avoiding the ever threatening eye contact, allowing her thoughts to drift aimlessly.
   The trains had been her fathers' life. From a small boy avidly collecting their meaningless numbers, to a grown man walking the lines, tending the points and signals. It was one of the two genuine loves of his life. Unfortunately such love is not genetic in nature and Susan shared none of it. Trains for her were simply uncomfortable modes of transport to be endured twice daily.
   Time passed unmarked, her mind only re-focusing as the train arrived at Waterloo Station. The doors slid open, spilling the eager passengers out onto the platform like fish from an overfilled trawler net. Susan was carried along by this tide of humanity, through the ticket barrier and down into the Underground. A tube-train quickly arrived and she fought her way on to it, squeezing improbably into a carriage already packed to breaking point, as her fellow passengers glared at her for her impudence.
   If the trains were bad, the tube was much worse. Invariably overcrowded; boarding late on the line, Susan always had to stand. Squashed into a doorway, she automatically defocused her perceptions, so as not to notice the unnerving invasion of her personal space from all directions. Without a ready handhold within her reach, she concentrated on shifting her weight from foot to foot to maintain her balance within the pitching carriage. The journey passed in a desensitised blur. After four stops she forced her way out, through the hot, resentful bodies, and onto the platform.
   Once she was out of the carriage she felt the familiar surge of relief, as she allowed her senses to function normally, and then anger at having to put up with such an ordeal every working day of her life. The sooner marriage and childbirth brought that working life to an end the better. She joined the scrummage to exit the decrepit platform, rode the escalator flanked by familiar advertisements, passed through the ticket barrier and emerged blinking into the outside world.
   The day was overcast and it was drizzling. Susan raised her umbrella and hurried the three hundred or so yards to the offices where she worked. Her friends, who didn't have as far to travel, were already at their desks in the typing pool. She took off her coat, bought a cup of coffee from the vending machine and joined them.
   She slipped easily into the routine of her working day. The work was uninteresting and barely taxing. The company employed her for her skills at translating the written word into type.
   She performed a mechanical function for which intelligence was not required and could be a distinct disadvantage.
   'Hello Sue, how yer doing.. alright ?'
   'Oh.. you know. Can't complain.'
   'Get up to anything much last night then ?'
   'Nah, I just had a quiet night in. Watching T.V. and that.'
   'Anything good on ?'
   'Nah, just your usual rubbish. What about you. Get up to much ?'
   'Yeah, well Shirl' and me, we went up west, clubbing it.'
   'Any good ?'
   'Yeah brilliant. We had a great night. We went down Apollo's. Packed out it was. We met this bloke from Eastenders there.'
   'Oh yeah, which one ?'
   'You know, the one who owns the pub; Grant Mitchell.'
   'I know the one, he's quite dishy.'
   'Yeah I fancy him myself. Funny though in the flesh he looks dead different. I hardly recognised him.'
   Susan and her colleagues typed away, chatting merrily. Although it would be difficult for any of them to say that they enjoyed their work, all of them would say that they loved their jobs. For Susan, like most of them, this was her first job after leaving school and unhappy memories of her educational experience were still fresh in her mind. Against these memories, this job, which provided money, friends and a sense of worth, compared very favourably indeed.

+ + + + + +

Jonathon Cooper entered the cold metallic building and flashed his identification card at the uninterested security guard. He took the lift to the third floor, avoiding his reflection in the mirrored back wall as he rode. The lift shuddered to a stop. He exited, and trudged tiredly to his desk, exchanging a few spiritless hellos with colleagues who had already arrived.
   Jon yawned languidly as he switched on his computer terminal. It had been another sleepless night. It was almost two weeks since Sally had left; two weeks of restless nights and depressingly empty days. He logged on to his terminal, automatically tapping in his password, wincing as he noticed what it was; 'SALLY.' He made a mental note to change it, the same mental note he had made many times over the past few days, but had always somehow managed to conveniently forget.
   His hands moved over the keys with routine skill, keying in commands before the computer asked for them, as he checked the system to see if it had run correctly the previous evening. As he worked, most of his colleagues stood around, chatting, drinking coffee and reading papers; wasting as much time as possible before they were forced to get down to some work. For them computing was just a job; it paid well, but they devoted no more effort to it than was absolutely necessary.
   For Jon, computer's were much more important than that. They were the closest he had come to finding a medium for self expression. Understanding them came easily to him, their bald logic suiting the linear certainties of his mind. Though understanding came easily he did not rest on his laurels. He pushed himself hard. He was keen to get on. Ambitious. The efficiency of the system an internalised goal, a source of pride and anxiety.
   In times past, he had despised his colleagues for their attitudes and incompetence, but recently such things didn't seem important. Since his wife left him Jon moved in an emotional void. He had retreated into an unfeeling shell, a place where nothing more could hurt him, where he could lick his wounds. Life at the moment for him was like walking under water where every action was slow, laboured and deliberate. Surrounding objects were indistinct, their outlines blurred, totally lacking their customary definition.
   Jon satisfied himself that all was as it should be and moved instantly on to the second task in his daily routine, reading and dealing with any E-mail that had arrived since the previous evening.

+ + + + + +

The underground train thundered through the tunnel with Stanley Rushton at the controls. As the track straightened to enter the station, Stanley saw the bright lights of the approaching platform and felt the familiar knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He quickly scanned the faces of the passengers standing on the near end of the platform, fixing on their eyes, looking for that glimmer of desperation that would tell him they were going to throw themselves in front of his train.
   The train rushed into the station. None of the passengers made any sudden moves and Stan heaved a sigh of relief as he applied the brakes to decelerate the train. He knew from experience that if anyone was going to jump, they usually stood at the front end of the platform as this was the only point where the train was travelling fast enough to finish them quickly. .
   Stanley, like Susan's father - like so many young boys in simpler times, when train driving was still considered a profession to be admired - loved the railways. Fascinated by the elegance and power of these monuments to man's ingenuity, all Stanley had ever wanted was to be an engine driver, travelling the country at the controls of his mechanical steed. Unfortunately, British Rail's recruitment policy had taken no account of such boyhood dreams and his application was rejected, with no explanation as to his unsuitability. In desperation he had applied to London Underground, to drive one of their trains, and this was what he had been doing for the past twenty six years.
   He hated his job. He hated the bleak, claustrophobic tunnels, the unsmiling rat like passengers and the unending tedium of endless journeys through the same featureless landscape. But most of all he hated the 'One unders.' He had driven the trains for five years before he'd seen his first suicide.
   Mary Stewart, thirty five year old unmarried mother of three from East Ham. He had noticed her as soon as the platform had swung into view, had known instinctively what she was about to do. Sat in the front of a huge metal bullet travelling at sixty miles an hour, he was a powerless spectator with the best seats in the house. As the adrenaline surge kicked into his bloodstream, slowing everything down, he had watched with macabre fascination as she had launched herself into space.
   She hit the tracks a moment before the train ploughed through her, transforming her from a warm, healthy human being, into several badly butchered, twitching joints of meat.
    In the twenty years since Mary Stewart, there had been two others. Each one was somehow worse than the previous one, each one somehow more horrific, more personal. When Stanley looked at the faces of his loved ones, he saw the bodies of those his train had dismembered. The same tortured bodies populated his dreams. After twelve years of marriage, his wife could stand it no longer and left him. They had not had sex for fourteen months, he was impotent.
   The buzzer sounded, as the guard signalled everybody had boarded the train. Stanley picked up the throttle and the train accelerated into the all enveloping dark of the next tunnel.

+ + + + + +

Mid-way through the morning, Jon's Project Manager interrupted him.
   'Hello Jon, everything alright ?'
    'Yes, thanks Charles.'
   Jon didn't look up from his work. He wished Charles would get to the point. Interpersonal skills were not Charles' strong suit. He usually only engaged his staff in conversation if there was something in it for him.
    'Well I was just wondering if you could spare me ten minutes after lunch, for a quick word.'
    There it was, Jon wondered what it was all about
    'Yeah sure, two o'clock in your office OK.? Anything in particular you want to see me about ?'
    'Two o' clock in my office.'
   Mission accomplished Charles scuttled quickly back to the security of his office, leaving Jon to return to his work.

+ + + + + +

Chris lay still amongst the bracken. Though his heart raced he struggled desperately to control his breathing, lest his pursuers hear him and all was lost. As the enemy drew nearer he gripped his gun tightly, drawing comfort from the power it represented. If they found him at least he'd take a few of them with him.
   They were almost upon him, three of them, all dressed in similar combat gear to his own, armed with similar weapons to his. Three men whose only significant difference with him was that they fought on different arbitrarily decided sides. If chance had decreed it, they could have been comrades, but instead they were hunting Chris and if they found him they would shoot him without a second thought.
   They were right on top of him now, beating the undergrowth with sticks to try and flush him out. He held his breath, but his heart beat so loudly he was sure it would give him away. Impossibly long pregnant moments passed and then incredibly, they were passed, they had missed him.
   After about five minutes, when Chris was sure they had gone, he rose cautiously to his feet, cocked his weapon and set off after them. He quickly caught up with his pursuers. They were still searching the undergrowth for him, confident that they had him in their clutches. He lowered himself into a crouch and crept swiftly towards them. None of them looked back, they were so intent on their task and confident in their own security.
   Unobserved, He moved to within twelve feet of them. Silently he rose to his feet and in one movement raised his gun and aimed at the back of the anonymous head of the left most man. Without a moments hesitation Chris squeezed the trigger sending his chosen victim lurching forward in a spray of crimson.
   Startled, the two others span round. Chris despatched the nearest with a shot into his masked face. The third was quicker, he had dived off to the right rolling towards some cover. Chris fired at him, but missed. The man rolled to his feet with his weapon at the ready. He fired wildly towards Chris at the same instant as Chris sent him sprawling backwards with a shot to the chest. It was over. He had won.
   With the battle lust filling his head, Chris was elated. For a rare, precious instant he felt truly alive, distanced from the complications of everyday existence. Such elation is transient in nature, but on this occasion it lasted even shorter than normal. He became aware of a wet sensation on his leg and with a stomach lurching jolt of disappointment looked down to see the tell tale red dye of the enemy's paint pellet. He was dead, his game was over. He raised his ski mask and strolled over to where his 'victims' were helping each other to their feet.
   'You should have seen your fucking faces. I caught you cold.'
   'Where the fuck did you come from?'
   'I was hiding in the bracken about fifty yards back there. You walked straight past me.'
   'Christ, I told you we were going too fast.'
   'Fuck off.'
    'Actually I did smell something back there, but just thought it was a dead cat, or a turd or something.'
   'The only thing I can smell is you tossers. When I appeared you all shat yourselves.'
   'Maybe, but from the look of your trousers, rag week's arrived.'
   They all laughed a little too deeply, a little too long and continued to chat boisterously about their brave exploits as they headed back to the central gathering area to get a cup of tea before the next game began.
   Most of Chris's friends from the pub were already at the gathering point. As he emerged from the undergrowth he was greeted with roars of derision, as he knew he would be.
   'Look who it isn't, P.C. Plod.'
   'What's up Chris, had a little accident ?'

Chris smiled weakly, just because he was a detective and trained to use a gun, he was expected to win every battle single handed. In fact his mates didn't really expect him to win every battle single handedly and were quite gratified when he didn't, it was just an excuse to take the mickey out of him. In Chris's social circles only the smallest of excuses was ever required.
    Chris and his cronies were here on a day out organised by their local pub. Chris was single and spent most of his evenings in 'The Nags Head' with his friends. They had known each other since school, but their shared history was almost all that they had in common. Their occupations ranged from carpenter to banker.
   Chris himself had been in the police force for four years. He joined straight after leaving University and now worked for the CID in New Scotland Yard. One of the reasons why he sought the company of his old school mates was that they did not pry into what he did. All anyone new he met seemed able to talk about was his job.
   To them he was a detective first and foremost and they didn't seem able to see beyond that. His friends could remember him as a spotty faced teenager and found it difficult to take him seriously as a hunter of criminals. They never talked about each others jobs so why should they talk about Chris'?
   Their friendship was rooted in their school years and so it was not surprising that they tended to regress to adolescent levels of maturity and personality when they were together. Thus, their main shared interests were drinking, womanising and talking about drinking and womanising, although the talk bore little relation to the actuality.
   Chris and his friends talked on, exchanging incredible tales of personal heroism. Elsewhere the battle raged. Combatants drifted back to the gathering point in dribs and drabs, all bearing the tell-tale red dye marks of defeat. Eventually it was announced to a completely apathetic audience that one team had won. The 'dead', now resurrected, wiped themselves clean of any remaining dye and prepared to re-enter the woods and resume battle.

+ + + + + +

Forty five miles away in New Scotland Yard Chris was in someone's thoughts. Elaine Heaton sat at her wordprocessor typing up the notes of their last case. Elaine was Chris's partner and immediate superior. Now entrenched in the tedium of the endless paperwork that each investigation entailed, she wished Chris was here to do it in her place. In normal circumstances Elaine would make huge efforts to be fair to her subordinates, sharing out the workload evenly, but such was her relationship with Chris that she made an exception in his case and allowed herself the rare luxury of being deliberately shitty towards him.
   Chris interpreted Elaine's behaviour as playing hard to get, indicating that she was sexually attracted to him. There again, Chris assumed that almost every female he met was similarly affected. In this he was displaying the not uncommon trait of assuming false consensus, assuming his opinions were the norm. Just because he fancied himself, he thought everyone else did too. With Elaine he couldn't be further from the truth.
   In the two years she had known him, Chris's ability to irritate her had grown inexorably, winding like a python around her tolerance. She was repeatedly frustrated by the stumbling mediocrity she experienced in his work and embarrassed by his crass insensitivity manifested in his socially gauche behaviour, but most of all she despised the inherent chauvinism in his presumptions of superiority and barely suppressed rejection of her authority.
   Chris himself would admit that he acted in an outwardly thoughtless manner, but would claim that he wasn't really like that, his behaviour was really tongue-in-cheek, a sort of endearing parody of loutishness, and that underneath he was a warm caring individual.
   Such an explanation of his behaviour did not cut much ice with Elaine. She considered the question of whether Chris's intrinsic motivations were different from his overt actions as completely irrelevant.
   One could only judge someone on their behaviour, as Chris himself was only too ready to do when judging the behaviour of others. If someone chooses to act in a loutish manner for ninety five percent of the time then it is only fair to condemn them for being exactly what they seem, and ignore any bleatings of misunderstood motives.
   The case Elaine was documenting was fairly representative of the work that she had got to do. In a word; routine. They were investigating the murder of a down and out. Three weeks of leg work later they were no nearer finding the culprit than when they had started. Elaine's guess was that it was a random killing, the murderer and the victim complete strangers to one another. If this was the case and if there were no witnesses, then they didn't have a chance. Nothing to link the guilty party to the act; motiveless, pointless; the perfect crime.
   In television fiction each crime is a cleverly constructed puzzle; challenging enough to occupy the mind for fifty five minutes (plus advertisements) but ultimately no match for the detectives logic. He cracks the case in the nick of time, condemning the villain to a well deserved lifetime of incarceration.
   In reality, the majority of investigations fell into one of two categories: Firstly there were those where the guilty party was almost immediately apparent. Normally crimes of passion, the murderers were mostly pathetic, remorse filled individuals, killing a loved one in an act of desperation. The other category includes their present case. Those where lengthy investigation leads nowhere.
   There are of course exceptions, investigations which are truly satisfying; cases which at first seem impenetrable but which unfold at the detectives incisive touch to reveal a hardened criminal who deserves everything he (or more rarely she) inevitably gets. Such cases are few and far between. Elaine, in her eight years of investigation had worked on two.
   Despite the tedium, Elaine enjoyed the job. With her naturally analytical mind and attention to detail she was genuinely gifted in the art of solving crimes. She had her doubts about the institutions she served and was part of, grave doubts, but despite them all, the sense of personal value being good at performing what she was convinced was a worthwhile function made it all seem worthwhile.
   Elaine had been raised in a grim northern industrial town. Her parents, already dismayed at her wasting time staying on at school, despaired when she told them she wanted to join the police force. Certain that it was no job for a woman they wondered about their daughter's sexual orientation. Small town people with small town attitudes. Their objections, if anything, only strengthened her ambitions and join the force she did, quickly showing promise and doing well.
   She had escaped down South at the first opportunity, getting a transfer to Scotland Yard, eagerly exchanging the claustrophobia of her bleak home town, for the multifarious opportunities offered by the capital city. Alone, in a city of ten million strangers, she soon found herself attached to Pete, a fellow police officer. Similarly lonely, though a native Londoner, Pete had always found it difficult to mix.

Theirs was a 'make-do' relationship like so many others. Both feared isolation more than they disliked each other, but really they were just killing time until something better came along. Four years later, they were still together and became engaged, thinking it the right thing to do. Another two years passed and the something (or someone) better had still failed to materialise. Having exhausted all other possibilities, they were married. At least her parents were delighted.
   Pete worked in uniform, an Inspector at Muswell Hill. Moderately successful he was a mediocre policeman with few aspirations. He resented his wife's career and thought she should settle down and bear him some children, but he knew better than to suggest it. Elaine had worked her way up to the rank of Detective Inspector. She had the talent to progress further, but her sex almost certainly precluded this. Though she resented the (presumed) reason for this block on her progress intensely, she was secretly reasonably happy to remain at her present rank. Further promotion would mean more management and less field work, and she enjoyed getting her hands dirty too much to want to give up the field work just yet.
   Unfortunately, Elaine's love of getting her hands dirty did not extend to typing. She fumbled inexpertly with the keys, hesitantly moving two fingers across the keyboard, cursing her incompetence. Typing was a skill she had always known would be useful but had shied away from investing any time to master. Perhaps it had too many connotations with lowly paid female servitude, the sort of job her parents would have chosen for her.

+ + + + + +

Jon sat in Charles' office for their prearranged two o'clock meeting. It was a cold functional space, a box like room cut from the open-plan office space by a pair of pre-fabricated walls. They sat facing each other on either side of a small circular table. Jon casually rocked back on his chair legs, absentmindedly trying to decipher the scribblings on the 'white board' which covered the wall behind Charles. He wondered what Charles wanted, but from his experience of previous meetings was sure it was nothing important.
   Following the pattern of earlier meetings, and Jon assumed the result of something he had been taught on an interpersonal skills course, Charles initiated a bout of small talk.
   'Did you have a good lunch?'
   'Just a sandwich.'
   As usual Jon had spent lunchtime at his desk. With the office almost deserted, most of his colleagues busy testing the limits of their statutory forty five minutes break and interruptions at a minimum, he found lunchtime was a particularly productive part of the day.
   'Oh.'
   A moment's silence and Charles tried again.
   'Did you see the rugby at the weekend. We really showed the French.'
   Charles asked his questions as if reading them (badly) from a script. Half mumbling, not meeting Jon's gaze,
   'No. Rugby's not really my game.'
   Jon did nothing to prolong the episode. He had a program he wanted to get back to.
    'Err, well each to their own I suppose.'
   More silence.
   'Everything alright at home?'
   'Fine.'
   Jon's reply was even more abrupt than normal. He hadn't told anybody at work about his break up with Sally. It was none of their business. He didn't want anyone intruding on his private grief.
   'Anyway, I suppose you're wondering why I've asked to see you?'
   Charles had obviously fulfilled the recommended quota of non-work related chit-chat.
   'It did cross my mind.'
   'Well it's not simple. Have you been following the share price recently?'
   'I don't follow the stockmarket.'
   Jon had no more interest in the performance of the company he worked for than the stockmarket in general. He was an IT professional who just happened to work for a particular bank. Outside the environs of the computer applications he worked on the business of banking was irrelevant to him.
   'Well of late the shares have not been doing as well as any of us would like.'
   Jon wondered where this was taking them.
    'The board have decided that decisive action is required.'
   Jon fought to keep his attention on Charles' words, and stop his mind flitting back to the program he had left at his desk.
   'And to this end they have launched a comprehensive series of cost reviews. Every area of the business is being scrutinised. We are all being asked to tighten our belts. IT is no exception.'
    Jon started to suspect where this might be leading. Charles now had his full attention.
   He hated doing this. In his sixteen years of management Charles could not think of any more uncomfortable task he had been forced to perform. He liked Jon. He reminded him of himself when he was that age. Still enjoying the certainties, the idealism of youth. Untainted by political considerations.
   Jon was bright, enthusiastic, good at his job - very good - and he knew it. So confident in everything he tackled, by some measure both the youngest and ablest member of Charles' team, Jon could never understand why that wasn't always enough. Why he had to be sensitive to the differing perspectives of his colleagues.
   'Job roles in each department had been defined and those best qualified to satisfy those roles have been identified. Unfortunately, there are too more people in the department than roles. Those left without a role are to be made redundant.'
   Charles gazed down at the desk in front of him, unable to establish the eye contact he knew was always so important in any management situation. Still, he was reasonably pleased with his performance so far in explaining the situation to Jon.
   With a new chair on the board eager to make their mark, the soft underbelly of the IT department's budget was an easy target. Redundancies across the division. No team was spared. Charles had done all he could to limit the numbers in his team to just one. All seventeen of Jon's colleagues would have gone before him if judged on contribution alone, which of course was how it was meant to work.
   'All those made redundant will be entitled to compensation based on a lump sum plus service related increments.'
   The compensation was adequate, but hardly generous. The other members of Jon's team, all at least a decade older than him - an eternity in their industry - with their attitudes and abilities, would have real problems getting a job somewhere else. Jon would have no such problems. Charles guessed he would have outgrown them sooner rather than later anyway. Left the company within two years looking for bigger and better things. It would hurt the team in the short term, but in the long run Charles was convinced it was the right thing to do.
   'I'm afraid that as the least experienced member of the team, we have no role in the team for you. I'm sorry, but we are going to have to let you go.'
   Charles knew Jon would take it badly, would see this as a slight on his abilities. Charles wished he could confide in him, tell him the reasons behind his thinking, but couldn't risk Jon challenging his decision, revealing the motivations behind his decision to his disapproving superiors.
   Anyway, as the mouthpiece of the company in this situation, it was his duty to remain impassive. To allow Jon no avenue but rapid acceptance of his fate. This would hurt him now, but he'd get over it. In a couple of months time, with another maybe better job and no doubt most of his redundancy money left, he might even thank Charles for it. Charles only hoped that he would recover from this incident so quickly.
   Charles looked up knowing how he'd react in similar circumstances, expecting to look into the gaze of a broken man.
   'That's it then?'
   'I'm sorry, but yes.'
   'It's all been decided?'
   'I'm afraid so, yes.'
   For a moment Jon was completely stunned. This was completely unexpected. The fact of his redundancy was totally alien to him, incompatible with his view of the world and his position in it, his mind wanted to reject the idea like his body would a badly matched kidney. He hadn't even heard a whisper about possible redundancies, and even then for HIM to be judged expendable. It was inconceivable. His thoughts jammed as he attempted to make sense of this impossible piece of information, like a computer asked to divide by zero.
   'How many redundancies are there?'
   The very act of constructing the sentence was an effort. It was Jon's turn to avoid eye-contact as he looked at the floor trying to focus his thoughts.
   'Across the division twenty seven, across the business several hundred.'
   'And in the team?'
   'One.'
   No!

The mental barriers Jon had been using to maintain his unfeeling state was swept away by a tsunami of raw emotion filling him with an all consuming rage. Fuelled by his anger, his mind kicked out of neutral and into overdrive; onto the offensive. He looked up to meet Charles gaze.
   'Who made the decision?'
   'Personnel decided the job roles in each team. I appraised the team against those roles.'
   'So you decided that I was surplus to requirements.'
   Charles had never really liked him. He had been intimidated by Jon's ability at the job, threatened by how they reflected on his more meagre talents. Charles had always blocked Jon's desire for rapid promotion - rating him with B pluses rather than the A's he deserved - keeping him off the fast-track, slowing his passage through the ranks to match his own pedestrian history of progress. Charles was jealous of him.
   'I decided that the others in the team were more qualified for the roles that had been defined.'
   'More qualified. Are you honestly trying to tell me that everyone else in the team is better than me. I'm the best worker you've got, everybody knows it.'
   Every sentence of Jon's was louder than the last.
   Charles looked back down at the desk in front of him.
   'I'm not at liberty to discuss the ratings of the others in the team, but suffice to say ability was only one of the criteria employed. Experience was a very important consideration, and unfortunately your experience is by far the least in the team.'
   'Experience, what about potential?'
   Jon had never really fitted in. The rest of the team were all in their late thirties and early forties - Charles' age. They shared common interests and tastes, very different from Jon's own. The rest of the team were Charles' mates. They had known each other for years. They met each other socially outside work. Charles and his cosy clique had always viewed Jon with mild suspicion.
   'Potential is subjective, and was not one of the criteria.'
   'Experience is just a measure of age. I do twice as much work as most people in that team.'
   Jon's voice had grown to a shout. In contrast Charles' replies were hardly more audible than whispers.
   'I'm sorry that you feel that way, but I did not devise the criteria you were judged against.'
   'Bollocks. This is a stitch up.'
   'I've tried to be as fair in all this as I could.'
   Jon had lost it. The whole episode had a touch of unreality about it, he could say anything he wanted. He stood up, Charles flinched instinctively at Jon's sudden movement, and looked up as he jabbed his finger furiously in his direction.
   'You and your mates have never liked me.'
   Charles stood up himself.
   'I can assure you, you've always been well regarded in the team.'
   'Crap. None of you wanted to be shaken out of your sleepy routine. I make you all look bad.'
   Charles attempted to exert some control.
   'Look, I can appreciate that you're upset. But take some time to think things through. I'm sure you'll have no problem finding another job. I'd like to think that we can part on good terms.'
   'Fuck off you patronising bastard ! I don't need you or the company, you can stick your good terms up your arse !'
   And with that Jon was gone, turning on his heel and storming out of the office, slamming the door melodramatically behind him.
   Charles put his hands to his head and sighed long and hard.

+ + + + + +

'. in the car-park !!'
   'She didn't .'
   'She did.'
   'and him married with three kids, an' all.'
   'I don't even think he's good looking.'
   'No he's awful. There again she isn't exactly choosy...'
   Susan's fingers continued their travels across her keyboard, fluently producing page after typed page. The words she read meant nothing to her, she barely even registered their meaning. Any spelling mistakes in the original text would be transferred into the typed version. Susan didn't make use of the spellcheck facility of her word processor, as it irritatingly failed to recognise any of the jargon or abbreviations in the text and only slowed her down.
   The conversations she and her colleagues had were as monotonous and repetitive as the work. The same topics were covered several times a day, with little new being added on any occasion. As with their work the meaning of what they were saying barely registered.
   As the day wore on, Susan's glances at the clock became more and more frequent. She tried to prevent herself because she knew it would make the time drag, but she was unable to resist as the end of the working day loomed ever closer.

Across the city, Elaine was also clock watching. Normally, she was so immersed in her work, that things like home and lunch times took her by surprise. Today though, any excuse for a break was gratefully accepted. She would put in the minimum number of hours and be out of the door at five thirty, not a minute later.

Chris had finished his day playing in the woods and was now in the pub. The day had been a good one and would be recalled in great detail in bar side chats, ad infinitum, in years to come. Another shared experience, to reaffirm their alikeness and cement the bonds which held them together. Chris was treating his friends to a report on progress in his 'relationship' with Elaine. His mates all knew her well from his previous tales and all agreed that she was desperate to go to bed him. Chris's story did nothing to dispel their illusions. The consensus of opinion was that the consummation of Elaine's flimsily concealed desire was imminent.

Stanley drove on. His shift ended in another two hours time, but he wasn't thinking that far ahead yet. First he had to get through the worst part of the day; rush hour.

Jon sat clearing his desk. It was almost two hours since his ill fated meeting, ample time for him to calm down, for the adrenaline to drain from his bloodstream. But it hadn't. He still retained his anger, as if the vast reservoir of despair he had collected over the last two weeks was keeping the fires of his fury burning. He could have left early, but he didn't. He stayed and finished the program he was working on. He would stay till his normal time and put the hours in, so as not to give Charles the satisfaction.

+ + + + + +

Five fifteen arrived. Without a word of goodbye to any of his colleagues, Jon slipped out the office for the last time. He left his possessions, mainly technical manuals, at his desk. He'd return for them later, probably outside office hours when no-one was around. He set off walking towards Tottenham Court Road tube station. He had walked this half mile or so stretch of city streets so many times before that it was now second nature to him. So completely ingrained into his psyche that it required no concentration at all.
   He turned into streets, crossed roads, waited at traffic lights, all without paying his journey any but the most cursory amount of attention. Though navigating his route to the underground station was as automatic as ever, he was unusually aware of details of the city life he encountered around him. Details that he had long since become de-sensitised to, but were now painfully thrown into stark focus by his venom tinted perceptions; the noise of the traffic and the erratic driving of the motorcycle couriers. Everything seemed to irritate and enrage him.
   Jon approached the entrance to the tube station and prepared to run the gauntlet of beggars that he knew he would find there, fishing the rich pickings from this eddy in the stream of humanity. Today there were two such unfortunates, trying their luck. One attempted to legitimise his requests for money by offering 'The Big Issue', whilst the other relied on the more traditional device of a skinny, large eyed mongrel, though he himself seemed to be in a worse state than his canine companion. The British pride themselves in being a nation of animal lovers.
   Jon hated beggars. He hated the decisions they forced him to make. The way they made him feel about himself. The widespread existence of the homeless on the streets of the nation's major cities was symptomatic to Jon of society's general malaise. These people had been completely failed by the system. Mentally ill released into 'Care in the Community', teenager runaways for whom life on the streets seemed favourable to whatever nightmares took place behind the closed doors of the family home. People who had reached absolute rock bottom. People who most needed society's help, but whom society seemed happy to ignore.
   There were a couple of popular myths about the beggars that Jon had often heard people use to justify not giving them any of their hard-earned cash.
   The first claim, championed by some of the Tory press, was that far from being poverty stricken, there was a reasonably good living to be made from begging, such that the beggars earned more money than many of the people who actually contributed to their income. Changing out of their grubby clothes and returning to their comfortable semi-detached homes in the suburbs, as soon as the rush hour was over. Some people actually believed this, to varying degrees, but Jon merely dismissed it as right wing paranoia.
   The second argument (sometimes used in conjunction with the first), was that any money given was only spent on the cheapest, strongest alcohol available, be it Special Brew or methylated spirits. Jon accepted that this was certainly true; the sight of the homeless, either drunk or drinking, was not an uncommon one; but he did not consider their behaviour irresponsible. With an existence as terrible as he imagined it must be, trying to escape it in drunken oblivion at any opportunity seemed perfectly reasonable.
   Head down, Jon picked up his pace and managed to get past 'The Big Issue' salesman without being singled out and asked to buy a magazine. This was unusual, he normally seemed to be the one targeted from the crowds of potential donators, as if somehow his weakness was palpable, as if it was written all over his face. Sure enough, the second wretched man, locked him with his doleful gaze . His dog only made matters worse by following his master's lead.
   'Got any spare change?'
   'No, sorry'.
   Jon mouthed the words, hardly making any noise at all, and hurried by the man, the generous amount of change in his pocket betraying him by chiming loudly as he walked passed.
   Despite not subscribing to either of the popular arguments for not giving money to beggars. Despite sympathy for their plight. Jon rarely gave them anything. Giving them money did not make him feel any less guilty than not giving. Though he realised which course of action the beggar would prefer. Handing out his unwanted change made him feel like he was patronising them, whilst only donating what he wouldn't miss, made him cringe at the inadequacy of his contribution, whilst he was by no means rich or willing enough to make a more substantial donation.
   Even the choice of how much or which of the deserving souls to give his money to was more agony than he could bear. Much better (for his peace of mind) to do this. Better to ignore the problem, shut them out from his consideration, and the uncomfortable question they presented.
    Sullied by the episode Jon reached the tube station entrance and descended into the gloom.

+ + + + + +

Susan emerged from her office building still laughing at a joke one of her friends had made as she had said her goodbyes. She was pleasantly surprised to see the weather had brightened up whilst she was at work. The sun was now shining and seemed to match her mood. Susan was looking forward to going out for dinner later that evening with one of the blokes from accounts.

+ + + + + +

Jon emerged onto the platform just in time to hear the tail end of an announcement.

.'.ting Broadway. There will be a reduced service tonight. London Underground apologise to our passengers for any inconvenience caused.'
   The platform was already packed, because of the irregular service.
   Jon swore under his breath.
   'Bastard London Underground.'
   People squashed close to him on every side. He hated them all; all were personally responsible for his discomfort. He turned his head to look at the LED display which indicated how close the next train was and where it was going.
   '1.Morden................3 mins.'
   Three minutes to endure. It could have been worse. Jon looked at his watch; twenty five to six already.
   At least he'd probably never have to make this journey again. It was scant consolation. How could they have done it to him? He was the best worker they had, and by a long way. But somehow they had judged him lacking. Inadequate. How could they? To him!
   Impossibly the people around him irritated him more as time passed. Where was that train? Jon was sure the displays were fixed, that the times they displayed bore no relation to how long the train would take. He rechecked the display.
   '1.Morden................2 mins.'
   He looked at his watch. Almost twenty to six. He was right they were rigged.
   This discovery seemed to aggravate him still further. He felt like he was about to scream. For the second time that day the world took on a dreamlike quality. Jon thought that if he didn't concentrate, if he just let himself drift, he would lose touch with reality, he would be left a pathetic wreck gibbering on the platform.

Susan entered the platform to find it unusually busy. She realised that there must be trouble on the line somewhere and looked to the LED display to see how lone a wait she had in store.
   '1.Morden................1 min.'
    Not long at all, she was lucky, but knew from experience just how long a London Underground minute could be, and so amused herself by thinking of her approaching date and deciding what she should wear.

This is what it must feel like to have a nervous breakdown.
   Jon tried to concentrate on some detail of the large advertisement facing him, to anchor himself to something real and shut out the spiteful faces of those around him.
   He only had to endure this purgatory for another minute. Then he would get on the train and everything would be alright.
   The advertisement was for a Holiday company and showed the archetypal holiday brochure family. Father, blonde, in his early forties, still keeping his physique with no signs of middle age spread, mother no older than her mid twenties, also blonde, pencil thin but with disproportionately full breasts, children, one girl aged about eleven, one boy slightly younger, say about nine, both dark haired, unbearably cute, but bearing little family resemblance to each other, or indeed either of their parents. All in the picture looked ecstatically happy as they ran hand in hand out of the surf
   Jon battled to keep his thoughts on the advertisement. The woman in the picture, couldn't possibly be the mother of the children who looked so at ease in her presence. She was probably the man's second wife. Had he left his first wife for his present companion. Traded her in for a younger, more attractive model. Was the first wife even now, sat in a cramped tenement building, a broken woman, surrounded by pictures of her children and ex-husband, souvenirs of the life she once had.
   Jon snapped himself out of his thoughts and glanced at the display.
    '*** NEXT TRAIN APPROACHING ***.'
   The sound of the train drifted towards him from the tunnel. He was well placed to the front of the platform. The train would pull in, he would get on quickly, find a good spot and everything would be fine.

Stanley powered the train into Tottenham Court Road tube station. He scanned the faces of the approaching passengers. None of them looked likely to jump, but you never could tell. The train passed the first quarter of the platform, the 'suicide stretch.' Stanley relaxed and eased on the brakes.
   

Jon had switched his attention to a second poster, below the holiday advertisement. This time he was careful not to consider the meaning of the picture, but rather to focus his attention on the minutiae of the image, completely occupying his mind with the act of perception rather than the semantics of the image, the inane faces of an attractive couple who had something to do with mineral water, fixed inextricably in his mind.
   The train was approaching, he was going to be alright. It would stop, the doors would open in front of him, he'd get on and he'd be alright.
   Jon concentrated on the water advertisement.
   The train was almost up to him now, everything was going to be fine.
   All at once, a young woman manoeuvred herself in front of him, obscuring his view of the anchoring poster and usurping him from his privileged place at the front of the platform, condemning him to the push and shove of the scrummage for the door.

Fucking bitch!
   Without conscious thought, his hand seemed to move of its own volition, pushing her almost imperceptibly, throwing her forward, just off balance, toppling towards the track. Jon watched in disbelief as the young woman tumbled onto the lines as the train bore down on top of her.

Stanley saw the woman lose her balance on the edge of the platform. She tottered for an instant before falling down towards him. He felt the all too familiar feeling of horror in the pit of his stomach, as he applied the brakes full on, knowing it would be to no avail.

Susan felt the slight shove in the small of her back, all thoughts of tonight's dinner instantly forgotten. Before she had collected her thoughts to register what was happening to her she was lying across the steel tracks on her hands and knees, with the train bearing down upon her. She heard the high pitch of a woman's scream and recognised it as her own voice, as she raised an arm in pathetic defence to the oncoming train.
   The train rushed into her carrying her forward in front of its two front wheels. As the train dragged her along the track, the flesh was stripped from the left side of her torso, exposing the ribs and spraying blood on the passengers at the edge of the platform. Onlookers screamed hysterically, whilst people at the back pushed forward to get a better view.
   About twenty yards from the point of impact the train rode over Susan, chewing her under its wheels, neatly severing her neck and mercifully ending her agony. Her head was sent spinning towards the platform's base as the train dragged her body towards the other end of the platform.
   The platform was in uproar, a chorus of screams. Sickened passengers surged towards the exit as morbid sightseers took their places on the side of the platform.

At the time of the accident, people were so closely packed together and it had all happened too quickly for anybody to have seen Jon push Susan. He passed unnoticed in the rush for the exit.

At the far end of the platform, Stanley sat in his cab, hunched over his controls, sobbing into his hands.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 2.

IMPACT

Jon awoke late in the morning the next day. As sleep drained from his faculties, realisation dawned as to what he had done. Though yesterday's events still retained a dreamlike quality, he was absolutely certain as to the bleak reality of his situation. He had done the unthinkable; he had murdered an innocent young woman.
   Jon was submerged in grief and guilt. The emotional turmoil that had preceded and to a degree precipitated the brutal act, had now sublimated into an all pervading feeling of misery. His sense of guilt was so complete, so heavy, that he felt unable to move himself beneath its weight. He lay cowering beneath the covers of his bed, his mind racing, as he thought through yesterday's terrible chain of events.
   Over and over, he replayed his memories of that fateful moment; his hand reaching out; pushing the woman forward, sending her falling into the path of the oncoming train. Again and again he asked himself why he had done it, but he could find no possible justification for such a senseless act.

+ + + + + +

In rural Essex Mr and Mrs Howell struggled to establish some sort of equilibrium in their violently traumatised universe. A young policeman had interrupted yesterday evening's dinner and brought them the news. The half empty plates lay congealing on the table, exactly as they had been at the moment the doorbell had interrupted their meal. Tom and Doris Howell were utterly distraught.
   Susan had been the fulcrum of their existence. All the sacrifices they had ever made, all the hardships they had endured, all had seemed worthwhile as they had watched Susan glide effortlessly through life. Through hard effort they had succeeded in offering their daughter every opportunity, giving her a standard of life far beyond their own, so that Susan, as her parents surrogate, could live the life they had always aspired to.
   Doris was born the daughter of a grocer in an average sized Kent town. She was a bright, creative child, but such qualities were not appreciated by her dour, puritanical father. At fifteen she fulfilled her parents' expectations and abandoned her rudimentary education to help out in the family store.
   For ten tedious years she wasted her youth amongst the musty smelling shelves; serving ungrateful customers their cherished provisions from subtly crooked scales. Always searching for new ways to undercut their competitors whilst maximising their meagre profits. Working long hours, counting every farthing, breaking her back on the altar of mealy minded, penny pinching, petty commerce.
   In this environment it would not have been surprising if she had developed the typical attitudes of the grasping lower middle classes. Doris though, remained remarkably untainted by the stifling values of her peers. She was blessed with a warm and generous disposition which seemed impervious to infection from her parents intense selfishness.
   She never grew to worship material objects because she was given too few possessions of her own to stimulate such a desire. She received no wages; her labour was regarded as payment in kind for her bed and board and for the privilege of having been born.
   Her parents discouraged Doris from mixing with the young men of the town. This coupled with her plain appearance, meant they could confidently expect to have their spinster daughter living with them for the rest of their lives; tending to their needs as they grew old and running the family business. In purely business terms, which was indeed exactly how they viewed the world, a plain daughter was cheaper to keep than a servant or even a wife.
   Unexpectedly, Doris' parents' plans were ruined. A young man started to visit the shop at increasingly frequent intervals. Though he never seemed to buy anything of any consequence, he always took an inordinately long time over his purchases. After this had continued over a period of months, he asked Doris, quite out of the blue, to marry him. Her parents thought he must be simple, but Doris recognising a gift horse when she saw one, accepted his offer. They were married four weeks later in the local registry office.
   Her parents never forgave her for her good fortune. Four years after Doris left, a Co-operative opened in a neighbouring street. Her father's business could not cope with the extra competition and went under.
   Doris' new found husband's name was Thomas Howell. He had a job on the railway which afforded a reasonable standard of living. They bought a small terraced house, mortgaged of course, in a nearby town and Doris submerged herself in the business of making Tom's life as comfortable as she could.
   Tom, though popular with his fellow males, had always been uneasy in the company of women. Thus far the secrets of the female race had remained a mystery to him. He had a low sex drive and so never had the biological impetus to overcome his shyness.
   Everything changed the day he met Doris. One morning, half-way on his journey to work, he had realised he had left home without any rolling tobacco, and had popped into an unfamiliar shop and struck up an easy conversation with the girl behind the counter. Twenty minutes of animated chit-chat later he noticed the time and rushed off to work, where he received a dressing down for being late.
   All that day, Tom's thoughts stayed with the shop girl. She seemed so unlike the other women he had known; so unpretentious, so indelicate, so open and honest. Their brief conversation had touched him in an unfamiliar way. His imagination started running away with him, fantasising all sorts of things about this girl he had only just met, projecting all manner of latent desires onto her. He was becoming rapidly infatuated with this unremarkable woman.
   In the weeks that followed Tom visited the shop on the flimsiest of excuses. His conversations with Doris were strangely enjoyable though and grew increasingly intimate. Doris seemed to reciprocate his feelings, the way her face lit up when he walked in the shop, her eyes invariably fixed on the door as if waiting for his arrival, made his heart leap in his chest.
   After three months of flirting across the shop counter. Tom committed by far the most spontaneous act of his entire life. He asked Doris to marry him. That day, as he entered the shop, he had no idea about what he was about to do. He took himself completely by surprise. An assertive capacity he didn't know he possessed, welling up inside him, taking control of his actions and asking the crucial question before he knew what he was doing. Anyway she said yes, so everything was fine.
   Their marriage a month later was a quiet affair. A registry office was all Tom could afford, but neither of them minded. In truth, the occasion was much more than either had grown to expect from life. None of their parents attended the ceremony. Tom's were dead and Doris' might as well have been.
   Once married their lives were transformed beyond all recognition. They were both happier than they had previously imagined possible. As a single man Tom had grown accustomed to the begrudging hospitality offered by his lodgings. Now he would return home after a day working on his beloved railways, to be greeted with a cooked meal, an eternally sympathetic ear to his grievances and a compliant partner in his bed.
   Doris was always grateful to Tom for liberating her from her spiteful parents and could not do enough for him. The genuine thanks he gave was ample reward when contrasted to the icy ingratitude she had come to expect. After the long hours of the shop, Doris found running the small house and holding down a job in the local Co-op relatively easy. The job, overtly a temporary measure, started to provide the money for a few luxuries. In reality, Doris recognised that her job was integral in the battle to make ends meet, but kept quiet to allow her husband his illusions.
   Though they loved each other dearly, their relationship still contained an inherent inequality. The unquestioned mastery of the husband over his chattel. This was the cultural norm of the times they lived in and was accepted without question, or grievance, by both of them.
   Tom's sexual advances were infrequent and amateurish. Doris enjoyed the physical proximity and was gratified by his interest in a body she had always considered uninspiring. Though they used no contraception Doris showed no signs of becoming pregnant.
   Their blissful lifestyle continued pretty much without incident for the next fourteen years. They settled into a way of life that they were both content to follow into fast approaching old age. Without warning everything changed. At almost forty years of age Doris fell pregnant and gave birth to Susan.
   As an only child of middle aged parents, it was not at all surprising that she was often spoilt rotten. She was the apple of their eye and wanted for nothing, and if all the attention made her somewhat exploitative in nature, then that was just too bad.
   Doris and Tom had watched in awe, as Susan had grown into a beautiful young woman, her treasured childhood years passing all too quickly. Almost unnoticed Tom and Doris had grown old, their lives drawing to an end. But it didn't matter, they had fashioned something truly precious and Susan would outlive them as a monument to their love and a justification for their existence.
   Now it had all ended. Susan was gone. Their genetic line had been severed. They might as well have been dead themselves.

+ + + + + +

Jon eventually rose from his bed at around two, he dressed quickly and left the flat with real purpose. He knew what he had to do. He would go back to the scene of the crime and give himself up to the police who would be there.
   As he rode up the Northern line from his stop at Tooting Broadway he felt remarkably in control. Now he had decided on a course of action he felt much better, even strangely elated. Such a sudden mood swing did not seem in any way unusual to him. Jon felt a sense of release. No longer crippled by a myriad considerations, freed from thoughts of the long term consequences of his actions, he was able to act on his impulses. Life was so much simpler.
   He would return to the station and give himself up. It was the right thing to do and that made him happy. He had barely even considered the punishments he might receive for his crimes.
   Jon's contentment buffered him against the normal irritations of his journey. He smiled warmly at his fellow passengers and ignored the incredulous looks he received in return.
   The train arrived at Tottenham Court Road. He exited the carriage and made his way through the tunnels to the southbound track and the police who he would hand himself in to. It was the middle of the day, off peak and there were only a few people about. He arrived at the southbound platform to find it all but deserted.
   The expected police presence nowhere to be seen. Jon's plans crumbled and his sense of well being collapsed with them.
   With a growing sense of panic he hurried up and down the platform to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. Finally he satisfied himself that it was true. The platform was completely normal, totally unaffected by yesterdays tragic event. It was as if none of it had actually happened.
   Jon, robbed of purpose, lapsed back into abject misery. He sat down on one of the gaily coloured, uncomfortable metal seats mounted against the back wall of the platform and wept hysterically.
   If anybody had noticed him they would have dismissed him as a crank or a drunk. Neither were an uncommon sight on the London Underground.
   Time passed.
   Left undisturbed Jon's tears exhausted themselves and he struggled to get a grip of himself and make some sense of his situation. He reasoned that the unchanged state of the platform was indicative of an overall lack of concern by society as a whole. This apathy angered him and his anger roused him from his despair.
   He got slowly to his feet and caught the next homeward train. He looked around him at the people sharing his carriage as he rode. He was struck by the apparently pathetic nature of their existences. Their lives had the potential to be filled with so much joy. Instead they led barren lives forced to grapple for any transient pleasure they could obtain within the narrow environmental confines offered by society.
   Their blighted opportunities mirrored his own. He lived within rigid cultural parameters, his behavioural options strictly limited. Any feeling of free-will was merely illusory. Yesterday's events were simply the result of him reacting, in a reasonable manner, to the stimuli enforced on him. Kismet.
   He arrived at Tooting Broadway station and set off walking back to his flat. He stopped at a small newsagent on the way to buy a copy of the 'Evening Standard' newspaper. He leafed through it as he walked, searching for news of yesterday's event. He completed a cursory scan through the paper without finding any mention of the incident.
   He reached his flat and continued his search. Spreading the paper out on the floor around him, reading and rereading each page for the news he was looking for, he was gripped by a growing sense of anxiety as his goal eluded him.
   Finally, on his third or fourth time through the paper, when he was almost given up hope, he found it. The page was dominated by an article on how terrible it was that the value of everybody's houses was currently falling. At the bottom left hand side of the page was a short note printed in the smallest type:

That was it. The importance allocated the item by its relative size and position in the paper reinforced Jon's emerging opinions on society's callousness and general apathy. He cut the article out and sellotaped it to his wall. The cutting told him several important things.
   Firstly, reassuringly and most importantly, it was proof positive that the whole episode had actually happened and wasn't just a figment of his imagination. Secondly, it told him that the police were not looking for him. Finally, it told him the woman's name; Susan.
   Jon was immediately struck by the similarity with his wife's name. Sally, Susan, Susan, Sally, interchangeable really. Now he thought about it, she looked a lot like Sally too. Same colour hair, similar build, similar height. His wife would never have been seen dead in the clothes he'd seen Susan in, but swap one of Sally's smart suits for something brighter and less formal and it could have almost been his wife.

+ + + + + +

Jon woke early feeling refreshed and ready for the day. He had been sleeping much better over the last couple of nights. Indeed outwardly he appeared much better than he had done for weeks. He seemed to have come out of the depression he had felt since his wife had left and was at last allowing himself to express emotion of some sort. Once awake he did not linger in his bed. He washed and dressed quickly and then set about preparing himself a light breakfast.
   It had taken him a long time to get over the breakdown of his marriage, but finally he had begun to accept his loss. Sally had left him, she was gone for good. Nothing could bring her back. Sally had left Jon fourteen days ago. Theirs had been the 'perfect marriage'; two young upwardly mobile professionals, very much in love, with everything going for them.
   They had met at a student disco at Lancaster University. He was in his final year, she in her first. Their lovemaking on that first night was frenzied but otherwise unremarkable, neither of them were exactly new to that particular game. Yet the next morning Jon knew with an indefinable absolute certainty that this was the girl he wanted to marry. At the moment of climax of their renewed coital activity, he proposed. The question, though unexpected, seemed as natural to Sally's plans as continuing her education or her eventual embarkment on a highly paid management career.
   She agreed to his proposal, thus fixing the course of their lives for the foreseeable future. For the next two terms they lived in each others pockets, completely sacrificing their individuality so that they could share every precious moment together. Their friends thought them soft, but that was because their closeness threatened them, implying there was something lacking in their own, more distant relationships.
   Sally and Jon each felt that the other was the missing part to their personal jigsaw. Neither had ever met anybody else quite as much like themselves before. Even their differences seemed to complement each other. They were so much in accord that their relationship seemed at times to be almost incestuous.
   Though they were very much in love their relationship was characterised by a tendency to argue more than others thought healthy. But what of it? Their relationship was one founded on true equality between two strongly opinionated individuals. With neither of their opinions carrying more weight than the other, differences between them had to be negotiated fiercely. No quarter asked, no quarter given.
   In Jon's experience, relationships where arguments are not found, are usually characterised by an inequality between the participants. That was most definitely not a characteristic of Jon and Sally's relationship.
   At the end of his final year, Jon graduated with a disappointing third in Anthropology. He recognised that he should have done better, but his time with Sally took precedence over his studies. Ejected from the cosy world of academia, he moved to London to take up a job as a computer programmer, leaving Sally to continue her studies in Lancaster. Jon had always been fairly interested in computers, even though he had no qualifications in them. He had chosen to study anthropology as it was something he was genuinely interested in and he had thought that he might as well study something he enjoyed and take his chances in the job market at the end of it.
   Such a cavalier attitude is easy to adopt when at the start of a University career. To an eighteen year old the end of a three year course seem a lifetime away and any thoughts of a future career no more than a rumour. Anyway, the economy and job market had been buoyant in the year he had graduated and his mathematical ability had seen him safely through the computer aptitude tests and into a well rewarded career, so it had all worked out nicely in the end.
   For two years Jon worked away, living for the weekends when he would visit Sally or she would come down to his dreary rented room in shared accommodation. Sally, without Jon to fill her time, devoted herself to her studies and soon found herself doing remarkably well. Two years passed. She graduated with a 2.1 in Mathematics and took up a career as an actuary with a leading London based insurance company.
   In Jon's two years alone in London, he had managed to save several thousand pounds, easily enough to get married on. Four months after Sally's move to the capital they were wed and moved into a rented flat in Tooting. They never quite recaptured the unity of those months in Lancaster; their jobs took them away from each other for far longer than their studies ever did. Still, they were happy and seemed set for life.
   Everything proceeded well over the next five years. They had found a comfortable rut through life and they were quite happy to follow it. They loved each other just as much as ever and were both doing reasonably well in their respective careers.
   Then Jon was sent on the fateful course. Computing is an occupation requiring a high degree of technical knowledge. The technology involved is forever evolving and so, to keep up with this constantly changing environment, computing professionals are often sent on residential courses to teach them new skills. Jon had been on several other courses before this one; a five day course in systems analysis.
   The course was held in a small hotel in Hampshire. On the third night, Jon had finished his work for the evening and was sat in the hotel bar, feeling homesick and intent on drinking himself unconcious. He was missing Sally and felt lonely, vulnerable and very sorry for himself. Jon was joined by one of the other course members; a fairly attractive young woman who worked for a Midlands pharmaceutical company. He sociably bought her a drink and they started talking.
   He was surprised to find that his companion had been brought up in the same part of rural Hampshire as himself, and had in fact lived in a village only a mere thirteen miles from his own. This pleasant coincidence fuelled their conversation with 'it's a small world' anecdotes, which swiftly flowed into detailed accounts of mutual experiences in the area of their youth.
   Three hours later they were still talking and both very drunk. It had been a long time since Jon had enjoyed such a conversation with a new acquaintance. He was warm, he was happy and he felt very well disposed towards this charming, attractive woman with whom he had so very much in common. Thoughts of infidelity had not so much as crossed his mind, when she invited him back to her room to continue their conversation after the bar had closed. When she started to kiss him, practised physical reaction took over and did the rest. It all seemed such a very natural way to finish off such a pleasant evening.
   In the morning sobriety returned and Jon was immediately racked by guilt. He simply could not believe that he could possibly have done what he so demonstrably had. He barely looked his erstwhile lover in the face, let alone share any sort of meaningful conversation with her for the remainder of the week. After the course had finished he never saw her again.
   Jon had done something he had thought he never would; an act he had considered completely incompatible to his make up; he had been unfaithful to Sally. He had thought that theirs was a match made in heaven and as such would be impenetrable to the demons of illicit desire. Their marriage was indeed one of rare strength and love, but why should that preclude the possibility of infidelity?
   They both accepted that they had been sexually active before marriage and even considered this a good thing. So why did they expect their capacity to be attracted to someone to 'shut down' at the instant they exchanged their vows? They would both accept that they and their partners were fallible human beings, capable of making mistakes, especially if circumstances were against them. So why did they think that they were incapable of making mistakes in the sexual arena. Surely even the strongest marriage is only a combination of (un)favourable circumstances away from infidelity.
   Returning from his course, Jon knew that his 'misdemeanour' could destroy his marriage, so he had tried to keep it quiet. A week later, he could stand the guilt no longer and made a clean breast of it to his wife. She couldn't believe he'd done it, neither could he. She thought it was inexcusable, so did he. She said it was an irreconcilable breach of the basic trust on which their marriage was founded, he agreed. She left him for good, his world collapsed and he fell into an all enveloping depression.
   Now his depression had lifted. His situation was clear. He had been unfaithful and Sally had left him. His wife was dead. He had killed her, and he was totally remorseful for what he had done, both in his act of killing and his act of infidelity. If he could have turned back time and somehow undone these recent tragic events he would have done so in an instant. Both acts were completely out of character. In committing them he was reacting to extraordinary circumstances. Reacting in a reasonable manner.
   Society moulded the circumstances that had precipitated his actions, and so Society was as much to blame for those actions as himself. He was just society's unwilling pawn, coerced into behaviour which went against the very grain of his being, tricked into destroying that which meant most to him. He had suffered the loss. He was as much the victim as the offender. He was still culpable, but compared to him society's guilt was unmitigated. Society did not care as he did. His crimes were unforgivable, and he would dedicate his life in atonement for his part in them. Society must be made to pay for its part.

+ + + + + +

In his small flat on the twelfth floor of a tower block in Elephant and Castle, Stanley sat watching daytime television. Like Jon, Susan's death had irrevocably altered his mental balance. Unfortunately unlike Jon, Stanley's state of depression was total, leaving him in an almost catatonic state. He had been granted three weeks compassionate leave from his job, but he would not be going back.

+ + + + + +

Westminster Coroner's Court. The coroner, Mr Edward Chesterfield had presented his summing up of the day's inquest, in his usual schoolmasterly, patient, informative only ever so slightly patronising style.
   They had heard evidence concerning the circumstances of the death of a Ms Susan Howell, 22 from Billericay in Essex, who was killed by a tube train, in Tottenham Court Road tube station, at around a quarter to six, last Thursday, the fifteenth of May.
   They had listened to the pathologist, Doctor Weston, a grey middle aged man to whom it had given absolutely no pleasure to tell the court how Ms Howell's had been an otherwise healthy young woman, who had been decapitated by the impact of an underground train. Dr Weston had delivered his evidence in a flat monotone which did nothing to betray the drama of the details he described.
   They had been shown a video recording of the incident, taken by London Underground's security cameras on the platform. The footage was disappointing, in that the incident occurred some way down the platform from the nearest camera and though unclear they seemed to show that Ms Howell simply stumbled and fell in front of the oncoming train. The crowded nature of the platform at the time may have been a contributory factor.
   Ms Jennifer Stone, a friend and work mate of Ms Howell, uncertain and on the verge of tears at the thought of what had happened, had to have her testimony delicately cajoled from her by the coroner. Interspersed between bouts of sobs which shook her small frame, she told of Ms Howell's generally cheery state of mind on the day of her death, and indeed her optimistic nature in general.
   Finally, they had heard details of an inspection of Tottenham Court Road underground station by the safety officer Mr R.Weatherman. Reading from his notes, looking slightly uncomfortable in his stiff suit, Mr Weatherman gave an unnecessary amount of detail which revealed that the station did not contravene any of the relevant safety regulations. After summarising the evidence, the coroner explained to the jury the possible verdicts open to them, and after pointing them in the right direction, directed them to leave the room and consider their verdict.
   Anne Wilson, a reporter for the Billericay Herald, waited with the rest of the court for the jury's return. Anne had ambitions to be a television interviewer, or even present the news, but she was realistic enough to realise that that was all a long way off. First she had to serve her time and learn her trade as a journalist from the bottom up.
   So here she was on a local interest piece, for the crummy local rag she reckoned on having to stay with for about another six months. As usual at these sorts of things, the turnout was poor; four others apart from herself. One was upset enough to be a relative; probably an uncle or someone, keeping an eye on the family's interests. And the serious young woman sitting next to him looked like a solicitor, most likely provided by the citizens advice bureau.
   Anne was more certain about the two old women at the back. She had met their type only too often before. The two women had chatted away to each other through the whole thing. It was pretty obvious that they didn't know the poor girl. They were just the normal vultures that tended to congregate at events like these, at the slightest whiff of blood.
   There again, that was what she was doing here really, providing the good people of Essex with their weekly dose of local tragedy. Enlivening their otherwise dull existences with a bit of drama by association.
   The jury returned after twenty minutes. Anne couldn't think that it took them that long to reach a decision, it all seemed fairly cut and dried to her, and the coroner had practically told them what verdict to return. They probably felt that they had to stay out for a reasonable amount of time, so as not to dismiss their responsibilities lightly. She imagined them having spent the last fifteen minutes, watching the clock, talking about the weather or last night's television.
   Here it was, the chairman of the jury stood ready to deliver their verdict.
   'Death by misadventure.'
   Anne crossed the 't' of 'misadventure' and added the final full stop which ended her report on the inquest. She closed her notebook, put it into her handbag and prepared to leave the coroners court.
   No surprises there. An accident, a quirk of fate. Neither the stigma of suicide, nor any outside agency to blame, and potentially for the family to sue. Not much of a story.
   Anyway it was finished now. The poor bitch could be buried and she had her copy. She had just enough time to get back to the office and drop off her notes, before she had to be at the sports centre for her badminton session. Now, if only she could get her backhand right.

+ + + + + +

Jon sat in his untidy living room, browsing through a cheap, red bound bible. The accumulated debris of his post-separation existence lay all around him. In his early teens, Jon had a brief flirtation with Christianity. Now, in his time of crisis, he had turned to the Bible to see if it contained any guidance on how he could properly atone for his crimes. The Old Testament, with it's uncomplicated puritanical morality, seemed to match his current mood. One extract he had come across seemed particularly attractive: Exodus 21.24.
   'Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.'
   It was so simplistic, but it held a strange beauty in it's vengeful reactionism. A life had been taken, a life must be given in payment. He had committed a murder, so the burden of payment was his. Suicide then, the idea did seem attractive to him. Jon had thought about ending it all on several occasions over the last six days. But that would be all too easy for him. A coward's way out. It was only just that his life should be sacrificed, but surely to devote his life to the active pursuit of justice would be a more fitting punishment.
   'Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.'
   Society had provided the circumstances which had precipitated the killing. Society's guilt was at least as great as his own and was greatly aggravated by it's accompanying lack of remorse. Jon would devote himself to making society pay. Sacrifice his life in the pursuit of vengeance.
   'Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.'
   Society was made up of individuals. The trick was to isolate those individuals who bore the heaviest burdens of guilt. Jon would track down those responsible. Their lives' for his wife's; it was a fair exchange and it was God's will.
   Jon ripped the page from his Bible and taped it to the wall, next to the newspaper cutting reporting Susan's death.

+ + + + + +

Elaine and Chris sat in the public gallery above the court. They had given their evidence that morning and had stayed on to catch the outcome. The charge was murder. That Christine Plummer had committed the crime was not in doubt, but she was pleading diminished responsibility. If the jury accepted this, she would be found guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter and her sentence would be less severe.
   The judge was just summing up before the jury retired to consider their verdict. He explained to the jury that to accept a plea of diminished responsibility, they did not have to believe that Christine was insane, just that she was suffering from 'abnormality of mind' at the time of killing.
   When Elaine and Chris had arrived on the scene, over an hour after the local police, Christine's husband Alaistair was dead and Christine was in a state of shock, being comforted by a WPC. She was babbling something about a disturbed burglar, but it seemed obvious to Elaine that this was the result of a domestic dispute. She stopped Chris from racing off to interrogate the local underworld fraternity and gently eased Christine down to the local police station for questioning.
   The local constabulary had been called by neighbours who reported hearing gunshots from the Plummer residence, at half past eight one spring Wednesday morning. Four minutes later a squad car arrived. The police officers, on receiving no response to their knocks on the door, forced entry to the house. Inside, they found Christine completely distraught with shock, sitting at the breakfast table. Her husband Alastair sat opposite her, his head a bloody pulp. His twelve bore shotgun lay on the table between them.
   Alastair had obviously been taken by surprise. He had been eating his breakfast whilst reading his Daily Telegraph, when his killer had crept up behind him and emptied both barrels of his shotgun into the back of his head. From a distance of less than two feet, the blast had carved him up so badly that he was barely recognisable. From Christine's relative lack of blood stains, it was obvious that she had sat down after her husbands death.
   After twenty minutes of gentle interrogation, she confessed to everything. She had got up that morning as normal, fifteen minutes before her husband, to make his breakfast before sending him off for another busy day at the helm of his car dealing business. He sat munching his toast in his uniquely irritating manner, whilst completely engrossed in his paper.
   Unobserved, Christine had risen from her seat opposite the impenetrable barrier of the Daily Telegraph's front page and entered the kitchen. There she found her husband's hunting gun which she had loaded and hidden the previous evening. She calmly took the gun, quietly re-entered the dining room, and crept up behind her unsuspecting spouse. Without a moments hesitation, she raised the heavy weapon and squeezed the triggers, stumbling backwards with the unexpected force of the recoil whilst her husband was thrown violently forwards, spilling his brains into his precious newspaper.
   Christine had been married to Alastair for twelve years. She had met him soon after leaving school. He was a friend of the family's, with a flourishing local car retail business. Fourteen years her senior, his debonair, world-wise charm soon swept her off her feet. This was the love affair she had always dreamed of; she had met the prince of her dreams, all that was left was to live happily ever after. Encouraged by her parents they were soon married.

Her state of bliss did not last long. Alastair revealed a previously unseen parsimoniousness. Though his business and bank balance flourished, he severely limited Christine's allowance, yet demanded the highest standards in her housekeeping, thus condemning her to the all consuming, yet pointless task of balancing an impossibly tight, arbitrarily enforced budget. Forbidden to take any job of her own, she was a prisoner in her own immaculately maintained home. As the years passed, her resentment towards her husband grew and in time blossomed into a full blooded hatred.
   Alastair spent more and more time away from home, supposedly on business. Christine knew he saw other women; his pretences were so flimsy. It was as if he thought so little of her, that he didn't think her worth the bother of constructing a plausible excuse. Though why he wanted other women, escaped Christine.
   Even in the early days of their marriage, he had never displayed a very large libido. When they had made love, it was normally all over too quickly for there to be any suggestion of mutual satisfaction. Lately, their conjugal activities had been limited to those evenings when he would spend all night in the pub. He would roll home drunk at closing time and force his foul breathed amorous attentions on his disinterested wife. She had learnt to accept it, just lay back and let him get on with it. If she struggled it only made it worse; the bruises drew unwelcome attention on her weekly visit to the discount supermarket.
   The evening before she murdered him, Christine had sat at home, reading a cheap romantic novel, waiting for her husbands return from the pub and dreading all the unpleasantness she knew it would entail. There and then she decided to end it all, put him out of her misery, blow the stinking bastard's head off. The thought seemed to enter her head as if from nowhere. Once there, it lodged like a malevolent parasite, feeding off her hatred, swelling up to take control over her entire body.
   She retrieved the key from it's usual hiding place in her husband's desk, unlocked the gun cabinet in the study and took out his favourite shotgun. After loading the gun, she took it into the kitchen and carefully hid it. Then she returned to her book in the living room and patiently waited for Alastair's return.
   That night, during her husbands frantic ruttings Christine climaxed violently. It was her first orgasm in four years. Alastair didn't notice.
   The distinction in law between murder and manslaughter is one of intent. If a killing is judged to be premeditated, then it is murder. If not, it is manslaughter. Elaine thought that this distinction discriminated against women such as Christine, in domestic violence cases. In general, women are weaker than men. Because of this inequality in strength, it is not easy for a woman to kill her husband, without the use of some weapon, or some plan.
   Just as in Christine's case, it usually requires some thought for a woman to overcome the physical inequalities and kill her husband. Hence the killing is judged to be premeditated and the woman is charged with murder. It is much easier for a man to kill his wife. So easy that such a killing can be decided upon and executed in an instant. The killing is judged not to be premeditated (after all the judge knows how married life is) and the man is charged with manslaughter.
   Elaine always thought that placing such weight on premeditation was ridiculous. Why was it less of a crime for someone to decide on a whim to kill someone for no good reason, than for someone else to coolly weigh up that killing someone was the best (or only) course of action in their particular circumstance. Surely the 'whim' killer was a much greater threat to society - You could never be sure that they would not kill again. The calculating killer on the other hand had at worst made an error of judgement. The causes of this lack of judgement could be investigated and perhaps treated, before the offender was allowed back into society.
   In Christine's case the killing was obviously planned and she obviously did it. These facts were not being questioned. Her only hope was to plea diminished responsibility. Unless this was accepted, she would be found guilty of murder.
   The medical evidence as to Christine's state of mind was inconclusive. To accept her plea of diminished responsibility, the jury did not have to believe that she was insane, only that she was suffering from an 'abnormality of mind' at the time of the killing. After all, blowing your husband's head off is not usually considered a good indication of 'normality of mind.' Elaine only hoped the jury saw it like that, so that Christine would get off as lightly as possible.
   As Elaine saw it, there was no point what-so-ever in sending Christine to prison, she was not a danger to anyone. What she really needed was psychiatric care, to heal the scars left by her monster of a husband and the shock of killing him.
   Elaine had a keen interest in feminist issues and was a strong believer in the inherent inequalities between men and women in their relationships. She was only too prone to side with the women, in the domestic disputes she came across. A fact noted by her superiors and held to stand against her. From her childhood experiences, Elaine had some idea as to what it was like to have to endure a blighted existence. During her adolescence, she often had felt frustrated enough to lash out in some desperate act and had even considered suicide in her darkest moments. It didn't look good for Christine.
   The prosecution lawyer was very good at his trade and her counsel, a relatively inexperienced young man, was clearly no match for him. The prosecution's argument was that she had displayed a cold bloodedness of almost evil intensity, and was very persuasive. The jury might be so intent on punishing that evil, that they would ignore any considerations of her state of mind and find her guilty to ensure the maximum punishment.
   Elaine thought it was unfair the way that people hired lawyers to represent them in court. The rich could afford better barristers and so were more likely to get off. The rich themselves must believe this to be true, else why would they be only too prepared to pay vast sums of money for their legal counsel. How can a system of justice allow such an obvious inequality based on personal wealth? Was it really one rule for the rich and another for the poor? Christine had no money of her own, and so had to make do with a lawyer provided by the state, which must have been a disadvantage.
   The jury was almost entirely male. The two women on it were both over forty five and looked to Elaine to be set in their ways, reactionary types; another nail in the coffin of Christine's chances. Twelve good men and true, God that made her laugh. Another obvious flaw in our precious judicial system. One persuasive member could carry the other eleven with them, in whichever way their own personal beliefs took them. None of these jurors looked the type, but you never could tell. It was pot luck really.
   Take twelve people off the street, about four of them will read The Sun, at least one of them probably votes for the National Front for Christ's sake! What a ridiculous idea the whole thing was: We want to develop a fair way of making life and death decisions, so what do we do? We pick twelve people at random and take a straw poll!
   The judges were another thing that upset Elaine. Power mad old men who weren't exactly renowned for their liberal mindedness. Some of course were better than others, but with the great majority being elderly male members of the middle classes, it was not surprising that there was a proliferation of conservative views amongst their ranks. The judge today had a generally good reputation. Even so, as a white fifty five year old male who probably expected his own wife to be content with a domestic existence, it could not be expected that he would be overly sympathetic to Christine's situation.
   Despite all the complaints she harboured about the justice system she served, Elaine still believed in the fundamental worth of what she did. Without some sort of law and order, society would degenerate into anarchy. Catching the perpetrators of crime was obviously a necessary function, within any such system. As long as she ensured that she acted as even-handedly as possible in her pursuit of criminals, then the validity of what she did was unquestionably assured. Without people like herself in the police force, querying the worth of the methods they employed, the system itself could never hope to improve.

+ + + + + +

Jon sat in his untidy living room, having thoughts of his own about the nature of justice. He knew what he had to do; punish the members of society who were most to blame for fashioning the uncaring system that we all have to endure. As Jon saw it, certain groups of people were more to blame than others. Obviously, a politician had more to answer for than a nurse, for instance. Jon would consider the issue carefully and come up with a list of those whose guilt was sufficient to merit punishment.
   He retrieved a pencil and a pad of paper from on top of the nearby bookcase and started to jot down a few names

+ + + + + +

Elaine was dragged from her thoughts as she sensed a change come over the courtroom. An expectant hush had descended. The jury had obviously made up their minds and were returning to give their verdict. The judge called for order and asked the chairman of the jurors to stand forward.

Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?'

Yes, my lord.'
   A bad sign for Christine, thought Elaine. If the jury were going to find her guilty of the lesser charge, it would have took some arguing out and probably led to a split verdict. A quick unanimous verdict pointed to them having found Christine guilty of murder. Elaine looked across the crowded court at Christine. She stood in the dock, her head bowed, her eyes tightly shut. She was trembling slightly and struck Elaine as looking like a terrified animal standing transfixed before a predator, unable to resist, just waiting to receive the inevitable coup de grace.
   'Then how do you find Mrs Christine Plummer on the charge of murder?'
   Elaine gripped her fists tightly, her nails digging uncomfortably into the palms of her hands. Surprisingly, she sensed Chris tense up in the seat beside her, she had rather expected him to amuse himself by 'eyeing up' any women in the vicinity that he found attractive, in his own sordid little way. Perhaps she had misjudged him.
   'Guilty as charged.'

Shit, shit, shit, shit!! It shouldn't have happened. The poor woman had just endured a twelve year stretch of mental cruelty. Now she was going to spend the rest of her useful life locked up. It just wasn't fair. Elaine looked back at Christine. She was crying quietly, her shoulders shaking as she tried to suppress her sobs.
   For a few moments the court was awash with excited chatter. The judge quickly regained order to pass his sentence. 'Christine Anna Plummer, you have been found guilty of the crime of murder. Due to the callous nature of the crime I have no alternative but to remove you from society for a very long time. I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment with a suggested minimum term of fifteen years.'
   The court was immediately flooded by a resurgent tide of human noise. Elaine had expected as much. The judge didn't really have much choice, but still her stomach lurched as he spelt it out. Beside her she heard Chris inhale sharply. She looked round to see him punching the air, smiling broadly.
   'Result!!'
   What a complete pig. Elaine could hardly believe him. She had assumed that her extremely low opinion of him precluded the possibility of him appalling her. But she was wrong. Elaine looked away to watch Christine being gently led from the court. She felt so guilty, so responsible, she wanted to rush down to the court below and beg Christine's forgiveness.
   Her feelings of responsibility were ridiculous of course. Her behaviour in this affair had been exemplary. Nobody could claim otherwise. Elaine knew this, but it didn't help. She just wished there was something she could do that would make a difference. But of course there wasn't.
   Driving back to 'The Yard', Chris talked away happily. Reliving his personal moment of triumph, when the vicious bitch got everything that she deserved. Elaine bit her tongue and remained silent. Arguing it out wouldn't get her anywhere. Chris noticed Elaine's silence but didn't let it bother him. He understood women. He reckoned it must be her time of the month and ignored her, refusing to be infected by her hormone induced misery.

+ + + + + +

'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'
   The vicar finished his sermon and piped music drifted over the congregation, drowning out the sound of the conveyor belt. To the strains of an anonymous piece of sombre organ music, the coffin glided slowly towards a curtained hole on the left wall of the chapel. The coffin passed through the curtains and into what everyone knew were the incinerators beyond. The music faded away and once again the air was filled with the sobs of Susan Howell's anguished family and friends.
   The service over, the funeral party left the crematorium and returned to the Howells for sandwiches and drinks. Doris pulled herself together and adopted her role as the perfect hostess for the rest of the afternoon, busily flitting between guests, ensuring everyone's comfort. Tom sat silently in his favourite chair opposite the silent television, keeping his thoughts to himself whilst the hubbub of the gathering passed all around him.

+ + + + + +

Jon lay on his living room floor, dressed only in shorts, doing press-ups. The task that lay ahead would be a physically arduous one and so he had decided to try and prepare himself by getting into shape. He had always taken reasonable care of himself; playing football and squash at least once a week, but he had lost interest in this part of his life, like most of the others, after Sally had walked out on him.
   Still, though that event now seemed a long time ago, it was not in fact yet a month since it had happened. It would not take all that much time before he regained his physical fitness. Jon had started his punishing regime of exercise two days ago and though he ached all over, he could already feel the sense of strength returning to his limbs.
    After two series of forty press-ups, Jon completed sixty sit-ups and lay panting on the floor. That would do for now. He would start again before he ate his dinner and then go out for a run in the morning.
   He took a shower and returned to the living room dressed in a white towelling robe. The room was much tidier than it had been for weeks. With his new sense of direction and purpose, Jon had managed to pull himself together. He had tidied the house from top to bottom. A rediscovered sense of personal hygiene had brought a similar improvement in his own appearance. In short, almost nothing about him or his flat gave any indication that anything was amiss. The only incongruous item was the newspaper cutting and Bible page taped to the living room wall.
   He settled onto his futon and picked up the pad and pencil that lay by its side. He carefully surveyed the list he had compiled over the last few days. Finally, he satisfied himself that it was complete. He wrote it out again on a fresh sheet of paper and taped that to the wall next to the Bible page and the newspaper cutting. Now everything was set; he knew what he had to do and he knew who he was going to do it to. Tomorrow he would make a start.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 3.

HOUSE HUNTING

Just look at your feet, forget about the hill.
   Jon was on the morning run that now formed an early part of his daily routine, and was tackling the hill that marked the mid-way point of his normal route. In the spring morning sunshine, the air was crisp and his breath hung in a fine mist about him. His face was red with exertion and his head was caked in sweat, but his strides and breathing remained regular and assured.
   Concentrate on your breathing, ignore the hill. It's so big it'll take ages to get to the top.
   The hill was nothing like as fearsome as Jon was trying to convince himself. He was trying to deceive himself, so that his body would resign itself to a long climb and then he would be pleasantly surprised when it was all over so quickly. Negative thoughts to assure positive feedback. The power of negative thinking.

Ignore the pain in your legs, shorten your stride, concentrate on your breathing.
   He was making good progress up the slope. His calf muscles ached, but that was more to do with the punishing onslaught he had subjected his body to over the last week or so, rather than the modest incline he was currently scaling.
   Concentrate. Breathe in slowly, four strides, breathe out slowly, four strides, breath in slowly....
   Jon often wished that he could switch his brain off at times like this, when running or exercising; just let his body get on with it and then switch back on when it was all finished. He knew that if he thought about how far he had to go, it would only drag the whole uncomfortable process out. So he tried to occupy his mind on other things, concentrating on his stride length or his breathing, anything so long as he didn't allow himself to start looking forward to the end.
   The end of the hill, the end of the run. He constantly tried to deceive himself, trying to convince himself that he had much further to go, much more to endure than he actually had.
   Less than two minutes after starting the climb, Jon reached the hill's crest. The hill was so shallow that in a car you might not even notice it was there. To Jon, who suffered every incline in the strain on his legs, every minor slope was a small victory.

Right, well done, we're at the top. Now we're almost a quarter of the way there. Just keep those legs moving and we'll be back home before you know it.
   Jon was in fact over half of the way home, but of course he couldn't allow himself to recognise this fact.
   Lengthen your stride, keep the rhythm going. Breathe in, four strides, breathe out, four strides...Gotta keep it going, don't want to get a stitch.
   He saw a pedestrian walking on the footpath towards him. He moved out onto the road to pass him with the minimum of fuss. Moving back onto the safety of the footpath, he continued on his way without the slightest break in his precious rhythm.
   Jon tried to time his run so that he would meet as few people as possible. At between nine and ten every morning it was after most people had set off for work, but before the 'non-working' population had started to emerge in any great numbers. He self-consciously didn't like to run when there too many people about.
   One over heard gibe from a passing schoolgirl could send him spiralling into a crisis of confidence. He knew he shouldn't be so sensitive and should learn to be thicker skinned, but still he remained vulnerable to the opinions of people whose views on any other subject apart from himself, he would cheerily dismiss as worthless.
   On the flat, he was making good time. When he had first tried this four mile run, it had taken him almost forty minutes. Yesterday, only five days later, he had managed to cut his time down to less than thirty. Today's run, now over three quarters of the way round, was faster still.
   Keep it going, keep it going. breathe in, four strides, breathe out, four strides. Watch that stride length. C'mon stretch those legs. Almost half way round now, just keep it going.
   He ran on down Tooting High Street, totally oblivious to the passing of familiar buildings and shops, so total was his concentration on his breathing and stride pattern. Eventually, he came to Tooting Broadway tube station. He was now on his familiar 'commuter route'. The same route he had travelled on to and from work, twice a day, almost every day for the last three years. This way was so etched into his psyche, that he was forced to abandon all attempts at self deception as to the length of his journey. He was as good as home.
   With a huge surge of relief and exhilaration, all thoughts of fatigue were forgotten. The conservation of his energy resources no longer necessary, Jon allowed himself to pick his feet up and sprint the four hundred or so remaining yards home.
   Arriving home, Jon already had the house key in his hand. He quickly swung the door open and burst into the communal hall area. Without stopping to check his pigeon hole for mail, he sped up the stairs, opened the door to his first floor flat and headed straight for the kitchen. There he found his stopwatch. Stopping it, he slumped gasping and sweating to the vinyl floor.
   Twenty eight minutes, thirty seven seconds.

Brilliant.
   Long minutes passed before Jon had recovered enough to move himself. He slowly rose to his feet, bracing himself whilst his head spun, gravity depriving his brain of precious oxygen. Head now cleared, Jon took a bottle of water from his fridge and sipped from it whilst he headed to the bathroom. He stripped himself of his sweaty things and slipped into the comforting warm stream of the shower.

+ + + + + +

Ablutions completed, dressed in a loose tracksuit, Jon entered his living room carrying a tray bearing a mug of coffee and a several rounds of wholemeal toast. He sat down on his futon and began to munch noisily through his light breakfast. As he ate, he picked up the pad and pencil from where it lay on the futon and tried to recapture his thoughts from yesterday.
   Today was the day. He had it all worked out. Today was the day he was going to kill an Estate Agent.
   Jon had only had limited dealings with estate agents. Early last summer, he and Sally had decided that their joint incomes were sufficient for them to venture into the property market and buy a place of their own. At first the estate agents they had met seemed very helpful, slightly pushy maybe, but not nearly as bad as their reputations had led them to expect.
   After four weeks of the tiresome slog of searching and the embarrassment of passing judgement on other peoples homes, they found the place they were looking for.
   A reasonably priced, two bedroom flat in Mitcham. It needed some work doing to it, but it had a certain inherent cosiness. They could both picture themselves living there, working together to build themselves their own private sanctuary against the trials and tribulations of the outside world.
   For two weeks they let their enthusiasm run away with them, filling their heads with thoughts of colour schemes and consumer durables, whilst their solicitor took care of all the legal formalities. Then completely out of the blue, their plans were shattered. The solicitor discovered that the building their flat was part of, was listed as unsafe. Shocked and furious, Jon and Sally stormed round to the estate agents to demand an explanation.
   The estate agents claimed not to have known about the buildings history and that if they had, they would not have put it on the market. Satisfied with this explanation, Jon and Sally were forced to accept that this was just one of those things.
   They calmed down, withdrew their offer and started the daunting task of trying to find another comparable property.
   A further three weeks of tiresome searching later, they found somewhere else. It wasn't quite as nice as their original place, but it was by far the next best of what they'd seen. Even after having their offer accepted, Jon and Sally disciplined themselves not to get carried away this time, not to invest any of their egos into this flat. Once bitten, twice shy.
   Two weeks later, the solicitors search came back okay, everything looked fine and they started to relax a little. Sally started to buy House Beautiful magazine and once again their anticipation started to wind up as they planned out exactly how they wanted everything to look in their new home. Unfortunately it was not to be.
   Thirteen days before they were due to complete, the vendors pulled out. They had had a better offer. The estate agent, had continued showing people round the flat, even after he knew an offer had been accepted on it.
   Disillusioned with the whole thing and frightened by reports of an imminent downturn in the housing market, Sally and Jon decided to call it a day and make do with their rented accommodation for the time being. The whole episode left a sour taste in their mouths, and a feeling of resentment towards the sharp practices of estate agents in particular.
   A couple of months after they stopped looking they noticed that the estate agents sign still stood outside the first flat and indeed its details were still in the estate agents window. Jon and Sally both agreed, estate agents were scum.
   Fifteen months later, when making out his list of people who deserved punishment, estate agents had been top of the list, though Jon considered his own experiences no more than incidental in his decision. He reasoned that this category of people merited retribution for reasons quite apart from any personal feelings of grievance he might have.
   To him, estate agents were completely parasitic. Their social contribution was negligible, whilst the rewards they received for this contribution were ridiculously high. With their unscrupulous methods they were self motivated harbingers of uncertainty and misery, encouraging sellers to accept less than their houses were worth and vendors to pay over the odds, all to speed up their turnover and get their hands on their precious commission.
   Dishonesty was almost part of their job description. They lied as a matter of course, with no thought for the long term effects on the householders who might well spend twenty five years paying for a house, the value of which when bought or sold is the subject of such casual estate agent deception.
   They acted as the catalysts of greed in others, encouraging house buyers and sellers to engage in sharp practice of their own. Gazumping was not invented by a prospective house buyer desperate to get the house of his dreams. It was the creation of an estate agent, suggested to prospective purchasers at an appropriate moment of vulnerability.
   Anything to hike up the price of the property and increase their precious commission.
    If Jon had his way, he would nationalise the whole business of estate agency. House buying was one of the most important decisions anyone ever has to make. People should not have to deal through profit motivated individuals, renowned for their dishonesty. Such individuals only served to introduce an element of uncertainty, at a time when people are making decisions that they have to live with for the rest of their lives.
   Why not nationalise the whole thing? Under government control, houses could be accurately valued, so that people could be sure that what they were paying was what the house was worth. Surely everyone would be much better off under such a system, except the estate agents of course, and they were scum and beneath consideration.
    In Jon's eyes, the crucial issue when condemning someone for their actions was the question of choice. Did these people behave in an offensive manner because their situation 'forced' them to, or did they have the opportunities to behave otherwise?
   For instance, Jon felt very strongly on the subject of soft-pornography, page three et al. He thought that topless models lowered the quality of everyone's lives. Encouraging the idea that it is 'normal' to treat women as sex objects, to be used as men see fit.
   This was not only offensive to women, who suffer the effects directly, it was almost equally as offensive to men who were being severely patronised by the inherent assumption that it is 'normal' for them to want to see a woman, (who had obviously been well paid for the service), display her breasts publicly.
   Those miserable creatures who do genuinely delight in studying the chests of adolescent women, are being titillated by a media polished image of the normal female physique. An image no woman they may meet in actual life, could ever hope to live up to, thus condemning these men to ultimate dissatisfaction in their sexual relations.
   Jon did not however hate the actual practitioners of this 'evil', the models themselves. He reasoned that they were poor unfortunates whose social position decreed that topless modelling, a pastime that nobody could possibly enjoy, was the best opportunity open to them.
   The models were like himself, innocent victims of society, forced into committing despicable acts by circumstances outside their control.
    Estate agents, though were completely guilty. None of them could claim that it was the only avenue open to them. To enter the profession required a certain level of education and a high degree of social skills. Such qualities qualify these people to enter any number of alternative careers, so there was no excuse for having chosen to enter estate agency. Their only possible motive was personal greed and they deserved to die for it.
   Jon would set an example to them, to show them the error of their ways.

+ + + + + +

After finishing his breakfast, Jon dressed himself casually in jeans, sweatshirt and denim jacket. Picking up his keys, season ticket and money from the dresser, he left the flat and hurried off to the tube station where he quickly boarded a Northbound train. Barely ten minutes later, two stops down the Northern Line, he left the train and headed out of the station and onto Balham High Street. There he stopped and looked both ways down the busy street. To the right he could see two estate agencies, whilst to the left he spotted four. He headed left.
   The first office was on the opposite side of the road from him. Walking past, he could see through the glass front that there were three people inside; two young men in uniform dark suits who looked like staff and a middle aged woman browsing the property boards, who was undoubtedly a customer.

Too many possible witnesses.
   Jon carried on walking down the street.
   The second office was on his side of the road. Inside there was a solitary young woman, sat at a desk, studying some papers. Jon paused outside for a moment and considered her suitability. The girl was young, and attractive. She didn't match Jon's image of the typical estate agent at all. In fact she seemed to him to look like quite a nice person really. She didn't look up from her work as Jon walked on towards the next estate agents.
   The third office was smaller than the first two. Inside there was a suited man, sat expectantly at a desk. Apart from the single estate agent, the office was empty. As Jon came alongside the office, he looked inside and instantly satisfied himself that this one would do. He entered the office and approached the estate agent.
   'Good morning sir, can I help you ?'
    The estate agent rose to his feet smiling broadly and all too obviously falsely.

Perfect.
   'Yes, I'm looking for a house in the area, with a view to a quick purchase. Have you got any details I could look at?'
   Jon stood opposite the man's desk. Now Jon got close to him he was gratified to find that the mans appearance was one that he could easily take a dislike to. It would make what he had to do a lot easier. The man was about five foot eight tall, of medium build and looked in his mid twenties Dressed smartly in an expensive looking, well fitting suit, he had a smooth boyish looking complexion and a mousy moustache.
   Apart from the man's general air of insincerity, it was his moustache that really irritated Jon. Jon had a theory about moustaches. He thought that they indicated a certain insecurity by their wearers in their own masculinity. Growing a patch of facial hair to demonstrate to the world their arrival at the gates of manhood. Jon could see no other motive for them.
   Beards he could understand. He himself hated shaving and was often tempted just to let it all grow. But surely cultivating a moustache was more bother than just shaving the whole lot off. No, Jon was convinced that there was something undeniably odd about the wearers of moustaches and they deserved his contempt.
   'My names Bob by the way.'
   Bob offered his hand and Jon shook it, noting with satisfaction the limpness of his handshake.
   'Take a seat sir. Now could I just have a few personal details.
   Your name ?'
   'Richard Wilson.'
   'Address ?'
   '32 Queens Court, Clapham.'
   'Phone number ?'
   '271-4358.'
   'And your work number ?'
   'I work from home.'
   Jon lied with the casual ease that recent long hours of practice had given him. So familiar with these bogus details was he, that they were second nature to him.
   'And have you a property of your own to sell ?'
   'No, I'm a first time buyer.'
   'And what price range are you looking at ?'
   'Hundred and eighty to two hundred thousand. I'm really after a two bedroom house. As I said, I'm looking to buy as quickly as possible, so any vacant property would be ideal.'
   'Righty oh, I'll see what we can do.'

Bob rose from his chair and started to select property details from a filing cabinet at the rear of the office. Jon amused himself by surveying Bob's desk, sneering to himself at the pretentious Newton's cradle.
   'Sorry to keep you waiting. Here's a few that seem to be what you're after. Take them away with you to look over and if there's any you fancy, just give us a ring.'
   Bob handed Jon a pile of property details and sat down.
   'Thanks.'
   'I happen to know that the first one, 42 Sycamore Road is very nice. It's been empty for six months now. They've had a couple of offers on it, but they've both fallen through. The owners are desperate to sell and would definitely accept any reasonable offer.'
   'Yeah, thanks.'
   Jon didn't want to sit here for any longer than he had to, listening to this man's lies. He'd accomplished what he had set out to do and now the sooner he was out of there the better. He looked at his watch and stood up.
   'I'm sorry, I've got to be off. I'll give you a ring when I've had a chance to look through them.'
   'Great. Well, take my card Richard and call us back soon.'
   Bob stood up and offered his hand again. Jon took the business card, shook his hand and turned to leave.
   'Thanks a lot. See you later.'
   'My pleasure. Have a nice day.'
   Jon would have found it difficult to think of a better example of the insincerity which so characterised estate agents, than Bob's parting comment.

+ + + + + +

Back at home, an hour and a half later, Jon thought he had waited long enough and he rang up Home Trust. After three rings the phone was answered.
   'Hello, Home Trust Estate Agency, Bob speaking.'
   'Hello Bob, this is Richard Wilson here. I called in earlier.'
   'Yes Richard, what can I do for you ?'
   'Well, I've been looking through the house details you gave me and I really like the look of number 42 Sycamore Road. Would it be possible to have a look round.'
   'Sure, when do you have in mind ?'
   'Well, as soon as possible really.'
   'Righty oh. How does two thirty today suit you ?'
   'Great, that'd be fine. I'll meet you there then.'
   'Okay, see you later then Richard. Bye, bye.'
   'Goodbye Bob.'
   Jon replaced the telephone receiver and settled back into the futon. He had almost three hours to go until two thirty, plenty of time to get ready. He could hardly wait.

+ + + + + +

Robert Tillman replaced the phone receiver and picked up his newspaper, resuming his reading which had been interrupted by Jon's call. He rocked back in his chair, and flicked through the pink pages of the Financial Times, searching for any interesting article that grabbed his attention.
   He never actually read more than a small fraction of his daily paper: He generally found the articles long-winded and boring, not nearly punchy enough. One of the sensationalist tabloid papers would have matched his requirements much better, but the more respected 'quality broadsheet' wouldn't, he imagined, have done as much for his image with the 'punters.'
   The Financial Times also suited his monetary pretensions. Robert fancied himself as a bit of a financial whizz-kid, shrewdly picking out investment opportunities on the Stock Exchange. In reality, his successes were limited to buying shares in the privatisations of nationalised industries, which were so popular under governments of a Conservative persuasion.
   Such shares were normally ridiculously under priced so that any investor was guaranteed a healthy return. Still, that did not stop Robert, or the many like him, from congratulating themselves on the astuteness of their investments and their cleverness in making them.
   Business today, was slack, as it was during any day of the working week. The property market was in a period of relative slump, condemning Robert to an endless succession of lazy afternoons. His colleague, Mike, was due in at two fifteen, allowing Robert to leave the office and show Richard Wilson round the property on Sycamore Road. He was a funny one, that Richard. Not at all your typical house buyer.
   He had seemed somehow disinterested when he'd been in earlier; like he was just wasting Robert's time. But he'd been very specific as to what he wanted, which normally showed they meant business and he had rung back very quickly. Robert would just have to show him round the house, give him the flannel and hope for the best. God knows he needed the sale. Business was appalling at the moment.
   He could manage without the commission, but rumour had it that Head Office were planning to lay people off. The Prudential had done it a couple of months ago, and if it happened here he would be one of the first to go. Last in, first out. Robert had only been taken on three years ago, at the back end of the last boom. He could only hope the market took a sudden change for the better; but it'd better be sooner rather than later.
   Robert didn't think he'd have any problems getting another job, but with the market in its present state it'd have to be outside estate agency; in sales or something. He'd rather not though, if he could at all help it. Quite apart from his understandable reticence to throw away three years of hard work, he really enjoyed his job and doubted whether he could find anything better elsewhere.
   Robert knew that estate agents had a bad reputation, but he didn't think that it was deserved. All they did was provide a necessary service for which they were rewarded at the market rate. It wasn't as if they murdered anybody or anything. If it wasn't for them, how did people expect to buy and sell their houses ?
   He loved the excitement of the job; the thrill of the chase when on the verge of a big sale, the way you were out there on your own, totally reliant on your own abilities. Sure, he pulled the odd fast one now and again, who didn't, but nothing too serious. He thought of it as just helping people to make up their minds. If he managed to get more money out of a buyer, he was just helping the seller, who was after all paying his wages. People couldn't have it both ways.
   All Robert really did was oil the wheels of supply and demand, and who could argue with that. Anyway, if he didn't do it, someone else would. He would be unemployed and a lot poorer, and the world wouldn't be any better for his sacrifice.
   Robert finished his paper and roused himself to do something constructive. He retrieved his card file from on top of his desk and took out one of the cards. The cards contained the names and personal details of prospective buyers in the area. When he had nothing better to do, Robert would work his way through some of the cards, trying to drum up interest in any new or recently reduced property they had.
   He quickly read the card to try and familiarise himself with the client and then picked up the telephone receiver and dialled the number. After three rings the phone was answered.
   'Hello, is that Steve Rowe ?'
   'Hello Steve, this is Bob from Hometrust here.'
   'I'm just ringing with some house details you might be interested in. Are you still looking for a property ?'
   The start of these telephone conversations was always the tricky bit. Once you got them talking you were alright, but right at the start they were liable to hang up on the flimsiest of invented excuses. If you got past this early stage you were home free. They would normally agree to view a property, just to get rid of you.
   'Good, good, and how's Mary your lovely wife ?'
   'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. She'll be alright in a couple of days though. These things rarely last long. Good result for the Eagles on Saturday. Were you there ?'
   Robert's questions were his standard patter, tailored to match the client by the small collection of facts on the card in front of him. All designed to give the impression that he was genuinely interested in these people, that he was their friend with their best interests at heart.
   'Righty-oh. Well Steve the reason I've called is that we've just got a property in that I'm sure will interest you. As soon as I set eyes on the place I thought of you. It seems to suit your requirements down to the ground.'
   This was not true of course. Robert was ringing this person because the house was almost within his stated price range, as he would ring anybody else who he thought might possibly buy it.
   'It's a three bedroom Victorian terrace house in Woods Street, do you know where that is ?'
   'Well it's immaculate inside. Big sized rooms throughout. The owners are desperate to sell, so it's going for a song. There only asking ninety five grand for it when it's worth at least a hundred and twenty.' Another untruth. Nothing stimulates interest like the smell of a bargain.
   'I think you should have a look round as soon as possible. I know there's another couple interested, so if you want it you'll have to act quickly.' The other couple was an invention. An element of urgency never did a prospective sale any harm.
   'Righty-oh then, six thirty tonight. I'll warn the vendors to expect you. That's 23 Woods Street, the owners are a Mr and Mrs Grey. I'll ring you tomorrow to see how you get on and I'll pop the details in the post to you this afternoon.'
   'Okay then, happy hunting and take care.'
   'Bye.'
   Robert put he phone down and chuckled silently to himself. Half the battle in selling houses was to get people to look at them. Get buyers off their arses and the houses would sell themselves. He was pleased with the way the conversation had gone and congratulated himself on eliciting the desired response. Perhaps things were looking up after all.
   He drew the next card from the file, quickly surveyed the details and dialled the number...

+ + + + + +

By ten past two, Robert had worked his way through a quarter of the cards in the file and had met with the usual mixed response. In all he had managed to generate six property visits, which from a starting point of nothing wasn't bad going by his reckoning. He just had time to ring his girlfriend Janine, before he would have to leave to show that bloke round the house in Sycamore Road.
   He had been going out with Janine for over two years now, since she was fifteen and he was twenty one. She worked in a local shoe shop, as she had since leaving school. It was a dead end job with no prospects, but it matched her lack of qualifications and ambition. It would do until they were married, when she would give it all up to look after the house and the inevitable babies.
   That they would eventually be married, Robert didn't doubt; it was what both their families wanted and he thought he loved her, so what could go wrong? 'Til then, she would live with her parents and he with his, their houses only two streets apart.
   Her parents were family friends of his. They were middle aged and held traditional values. Though they liked Robert and encouraged his relationship with their daughter, they insisted that he bring her home by eleven each evening. Consequently, their lovemaking was opportunist, hurried and guilt ridden. Robert didn't resent Janine's parents for their repression of his sex-life, indeed he respected them for their actions and felt that he would behave similarly with any daughter of his own. After all who wanted to marry a slag?
   'Hello Janine ?'
   'Hello darling, how's it going, alright ?'
   'Yeah, you know, up and down. I'm just off out to show this bloke round a house on Sycamore Road.'
   'What do you fancy doing tonight ?'
   'I'll come round for tea after work and we can go for a drink.'
   'Okay, fine.'
   Mike, Robert's colleague entered the office. Robert waved a hello to him as he ended his conversation with Janine.
   'Okay then love, see you later.'
   'Love you too, bye.'

After putting the phone down, Robert stood up and took the bundle of house keys from on top of his desk.
   'Hi Mike. Can't stop, I've got to show this bloke round that house in Sycamore Road. See you in about half an hour.'
   'See you later mate.'

+ + + + + +

Robert rounded the corner into Sycamore Road in his red XR3i and saw immediately that Richard was already there, standing outside the house. He pulled up outside, quickly got out of the car and walked towards Richard who was leaning back against the garden wall waiting for him.
   'Sorry I'm late, I got held up in traffic on the High Street.'
   'That's okay, what's ten minutes between friends ?'
   Robert was relieved that Richard didn't seem bothered. It would have been stupid to have blown a possible sale for the sake of a few minutes.
   'Righty-oh, let's go and see what this house has got to offer.'
   Robert opened the gate for Richard and followed him down the footpath to the front door.
   'As you can see the front garden is reasonably spacious, fifty square foot in all. Obviously it's a bit overgrown at the moment, but with a bit of work I'm sure it could look lovely. All the windows have been replaced and double glazed by the previous owners, which adds about five thousand pounds onto the value of the property.'
   'Yes, it's all very impressive'
   A positive response, this one could be a goer.
   They reached the front door. As Robert fumbled with the keys, he tried to get Richard chatting. For want of a better opening he asked him about the sports holdall that he was carrying.
   'What's in the bag ?'
   'Oh, just some clothes I need to drop off at the launderette.'
   Richard's disinterested tone of voice did not encourage any further development of this potential conversational topic.
   Robert finally unlocked the door and swung it open. His heart sank as he saw the pile of junk mail inside. Richard and he stepped over the pile of unopened mail which littered the doorway and into the hall. Robert bent down to pick up the mail, wishing he'd got there first to give the place the once over. He just knew there would be a healthy layer of dust over everything. Just the sort of thing to put off a prospective buyer.
   Robert knew how important first impressions were. When it came down to it, people bought houses on an overall feel for a place. There were certain physical prerequisites that a house had to fulfil, like size and value, but gut instincts are what make people decide between those properties which meet their minimum requirements. Whether the place feels like home or not. He could only hope Richard wasn't a hygiene freak and wouldn't be too bothered by a spot of untidiness. Glancing at him, he didn't look obviously dismayed.
   He had no option but to push on regardless.
   'Right, this room on the left is the living room.'
   Entering the lounge, Robert walked up to the open fireplace and placed the collected stack of mail on top of the mantelpiece. The furniture-less room was as unkempt as he had feared. There was a three month old newspaper yellowing in the light of the bay window and a large dead spider lay in one corner of the room. Whatever the spider had died of, it wasn't hunger; several crispy fly corpses lay in the window sills. The window panes themselves were encrusted with filth and looked like they hadn't been cleaned for at least six months.
   Robert could only attempt to make light of the room's state.
   'Of course the carpets are included in the asking price. The insects are extra.'
   'I think I'll pass. I've got enough of them at home.'
   Humour, a promising sign. Robert was relieved. The punter obviously wasn't put off by the rooms state.

Right, let's sell him this house.
   'As you can see the room is spacious and well lit. Fifteen foot square is a very good size for a house of this style. The original fireplace is another attractive feature, very popular nowadays. What do you think?'
   Richard was standing in the bay window, examining the frame, presumably for damp. Not exactly the action of a disinterested person.
   'Yes it's nice, the view's lovely too.'
   Robert's hopes rose, it didn't look half bad. He stepped to Richard's shoulder to share the view.
   'Yes, it is nice. They always say that a good view can put about five thousand onto the value of a house.'
   A half truth at best, Robert knew, but what the hell.
   Robert turned and walked towards the door, closely followed by Richard.
   'Through this next door is the dining room, leading onto the kitchen. Once again the carpets are included.'
   'Lovely, very nice.'
   .'.and here is the kitchen. Though it's a bit bare at the moment, you'll notice that at eight foot by nine it's unusually large and well lit.'
   'Yes, I like it. I like it a lot.'
   Robert's hopes were soaring. It did really seem like this guy liked the place. God knows why, it seemed very average to him. If a house stays on the market for six months, it's not really going to be the bargain of the century. Anyway, who cared why he liked it, as long as he did. A first time buyer looking for a quick sale, it was a dream come true.
    He was a funny one though. He seemed permanently anxious; like his mind was elsewhere. When he said how much he liked a room, his voice lacked a certain enthusiasm, like he was just going through the motions. Thinking back, he'd been like that since he walked through the doors this morning. No, it must just be his way. He liked the place alright and Robert wasn't about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. He would give him the spiel, take him round upstairs and with any luck tonight he would be working out how to spend his commission.
   'Back out through the dining room and we're back in the hall. On our left we have the understairs cupboard. If we look inside you'll see how particularly roomy it is. Storage space is always a big plus in any house. Of course if you ever fall on hard times, you could rent it out to a family of illegal immigrants !!'
   'Ha. Yes, you can never have too much storage space.'
   Robert was really bubbling now. He thought that the illegal immigrant joke was one of his best. Of course he was laying it on a bit thick, but this bloke was lapping it up, he loved the place.

I'm not interested in your fucking lies!!
    Jon was finding it difficult to maintain control. He knew what he had to do, he had gone over it so many times; just act interested, keep him off his guard and wait till he was upstairs. But it was so difficult, this small man irritated him so much. He was just so offensive, Jon just wanted to carve him up there and then, spill his guts onto the bland hall carpet that they were both pretending was so impressive. Jon knew better than that though, he knew how important it was to take no chances. He would wait till the time was right, just as he'd planned it and then he would be able to give the little shit exactly what he deserved.
   'Righty oh, if you've seen everything you want to down here, we'll have a look upstairs.
   Nothing remarkable about the stairs of course, if you've seen one flight of stairs you've seen them all, I always say. Ha..Ha.'
   Christ, he's laughing at his own jokes now.
   'Yeah, I suppose so.'
   Jon followed Bob up the stairs, his thoughts on the knives hidden in his bag.
   'Here we have the bathroom. Now I know it's not very plush at the moment, but I know a lot of people who prefer these older bathroom suites. They're much more reliable than your modern plastic rubbish. If something's lasted for thirty odd years, it's a fair bet it'll last you a bit longer.'
   'Yeah, I like it. It looks sort of.. lived in.'
   Lived in, He'd have to remember that one. This guy was too good to be true.
   'And here's the master bedroom. At fifteen foot square it's very large and with it's south facing windows, you'll always get the sun. As you can see the decoration in here is immaculate. The previous owners just had it done out before they moved.'
   It was true the bedroom was very nice. Robert almost laughed aloud as soon as he saw it. It was so much better than the rest of the house, it'd sell the house for sure.
   'Yes it's magnificent, easily the best room in the house. I was pretty keen before, but this room has really made up my mind. It's lovely.'
   'Do you mind if I use the bathroom ?'
   'No, not at all. It may well be yours soon anyway, so you might as well try it out.'
   Jon left the bedroom and entered the bathroom. Unnoticed by Robert he took his bag with him. As soon as Robert heard the sound of the bathroom door's lock sliding home, his polished salesman stance vanished. He punched the air with delight, cheering under his breath.
   'Yesss !!'
   He was elated. He had done it. He had all but sold this bloke a house, and in record time too; The bloke couldn't have walked into the office any more than four hours ago. Wait till he told the others, they'd be so jealous. They'd be talking about this sale for years to come. They wouldn't dare get rid of him now.
   'Yesss !!'
   He punched the air again, he just couldn't suppress his delight. It felt so good. It hadn't been easy though. Not everyone could have done it. This bloke had been a bit strange, nobody could disagree with that and the house itself was really no better than average. No, it had taken a skilled touch to make this sale. He had performed at the zenith of his abilities and had got what he deserved. When he got back to the office, he would try and write down exactly what he had done, to use as a model for his future sales.
   Robert's self-congratulations were interrupted by the sound of the toilet flushing. He composed himself and prepared to wrap up the sale on Richard's return.
   As he slid the bolt of the bathroom door home, Jon's manner also changed drastically. Gone was the controlled enthusiasm of the eager house buyer, replaced by a frenzy of activity as he swiftly unzipped his bag and took out a newspaper wrapped package. He quickly unwrapped it to reveal the two 'Sabatier' kitchen knives inside. One at a time he held them loosely in his right hand, judging their weight as he thought through exactly what he planned to do. He would use the smaller vegetable knife. It felt better in his hand and was easily long enough to do the job.
   The more menacing looking butchers knife was just insurance against any mishaps. Jon had read and re-read the library book which told him where the body was most vulnerable, going over in his mind exactly what he had to do. He had thought that when it came down to it, he would be frightened or at least apprehensive.
   But now, standing on the precipice of a cold blooded murder, he was perfectly calm. He had a good plan with everything worked out. All he had to do was follow it and everything would be fine. The right of what he was doing was unquestionable. 'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.' Sally was dead and this estate agent must pay.
   Jon placed the knives in the inside pockets of his open jacket, one on each side. He stowed the newspaper in his bag and washed his hands of the inky stains. Leaving his bag behind, he left the bathroom. As he re-entered the bedroom, Robert was standing at the window, peering through the net curtains at the street below.
   'Sorry to keep you waiting.'
   'Don't mention it, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Now if you've seen enough of this room, I've just got the last two smaller bedrooms to show you.'
   'Okay, lead on.'
   This was it, he was on the home straight now, all Robert had to do was play it cool and show him these last two bedrooms. According to the house details, they should be alright. Baring any disaster like a dead dog in there, or squatters or something, he was home free.
   Absorbed in his thoughts of success, Robert passed Richard and walked towards the bedroom door.
    Without warning a hand clasped tightly over his mouth and he was jabbed sharply in his kidneys. As his mind raced to try and interpret what was happening, he was overwhelmed by a wave of pain of an intensity he had not previously experienced. Again he felt the jab in his back and again it was accompanied by a wave of pain.
   He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the hand about his mouth. At last he realised what was happening, he was being attacked, he was being stabbed, he had to fight, he had to escape. He tried to struggle, but it was no use. He was held too firmly and he was so weak.
   The pain was excruciating, it filled his entire existence. Again and again the searing agony pierced his back. He felt himself slipping away, becoming less aware of his body and the events around him, losing consciousness.
   He knew what was happening, he was dying. He was afraid, he didn't want to die. Why was this happening to him, what had he done to deserve this ?
   Finally Robert was released and he fell heavily backwards onto the floor. He was vaguely aware of Richard kneeling over him, but could do nothing to resist.
   Jon raised the knife over his head and plunged it into Robert's chest, piercing his heart. Robert knew no more.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 4.

THE PURSUERS

At 15.34 that afternoon Mike, Robert's colleague at Hometrust, began to get annoyed at Robert's continued abscence from the office. By 16.23, Mike's annoyance had turned to worry and he started to ring round all the places that he could think of where Robert might have been.
   At 18.07 he rang the police, giving them the address Robert was meant to be showing the client round and a description of his car. Twenty minutes later, two constables forced entry into the house on Sycamore Road and discovered Robert's body in an upstairs bedroom. At 19.12 Elaine and Chris were called at their homes. They arrived at the scene at 19.45.
   They were immediately shepherded into the upstairs bedroom by a uniformed officer. The room was in a state of chaos. There must have been at least eight people in there, all intently ripping the place apart. Elaine recognized most of them as members of the 'Scene of Crime' team; Forensic experts, scratching around, looking for the smallest clue that might lead them nearer to the killer. In the middle of the room there was an ominous covered mound, obviously the victim.
   A stocky middle aged, earnest looking man noticed Elaine and Chris standing in the bedroom doorway. He stopped what he was doing and walked towards them.
    'Hello Elaine. Have you just arrived ?'
    'Yes, Pat. What can you tell us ?'
    Patrick Strachan was a man Elaine had learned to rely on. Though lacking in the 'lateral thought' needed to be a good detective, his attention to detail was second to none. After twenty five years on the force, he had found his niche in the SOC squad, relishing the minutae of the forensic work. If Pat had a theory on how something had happened, it generally paid to listen.
    'The victim's a Robert Tillman, a local estate agent. At 14.30 today he had an appointment to show a client round this house. The local police found him like this about forty minutes ago. He's been stabbed pretty badly in the back and sides; between thirty and forty times. He lost a lot of blood, that alone could have killed him. But I think a wound in the chest is what finished him off. It looks a deep one and could easily have got his heart. Time of death, probably about three, though we'll have to wait till the autopsy to be sure.'
    'Have you seen the wall ?'
    Patrick pointed to the far bedroom wall. Elaine and Chris followed his finger and could just make out what looked like some grafitti. They all walked over to get a better look. There on the wall, daubed untidily in a reddy brown colour was a graffiti like message.
    EYE FOR EYE, TOOTH FOR TOOTH.
    'Is it ?'
    'Yes, it's written in blood. Almost certainly the victim's. At least we'll probably get some decent prints from this little lot.'
    'After he did this, the killer seems to have gone to the bathroom to try and wash some of the blood off before leaving the house. We've got no witnesses yet, the local police are knocking on doors at the moment. Somebody must have seen him, he must have been absolutely covered in blood.'
    'Do the police know who he was showing round the house ?'
    'No, not yet. There's some uniforms round at his office now, trying to find out.'
    'Do you know the address ?'
    'No, but I'm sure one of the uniforms could tell you.'
    'Okay, Chris and I will head over there. We'll see you later.'
    There was no point in hanging around the house, they were only in the way. Elaine got the address of the estate agent's and Chris and she sped off to the office on Balham High Street. Chris as usual drove, safe in the assumption that this most masculine of tasks was his by right. In fact, Elaine was an excellent driver, but despite being annoyed by his chauvanism and appalled by the pointless impetuousness that characterised his driving, she did not press her claims to the drivers seat.
   She recognised the psychological crutch that the role afforded Chris: By the very nature of her superior ability (as she saw it), or superior rank (as he did), she dominated all other areas of their partnership. Allowing him the small luxury of driving the car was a necessary evil. It gave him a worthwhile function within their working relationship. A small area of perceived expertise to salve his fragile male self esteem.
    'Did you see the blood on that wall ? Christ I can't believe it, it's just like a film. This bloke must be a fucking psycho!'
    'If it is a bloke. We can't make any assumptions.'
    'Yeah I suppose so, but that stiff was so cut up, it'd take a lot of strength to do something like that. If it is a woman, I wouldn't like to meet her in a dark alley!'
    'In your dreams Chris !'
    Chris and Elaine chatted excitedly. In the house, in front of the local police they had had to act sombre and appalled, but here in the privacy of the car, they could give vent to their true feelings.
   To a local policeman, a murder is a hugely shocking event. An unwanted tragedy, traumatising the community which they are a part of. To CID, emotionally unattached to the affected people, a murder was simply a new challenge. A fresh stimulus with which to test their deductive powers. A new case was like an unopened present; full of a multidude of possibilities. Who knew where it might take them?
   All too soon, the blanks would be filled in, the possibilities refined, until the case was as familiar and tedious as all the rest. But at this moment of embarkation, the mystery was total. Chris and Elaine were intoxicated with anticipation.
    When they arrived at the Hometrust office the local police were questioning Mike Wells, a colleague of the victim, who had originally alerted the police. Elaine explained to the two PC's who she and Chris were and immediately assumed control. Mike was obviously very upset by the whole thing. Elaine reasoned that there was little to gain from questioning him at this point. After finding out from him which was Robert's desk, she got the local policemen to take him home. Getting rid of the plods, killing two birds with one stone.
    'Right Chris, let's search his desk. We're looking for anything that will tell us who he was going to show round that house.'
    'Like a diary or something ?'
    'Exactly.'
    They searched quickly and methodolically. Neither talking to the other, both focused on the task at hand.
    'Got it!'
   Chris had found it. A small blue bound desk diary. He quickly flicked through the pages, looking for today's date, as Elaine moved towards him to share his discovery.
    'Here it is, 2.30 today .
    42 Sycamore Road, Richard Wilson.'
    'Right, now let's look for some sort of list of clients. They must have a mailing list or something.
   Something which might give us more details on this Richard Wilson.'
    'Like this card file ?'
    Chris had discovered the card file almost before Elaine had finished telling him what they were looking for. This was unusual for Chris. Elaine was not used to him beating her to things like this and she had to suppress a slight twinge of jealousy. Concentrating so intensely on a 'virgin' problem like this one, it was easy to get caught up in a kind of childish competitiveness. Elaine was vaguely amused by her own stupidity and chuckled at herself under her breath. Chris didn't notice, he was already busily flicking through the card file.
    'Try looking under W for Witless.
    You'll find it after U for unintelligent.'
   A cheap shot, Elaine knew, but it reestablished her dominance and made her feel better. Chris ignored her, he'd found the diary and the card file, she was only jealous.
    'Result !! I've found it. Fucking brilliant. It's got an address in here and everything.'
    'Right, bag the diary and the card file and let's get round there.'

+ + + + + +

Twenty five minutes later, Elaine and Chris were parked in Queens Court, twenty five yards down the street from number thirty two. In a squad car parked behind them sat two police constables that Elaine had called up in support. The street was part of a sprawling council estate built in the 1950's and reminded Elaine of her roots.
   Despite their owners best attempts at customisation, the houses retained their grim grey quality which Elaine remembered so well. Number thirty two, stood out from the rest of the houses in the street, because it was clad in prefabricated plastic sheets of mock stone. This was obviously intended to give an impression of great age and craftmanship. Elaine had only ever seen ex-council houses decorated in this way. It was hideous, only serving to emphasise the character which these houses were so sadly lacking. That by trying too hard these houses had been made to look ridiculous, monuments to the vulgar pretensions of their owners.

The curtains of number thirty two's front room were open. Inside, multicoloured light could be seen flickering on the walls. Obviously a television was on and the house was occupied. Elaine raised the car radio microphone to her lips.
   'Right, let's do it!'
   Four car doors slammed in unison, and they sprinted across the street towards the panelled front door. One of the uniformed constables carried a sledgehammer, to force entry if need be.
   They reached the house. Elaine raised the gaudish brass door knocker and knocked three times.
   Five seconds passed. No answer.
   She knocked again.
   Another four seconds. Still no answer.
   'One last try.'
   The uniformed constable stood ready with the sledgehammer as Elaine raised the heavy knocker again. Just then the door swung open. A tall slightly overweight man stood in the doorway. He wore scruffy jeans and a teeshirt and looked in his early forties. Elaine noticed he had what appeared to be self-inflicted tatoos on both forearms.
   'Yes ?'
   He was obviously surprised to see them and not a little agitated.
   'Richard Wilson ?'
   'Yes.'
   Chris grabbed the man by the front of his teeshirt and pulled him roughly forward. He started to struggle, but the two uniformed officers both weighed in and he was quickly subdued. They spreadeagled him against the wall of the house and checked for concealed weapons whilst Elaine read him his rights.

+ + + + + +

By the time they got him back to the local police station, Elaine was already having misgivings. In her time she had heard literally hundreds of criminals protest their innocence even though their guilt was certain. But something about this man's pleas touched her. He was just too insistent on certain easily checked facts.
   Still she went through with the interrogation; Chris playing his very convincing bad cop, to her good, but as she had feared they got nowhere. After less than half an hour she decided to call the suspects bluff and rang up the foreman of the building site where Richard Wilson worked, who he insisted would confirm that he was working all afternoon. Her worst suspicions were realised when the foreman did just that. They had no choice but to let him go. As disappointment soaked up the adrenalin from her body, she suddenly felt very tired. She looked at her watch, it was already five to ten.
   'C'mon Chris, that's it, let's call it a night.'
   'Bastard. I'm sure he was fucking lying.'
   'I don't think so. Anyway there's nothing we can do about it till tommorrow. Just drive me home eh?'
   The journey home was in total silence. Each of them occupied by their own thoughts of failure. Looking at Chris as he drove, Elaine thought that he had been surprisingly useful and capable tonight. She felt closer to him then, than she could ever previously remember.
   'You know Chris, you were pretty good out there tonight.'
   'Yeah thanks.'
   Even this overt compliment could not pierce the all pervading atmosphere of gloom.

+ + + + + +

Elaine arrived home at 10.35. Her husband Pete was sat in the lounge watching television. Elaine hung up her coat and slumped down exausted on the settee beside him.
   'Anything good on ?'
   'No, just your usual pile of crap. What do you expect ?'
   Touchy. Something was obviously the matter. Elaine was tired and subdued, the last thing she needed was an argument. She let it drop and tried to ignore him. Again Elaine found herself in a highly charged atmosphere of silence. The room was filled with the laughter of the television's studio audience. Pete sat, staring intently at the screen but not taking anything in, his face knotted with internal grievance.
   In times passed, Elaine would have faced him head on. Exploding the situation and taking the consequences in her stride. But now she was tired and needed to rest. Getting to the root of the problem would give Pete a vent for his anger and make him feel better, but would do little for her. She recognised only too well the petty jealousy which would almost certainly be behind her husband's complaint.
   The same jealousy that formed the basis of most of their increasingly regular altercations, eating away at the body of their relationship like some cancerous growth. This problem ran too deep to solve with some simple compromise and Elaine had little enthusiasm for the task. After ten minutes, Elaine could stand it no longer.
   'Right, I'm off to bed. Are you coming ?'
   'I'm watching the fucking telly aren't I .'

Suit yourself.

+ + + + + +

Elaine woke the next morning to find herself alone in the marital double bed. From the relatively undisturbed state of the bedclothes, it was apparent that Pete had not slept there at all last night. As she hurried to ready herself for her day ahead, she found no signs of him anywhere in the house. She had grown used to these melodramatic gestures of her husband and was no longer overly worried by them.
   Now her first priority lay with her new murder case and it demanded all her attention and energies. Pete could indulge himself in his childish tantrum if he liked, but Elaine refused to reward his ridiculous behaviour with the attention he desired. Eventually, the whole episode would peter out or come to an explosive head.
   When that happened, Elaine would undoubtedly deal with it, but until then she would put it to the back of her mind and dedicate herself to the finding of the brutal murderer of Robert Tillman.
   She arrived early at New Scotland Yard. After reporting yesterday's events to her immediate superior, Chief Inspector Young, she rang Patrick Strachan to see how the forensic investigation was going. He wasn't in yet, but one of his colleagues told her that they would be performing the autopsy later today. Elaine left a note for Patrick, asking him to contact her if they found anything 'earth shattering', but otherwise she would be round to see him at ten tommorrow morning.
   Elaine then visited the computer office. There she entered the known characteristics of the crime into a computer terminal, to be checked against the national and international databases of previous crimes. The search turned up nothing with a similar M.O. Whoever had done this, had never done anything like it before.
   Chris eventually rolled in at almost half past nine. Elaine immediately dragged him off to Balham to continue their investigations there. They spent the day interviewing those closest to Robert; his parents, his fiancee and his colleague and best friend Mike Wells.
   Eight hours of exhaustive (and exhausting) questioning later they had got little further. They had found out a lot more about the victim and his habits, details which were essential in any investigation, but disappointingly they had uncovered no real leads on why anyone would actually want to kill him. The picture of Robert that emerged was of a 'normal' healthy young man of a working class family who was doing reasonably well for himself in a local firm of estate agents.
   He was confident and popular with his peers and was engaged to be married to the daughter of family friends. Nobody could think of anyone that could be considered an enemy of Robert's or indeed any reason why anyone might bear him a grudge. Of course, as an estate agent he must have upset a few people from time to time, it was an occupational hazard. But surely that wasn't enough reason for someone to kill him.
   The local police spent the day questioning people in the area around the scene of the crime to see if anyone had seen or heard anything suspicious around the time of the crime. For their efforts they found nothing. It seemed incredible, but nobody had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary whatsoever.
   After the adrenalin charged excitement of yesterday, the day's lack of progress was disappointing and enthusiasm sapping. The case, which only twenty four hours before had possessed such a multitude of possibilities, now seemed to be heading inexorably towards a dead end. Elaine only hoped that Patrick and his colleagues would come up with something.
   For now, she decided to follow up the theory that Robert had been killed by a disgruntled ex-client and got the local police to work through a list of people whose house sales he'd organised. Elaine was not very hopeful, if an ex-client had killed him, then why was he taken in by the phoney personal details? Still every avenue had to be explored and at least it was a positive step, however futile.

+ + + + + +

The next day, reinvigourated by a nights sleep, Elaine and Chris sat in Patrick's office waiting for any revelations he might provide them as to exactly how Robert Tillman met his end. Ten minutes late, Pat breezed into the office and smiled broadly at his guests. More specifically he smiled broadly at Elaine, he almost totally ignored Chris.
   He had always been very attracted to Elaine, who unlike almost all the other attractive women he had ever met, seemed genuinely interested in him and his work. He had admired her from a distance for a number of years, always relishing those all too brief periods when they had worked together. He recognised of course, that he would almost certainly never consummate his illicit desires, but there was no harm in thinking about it.
   'Hello Elaine, and how are you this morning ?'
   'Fine Pat, and you ?'
   'Couldn't be better, there's life in the old dog yet !'
   'Come off it Pat, you're not that old.'
   Elaine had learnt that flattery was the easy way to keep on Patrick's good side. Anyway he was a nice enough bloke, a little bit of flirting was quite fun really and certainly didn't do anybody any harm. Elaine recognised that behaving in this manner was contrary to her feminist principles but reasoned that it was justifiable. Whilst her feminist beliefs applied to an ideal world, she still had to live in the real one. That world was still a man's and to survive in it she had decided long ago that it was necessary to play the game their way.
   'You're too kind Elaine. Now before we start, would you like a cup off coffee.'
   'Yes please, white no sugar.'
   'And I'll have a coffee, white with two sugars, If you don't mind.' Chris interrupted.
   Elaine's flirting with the old boffin was sick making. He wished they'd just get to the point and they could get out there and catch the bastard that had done this.
   'Yes, of course.'

Pushy little git.
   Patrick left to make the coffees.
   'Laying it on a bit thick aren't you ?' Chris teased Elaine when Patrick was out of the room.
   'They're called social skills, I'll tell you about them sometime.' Elaine retorted, annoyed at being so transparent.
   'I thought they called it arse licking !' Chris mumbled under his breath,
   'Pardon, did you say something ?'
   'Nothing.'
   Patrick returned bearing a tray with three coffees. He passed one each to Elaine and Chris and then sat down behind his desk, facing them.
   'Thanks.'
   'Let's get started. You haven't come here just to drink coffee.
   Yesterday's autopsy showed that I was right with the cause of death, a knife blow to the heart. The murder weapon was a medium sized kitchen knife, four to five inches long. Time of death, approximately 2.45 pm.'
   Patrick retrieved a photograph from the pile of paper in front of him and pushed it across the table towards Elaine.
   'Apart from the fatal wound, the victim was stabbed thirty seven times...'
   Elaine looked at the photo, it was of Tillman's naked corpse. It was a mess. She wasn't squeamish or anything, but then again she certainly didn't get off on the violence like some of her colleagues she could think of. She glanced rapidly over the photo and then pushed it towards Chris. Chris glanced at it in turn and then handed it back to Patrick.
   'The wounds congregate on the lower right hand side of the victim's back. We think that the victim was taken by surprise, grabbed from behind and stabbed repeatedly in what can only be described as a frenzied manner. The neighbours have reported hearing nothing, so we can only assume that the killer held the victim about the mouth to prevent him crying for help. Bruises about the victim's mouth would seem to confirm this. After the attack from behind, the victim was dropped to the floor, at which point he would have been semi-conscious at best. It was only after dropping the victim to the floor that the killer delivered the fatal blow. From the angle of entry of the wounds, we calculate that the assailant is tall, 5'11" to 6'0, undoubtably right handed and almost certainly male..'
   Elaine glanced at Chris and smiled remembering their conversation on the night of the murder. Chris met her gaze and smiled back, taking the incident as a sign of Elaine's attraction to him..
   Patrick noticed this exchange and was jealous. This young fly-by-night D.C. didn't deserve such intimacy with Elaine.
   'The killer then wrote the message on the wall using his fingers daubed in the victims blood. It's an obvious biblical reference: Exodus 21.24.'
   Patrick pushed another photograph across the table. Elaine took it and studied the picture of the bloody scrawl on the bedroom wall. She was struck by the primitive nature of the act. Whoever had done this had not been racked by remorse. They had finished the kill, and then left this message in justification, totally confident in the right of what they had done.
   'It seems to indicate some kind of revenge motive.'
   'But everybody we've spoken to has said Tillman had no enemies.'
   'Could be a red herring of course, excuse the pun.'
   'No I don't think so. Perhaps this thing could be an act of revenge against estate agents in general.' Suggested Elaine.
   'Well that narrows down the suspects to about half the population of the country !'
   Chris's cheap joke fell on deaf ears. Elaine was deep in thought, she was thinking on her feet, developing her ideas in the creative atmosphere of the conversation. As soon as her last suggestion had left her lips, she was struck by how well it seemed to match the facts. Something inside her cognitive functions seemed to click and she was left with a feeling that this was the key to the crime.
   Elaine's mind raced, testing out this new theory: Well planned......no obvious enemies....frenzied attack... ..message.....Robert didn't know him. It all seemed to fit.
   Despite her preoccupation with her deductions, Elaine noticed Patrick had resumed his summary of the forensic evidence and was pushing another photograph towards her for her inspection. She dragged herself away from her exciting thoughts and back into the perceptual world.
   '..left the bedroom and walked to the bathroom, leaving this in the bedroom.'
   Patrick pushed a photograph across the tabletop towards Elaine. He had noticed that Eliane had 'glazed over' and wasn't really listening to what he was saying. He was very disappointed. He had put a lot of effort into this case, especially since he'd known Elaine was on it, and now she couldn't even be bothered to listen.
   'Thanks Pat.'
   Elaine took the photograph and flashed him a smile which instantly evaporated Patrick's sense of grievance in its warmth. The photo was of a large bloodstained footprint in the bedroom carpet. Chris strained his neck to view the photo over Elaine's shoulder.
   'The footprint is a size eleven Adidas Saturn running shoe. This sports shoe is available in almost any Highstreet in Britain. No help there I'm afraid.'
    As Patrick spoke he let his eyes linger on Elaine's chest for an instant. There was a small opening in her blouse between two buttons. From the way she was sitting, a hint of the white material of her bra could be seen througth this tiny aperture and it attracted Pat's gaze like a magnet. Patrick realised that he was staring and quickly looked away.
   'Now when he got to the bathroom, the killer washed himself and then seems to have changed into a spare set of clothes that he must have brought with him. This would of course explain why nobody saw a bloodstained man around the scene of the crime.
   As we've not found either any of his clothes or the murder weapon, we can only assume that he took them with him.'
   It was obviously a very well planned exercise. Elaine continued her train of thought. If it was an act of revenge against Estate Agents in general then there would be no connection between victim and killer. If it was as well planned as it seemed, then they would need a large slice of luck to catch him.
   'What about fingerprints Pat ?'
   She wasn't hopeful. Patrick would tell you straight if he'd found something, he wouldn't keep it 'til last. If he'd found a set of fingerprints which could have told them who did it, he'd have told them at the start.
   'I was just coming to that. There were prints all over the place. We've got a full set, so identification shouldn't be a problem. Unfortunately, we checked the database and didn't find a match. Whoever this bloke is, he hasn't been in trouble with the police before.'
   'Damn.'
   'That's about it really. As you can see, we've got lots of corroborating stuff, but nothing to lead you
   directly to your man. If you found a suspect, great. If not, then it's not much help I'm afraid.'
   'Yeah, that's true. Anyway that's our problem. You've done your usual thorough job. I don't know
   what we'd do without you.'
   Patrick glowed visibly under Elaine's generous praise. 'Oh it was nothing, all in a day's work.'
   Elaine smiled and stood up. Chris followed.
   'Don't underestimate yourself Pat. I'll see you later. Thanks for all your help.'
   'Anytime.'
   Patrick remained seated and watched them leave. He felt good about himself. It was nice to be appreciated. That Chris was a miserable little sod, but Elaine...if only he was ten years younger.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 5.

HOW TO GET A HEAD IN ADVERTISING

'I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now...'
   The sounds of 'The Smiths' boomed out from Jon's stereo system. Jon had found that one of the advantages of being at home in the middle of the day was that whilst all his neighbours were at work, he could play his music as loud as he liked. Though the sun shone brightly outside, the curtains were tightly drawn, sheltering Jon from the intrusive gaze of any passers by.
   He stood in the centre of the room, moving himself to the rhythm of the song, shifting his body weight from foot to foot, pirouetting with abandon. As he danced, he sporadically sang along with familiar sections of the song's lyrics.
   '..In my life why do I give valuable time to people who don't care if I live or die...'
   The music filled Jon's entire being. It made him feel alive and joyful to be so. It gave life to his limbs and for a brief instant freed him from his everyday cares and troubles.
   Jon's musical tastes could be roughly described as 'Independent'. 'The Smiths' with their poignant thoughtful lyrics were easily his favourite. Their songs seemed to sum up perfectly the confusion of everyday life; the fears, frustration and self defeating paranoia that Jon recognised so well.
   ..'In my life why do I give valuable time, to people who I'd much rather kick in the eye..'
   As Jon danced he was reminded of his youth, of his time at University and of Sally. In fact, though these songs now seemed inseparably entwined with his memories of his adolescence, Jon had only really started to appreciate them during his late teens.
   Whilst at school he had preferred the simpler more instantly accessible sounds offered by the heavy metal genre and thought bands like 'The Smiths' were depressing and boring. On arrival at University he quickly discovered that his musical tastes were generally considered to be immature and shallow and desperate for acceptance he quickly conformed and adopted the consensus opinion as his own.
    Looking back, Jon would find it difficult to believe that he had ever considered such music tedious, so in tune with his own view of the world did it now seem as he pivoted and whirled in his curtained front room.
   Jon's musical tastes were not the only fundamental seeming part of his personality which had drastically changed relatively recently. In the cloistered Hertfordshire village of his youth, he had been disinterested in politics and by default had inherited the relaxed liberalism of his parents. Even in the thought provoking atmosphere of his early undergraduate years, Jon's political apathy had remained unaffected.
   He found political debate invariably confrontational and ultimately pointless, consequently he avoided it, keeping his views to himself. All this changed when he met Sally. Sally was very political. An ardent feminist, she was an active member of both the Socialist Workers Party and CND. Her politics formed a central pillar of her existence and she wore them on her sleeve.
   Jon had always steered well clear of such 'loony lefties' as he categorised those who held similar views to Sally. Without ever really having known any of them to form his opinions on, he thought them blinkered, self-righteous, intimidating and boring. No doubt, if he had first met Sally in a social context where political beliefs were being aired, he would have pigeon-holed her as worthless and not given her a second thought. But Sally and he had not met in such a context.
   They had chanced across one another in the adrenaline charged and alcohol blurred atmosphere of the University disco. A place where all that mattered were first impressions and first impressions were entirely based upon physical attraction. She found his boyish good looks endearing and liked the look of his muscular frame and the curve of his shoulders. He liked what he could see (and imagine) of her unrestrained breasts and was strangely drawn by the way she moved her slim behind in her tight blue jeans as she danced.
   On the basis of such arbitrary physical attraction they met, danced, staggered home and made love. Embarking on a chain of events that would result in their eventual marriage. There was nothing magical about the forces of attraction that brought Jon and Sally together. On that night alone Jon had been similarly attracted to over a quarter of the women at the disco and would have quite happily rounded off his evening making love to any one of them.
   Similarly Sally would have settled for any of almost a tenth of the young men in the room, had they approached her before Jon did. Such is the random nature of human relations. That is not to say that if Sally had ended up in the bed of some other eager undergraduate that night, that she would have inevitably married them instead. Only that if she had, she might well not have married Jon.
   Shortly after their chance meeting, now head over heels in love, Jon and Sally started the process of adopting common opinions and attitudes, further strengthening the bonds that held them together and ostracising them from others who resented the impenetrable clique such consensus represented. Whilst developing these common attitudes, neither's beliefs were considered to be inherently more valid than the others, both had equal weight.
   Even so, when balancing very committed extreme left wing beliefs with wishy washy liberal views, it is not surprising that the left wing views prevail and are adopted as the opinions of the pair in an only slightly diluted form. In this way Jonathon developed a radical social conscience. And now, just a few years later, he was murdering people who offended these views.
   The compact disc silently reached it's end. Jon fell backwards, panting and sweating onto the futon. Once his head had cleared he rose to his feet, drew the curtains, picked up his A4 pad and sat back down. The pad contained his plans for the next killing. It had been almost three weeks since the last one and now he was almost ready. Very soon he would have it all worked out, and then an advertising executive would die.
   Nineteen days ago, Jon had returned home from his 'meeting' with the estate-agent in Balham. To a casual observer he would have appeared perfectly normal, but inside he was exhilarated; excited and nervous both at the same time. Despite his internal elation, on his journey home Jon had managed to control himself and appear outwardly calm.
   He didn't want to attract attention to himself and give any passer by a reason to remember him. Clasped tightly to his side, he carried a tattered sports holdall. Inside it were his bloodstained clothes, soap and towel and wrapped in newspaper; the knives. Jon had carefully washed himself after the killing and then changed his clothes.
   He had had it all worked out and it had gone almost exactly according to plan. He had gone through the whole sequence of events in his mind so many times before, that the actual event had an air of inevitability about it. All he had done was follow his pre-programmed series of actions and everything had unfolded as planned. He had felt totally in control of the situation throughout. The whole thing had left him with a feeling of utmost confidence and power.
   On reaching the security of his flat, Jon had thrown his clothes into the washing machine and washed the knives in the kitchen sink. After a quick bath he had settled down in front of the television to see what would happen; how the world would react to his act.
   Three days later, Jon had heard nothing from the police and had started to relax. In place of his nervousness he was filled with a sense of anti-climax. He had expected much more of a reaction from the outside world to the killing of the estate agent. On the evening of the murder, it had been reported on the local television news and the following day Jon had found short reports in three of the national newspapers.
   The tone of these reports was very matter of fact. To the media this was just another killing in a city where such events were not uncommon. No mention was ever made of his melodramatic message which had been the whole point of the thing.
   Though he carefully cut out the newspaper reports and taped them to his wall, Jon was badly disappointed. This was not what he had intended at all. He had wanted his killing to act as a statement. A punishment of those who perverted his society. A deterrent, to make the world a better place. Next time there would be no mistakes, he would make sure they knew why he had killed.

+ + + + + +

Jason Harford sat at his desk in the bowels of Hansard brothers advertising agency, flicking through a market research report on the latest consumer trends. He wasn't actually reading the report, just going through the motions, running his eyes slowly over the pages without taking any of it in. The lights were on, but nobody was at home.
   The whole object of the exercise was to waste as much of the tedious working day as possible, whilst not giving any of his younger, more thrusting colleagues too much of an indication as to what he was up to. Of course he fooled no-one. They all knew Jason's game, but none of them saw the affable father-like middle aged man as competition, and so none of them minded too much.
   Unfortunately for Jason, his immediate superior, Frank Clarke did not hold such a tolerant attitude towards him. He thought that Jason's laziness jeopardised the effectiveness of the entire sales department for which he was responsible. Frank thought that it would be best all round if Jason found alternative employment elsewhere.
   Despite his chronic lack of effort and to Frank's continuing incredulity, Jason retained a small but very loyal core of satisfied clients who responded favourably to his relaxed, honest charm. This core of clients provided Jason with sales figures which though not good, were sufficient to negate any official attempts Frank might care to make to try and dismiss Jason on disciplinary grounds. So Frank had to satisfy himself with trying to use more subtle methods of persuasion to rid himself of Jason.
   Jason had been in his present job for seven years now. Whilst Frank had only made his sideways move to take charge of the department some four years later. If Frank had been in charge when Jason was hired, he would undoubtedly have found it easier to tolerate his lax work attitudes. In his time in charge Frank had hired more than one person who was more ineffective at their job than Jason, but he didn't behave in such an openly hostile manner towards them.
   The crucial difference was that he had hired these people, whereas he had inherited Jason's services. As a manager, one of the main criteria on which his own performance was measured was the performance of those he had hired. Thus Frank strove to ensure that those he had wagered his professional judgement on were perceived to be effective; singing their praises at every opportunity and generally turning a blind eye to any 'minor' shortfalls in their working practices.
   On the other hand Frank did not have such a 'vested interest' in ensuring the perceived success of those he was not responsible for hiring. Indeed, in order that his own skills as a hirer and firer of men were accentuated, it was favourable that those he had not taken on were seen as inferior to those he had. Just as it was in his interest to emphasise the achievements of his 'protégés' it was equally important for him to emphasise the limitations of those workers whose services he had inherited.
   Jason was thick skinned and was not about to walk away from this job if he could at all help it. In his seven years with the company, he had accumulated a respectable number of service related perks. The job paid very well and as a forty eight year old, overweight, unambitous, unqualified man he very much doubted (and rightly so) that he could find an equivalent job elsewhere.
   He had a large mortgage, a small child and a non-working wife to support. These were his priorities. He didn't work for the good of his health or the love of it. He worked for the money, pure and simple. So if his boss tried to make his work uncomfortable, that was just too bad. He would just have to ignore it and keep his head down. It would take more than Frank Clarke to get the better of him.
   He had seen his type before. A big suit, a loud voice, an empty head and a brown nose. God, it made him want to throw up. These people were so screwed up with their petty anxieties. They'd all have burned themselves out by the time they were forty, with just a receding hairline and a duodenal ulcer for their troubles.

+ + + + + +

Why did he hate those in the advertising industry so much ? That was the question Jonathon was asking himself as he tried to compose a suitably damning diatribe to leave at the scene of his next killing. It wasn't easy. Though he was certain that advertisers deserved his hatred, it was more of a reflex action, and when it came down to trying to argue his case, he found it extremely difficult to enunciate the reasons that lay at the root of his contempt.
   Jon had certainly never actually known anyone who worked in advertising. In fact he had only a very vague idea as to what possible jobs existed within the advertising industry. So why did he find himself despising these people for their actions when he didn't really have any idea as to what it was that they actually did ?
   Jon's ignorance of the structure of the advertising industry did not prevent him from disapproving of it's all too evident effects that he could see all around him. In his eyes, the advertising industry lowered the quality of life of all. The symbolism used in advertisements enforced conformity to conservative ideals; showing people what was normal, brainwashing the consumer with a uniform set of sanitised stereotypes.
   Adverts invariably pitched their message to the lowest common denominator; harnessing sexism, nationalism, pride and envy to peddle their worthless wares. Not caring that in so doing they perpetuate these undesirable types of behaviour, reinforcing the idea that they are the acceptable norm. Sexism in adverts had always been one of Sally's cause-celebres.
   You didn't have to be a Freudian to read a sexual reference in almost all the advertisements to which we are constantly exposed. Now Sally was by no means a prude and didn't object to sex per-se. It was just that the sexual content in advertisements portrayed women as either sexual objects -yours for just the small price of the product, or acting in a subservient role to men. Such inherent sexism deeply offended Sally and in her opinion set back the whole cause of true female equality, to which she was so committed.
   Though he himself, as a man, could never feel quite so personally 'injured' by the sexism of advertisements, Jon accepted Sally's arguments and sympathised with her feelings. As a man, he could not prevent himself being aroused by the strong sexual imagery of some adverts. He felt strongly patronised by this hi-jacking of his base emotions and this sense of aggrievement fuelled his hatred of the advertisers' methods.
   As well as the strong objections Jon held towards the methods employed in the advertising industry, he questioned their whole function. What role did they actually perform? In Jon's eyes their continued existence did nothing to enhance the lives of others. On the contrary the world would be a much better place without them. Their whole raison-d'etre was to create demand.
   This was undoubtedly useful to the producers of the goods in question, else why would they be prepared to pay so handsomely for the privilege. But really, didn't increasing the demand for one product just decrease the demand for its competitors? The only noticeable effect for the consumer was that the cost of the goods increased, no matter who they bought them from.
   Jon thought that the main effect (and worse crime) of advertising was that it propagated dissatisfaction by creating unnecessary demand. Without caring about the inherent worth or otherwise of the products themselves, advertisers constructed a never ending wish-list of commodities that people felt they must have. The only certainty about such a list was that it could never be satisfied.
   Jon thought that it was incontrovertibly true that western man has never had as many possessions as he does now. It is also true that mankind has never had so many unfulfilled desires as he does now. Advertisers must bear the blame for creating this vast orgy of consumer frenzy and the inevitable frustrations resultant from it. They were exploitative, parasitic, worthless scum and Jon would see to it that they saw the errors of their ways.
   Jon scribbled down his angst filled justifications, completely covering his sheet of paper in vitriolic diatribe. When he had exhausted himself of all possible reasons for condemning advertisers he started to change the form of the sentences, condensing his thoughts into what he considered was an incisive condemnation of the advertising industry and its methods.
   The process was not an easy one, Jon had never been a fluent writer. English had always been his least favourite at school. He had much preferred the much more objective disciplines of the sciences. But, eventually he finished. He had ended up with a message that he was happy with. He copied the words out neatly on a clean sheet of paper, tore it from his pad and folded it into his pocket.
   Analysing his hatred had made it all seem more immediate to him and now he was eager for the off. He prepared himself a light meal of beans on toast and flicked through a copy of the advertising magazine 'Campaign' as he ate. Jon's meal was light out of necessity. It had been thirty five days now since he had left his job.
   His erstwhile employers had continued to pay him over what would have been his four week period of notice, but now that money had stopped. It would be several weeks before things got really desperate, but Jon recognised that he did not have nearly as much time as he needed to complete his crusade. Sooner rather than later something would have to be done, but it could wait until he had finished off the advertiser.
   Jon had bought his copy of 'Campaign' the day before from the local branch of W H Smiths. He skipped over the 'news' items and browsed through the job advertisements towards the rear, trying to choose one of the agencies listed there. In the end he decided to plump for the agency which seemed to offer the largest salaries, surely a sign of greater guilt. He tore the advert out and placed it in his pocket next to the note.
   Finally, having finished his meal, he took his dirty plate into the kitchen, put on his coat and headed off to the tube station, to the centre of town and to Hansard Brothers advertising agency.

+ + + + + +

At ten minutes to five, Jason signed out and left the office. Today, as everyday, he had worked for exactly his contractual eight hours. Some of his more ambitious colleagues would regularly put in ten or eleven hour days, but that was a mug's game. He had a family and knew there was more to life than slaving your guts out unnecessarily. They were young, they'd learn.
   As he exited the ostentatious glass fronted building and headed off towards the tube he didn't notice a casually dressed figure standing across the street, leant against a building wall, staring intently at the entrance to Hansard Brothers.
   Jonathon stood across the street watching the early leavers start their journeys home. He stayed there watching the stream of ant-like workers grow bigger and bigger as more and more people completed their working day. Under two months ago, Jon would have been amongst them, carried along by the mindless current, aware of nothing but the desire to be out of it, to be home.
   Now he was a stranger and gazed in amazement at the ridiculous nature of it all. He felt like a visitor from another planet, confronted by an incomprehensible alien custom. He felt no kinship, shared no empathy whatsoever with this throng of preoccupied commuters. They in their uniform dark suits, he in jeans and casual clothes. They occupied completely differently worlds. No vestige of Jon's previous regimented existence remained.
   At about five thirty, the flow of workers leaving the building reached its peak and from then on started to gradually abate. Finally, at almost six thirty, when it had dried to an intermittent trickle, Jon decided that he had seen enough and headed off home himself. He knew what time the advertising workers left their office. He knew in which direction most of them headed. Tomorrow he would be back.

+ + + + + +

At twelve thirty the next day, Jason and three of his work-mates entered the dim smoky confines of the 'Nag's Head' public house. Jason only infrequently spent his lunchtimes in the pub. He normally visited the staff canteen for a subsidised hot meal, but this had not always been the case. About five years ago, a daily lunchtime infusion of alcohol had been a regular and integral part of his existence.
   His life had always revolved around his family; his house, his wife and his kids. When Joanne, his first wife, left him for a local jeweller he lost all three in one go. He was left depressed, untrusting and truly alone. The pub provided a valuable hour of camaraderie and deliberately anaesthetising his brains higher functions gave him some temporary relief from his darkest feelings of despair.
    Since then he had successfully reconstructed his life. Eileen was a more than adequate substitute for Joanne and he loved her as much as his cynicism would ever allow him to love any woman again. Indeed, in one respect Eileen had gone one better than his ex-wife. Though in the twilight of her childbearing years, she had borne him a son, whereas Joanne though fertile, had only ever managed daughters.
   With his main reason for drinking now eased and money once again at a premium to finance his new family, Jason's lunchtime drinking had been curtailed to the occasional visit, (like today's), usually around pay day, when he felt he deserved a treat.
   In his 'bad old days', Jason had drunk with two blokes from the office; Pete and Dave. They seemed to have no apparent problems that Jason could see, but still they spent every lunchtime talking to each other through the bottom of a glass. These two had been among the first victims of Frank's office purge.
   Their positions as office alcoholics had been inherited by Andy and Phil, two of the new recruits Frank had brought in. Jason was often struck by how like Pete and Dave this new pair were, which just served to reinforce one of his basic philosophies about life: Nothing ever changes.
   Without asking the others what they wanted Andy forced his way through the cluster of bodies around the bar to buy the first round. He knew what everybody would want to drink. He had drunk with them all many times before and their tastes never varied. Holding a ten pound note out in front of him and adopting a facial expression which he hoped intimated that he required serving, he quickly caught the barmaid's eye.
   'Four pints of ordinary please.'
   Though he recognised the barmaid, and indeed had seen her on most lunchtimes for over a year, he made no attempts at social small talk. He didn't know her, or any of the bar staff's names. He frequented the pub, but he wasn't in any way a 'local.' His drinking there was a purely business transaction.
   Andy always bought the first round, it was almost traditional. This practice inevitably meant that he bought more drinks than could ever be reciprocated, but he considered it worthwhile. Andy was very conscious of the feelings of others, some (most) would say shy. Buying the first round freed him from the uncomfortable task of trying to secure a table to sit around. It also released him from any self-conscious calculations as to when it was his turn to buy the drinks and gave him the unassailably high ground on the important moral question of 'paying your way.'
   Andy was the office joker. Like so many of his ilk, his private-self contrasted sharply with the bluff, crass exterior he presented to the world. While outwardly he kept his colleagues amused with his quick wit and readiness for self-deprecation, inwardly he was racked with insecurity and self-doubt, vulnerable to the smallest of slights, real or imagined. Alcohol eased this self-defeating paralysis of the spirit, allowing him to temporarily join his work-mates in being entertained by his own gifts of humour.
   Jason and the others were now sat down. Phil was naturally hard-nosed in these social situations which his drinking partner found so difficult. He had routinely usurped a pair of drinkers from the table who were 'nursing' bone-dry glasses.
   Andy returned from the bar, precariously balancing four pint glasses.
   'There you go.'
   'Thanks.'
   All four gulped heavily from their glasses, quenching their immediate thirst. Glasses back on the table, Jason and Jeremy waited for the conversation to start. They were in Andy and Phil's undisputed territory now, and so deferred to their right to initiate the conversation. They didn't have to wait long. Andy was ever ready to fill a silence.
   'Have you heard about Phil's Chinese Takeaway ?'
   'No.. Go on.'
   Jason and Jeremy were ignorant but eager to know more. They knew Phil's reputation well, and fully expected a titillating tale of illicit sexual congress.
   Phil Childs was a man of few words. He was a perfect foil for Andy and in their relatively short time as workmates their friendship had blossomed. Phil's silence was largely assumed to conceal undisplayed depths of thought; Still waters run deep and all that. Unfortunately it was not the case. Just as Andy carefully concealed unsuspected thoughtfulness, Phil was unexpectedly shallow. He didn't say much, because he didn't have anything worth saying.
   Phil was the office romeo. To an outsider he would have appeared an unlikely seductor. Middle-aged, average height and no more than moderately good looking in a swarthy sort of way, he was totally unremarkable in appearance. Perhaps it was his 'normality' which made his workmates so ready to believe his incredible tales of sexual conquest.
   That because he was so like them, because he was so obviously no better than they were, they were all only too eager to see him succeed in the sexual arena. Demonstrating their own unfulfilled potential. Living out their sexual fantasies as some sort of collective proxy.
   Jason and Jeremy perched eagerly on the edges of their seats, urging Phil to start his story. Phil feigned disinterest, but 'allowed himself' to be cajoled into it by Andy.
   'Oh alright then. It all happened last Thursday. Andy and I had been playing squash and we'd had a few drinks afterwards.'
   'I won three, nil.' Andy quickly shut up when he realised nobody was at all interested.
   'Anyway we'd had a few drinks and I headed off to catch a bus down at Victoria. I was just standing there minding my own business, when this Chinese girl came along and joined the queue next to me. Well I'd had a few and she'd obviously been drinking and there we were, just the two of us, all alone, waiting for a bus.
    After about ten minutes there was still no sign of a bus and we were still the only ones at the stop. I looked at her and saw her quickly look away, she'd obviously been looking me over. I thought Aye, aye. Looking her up and down I realised she wasn't half bad. She was in her early thirties, good legs and had a nice pair of tits for a Chink. Anyway I thought nothing ventured nothing gained, so I propositioned her.'
   'What did you actually say to her ?' Jason queried, not to catch Phil out or anything, but because he was genuinely interested. He was completely captivated by the whole story.
   'Well I.. I just asked her if she fancied a shag .'
   All four of them erupted into raucous laughter at the sheer audacity of the act.
   'You just walked up to this young woman standing at a bus-stop, looked her up and down and asked her if she fancied a shag. You were lucky you weren't arrested for being a dirty old man !!'
   More laughter.
   Phil continued.
   'Well anyway she said yes so I took her back to the office and we did it there.'
   'You shagged this girl in our office ?!!?'
   Jason was amazed and truly impressed. This was something special even for one of Phil's adventures.
   'Yep.'
   'You haven't heard the best bit yet, go on tell 'em Phil.'
   Andy urged Phil on to the climax of his story.
   'Oh Alright.'
   Phil teased them, as if he didn't want to tell them what had happened.
   'I shagged her on Frank's desk !!'
   The table exploded in a near orgasmic surge of laughter. Jason had tears in his eyes. What a brilliant story, what a brilliant thing to do, what a great bloke Phil was. It was fully four minutes before he regained his breath.
   'Right then, pints all round.'
   Nods of approval. Jason was already heading for the bar.
   Though Jeremy Brown shared in the laughter, he didn't believe Phil's story for an instant. The characteristic lack of certainty over important details, the just slightly too incredible claims; it was just the sort of story he'd make up himself and he knew with absolute certainty that it could not be true.
   Jeremy was the new boy in the office. Fresh out of university, he was ambitious and very keen. This enthusiasm and also his relative youth mean't that he didn't really have a lot in common with Jason or the others. What he did have though, and indeed what brought him to be sat in this pub at this time with these people, was an insatiable desire to be liked by everyone.
   To this end, he resisted the temptation to join any of the existing office cliques and attempted to spread himself between them, never spending too long with any particular group whilst never neglecting any group either. Today was Thursday, and Jeremy spent Thursday in the pub with the office boozers.
   Unfortunately for Jeremy, though his aim may well have been laudable, it was almost certainly unattainable. By spreading himself so thinly between the office's various social groups, he certainly was not actively disliked by anyone, but he wasn't particularly liked by anyone either. The members of the cliques (by definition) all disliked, to a degree, some aspect of the other cliques.
   It was this 'dislike' that made membership of these groups mutually exclusive. Jeremy's behaviour in attempting to be accepted by all the social groups was regarded with suspicion and interpreted as indicating a two-faced nature. There was a general, though unenunciated feeling that he couldn't be trusted.
   Andy and Phil had another, more immediate reason not to like Jeremy; he never bought a drink. To people who spend a great deal of their time in public houses, standing your rounds was considered very important and was carefully, if silently monitored. Jeremy was simply naturally miserly and though Andy and Phil never directly mentioned it, they deeply resented his self-invited Thursday visits to the pub as a result.
   Jason returned from the bar and deposited four pints of beer onto the table, next to the four empty glasses already there.
   'Thanks.'
   Jason actually quite liked Jeremy. He was a bit too intense maybe, but basically he was sound.
   By the time Jason returned from the bar, the commotion caused by Phil's story had died away and the conversation had turned to football.
   'Good result for Arsenal last night.'
   'Yeah, I quite fancy them for the title myself.'
   'Bollocks, United will walk it, as usual.'
   'I hope so, Arsenal are just so boring !!'
   'That's crap. That's just paper talk. I suppose when your team got relegated last year, that was exciting ?'
   Everyone had an opinion and as the alcohol content in their bloodstream steadily rose, these points of views became less and less lucid and more and more forcibly expressed.
   Jeremy chatted away with the rest of them, drinking quickly as was his habit. Soon he noticed that his glass was more than two-thirds empty, whilst none of the others were even half-way finished. He immediately slowed down his drinking, barely wetting his lips on his now infrequent sips.
   Elsewhere the debate raged on: ..'and as for their number nine, he's just a big bloody donkey. He couldn't hit a barn door at three paces !!'
   'Fuck off, he's one of the best centre forwards in the country !'
   Andy had noticed that Jeremy had almost completely stopped drinking.
   This was just so typical. If he didn't want to buy a round, he shouldn't bloody well come out with them.
   Tight wanker
   He met Phil's gaze across the table and raised his eyebrows. Phil acknowledged him with a curt nod. They'd discussed Jeremy's reticence on inumerate occasions when they'd been on their own. They knew what to do this time. This time they wouldn't give in.
   ..'bout your centre-back. Not exactly the sort of bloke you accept a lift home from !!'
   'He was just unlucky that's all. Are you trying to tell me you've never driven home when you've had a few ?'
   Phil finished his drink and slammed his empty glass down onto the table theatrically. Andy soon finished also and taking his lead from Phil slammed down his empty as if laying down a challenge. Neither made any movement to go for more drinks.
   ..'was offside by a mile '
   'Crap, he was level with the last defender. Anyway you've got to play to the referee's whistle, everybody knows that.'
   By now Jason had also finished his drink and was wondering what was happening. Jeremy's was the only glass with anything left in it and evaporation was the only way that his beer was going to disappear.
   Andy and Phil abruptly ended their contribution to the debate about the relative merits of Arsenal F.C. leaving the whole group in an uncomfortable silence.
   Jason, perplexed and thirsty: 'What about that your winger, what a cheating little git. I've never known anybody fall over so easily.'
   Andy: 'Yes.'
   Silence.
   Tight fucking bastard. Look at him sitting over there with his half an inch of warm beer at the bottom of his glass.
   I'm not buying a drink. I would have, but not now. Nobody tells me what to do.
   Every bloody time. Every Thursday he invites himself down here. Every week he drinks our beer and never once has he put his hand in his pocket. Well not this time. This time we stay put until he buys.
   Why's everybody gone so quiet? Why isn't anybody buying a drink?
   C'mon shit-face, just get up and buy a round.
   I'm not going to be pressured into anything. Anyway I'm not the only one, Phil hasn't bought a round yet and he gets paid much more than me.
   Smug little git. Does he think we buy him beer for the privilege of his bloody company.
   This is ridiculous. I'm thirsty, if nobody else is going to offer then I'll just have to buy another round.
   Jason broke the deadlock.
   'Alright then, does everybody want another drink ?'
   Oh Fuck off Jason, don't bale the little shit out.
   'No you've already bought', said Phil pointedly. 'I'll get these.'
    Phil set off for the bar.
    Bastard.
   While his drinking partner was at the bar Andy sat in ill-feeling silence. Unperturbed, Jeremy and Jason struck up a conversation about that old favourite; bitching about workmates. Phil arrived bearing beer and shortly afterwards he and Andy joined the conversation, unable to resist it's perennial allure.
   'Did you see Steve's hair today ?'
   'The pony-tail you mean ? What a wanker!'
   'Mind you I'm not surprised. I've always had my doubts about him.'
   'You think he's a shirtlifter ?'
   'Does the Pope pray ? I've certainly never heard him talking about girlfriends.'
   Nobody, who was not sat round that table, was safe from their collective, hyper-critical gaze. All other friendships and affiliations were temporarily forgotten. They were perfect models of humanity, and as such were free to pass judgement on the lesser mortals of the office.
   'Don't get me wrong, but that lot at work are a load of brown nosed, arse lickers !! Apart from you three they all spend most of their time creeping to the bosses !'
   The statement was absolutely preposterous of course, but the beer in their veins made them feel as if they really were different, that they really were best of friends, blind to each others faults. Even Andy and Phil's drink buying grievance with Jeremy was temporarily forgotten. For a short time, reality was suspended. The knowledge that they had all had (and would continue to have) identical conversations with other people in the office, where people at this table were the targets of their derision, was temporarily forgotten.
   The subject of these pub-based 'critiques' might vary according to the people involved, but one thing was constant. Sooner or later, the conversation would turn to their bosses and it was for their bosses that they reserved their utmost contempt.
   'That Frank is such a tosser !!'
   'Tell us something we don't know.'
   Laughter.
   'Well Okay, it isn't very original. But I think it bears repeating.'
   'Yesterday he told me off for having the top button undone on my shirt. He said it jeopardised the image of the whole of Hansard's.'
   'What a load of crap !'
    Laughter.
   'He once asked me if I'd ever thought of buying a new suit! What a complete wanker.'
   'He couldn't give a shit about your sales figures, as long as you're wearing a clean shirt and a shiny pair of shoes.' Much agreement and more laughter.
   The conversation continued in a similar vein for another ten minutes, before the gathering was forcibly broken up by the end of their lunchtime. They were contractually allowed forty-five minutes for lunch, but habitually took up to twice as long as that. Experience had taught them that as long as they were back at their desks by 2.00pm, then nothing would be said.

+ + + + + +

They spilled out of the lift into the office at five past the hour and slunk quietly to their desks. It looked as if their entrance had gone unnoticed. Jason removed his jacket and settled back into his chair. He was a bit drunk, but it didn't matter. He would have a lazy afternoon and should have sobered up by the time he went home.
   The phone rang.
   'Hello, Hansard Brothers. Jason Harford speaking.'
   'Jason, this is Frank.'
   'Oh hello Frank.'
   Shit. What did he want?
   'Could you come to my office and see me immediately.' Frank hung up.
   Shit.
   Jason eased himself out of his chair and traipsed the thirty or so yards to Franks office. He knocked heavily on the imitation wood door.
   'Come in.'
   Jason entered to find Frank sat behind his desk, reading some anonymous report. Jason was immediately struck by a strange sense of deja-vu, which made him feel slightly displaced and uneasy. He was brought out of it as Frank spoke, without looking up, in what he thought was his most intimidating tone of voice.
   'Shut the door, sit down.'
   Jason was not impressed. He sat down and waited patiently.
   After what Frank regarded as a pressure building pregnant pause, he loudly stacked the papers of the report, raised his eyes to fix Jason with his gaze and began.
   'Tell me Jason, what time did you get back from lunch today?'
   Here we go. 'About two O'clock, I think.'
   'Actually it was seven minutes past two. And what time did you leave for lunch?'
   'Around one I suppose.'
   'No Jason, that is not entirely correct, as I'm sure you're only too well aware. By my records you left for lunch at twelve twenty four. Am I correct ?'
   Sneaky bastard.
   'Yes, I didn't notice the time, but I suppose you must be right.'
   'Quite. Now how long are you meant to take for lunch ?'
   Fuck off. Why don't you get to the point.
   'An hour.'
   'Once again you're not quite right. In fact as I'm sure your aware, you're contractually entitled to forty five minutes, though Hansard Brothers generously turn a blind eye to anything up to an hour.'
   'Yes.'
   'Now how long did you take for lunch today Jason?'
    Bastard.
    'An hour and a half.'
   Frank's carefully planned lead-in was over, now, as per plan his veneer of calm vanished as he exploded in a premeditated fit of rage.
   'An hour and a half. An hour and a bloody half !! That's twice as long as your meant to take. I don't need to ask what you were up to, you stink of the stuff. Not only do you steal almost an hour of the company's time, but you'll almost certainly be good for nothing for the rest of the afternoon...'
   What about the others? I wasn't the only one you know. Andy and Phil do this every day and you don't give them the third degree.
   ..'It's just not bloody good enough. You're paid very well to do a job and the least you can do is make sure you're fit to do it..'
   eh?
   ..'If you're not prepared to put the effort in, there's lots of other people out there who'd jump at the chance to do your job..'
   They're not going to get the chance. I was doing this job when you were still in short trousers and I'll be doing it when you're long gone and forgotten about.
   .'Well I'm sorry, but this can't go unpunished. I won't be taking any official action..'
   Well Hu'bloody'ray !
   ..'but you can rest assured that it will count against you at your next appraisal..'
   I'm filling my pants.
   ..'have you got anything to say for yourself ?'
   Fuck off. 'Sorry, it won't happen again.'
   'Right then, you'd better get back to your desk. Just think about what I've said.'
   Fuck off.
   'Okay.'
   Frank watched as Jason struggled to raise himself to his feet, left the office and closed the door behind him. Frank smiled smugly, congratulating himself on his efficiency and effective use of power.
   Jason walked slowly back to his desk, removed his jacket and settled back into his chair. He was a bit drunk but it didn't really matter. He could look forward to a lazy afternoon before going home. For the second time that day he had an intense feeling of deja-vu, but the feeling soon passed and was forgotten.

+ + + + + +

Four forty-five. Jason strode through the revolving door and emerged into the world outside. The day was grey but didn't look to Jason like it was going to rain. Before heading off to the tube station he paused to buy a copy of the 'Evening Standard' newspaper from the vendor whose stall was set up near the entrance to his building.
   Jon watched the fat man come through the revolving door and immediately made his choice. He had always found it all too easy to dismiss overweight people. He thought their disabilitating bulk must be the result of spectacular over-indulgence, demonstrating that they were weak willed with no capacity for self-denial. Surely nobody wanted to carry several stone of excess blubber around with them, but still these people were too short-sighted to forgo that extra helping of their favourite tipple.
   Fat people were weak and stupid and deserved his contempt. Jon's choice was quickly vindicated when the fat-man stopped to buy an 'Evening Standard' newspaper from a street vendor. The newspaper had a pronounced right wing bias in what Jon saw as a grasping materialistic sort of way. Exactly the sort of attitudes he was trying to strike against.
   Jason handed the ruddy faced vendor the twenty five pence he already held ready in his clammy hand. The vendor handed over the paper.
   'There you go guv'. Horrible bloody weather.'
   'Yeah horrible.'
   Jason agreed, though he would have agreed just as readily if the man had complained about an unseasonal heat-wave. Jason bought a paper from this man every evening, and every time the man engaged him in some trivial banter, usually about the weather. Presumably to someone who spends his working day selling newspapers on the street, the weather is of utmost importance.
   To Jason who worked in an artificially lit and heated, air-conditioned office, the weather was largely irrelevant. Jason folded the newspaper into his overcoat pocket and made to join the stream of commuters. The newspaper vendor said something that Jason didn't quite catch, but from the man's expression and Jason's experience of these encounters he 'gathered' that it was a joke of some sort. Jason laughed affectedly as he moved off down the road.
   Jon slipped into the stream of commuters, following the fat-man from a distance of about eight yards.
   As Jason walked down the busy London street, he was almost completely unaware of the world around him. The short walk to the underground station was so familiar to him that he had long ago totally exhausted any curiosity towards it that he might have. He devoted the minimum level of attention to his walking to ensure he didn't trip over or something and allowed himself to be dragged along by the stream of commuters, completely immersed in his own thoughts.
   His thoughts were not occupied by the days happenings at work. His working day was over and his mind would not return again to the world of advertising sales until he walked through the doors to Hansard Brothers tomorrow morning. (And probably not for a good deal of time after that). Instead his mind drifted over those things that he did care about; his memories, his friends and his family.
   Randomly, his mind's eye came to focus on a particular episode stored in the recesses of his memory. He remembered a warm summer morning almost four years ago. It was Saturday, his favourite day of the week. His wife lay beside him, dozing after their recent comfortable lovemaking. He was happy and had no immediate concerns. All was well with the world. Then without warning, despair. His world was shattered as Eileen announced, completely out of the blue, that she was pregnant.
   He was forty eight, with two teenage daughters and had only just rebuilt his life after a painful divorce. He had been looking forward to growing comfortably old with a doting younger wife to look after his needs. In an instant all his plans were ruined. It was such a shock, he hadn't suspected it at all. He just assumed that she'd take care of the necessary precautions. Silly bitch.
   Abortion. The word passed through his brain like a meteor through a night sky, but he knew she wouldn't hear of it and knowing what side his bread was buttered on he decided not to even broach the subject.
   Joy. His mind flicked over to another scene from his past, like a cut in a slick film, missing out all the boring bits in the middle. He was in a hospital. Disinfectant smells, anxiety and masked doctors. There before him, legs akimbo, her sex stretched impossibly wide, unrecognisable. Her screams filled his head. He shared the pain. Then it was over and there was his son tiny, perfect and pink. He held him in his arms and was filled with pride. It was literally the happiest moment of his life. Walking along the road on his way home Jason remembered the episode and smiled with tears in his eyes.
   C'mon you fat bastard, hurry up.
   Jon followed the fat man slowly along the pavement. The man seemed to be walking much more slowly than everyone else and people continually passed them. Jon found it difficult to temper his usually strong strides and still appear natural and inconspicuous.
   They soon reached the tube station. As he passed through the automatic ticket barriers and into the labyrinth of tunnels Jon suppressed a pang of anxiety. The platform itself was fairly uncrowded. At this time of the day, it was before the rush hour had really got going and with no significant problems on the line, the tube journey didn't look as if it was going to be half as much as an ordeal as they often could be.
   Still, Jonathon stood with his back to the wall, as far away from the platform edge as possible. He didn't want to make that mistake again. The fat man stood about ten yards away, at the edge of the platform, with his back to Jon, reading his paper. After less than a two minute wait, the train thundered into the station Jon tensed and clenched his fists. The train stopped without incident. The doors opened and Jason lumbered 'quickly' aboard in search of a seat. Only when the train had come to a dead halt, did Jon move from his position against the wall and follow the fat man through the carriage door and into the train.
   Entering the train, he saw that the Jason was sitting half-way along the carriage. Jon snorted to himself with amusement at the way the fat-man dominated the narrow double seat he was sitting on, taking up at least two-thirds of the available room and squashing an unfortunate student-looking girl into the train wall.
   Jon positioned himself in the train doorway. He was adequately comfortable; he had something to lean on and something to hold onto, and he was well placed to react when his victim eventually chose to leave the train. The train pulled slowly away from the platform. He fixed his eyes vacantly on the overhead advertisements and surrendered himself to the empty headed rhythm of the train.
   Jason settled into his seat as best he could and opened his paper. He hated these seats on underground trains, they were much too small and without exception uncomfortable. Did London Underground really think that all their passengers were of an average size, that they had no responsibility to for the comfort of anyone who weighed more than twelve stones?
   As he settled into his seat, the young woman sat next to him tutted and jabbed him slightly with her elbow. He knew he took more than his fair share of the seat, but it wasn't his fault. He was fat and she was thin. He didn't ask to be overweight, it was just his nature. He ignored her and focused himself on his paper. He turned to the back page, for the sport, as he always did.
   Though he bought the same paper every evening, he only ever read the back four or five pages. He disliked the overtly right-wing politics of the rest of the paper, as indeed he disliked party politics in general, but the Evening Standard was the only nightly 'local' paper on offer. It didn't cost much and it gave him something to do on the train.
   Studying the sports news, Jason was particularly interested in even the smallest scrap of information about his team; West Ham United. He had supported 'The Hammers' as long as he could remember and although he didn't get along to Upton Park as often as he'd like nowadays, he afforded them an unthinking devotion that many men reserve for their religion.
   As a boy he had stood with his father, watching his idols in claret and blue, fighting the good fight, through thick and thin. It was the greatest gift his father had ever given him, and as soon as Nicholas was old enough, he would start taking him to games to bestow the gift on to him in turn.
   Four stops down the Central Line and the advertiser had made no move to leave the train. They were out of central London now, heading deep into the East end of London. It was unfamiliar territory for Jonathon, who had rarely ventured North of the Thames. He was growing increasingly agitated and hoped that the fat-man didn't live in the depths of Essex where the line terminated. He wasn't looking forward to making his way back through this hostile region after he'd done the deed.
   With nothing of his own to read, Jon had to occupy his mind with whatever he could find in the carriage around him. At first he turned his attention to the small advertisements running along the sides of the carriage above the windows and doors. Designed to convey a message at a glance these adverts were bright, colourful and inane. They exhibited all the characteristics that Jon found so offensive; sexism, greed, smalll-mindedness. He was struck by the irony of his situation. On his way to punish the advertisers for their crimes he was faced with such good examples of their worthless trade.
    Jon turned his attention to the trains other passengers. To his left, a smartly dressed young woman sat with her back to him reading intently from a book. Looking over her shoulder Jon caught a glimpse of what she was reading. He only read a couple of sentences of dialogue, but the words seemed inherently familiar to him. He had read them somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place them.
   Jon racked his brain desperately trying to recollect where he'd read those words before. He felt like the answer floated like some grey mass at the edge of his consciousness, just beyond the reach of his awareness. As the train hurtled further East, Jon attempted with a growing and irrational urgency to bring the grey mass into focus, to make that intuitive leap so that he could reclaim his long forgotten piece of knowledge.
   All at once he had it, it was from Kundera's 'Immortality.' Jon was relieved and filled with pleasure at his own cleverness. Kundera was one of his favourite authors. He had read every one of his novels and cherished them all dearly. He felt an immediate affinity with the faceless young woman and projected a vast array of positive assumptions onto her.
   He imagined that she must be of considerable intelligence (like himself) and that she probably shared his left wing leanings and concern for others. They were intellectual brethren, bonded by a love of the finest literature. In another time and place they might have been friends or perhaps lovers; Jon felt sure that they would have got on. At that moment Jon had an immense need to feel that he wasn't completely isolated. This chance glimpse of familiar prose lifted his spirits enormously.
   The train pulled out of Leyton station, Leytonstone was next on the line. That was Jason's stop. He folded his paper and readied himself to leave the train. The train passed a familiar landmark that Jason knew from experience meant that he was almost there. He stood up, being careful to secure a good handhold in the pitching carriage, and made his way towards the carriage doors.
   The train glided to a standstill. The doors opened. He stepped out onto the platform where he immediately turned left and headed for the exit. Up the stairs and into the foyer, queuing to get through the automatic barriers, season ticket held at the ready. The doors opened, out through the barrier, up another flight of steps and into the outside world. Leytonstone; home. Jason took a deep breath and headed right, towards his house, his wife and his family.
   Jon saw the fat-man rise to his feet and instantly snapped himself from his thoughts. This was it, they were approaching the fat-man's stop. The advertiser was about to die. The advertiser made his way over to the doorway where Jon was standing. Jonathon watched him struggling to keep his feet in the gently rocking carriage. What a pathetic case this bloke was. The fat man had come right up to Jon now, standing right next to him, so close he could smell him. He smelled of stale sweat and beer. Why did fat people always smell so sweaty?
   Jon could have reached into his jacket pocket for his knife there and then and just carved the bloke up. Spilling his guts out onto the carriage floor, as horrified the other passengers looked on. Jon caressed the vivid mental image in his mind, drawing from its raw power. What would the anonymous reader think? She'd be appalled certainly, but what if he explained his motives? Would she support his cause? Unbidden a line from 'The Lord of the Flies' entered Jon's mind.
   'Kill the pig, cut it's throat!!'
   He hadn't thought about that book since he read it at school for his O-level English. Looking at the fat-man stood unsuspectingly in front of him, with his beady eyes, stale body odour and heavy pink jowls, Jon was struck by how pig-like he was.
   'Kill the pig, cut it's throat.'
   The train came to a halt, the automatic doors slid open and the advertiser stepped through them. Jon picked up his sports holdall from the floor of the train and followed him onto the platform. He was careful to keep about three people between him and the fat-man as he followed him up a flight of stairs and into the station foyer, where they joined the queues for the automatic barriers.
   With people pressing uncomfortably close to him, Jon tried to suppress his discomfort and frustration at being held up. All too slowly, the queue shuffled forward, as one by one the people at the head fed their travel passes into the silver machines and passed through the opened padded gates to the world beyond.
   The fat-man was at the front of the queue now. He fed his card in, the doors opened and he walked through. There were two people left between Jon and the barrier. Card in, barriers open, walk through, shuffle forward. Now there was only one left, an ageing large black woman, a caricature-like figure if ever there was one.
   C'mon, C'mon
   The woman hesitated at the barriers as she fumbled in her handbag for her ticket. C'mon you stupid bitch.
   Jon was becoming anxious as he watched the advertiser slowly make his way up the stairs that led out of the station. He didn't want to lose him. The woman finally found her ticket and fed it into the waiting machine. Jon moved his weight forward onto his toes in anticipation. Nothing happened. The barriers didn't open. A red light came on illuminating a curt message 'PLEASE SEEK ASSISTANCE' and the woman's ticket was returned.
   Shit.
   The woman tried again. Again her ticket was rejected.
   Shit. Shit. Shit
   Jon watched the advertiser reach the top of the stairs and move out of his view, onto the street. He looked at the other queues, but they were all as long as his and of course he'd have to go right to the back of them. The black woman had managed to attract the attention of a station guard who was now sauntering slowly towards them.
   Jon watched with a growing sense of panic as the guard seemed to take an age to check the woman's ticket and let her through the barrier manually. But at last he was there. He thrust his travel pass into the machine, strode through the barrier, collected his pass and sprinted up the stairs after the fat-man. As he barged through the crowds of commuters all considerations of remaining inconspicuous had vanished. He had to find that advertiser.
   The stairs emerged onto a busy High Street. Jon could see about eighty yards in either direction, but the fat-man was nowhere to be seen.
   Shit.
   Acute disappointment welled over him. For an instant he felt as though he was going to cry. Then it was passed and he began to pull himself back together, struggling to come up with some plan of action.
   Right, he's not here, but he can't have gone far. He must have turned off this road down one of the side streets. Now which way, right or left ?
   It was like the childish game, guess which hand I've got the sweet in and you can have it. A fifty-fifty chance, pure and simple. Heads you win, tails you lose. Get it right and he would probably find the advertiser. Choose wrong and he would waste his time searching in the wrong direction and the fat-man would escape. Which way, right or left ?
   Left or right ?
   Jon chose right, since childhood it had always been his 'favourite.'
   Jon sprinted off down the road as fast as he could. He quickly reached the first side street, which split off to the right. He peered down the road. The only person he could see was at least 130 yards away. Though their outline at that distance was indistinct, they seemed too small to be the advertiser. Anyway he wouldn't have got that far already, surely.
   Jon ran on. Another twenty yards to the next side street, again on the right. No one down there at all. Again he ran on. The next street was about thirty yards away, this time on the left. He waited for a gap in the traffic, crossed the road and sprinted to the junction with the side road. There he was, about fifty yards away, his outline unmistakable, the fat advertiser.
   Jason walked slowly along the tree lined avenue. Until tomorrow his time was his own. He could relax with the people he loved, and let the world flow by.
   I wonder what's for dinner.
   Jon was right behind Jason now. Close enough to strike. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket. Unseen, in his right hand he clasped the knife with which he had killed the estate agent. The estate-agent had been young and strong, but Jon had easily overcome his pathetic struggling. The fat-man looked old and weak. It would all be so easy.
   Kill the pig, cut his throat.
   He had to wait though. The street was relatively open and they could be seen from the main road. Jon would bide his time and wait for his opportunity.
   Hope it's shepherds pie. It's Thursday, so it could well be shepherds pie. Either that or lasagne.
   Jason plodded along the well worn route home. He glanced behind him to check that the road was clear, and crossed to the other side. He saw the young man walking behind him, but to a city dweller like Jason there was nothing strange in that and he barely registered the fact. Even if he had realised that something was amiss, what could he have done?
   Without warning the fat-man turned and looked straight at him. As their eyes met, Jon's stomach lurched with a feeling he associated with childhood and being caught in some forbidden act. Jon waited with baited breath for the advertiser's inevitable violent reaction.
   The fat-man crossed the road.
   Jon breathed out heavily in relief and followed the man across. On reaching the other side the advertiser turned right into a tree lined avenue. This street was much quieter than the one they had just come down. There were no visible signs of anyone else anywhere along the road. Just Jon and the advertiser on an apparently deserted side street. Most of the streets occupants were probably still at work.
   Jon thought that it was almost certain that no-one could see them at that precise moment. This was his chance. Even if someone did see him kill the advertiser, what could they do. He'd be long gone before the police got there, so far from his neck of the woods nobody would recognise him. He was as safe as houses. Jon grasped the knife tighter in his jacket pocket and quickened his step to quietly move towards the fat advertiser.
   Kill the pig, cut it's throat.
   I hope Nicholas' alright. Eileen said he had a bit of a cold this morning. If he's no better tomorrow, she'll have to take him down the quacks...
   Jason walked on deep in thought.
   Jon was no further than a couple of feet behind him. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the strike.
   Time to die, fat-boy.
   Abruptly Jason turned into a driveway on his right.
   What the.. ?
   Jon walked on.
   Shit.
   With a stunned sense of disappointment Jon realised that it must be the advertiser's house. He walked twenty yards past the advertisers driveway and then turned on his heel and walked back. He still had a chance if the fat man was alone in the house, he could do it there. Passing the house, Jon saw that the advertiser was approaching the front door of a shabby terraced house. Without knocking, he opened the apparently unlocked door and walked straight in. Somebody must already be inside, there was no chance of killing him now.
   Lucky bastard.
   As he walked back along the road towards the tube station, Jon was struck by how small and uninspiring the advertiser's house had been. He had expected a much grander affair for this parasite, grown fat on his immoral earnings.
   In his modest two up, two down Jason sat in front of the T.V. in his favourite armchair. Eileen emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with his dinner on it and laid it across his lap.
   'There you go.'
   'Thanks love.'
   It was shepherds pie, his favourite.

+ + + + + +

Frank Clarke had just got home. He was still in his overcoat when the doorbell rang loudly and unexpectedly. Frank swung the door open to see who it was and what they wanted.
   'Yes ?'
   Before he had finished opening the door there was a large shove from the other side. He was sent sprawling against the hall wall as somebody or something rushed inside.
   What?
   He was hit in the face by something heavy and blunt, and sent tumbling to the floor.
   He was being attacked. The realisation hit his brain as the adrenaline kicked into his bloodstream. His head cleared. He was frightened, but he knew he'd have to keep his wits about him. Standing over him was a menacing figure. In his hand he held an even more menacing knife.
   Quick, think quickly, say something.
   'What... what do you want ?'
   No answer. The man raised his knife.
   Jesus Christ.. Money, offer him money.
   'Do you want money? I've got money. Lot's of money.'
   'How much ?'
   Jon had returned to Hansard brothers just in time for the late leavers and followed this bloke home. With no opportunities on the way over here, Jon was relieved when this one entered an apparently empty flat. He'd watched him switch the lights on from outside in the street and then followed him up.
   Jon hadn't meant to rob the advertiser. He hadn't even meant to talk to him. Keep it all impersonal, that was safest. But the offer of money was attractive. The man would be dead soon enough anyway, so what difference did it make.
   Relief.
   He's swallowed the bait.
   'About thirty thousand quid, in cash. It's in my safe.'
   Thirty thousand quid. How the fuck has this bloke got thirty thousand quid lying around in petty cash ? These advertisers were more overpaid than he'd thought.
   'Okay, go get it, but no funny business.'
   Frank was one of life's hoarders. He'd always loved money. Not merely as something which enabled him to purchase commodities for himself, but rather as something intrinsically desirable in itself. He quite literally loved the stuff. With a well paid job, no dependants and no expensive interests he had accumulated quite a tidy sum over the years.
   Frank walked into his lounge, followed closely by Jon.
   'It's in here, behind that picture.'
   'Okay.'
   Jon glanced around at the advertisers living room. He had to admit that it was very nice; all minimalist black furniture in a featureless room with just a few modernist prints on the otherwise bare white walls to break the tedium. It was just the sort of room Jon would have had. If he had the money.
   Frank approached a large Paul Klee print on one white wall and removed it to reveal a safe behind. He moved the tumbler with practised ease before quickly swinging the safe door open.
   'There we are.'
   Jon thought that the advertiser was acting remarkably calm, confident even. He must think he can buy his worthless life. 'Right hand over the money.'
   Perfect.
   Frank reached into the darkness of the safe and brought out a large bundle of notes. He threw the money towards Jon but it fell about two foot short.
   'Sorry.'
   'That's all right.'
   The apology was automatic, even in this situation Jon's inherent politeness bubbled to the surface. He bent down to pick the notes up. He didn't know how much there was, he'd never seen so much money in one place before, but they were twenty pound notes so there must have been a fair amount.
   Ha!
   'Hold it right there !'
   'Hold it right there,', Frank repeated.
   Jon rose to his feet, knife in one hand, money in the other. Frank stood in front of him with a revolver aimed at the centre of his forehead.
   For the umpteenth time that day, Jon experienced a stomach lurching feeling of desolation.
   Frank was enjoying his new found power. He had bought the gun about two years ago from a contact of a friend. Other people he'd told about it had told him he was crazy and laughed at his paranoia. But what did they know? It was a jungle out there and he wasn't about to become a victim. Now here he was with a criminal at his mercy, he'd shown them.
   'Drop the knife.'
   Jon complied.
   Looking at the man now, Frank didn't think the criminal looked half as imposing as he did before. Quite pathetic really. Not that he'd tell his friends that though. God no, he would dine out on this story for months. Oh yes, the money, almost forgot about that.
   'Throw me the money.'
   Jon obeyed. The money arced through the air between them. With one such as Frank, who's love for money was so strong, it was not surprising that his eyes involuntarily left Jon and followed his precious notes in flight. It was all the opportunity that Jon needed.
   He charged into Frank once again sending him flying backwards. Too late Frank saw him coming. He got off a shot, but it missed and then the gun was knocked from his hand and the man was on top of him. He felt something cold glide against his neck and heard a strange gurgling noise. He struggled to look down, his shirt front was completely covered in dark crimson. He tried to shout but nothing came out, just the all consuming gurgling.
   What ?
   Before Frank had fully grasped his situation, he was dead.
   Jon rose quickly to his feet. After all the trials and tribulations he had finally done it. He had killed the advertiser. There was no time for self-congratulation though. That shot was sure to have been heard by someone. He had to move fast.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 6.

BREAKING UP A HAPPY HOME.

I knew I should have gone before I left work.
   Elaine fumbled with her keys at the door to her house and cursed her own clumsiness. She desperately needed to use the toilet and every moment she delayed in entering the house seemed to exponentially increase her bladder's urgent need to be emptied. As she jigged about on her toes, she frantically tried to steady her hand long enough to enable her to slide the key into the Yale lock.

She was in serious danger of wetting herself, with all its attendant childhood taboos. Just in time, the key slid into the lock, the door swung open and Elaine galloped through, up the stairs to the toilet, shedding her underwear en-route.
   Greatly relieved, Elaine emerged from the bathroom and retrieved her scattered clothing. It had been close. Too close.
   'Pete ?'
   No answer.
   With her immediate bodily crisis now over, Elaine's mind was free to return to its usual concerns. She was home again, safe from the cruel randomness of the outside world. Home was where the heart was. A place to relax. A place to hide.
   'Pete.. Are you in here ?'
   Elaine strode from room to room searching for her husband. He'd been on the night shift, so he should have been home all day.

There was no sign of him anywhere.
   'PETE.. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU ?'
    No answer.
   Good, he's out.
   Recently Elaine's home wasn't a place where she enjoyed being at all. Her house had become a battleground, where she and her husband were the protagonists. It had come to a head less than three weeks ago, but the causes had been around for much longer than that, perhaps as long as their relationship itself. It had begun with sulking and snide remarks and had quickly escalated through all the intermediate stages of arguments, histrionics and tantrums, until now they were engaged in full-scale psychological warfare. No prisoners taken.
   Elaine changed into casual clothes and went into the lounge. She had wandered through the room moments before in her search for her husband and had noticed nothing amiss, apart from his absence. Now though, she was immediately struck by the room's disarray. When she had left for work this morning the room had been spotless. Now, takeaway cartons, empty beer cans and a disembodied newspaper littered the floor. Pete had been entertaining himself.
   Bastard.
   She recognised that the room's untidiness was only superficial and that it would take no more than a few minutes to collect up her husbands litter and deposit it into the bin, but it was the principle of the thing. Why should she tidy up after him. What gave him the right to just assume she'd do it? Did he think she didn't have anything better to do? Did he think that somehow as a woman, it was a job that she was more genetically suited for than him?
   Too bloody right he did, the chauvinistic bastard. But wait, maybe that had nothing to do with it, perhaps he had left the room like this because he knew precisely how she would react. If she didn't know any better she might have thought that he had deliberately left the room in this state just to get at her. She didn't know any better.
   Bastard.
   She was angry now, itching for a fight, just looking for someone or something to take out her frustrations on. But the house was empty and Pete was God knows where. She was left feeling totally impotent, just as she guessed he had planned.
   No sod him, I won't be manipulated.
   She'd show him. She'd leave the room as she found it, relax and go about her normal business. She wouldn't let him get to her. She'd show him. Elaine searched around amongst the debris for the television remote control. Having found it she collapsed into a nearby armchair, switched on the T.V. and browsed through the teletext news pages, as was her usual routine. She'd show him.
   Ten minutes passed, she'd finished with the news. Nothing much of any interest there. Just the usual selection of political wrangles, minor disaster and celebrity trivia. She could resist it no longer. She glanced at the rubbish on the floor and immediately felt her frustration rekindled by its mere presence. But no, sod it. She'd show him. She'd just ignore it.
    Elaine switched off the teletext and onto some tedious game show that was always on around that time of the evening. She watched with glazed disinterest. Though the flickering images projected against the surface of her retina, her mind was on other things. She couldn't just ignore the state of the room. Those few items of litter seemed to impinge on her very existence. She had a simple choice. She could sit there and ignore it and be annoyed for the rest of the evening, or she could clear it up and let him get away with it, but at least it would be finished with.
   Oh Bugger
   Elaine leapt to her feet and attacked the litter like a dervish. She collected it all up and indiscriminately deposited it all into the kitchens flip-top bin. The entire manoeuvre took her all of ninety eight seconds. The room was now restored to it's full glory. Elaine didn't feel at all the better for it. Another grievance, however minor, to be stored up for future use. Another nail in the coffin of their marriage. Who knew how long the camel's back could last against its already burgeoning load.

+ + + + + +

' .. she just doesn't understand me.'
   'They never do mate. They never do.'
   Pete sat in 'The Highwayman' public house airing his marital problems. Until recently he had never been a heavy drinker. Just the occasional one with the lads, now and again. But there he was, in the pub, crying into his beer, as he had been for the last three hours, as he had been on thirteen of the last sixteen days. Looking back he couldn't see why he hadn't spent more time in the pub. It got him out of the house and he'd made lots of sympathetic friends who were only too willing to listen to his tale of woe.
   It should not have been surprising that Pete's new found friends were so readily sympathetic to his feelings of marital negligence. A group of men who choose to spend their leisure time getting inebriated in the company of their own sex, are about as likely to have a balanced view on the role of the wife in marriage, as a National Front rally is on the subject of racial equality.
   'I don't know where it all went wrong.'
   Pete remembered the early days of his relationship with Elaine through the rose tinted perceptions of distant memory. He remembered their meeting at training college. A beautiful, wide-eyed young woman, lost in the big city. Her shyness and awkwardness mirrored his own. He took her under his wing' and showed her around. Halcyon days. They soon become a couple.
   'When we first met she couldn't do enough for me.'
   Then she started with those trendy feminist ideas. Those University types in CID, filling her head with rubbish. She started to refuse to do things that they'd both previously assumed were hers by right; cooking, cleaning, woman's work.
   'But then she started to change.'
   'S'always the same. You never really know what they're like 'till you marry 'em. They always tell you to look at her mother to see what she'll turn out like, but you think no way, it'll never happen. Love makes you blind. Fifteen years later, you wake up and your in bed with your mother in law, curlers, false teeth and all. They just let themselves go to seed.'
   'S'always the same.'
   Pete concurred with his companion, though he agreed with no more than the most general of the sentiments expressed in his embittered diatribe:- Women, they change. For now this small concurrence was enough. He wasn't here to argue out any minor points of contention.
   'One minute nice as pie, the next they stab you in the back.'
   At first he had resisted this shift in the equilibrium of their relationship. They argued incessantly, violently, painfully. Then he shut up, after all it was only the odd spot of washing up. It was probably only a phase she was going through. She'd come round.
   Time passed and of course Elaine didn't come round. But Pete had grown used to her behaviour and if not altogether ecstatic about it, he could certainly endure it. After all, you had to be prepared to make the odd little sacrifice now and again, to make a marriage work. Then she went too far.
   'She said she didn't want to have children.'
   She said she wasn't prepared to jeopardise her career.
   'It just ain't natural.'
   'Too right. It's like.. it's like a woman's destiny. It's what they're built for. What they're best at. Tits aren't just for show y' know !!'
   It just wasn't fair. It was his right to have children, just like his father and grandfather before him. He'd always assumed that they'd have kids. That his wife's career was just a stop-gap, until that inevitable day when her hormones got the better of her and she dedicated herself to mothering their offspring. But now this, it was a bombshell.
   She was denying him his opportunity for immortality, all for her stupid job. And If they weren't going to have kids, then her career was no longer just a stop-gap. It was a vocation, a life-long thing. No less important than his own, it was something to threaten his fragile male pride.
   'All for her precious fucking career. I sometimes think she'd rather spend her time with murderers and rapists than with me.'
   Since his wife's announcement, Pete's resentment towards her and more specifically towards her job, had grown, putting a tremendous strain on their relationship. Jealous, petty disputes seemed ever ready to erupt, bubbling away just under the surface.
   'But I struggled on, tried to make the best of it.'
   'You're better than she deserves mate.'
   Then almost inevitably, a flashpoint.
   'About two weeks ago, I decided we hadn't been seeing enough of each other. So I decided to organise a night out. I booked a table at her favourite restaurant. French food, soft lighting, nice music. It's a bit pricey, but she likes it. It was meant to be a surprise.'
   'Aye, aye, we know your game.'
   Knowing looks were exchanged at the bar through heavy lidded, bloodshot eyes. Pete ignored them and continued.
   'Anyway, I got off my shift at about eight. I knew she'd be at home. I thought I'd just get changed and off we'd go. I got home, feeling good, raring to go and where was she? She wasn't fucking there.'
   'Were was she ?'
   'She'd been called out. Her precious bloody job. Bitch.'
   'Bitch', they all agreed.
   'She eventually rolls in at about eleven, not a word of apology and pisses straight off to bed. I was fuming.'
   'Anybody would be mate.'
   'We've hardly spoken a civil word since. I'm waiting for her to apologise, she hasn't of course. She seems to act like it's my fault or something. But fuck her, I'm not gonna back down this time. I'll show her.'
   'You do right mate.'
   'Don't worry she'll come to her senses. Treat 'em mean keep 'em keen. She'll come round.'
   Pete hoped so. He was so very lonely and so very much needed to feel wanted.
   '.and if she don't, well a good looking bloke like you. There's plenty of other fish in the sea.'

+ + + + + +

Elaine's angst filled evening was interrupted by the sharp ring of the telephone. She jumped to her feet and was there in the hall to answer the call by the third ring.
   'Hello, Elaine Heaton speaking.'
   'Hello Elaine, it's Derek. It's happened again.'
   Elaine recognised the voice of her Chief Inspector. With the smallest flick of some internal switch she switched into work-mode. All her domestic problems were forgotten. The frustrated impotent wife had vanished, in her place stood the efficient, calculating detective, albeit with racing pulse.
   'Tell me.'
   'We haven't got all the details yet. We were only called in about ten minutes ago, but it looks like your boy, so I'm leaving it to you.'
   'Go on.'
   'The local constabulary in Battersea, were called to a flat by neighbours who reported a disturbance. Inside they found a body, another knife victim. With the body there was a note, on it there's the same message : eye for eye, tooth for tooth.'
   'When did this happen ?'
   'The neighbours called the police at about 7.00, they got on to us almost immediately they found the body.'
   Elaine glanced at her watch, it was 7.34. They were close the trail would still be warm.
   'I'm sending Chris round to pick you up. He's got the address. He should be there in about ten minutes.'
   'Okay.'
   'And Elaine, good luck. The press will be all over this one in the morning, so try and wrap it up quickly.'
   'Yeah thanks.'
   Elaine replaced the telephone receiver and raced up the stairs to the bedroom. There, she quickly changed out of her casual clothes and into something more sombre and altogether more appropriate.
   Chris pulled up outside her house and beeped loudly on his horn as Elaine attended to her hair.
   Right, that will have to do.
   She put down her comb, descended the stairs and put on her coat. As she opened the front door, Chris sounded his horn again. Elaine flinched and thought of her neighbours.
   She got into the car and fastened her seat belt, as Chris roared off extravagantly down the Avenue.
   'Elaine.'
   'Chris.'
   Elaine looked across at Chris. He was dressed casually in jeans and a tee-shirt endorsing the 'Nags Head' football team. It bore the legend, 'Here come the lads. Lock up your daughters.' It did nothing to contradict Elaine's opinion of him. The car reeked of beer.
   'Have you been drinking? You know as well as I do that it's a serious disciplinary offence'
   An empty threat, prompted more by Elaine's disapproval of Chris's tee-shirt than by any real desire to see him punished.
   'Just the one. They bleeped me in the pub.'
   Chris glanced at Elaine. She was dressed smartly and made up impeccably, as she was every day at work, indeed as she had been during every minute that he had shared her company. He thought that she must have been born wearing a suit. What was her problem. Didn't she have a social life?
   With the detachable flashing light attached to the top of the car they made good time through the ubiquitous London congestion. At 8.04 they pulled up outside a block of 'executive apartments' in Battersea.
   'Haven't you got a jacket or something with you ?'
    Elaine questioned Chris as they unbuckled their seat-belts and made to leave the car.
   'Yeah sure, why ?'
   'Well put it on will you. We don't want to upset the uniforms, do we?'
   Patronising bitch.
   Chris did as he was told.
   Outside the apartment they were met by a fresh-faced young officer, standing 'guard' outside the open door. Elaine flashed some identification at him and introduced themselves.
   'Detective Inspector Heaton and Detective Constable Blecher, CID..'
   'Hello Inspector Heaton, we've been expecting you.'
   'and you are ?'
   'Jim Wilson, Police Constable Jim Wilson.'
   The constable led them into the flat.
   'I'm afraid it's a bit gruesome in here.'
   'That's okay we're used to it.' Elaine answered, as usual taking the lead and doing all the talking. 'Have the Scene of the Crime team arrived yet.'
   'No you're the first to get here from CID. The place is exactly as we found it.'
   The PC closed the door of the flat behind him and pointed out a large reddy brown handprint on the inside of the door.
   'A taste of things to come I'm afraid.'
   'Did you actually find the body ?'
   'Yes, PC. Aitken and myself were originally called to the flat by neighbours who reported hearing gunshots.'
   Gunshots, that's new.
   'That would be around 7.00?'
   'Yes that's right. We arrived here no more than five minutes after the call. The door was locked and the neighbours were all standing around outside talking about seeing a bloodstained man leaving the flat. We forced entry into the house and well, well you'll see what we found.'
   He opened one of the three doors which led off the hall and beckoned them through. Inside another PC was in the process of jumping to his feet from out of a comfy looking black leather armchair.
   The room was large, well lit and looked very expensive. All ergonomically designed black furniture between four white walls. On the far wall there was the dark void of an open safe, it's normally covering picture propped up against the wall beneath it. In the centre of the room, lay the body of Frank Clarke.
   'This is PC Aitken ma'am. George this is Inspector Heaton and DC Blecher, from Scotland Yard.'
   'Ma'am.'
   Elaine all but ignored P.C Aitken as she headed for the body. The corpse was laid on it's back. As she approached, she saw that there seemed to be some sort of paper pinned to the chest by a knife.
   'And this is exactly as you found the body ?'
   'Yes, apart from checking to make sure he was dead we haven't touched him. There's a note pinned to the body. Scary stuff. Eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'
   'Yes, we were told.'
   Elaine was always amazed by just how much blood the human body contained. Now that Frank Clarke's blood was on show for all to see, it was everywhere. It was splashed in rich spurts against the surrounding walls. His clothing was darkly soaked in the stuff. It had seeped over a large area of his front room's varnished floorboards to form a sticky pool in which his body now lay. On the edge of the crimson pool there was a large, distinct bloody footprint Elaine pointed to it as she passed.
   'What do you reckon Chris, about a size ten? .'
   'Sounds about right.'
   The note on the corpse's chest was stained red but Elaine could still make out the writing on it. As she silently scanned it, Chris read it aloud over her shoulder.
   'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life.'
   It's him, it's definitely him.
   'This advertiser has paid for the crimes of his procession.'
   'Profession, Chris.'
   Advertiser ?? Not an estate-agent ??
   'For the crimes of his profession, as all the perpetrators of society's crimes must pay in turn. Greed, sexism, pride, dissatisfaction; these are the crimes of the advertiser.'
   Crimes of the profession ?? What is this, some sort of crusade ?
   'Let this serve as an example. Let the people witness this act and learn from it. Society killed her, now society must pay.'
   Society killed her ? Society killed who ?
   'Make no mistake, this is only the beginning.'
   Only the beginning, Fucking hell.
   'Fucking Hell'
   'Chris !'
   Elaine admonished Chris for his amateurish display of emotion in front of the uniforms.
   She inspected the body. Though it was bloody, compared to the first killing there seemed to be only two obvious wounds to the body. The knife in the chest and what looked to be a deep knife wound across the front of the neck, from where most of the blood seemed to have emanated.
   Jugular, nasty. A knife wound though.
   Satisfied with the cause of death, Elaine headed over to the open safe, with Chris in tow.
   'You mentioned the neighbours heard a shot. Are there any signs of a gun.'
   'We had a good look round. We think we've found a bullet hole in that wall, behind the curtain.'
   P.C Aitken pointed to the front wall near the main window.
   Elaine and Chris walked towards the indicated curtain and pulled it back to reveal a small dark hole in the wall behind.
   'Looks like a bullet hole alright.'
   A gun. Christ that's all we need.
   'Probably a '45', Chris volunteered.
   What?
    'Any sign of the gun.'
   'No, we had a good look round but found nothing.'
   'Any idea who this is.'

Elaine pointed at the advertiser as she restarted towards the safe.
   'The neighbours say his name's Frank Clarke. In his mid thirties, he's lived here since the flats were built, about five years ago. He doesn't seem to have much of a social life; staying in almost every night, but he never made too much noise or anything. The perfect neighbour. He was in advertising. He worked in the city at one of the big agencies there.'
   Chris examined the inside of the safe.
   'Nothing here, just a few legal documents.'
   'Whatever there was in there, our mans probably taken it with him.'
    Robbery, what the hell is going on here ??
   'Have you found anything else that you think we might be interested in ?'
   'No you've seen it all.'
   'Scene of Crime will be here soon and they'll rip the place inside out, but for now, I think we've got enough to be getting on with. What about the rest of your shift, what have they been up to ?'
   'There's two officers going door to door, speaking to the neighbours, but that's it.'
   It had taken Elaine only twelve minutes to assimilate all the salient information. There was a lot to take in, a lot to think about, but she didn't have the time. They were lucky enough to have reached the scene so quickly. The murderer might have less than an hour start on them. Perhaps close enough to catch. The decisions Elaine made over the next few moments might make all the difference. She had to act quickly and correctly.
   'Right Aitken, get on your radio and get me your commanding officer.'
   Aitken did as he was told and Elaine found herself talking to Chief Superintendent Blair. Just as she had expected, he was as suspicious of CID and as reluctant to commit his precious manpower as everyone else of his rank that she had ever encountered. With a mixture of blatant flattery and flirting; appealing to all his worst and most accessible instincts, she soon talked him round. Men were so transparent.
    She got him to send some of his men out to all the nearby tube and rail stations, and to put his patrol cars onto the streets. The murderer would have had to leave in a hurry, he wouldn't have had time to change his clothes like he did last time. Covered in blood, wandering the streets. With any luck they'd find him.
   Her immediate choice of action made, Elaine now had to decide what she and Chris would do. Her gut instinct was to get out there on the streets and hunt their man down. Her body screamed out to do something that felt useful. To do something that satisfied her adrenaline surge. But she knew better than that and resisted the temptation.
   There were enough uniforms out on the streets already, what use would she and Chris be out there? Much better for them to sit tight, wait for the Scene of Crime boys and see what turned up. They'd be much more use, and ultimately much more likely to be there at the bitter end.
   'Right, Chris and I will stay here and wait for Scene of Crime. You two can help your mates with the door to door.'
   'Okay.'
   PCs Aitken and Wilson headed for the door.
   'We'll need to interview you in the next couple of days, but until then, thanks for all the good work.'
   The constables left the lounge. Shortly afterwards there was the sound of the front door being closed firmly behind them.
   'Jesus Christ, what a mess !!', Chris pointed at the body, 'This bloke is a fucking nutter.'
   'A bloody dangerous nutter. And now he's got a gun. If I'm not mistaken, a '45 calibre. What the hell was all that about ?'
   'Well you've got to put on a bit of a show in front of the plods.'
   'You bullshitter !!'
   Elaine and Chris sat down and awaited developments. They chatted raucously. Since this case had begun, relations between Chris and Elaine had shown a marked improvement. Chris thought that Elaine was just coming round, succumbing to his obvious charms. Elaine put it down to Chris finally maturing, growing out of his adolescent behaviour patterns. In fact, the real catalyst for the thawing out of their relationship was the murders themselves.
   The murders were exciting. The murders were sexy. The murders made them feel good. They were with each other in these exciting times, and so it was not surprising that they attributed (mistakenly) some of this excitement to each other's presence. Their working partnership flourished. If Elaine had thought about it, she might have been shocked to realise that she was presently getting on better with Chris, than the man she had pledged to love, honour and obey. There again, Elaine would have been pushed to think of anyone she was currently getting on worse with than her husband.
   The Scene of Crime team arrived and set about their work with all the gusto of a colony of army ants. Elaine quickly told Patrick Strachan what she knew, before she and Chris moved to another room (the bedroom) to leave them to it and await any news.
   Time passed and no news of any significance materialised. After three hours, the door to door had long since finished and the police had abandoned their fruitless vigil of the local tube and train stations. Elaine and Chris sat in silence. They both knew that they'd lost him, they'd missed their chance. One of the forensic team was ready to move into the room they were in. They accepted the excuse and called it a night.

+ + + + + +

Police Inspector Peter Heaton sat in his living room watching television. Around his feet lay the empty foil containers of a Chinese meal he had bought on his way back from the pub. He had every intention of cleaning up the mess he had created, but not yet. What was the rush, it'd keep until tomorrow.
    Pete was drunk. Pete was very drunk, and Pete was angry. When he had returned home to find an empty house, his first reaction was one of relief. Relief that he wouldn't get dragged in to another of their painful rows, that he wouldn't have to listen to her oh so clever arguments, that he wouldn't have to end up feeling so bloody stupid. He settled into his comfy chair, switched on some crappy film on the T.V. and munched through his Chinese meal. Comfortable in his drunken stupor, things didn't seem so bad.
   Time passed. The undercooked unidentifiable meat in his meal had given him indigestion and the film on the television remained as unintelligible as ever. His thoughts turned to his absent wife. Where the hell was she? He'd been home almost an hour. She obviously hadn't just nipped out to the local corner shop. He remembered something she'd said to him in the heat of their last argument. He'd dismissed at the time as an empty threat, but what if.... Surely she wouldn't just walk out on him... Panic.
   Pete jumped to his feet, accidentally upsetting a half empty polystyrene cup of sweet and sour sauce, and raced up the stairs to her (formerly their) bedroom. He checked the wardrobe. Relief. Her clothes were still there. Then where was she? He checked the drawer where she normally kept her work things; her ID, her notebook. They were gone. Bitch. He should have guessed. That fucking job.
   Pete came back down the stairs into the living room, and collapsed back into his chair in front of the film. The 1950's romantic comedy he had originally started watching had finished while he had been upstairs. His bloodshot eyes now stared at the beginning of a badly dubbed Western. He didn't notice the difference.
   The sharp rattle of a key entering the front door lock snapped his mind out of it's vacuous alcoholic meanderings.
   Bitch. About fucking time.
   In the hall he heard the front door swing open and braced himself.
   She couldn't even be bothered to leave me a note. She cares more about that job than she does me.
   He heard her hang up the coat and kick off her shoes, then the soft pad of her footsteps as she approached the lounge. Her arrival imminent, he suddenly felt very tired. He really didn't need the inevitable confrontation. On an impulse, he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.
   Elaine entered the living room and found her husband asleep in front of the television. She saw his new deposit of fast-food cartons and sighed heavily, but even this could not fully offset her relief at not having to face his unthinking rage. She switched off the television, turned off the living room lights and went upstairs to bed.
   Fucking bitch.
   Pete opened his eyes in the darkness.
   Creeps in here at all hours, not a word of apology and then pisses off to bed.
   He soon fell asleep where he sat.

+ + + + + +

At seven thirty the next day, Elaine arrived early for work, eager to launch herself at the new evidence this second killing would provide. Over the past few weeks she had grown increasingly despondent over the Tillman case, as all their leads petered out and they were left just going through the motions, waiting for that awful moment when they would be pulled off the case. Now the killer had struck again, and her enthusiasm was reborn.
    With this second killing, the very nature of the case had altered. Whereas before they had been looking for an astute murderer. Now they were hunting a serial killer, something altogether much more exciting. Elaine only hoped they wouldn't take this case from her to give to somebody more senior, somebody better thought of; somebody altogether more male.
   Arriving at her desk, she found a note from Chief Inspector Young asking her to contact him as soon as she got in. She saw him twenty minutes later and gave him a run down of the happenings of the previous evening; what they'd found and more importantly to Elaine, the decisions she'd made. To her relief the Chief Inspector complimented her on her work and moved the conversation on to the main reason he'd wanted to see her; the press.
   A press conference had been called for early that afternoon. Though it was unlikely that the media had latched on to the story yet, it was always worthwhile to get your story straight at the outset. The people had to be told what was happening. The people had a right to know. The usual policy in these cases was don't tell them any lies which might blow up in your face at some later date, but there again don't tell them any more than you had to.
   Elaine argued that their man was apparently on some sort of self appointed moral crusade and as such would obviously want any publicity he could get. Precisely because she thought that he wanted it, she thought that they shouldn't give it to him. She suggested that it was best at this stage to keep the message quiet and try to suppress the moral crusade aspect of the killings, there were more than enough loonies out there and they didn't want to risk encouraging any copy-cat killings.
   They should not overtly make the connection between the two killings and they should stress the ransacked safe. They could report it as a savage murder, where the motive appears to be robbery. Chief Inspector Young agreed with Elaine's reasoning and told her that he'd endorse her recommendations when he talked to his superior later that morning. He didn't anticipate any problems with Elaine's suggested approach.
   After leaving the Chief Inspector's office, Elaine checked with forensics that nothing significant had turned up. It hadn't, and so she returned to her desk and waited for Chris to roll in.
    While she waited, she browsed over a copy of the note that they had found on the advertiser's body the night before. With enough time to look more closely at the thing, Elaine was struck by how structured it was; as if it had taken the murderer a lot of time and energy to compose. The words in the message were clinical and almost surgically precise. The sentences designed to convey the maximum amount of information with the minimum of effort.
   The message seemed intended to convey a justification for the brutal act. A handful of words to explain away a murder. This man actually thought that his explanation was sufficient; that his actions were justified. He saw himself as a reasonable human being carrying out a public good. Reading his reasons, his justifications for killing this poor man, this token advertiser as the murderer saw him, Elaine was shocked to realise that she actually sympathised with most of his complaints against the advertising industry.
   She had long viewed advertisers as parasitic and worthless. More alarming still, these views were by no means universal. Though some of her friends shared them, she recognised that no more than 10% of the population regarded advertisers with such antipathy. This man probably shared a common 'world view' with her; supporting the same causes, voting for the same political party. Christ, if she had met him at a dinner party she would probably have found him intelligent and charming. But that was where it ended.
   The murderer's perceptions of the world may well have been sound, but the conclusions which he drew from those perceptions were sick and twisted. Advertisers may well propagate greed and dissatisfaction, but that wasn't a good enough reason to butcher one of them. Nobody, no matter how morally unsound deserved that. This man was a brutal killer, totally beyond the pale. She would hunt him down and lock him away for a long time. He would deserve everything that it was in her powers to make sure that he got.
   Now how to find the man they were after? Last night he had got away. He had been careless and that had made him vulnerable, but he had been lucky and had escaped them. From the look of the scene of the crime there would be more clues than there were last time, maybe even something to lead them straight to him. But they couldn't bank on it.
   If there was anything, the forensic people would root it out and let them know. For now though, they had no strong leads. They would have to do this the hard way. Embarking on the tedious business of collecting as much information about the crime as possible. Raw data which they could then use to form the basis of their investigations.
   Chris breezed into the office at just gone nine O'clock. He and Elaine spent that day and the next interviewing the good people of Battersea.
   Mr George Cooke, a resident of one of the Penthouse flats in the victim's block of apartments, shared a lift with Frank Clarke at approximately 6.45 pm on the night of the murder. They exchanged some social pleasantries, but nothing of any significance. Clarke was dressed for work and didn't seem to Mr Cooke to be upset in any way. Clarke left the lift at the second floor, the floor of his apartment. He was alone.
   The victim's next door neighbour, a Miss Emma Reid, reported hearing his front door slam shut at around ten to six that night. Approximately five minutes later she heard the door slam again. Another ten minutes had passed when she heard what she thought was a gunshot coming from next door. She immediately called the police. Her call was logged at 7.02.
   Franke Clarke signed out from work at five minutes to six. According to his colleagues, he was noted for the pedantic accuracy of his timekeeping. The journey from his work to his home, usually took him between forty two and fifty five minutes, door to door.
   A Mr Graham Atkins, the occupier of a flat across the corridor from Clarke's, reported hearing the gunshot at around seven. He immediately emerged from his flat to investigate. He was met by a man rushing out of Clarke's apartment. This man brushed past him and ran to the end of the corridor to the staircase and then down out of sight.
   Atkins described the man as white, between five feet eight and six feet tall with a clean shaven face and mousey hair. He was dressed casually in a jacket, jeans and trainers. His clothes were bloodstained. He held a carrier bag without any obvious advertisements on it.
   Exiting the flats the bloodstained man barged past a Mr Winston Okoro, the boyfriend of one of the occupier's of another flat. Mr Okoro noticed the man's bloodstained clothing. He described the man as white, about six foot two in height, with blonde hair. He was dressed in a light tee-shirt and dark coloured trousers. He wore white Adidas trainers and carried some sort of sports holdall. Mr Okoro reported seeing the suspect run off in the direction of Battersea Park railway station.
   No further sightings of the bloodstained man were reported.
   From interviews with Frank Clarke's friends, neighbours and work colleagues (the first group was by far the smallest of the three) a picture emerged of a rather sad, lonely individual. An only child, whose father died when he was young, Frank had been an awkward youth who never really mixed easily. At school though, Frank had excelled, and it was here that he had channelled his energies.
   From school to university. Tutors described him as a keen scholar, very success oriented, very intense. He graduated in the summer of 1979 with a 2.1 in European History and entered a career in advertising at Hansard Brothers. With few outside interests to divert him, he worked long and hard and started to make his way up through the ranks.
   As a manager of men, though largely effective, he was said to lack charisma and rely on strict authoritarian measures to motivate his charges. Of the colleagues interviewed by Elaine and Chris, his superiors cited his results and spoke highly of him. His peers grudgingly admired his success but were intimidated by his distance. His underlings, the butt of his disciplinary control, were sorry about what had happened, but didn't really have a good word for him.
   What friends Frank did have were all male and people he had met through university or work. The extensive collection of pornographic magazines that were found in his room gave some idea of the direction in which his sexual instincts were channelled in the absence of any apparent contact with the opposite sex. Frank's friends seemed only too ready to criticise their recently departed aquaintance. Bad habits seemingly much easier to remember than good ones.
   They talked of a humourless man, totally dedicated to his job. They described a man who was extremely careful with his money, a man who boasted to them of the size of a small fortune he had locked in his living room safe. They told of a man who distrusted others, a man so afraid that some vicious criminal might try to plunder his precious cache that he appropriated a handgun (though no-one admitted to know the source) with which to protect it.
   With the killing of the estate agent Robert Tillman, how the killer had found his victim was obvious, he had simply walked into an estate agents and arranged to view a house. The question was, how had the killer selected Frank Clarke? If she wanted to find an advertiser how would Elaine have done it? Of course, if you knew one already it was easy, but then there would be a link between you and the victim and you would be vulnerable.
   Their man had shown himself to be more careful than that and anyway nothing they had found out so far indicated any link between killer and victim. So given that you didn't already know any advertisers, how would you go about finding one ?
   Clarke had been killed only minutes after arriving home from work. His neighbour had reported hearing his door slam in between Clarke arriving home and the gunshot, so it was probable that it was this second opening of the door where the killer entered the apartment. They knew Clarke had been alone when he arrived home, but of course it was possible that the killer had already been inside, lying in wait.
   There were no signs of forced entry to the flat, so it was unlikely, but Forensics should have been able to tell them for sure. For now though, Elaine thought it was a reasonably sound deduction that the murderer had entered the flat some two minutes after Clarke had arrived home, let in by Clarke himself.
    Elaine thought that this small time gap between Clarke arriving home and the murderer making his move was significant. It implied one of two things: Either that the killer knew where Clarke lived and had been waiting for him to arrive home, or that the killer had followed Clarke home. If the killer had been waiting for Clarke to get home, perhaps one of the other residents had seen someone hanging around the apartments. Elaine and Chris asked them; they hadn't.
   Of course, their man had already shown with his killing of the estate-agent how thorough he could be, and so nobody noticing him lurking about the flats didn't prove he hadn't been there. It just made it seem less likely. Elaine liked the other option. That the killer had followed Clarke home. If she was going to kill an advertiser (which of course she wasn't), that was how she would have done it. Choose an agency at random, wait around outside and follow one of them home. No connection between you and your victim; perfect.
   Only it hadn't been perfect. The person the killer had picked on had had a secret. He had a gun hidden away at home to protect his precious money. He'd surprised the killer with it. There'd been a shot. God if it had hit him it'd all have been over. Elaine didn't even want to start analysing her ambivalent feelings over that possibility. The shot missed but it had alerted the victim's neighbours and shocked the killer out of his carefully planned routine. People had seen him. They had witnesses.
   Armed with the photo-fit picture that the witnesses had provided, Elaine organised a large scale exercise to question people who travelled along Clarke's route from work who might have been travelling at the same time as him on that fateful day. The whole thing was expensive in its use of manpower and consequently made her actions conspicuous to her superiors.
   After repeating the exercise over two consecutive days, they found sixteen people who claimed to have seen a person matching the photo-fit picture. Unfortunately none of these people correctly described any of the corroborative items of the suspects clothing that the earlier witnesses had described, and so their testimony was discounted. One hundred and forty three of the people interviewed claimed to recognise a photograph of Frank Clarke.
   Under closer scrutiny the vast majority of these people failed to recall any corroboratory details and were also discounted. Most of these people had probably seen Clarke on a previous occasion than the day in question. Thirty two people remained, who appeared to have seen Frank Clarke on his journey home on the night in question. Unfortunately none of these people recognised the photo-fit or reported noticing anybody following Clarke. Elaine had no choice but to assume that the killer had not followed Clarke home from work.
   As a novice Detective Constable, Elaine had been offered a pearl of wisdom by an experienced and respected old hand. She absorbed this advice and adopted it as part of her own 'personal code of practice.' At times such as this it would spring unbidden into her mind, always in the thick Yorkshire accent of it's original orator. 'Any detective can follow their hunches. A good detective knows when to ditch them.'
   She had liked the idea of the murderer following the victim home, but the evidence had not backed it up. Either the murderer had been waiting outside Clarke's flat and had been careful to keep himself well hidden, or one of the assumptions she had made in narrowing down the options to arrive at her conclusions, had been in error. Either way she had been wrong.
   Just because an explanation seemed to elegantly fit the known facts, didn't make it right. For all Elaine's logic, after several days of intensive (and expensive) investigation, apart from eliminating some of the likeliest looking of the multitude of possible solutions, she knew no more about the crime than the eye-witness accounts had originally told her.

+ + + + + +

The Scene of Crime team had disseminated the forensic evidence with their usual thoroughness. Now sat in their office, Elaine and Chris listened to Patrick Strachan present their findings to them, with his customary zeal.
   .'.we found that the door to Clarke's flat had recently been swung open to crash against the inside wall.'
   Patrick pushed a photograph across the table towards Elaine. On it there was a remarkably uninteresting picture of a small area of cracked plaster on a white wall.
   'Yes.'
   She passed the photograph on to Chris who gave it no more than a cursory glance before sliding it back to Patrick with a flick of his wrist.
   'There was also evidence of a struggle in the hallway. We interpreted this as indicating that the killer had barged through the half open door, taking Clarke by surprise and overcoming him after a short struggle.'
   Patrick addressed his remarks almost exclusively to Elaine. He eyes were fixed on her sitting in front of him, leaning forward, attentively listening to his every word. She was a fine looking woman. She wanted to know something that only he could tell her and he revelled in the power that represented. She was special, was Elaine.
   So many of the other detectives he worked with thought they knew it all and treated him like something they'd just scraped off their shoe. He knew they thought him boring and his work tedious. It was written all over their ungrateful faces. That Chris was just like all the rest. He didn't deserve a partner like Elaine.
   Patrick looked across at Chris for a moment, to see him unsuccessfully battling to suppress a yawn.
   Ungrateful little git !!
   He looked back at Elaine. She was just so nice. She appreciated every bit of effort they'd put into the case and really paid attention to the detail of what he said. She was a great detective. For a woman.
   'Our barging in theory ties in with Clarke's next door neighbour's report of the second door slam. It also points against the victim knowing his killer. If the killer had known him, surely Clarke would have willingly let him into his flat and he wouldn't have had to barge in through a half open door.'
   'Makes sense.' Elaine agreed.
   'Of course if Clarke had a security chain on his front door then the killer wouldn't have been able to get in and none of this would have happened. It's hard to understand how a man would be so obsessed with protecting himself that he would procure himself an illicit fire-arm, but wouldn't bother with the common precaution of a security chain.'
   'Good point.' Patrick smiled at Elaine. I'll use that in my report.
   Chris interjected. 'The barging in theory also points against the killer already being inside the flat when Clarke arrived home.'
   If I'd wanted a statement of the obvious I'd have asked for one. 'We've already dismissed that possibility. No evidence was found of forced entry to the flat or any tamperings with the front door lock.
   Inside the flat, a multitude of fingerprints were found; both Clarke's and the killer's. From these we can definitely say that the killer is the same man who murdered Robert Tillman.'
   'Surprise, surprise.'
   Patrick ignored Chris's weak attempt at sarcasm and continued. 'Evidence of the killer's presence was only found in the hall and lounge of the apartment. It seems likely that these were the only rooms visited by the killer. The killer was seen leaving the scene less than five minutes after the sound of the second door slam which doesn't give him much time to go wandering around.
   The open door of Clarke's safe bore none of the killers fingerprints. The safe was almost certainly opened by Clarke, probably under duress from the killer.'
   'Surely the emptying of the safe indicates some prior knowledge of Clarke by the killer?', Chris interrupted again.
   'Not really, Clarke may well have surrendered the information about his safe in an attempt to bargain for his life.'
   Elaine had already been through this chain of thought.
   Good girl. You tell him.
   'From the testimony of Clarke's associates, it is known that he kept his fire-arm locked in his safe with his money. The descriptions we've had of this weapon indicate that it is a snub nosed revolver. The bullet found in the wall of Clarke's flat was a .'38' and as such is consistent with such a gun.'
   Elaine smiled to herself and mentally logged the bullet calibre as something to chide Chris about at a later date.
   'From the angle of entry of this bullet, we can tell that the gun was fired by somebody standing by the safe facing away from it. This person was between five foot six and six foot tall, which unfortunately doesn't rule out either killer or victim.'
   As Patrick spoke, his eyes drifted from Elaine's face down to her chest. After an instant, Patrick caught himself and quickly looked back up. 'However all the available evidence suggests that Clarke himself shot the gun. He knew where it was, the killer probably didn't, and he opened the safe..'
   'and Clarke was killed by a knife and not a gun.' Elaine added.
   'Good point.'
   Patrick treated Elaine to what he considered to be his warmest smile. Elaine beamed back. Chris sat by, excluded from their clique and snorted to himself, amazed at both Elaine's audacity and transparency.
   'We think Clarke opened the safe on the pretext of giving the killer the money and pulled out his gun. There appears to have been a struggle, Clarke fired the gun, but missed and the killer slit his throat. Cause of death was oxygen starvation of the brain caused by a severed jugular.'
   Patrick pushed a photograph of the corpse across to Elaine. She remembered what Clarke's body had looked like well enough and passed it on to Chris after only the quickest of glances. Chris lingered over the photograph for somewhat longer, soaking up the gory details.
   He didn't mind the gore. When all was said and done it was just so much meat, no different to a pig strung up in a butcher's window. He scrutinised the picture for any detail he might not have noticed on the night, something extra to titillate his cronies down the pub.
   'Hearing the sound of the gunshot, Graham Atkins, a neighbour of Clarke's came out of his flat to see what was happening. Standing in the hall, he was met by our assailant leaving Clarke's apartment. So we can say that the time gap between the gun-shot and our man leaving Clarke's apartment was less than two minutes. Assuming the gun wasn't shot after Clarke's death, this doesn't give the killer very long to hang about after killing Clarke.'
   Though Elaine still wore what she thought of as her 'interested listener' face, she wished Strachan would get on with it. The information he was giving them was undoubtedly useful, but he did have a tendency to over elaborate his points.
   'Yes', she urged him on.
   She glanced across at Chris and was surprised to see him still looking attentively at Patrick. She had expected to find him lolling backwards on his chair, gazing vacantly out of the window. Though she had come to appreciate his abilities much more in recent weeks, it could not be said by even the least critical of observers (which she definitely wasn't) that he was overly endowed in the tact department. But perhaps he was learning. Maybe she had judged him too harshly. It wouldn't have been the first time.
   'We think that the first thing that the killer did was to clear out Clarke's safe. The killer's prints were found all over the inside of the safe, but there were no traces of blood. The killer must have emptied the safe after he killed Clarke. If we assume Clarke had the gun from opening the safe until the time he was killed, then its unlikely that our man could have robbed him whilst Clarke was in a position to stop him.'
   Chris's body sat attentively in front of Patrick, but he barely registered what was being said. If he had been paying attention he would surely have been thinking sneering thoughts about Patrick's lack of eloquence, but the whole thing had passed him by. He'd been trying to listen, he really had. He knew what was being said was important, but he just didn't have the attention span.
   It was just like lectures at University. He just kept finding himself drifting off into his own thoughts, hypnotised by the monotony of the speaker. For now he amused himself watching the way Patrick's nasal hair extended out of his nose. It was incredible. Somebody should contact the Guinness Book Of Records. This man deserved to be a star.
   Chris realised that he was drifting and with a huge effort of will clawed his way back from his mental meandering and into the perceptual world.
    'We found some quite detailed accounts of Clarke's money hidden in his bedroom cabinet. This was a man who was obsessively careful with his money. From these accounts we know that Clarke had, and now the killer has, almost twenty thousand pounds.'
   'Sheesh.'
   Chris had heard that all right.
   'Our man really fell on his feet this time. You could do a lot with that sort of money.'
   'After emptying the safe, the killer pinned the note to Clarke's chest.'
   A further two photographs were passed between Patrick and Elaine. The first was of the note. Elaine had scrutinised her own copy of the murderer's note so often over the last few days that she could practically recite the lines word for word. She needed no reminder and she passed the photo on to Chris who passed it back to Patrick.
   The second photograph was of the knife that had pinned the note to Clarke's body. This was the first time she had seen more than just its hilt. It was a vegetable knife, about four inches long, and was in fact identical to one that sat in the knife-drawer of her own kitchen.
   'The murder weapon ?'
   'Surprisingly no. The knife that killed Clarke had a thicker edge than this one. We do think though, that this is the knife that killed Robert Tillman.'
   'So we know that the killer carries more than one knife', Chris concluded, back up to speed with the conversation. Big deal, he thought but didn't add.
   'And it's a good job for him that he does too.'
   Patrick was glad this had come up. It was one of the deductions that he'd come up with, and the one which he was most proud of. He would explain every step of his logic, just to make sure they'd really appreciate his cleverness.
   'When the killer led Clarke into the lounge and forced him to open the safe, we think it's safe to assume he had Clarke at knife-point.'
   'Agreed.'
   'Assuming Clarke pulled the gun on our killer, what do you think would be the first thing he would ask our boy to do?'
   'Drop the knife, I suppose.' Elaine answered Patrick's rhetorical question. Anything to speed him up.
   Good girl.
   'Exactly.'
   'Our killer drops the knife and Clarke starts to relax. The killer somehow jumps him, there's a scuffle, the gun goes off..'
   Again, thought Chris.
   .'.and the killer cuts Clarkes's throat with his other knife.' Patrick sat back waiting for some (favourable) comment about his incisive deduction.
   'Sounds good. It'd certainly explain the two knives.'
   Elaine agreed, though she thought that this one of Patrick's conclusions was based on rather a lot of supposition and not really enough facts. Still it certainly painted a picture of what might have happened.
   'But why would he leave his first choice knife in his victims chest?'
   'Err..', Patrick's triumph crumbled.
   Chris chipped in with some unexpected support for Patrick's theory.
   'Perhaps he didn't think he needed his knife anymore, now he had a gun.'
   'Maybe, but he's been very careful in the past to leave as little as possible behind.'
   'Maybe he just panicked, he must have been in a hurr..'
   Patrick watched Chris and Elaine start to bounce ideas off each other as they developed (or hijacked) his theory. He felt both excluded and threatened. He'd never been very good at thinking quickly on his feet, and their display only underlined this deficiency. He swiftly resumed his monologue cutting their deductions sharply off and reasserting his control over the proceedings.
   'As I was saying, the knife is a four and a half inch Sabatier vegetable knife. The other knife is larger, six to seven inches in length, but cuts a similar pattern to the first. They're probably both from some sort of set. These knives are available nation-wide and have been on the market for over six years.
   The paper that the message is written on is from an A4 pad manufactured sometime in the last six months by Cartwright and Brice. Again this brand of pad is widely available with annual sales of over three million. The ink of the message is from a black BIC biro, so no real help with any of these I'm afraid.'
   'No.'
   'Interestingly enough, we know that the killer emptied the safe before pinning the note to Clarke's body because of the total absence of traces of blood in the safe. After pinning the note the killer's hands would undoubtedly have been covered in it.'
   Interesting certainly wasn't the word for it. Chris's eyes were glazed and he was drifting again.
   'After pinning the note to Clarke's body. The killer collected his bag and left the apartment. Outside the door he brushed past Atkins and left by the stairs. And that's about it I'm afraid. Once again we've found a lot of corroboratory stuff, but haven't really been able to give you anything firm to go on.'
   Patrick's summing up was typically self-deprecating, but that was just his way. He was really very proud of the work he and his team had done. They had pieced together the disparate minutiae of evidence and had come up with a convincing picture of how Frank Clarke had been killed.
   Patrick was very satisfied. He knew nobody could have done a better job, and this knowledge was a source of pride. The false modesty of his summing up was just a well worn (and not particularly subtle) method of soliciting the praise he thought their work deserved.
   With Elaine around lack of appreciation was never going to be a problem.
    'You sell yourself too short Pat.
    The work you've done has been amazing, nobody could have done more. You can't be expected to conjure up the slice of luck that might give us the clue we're looking for. You can just analyse the data to the best of your abilities and if the clue is there we know you'll find it.'
   'You're too kind.'
   'No you deserve it. Thank the rest of the team from us. You've all done a great job.'
   Chris followed Elaine as she got up to leave, leaving Patrick basking in the warm glow of his glory.
   It was five minutes before they were far enough down the corridor to be sure to be out of earshot.
   'Well back to square one I suppose !'
   'God, and that guy. What a boring bastard !!'
   Elaine remained silent though she agreed with the sentiment. The role she had written for herself in their relationship didn't allow her to make, or even endorse, such extreme statements. Fortunately any need she might have had to vent such opinions was usually satisfied by Chris, who made such damning condemnations as a matter of course about almost everyone they met.

+ + + + + +

Jason Harford had been upset by the news of Frank Clarke's murder, but more by the proximity of such a horrific event than by any real sympathy for his late superior. Clarke was replaced at Hansard's by an anonymous, ambitious young executive who, eager to make an impression in his new position, immediately embarked on a drive to increase the efficiency of his new charges.
   He didn't like Jason and did all in his power to make his life as uncomfortable as possible. Jason wasn't surprised. It just went to prove what he had always thought; Nothing changes. He kept his head down and struggled on.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 7.

GAMES PEOPLE PLAY.

He woke early though there was no need. Without work to order his day it would have been all too easy to let himself go, to just lie there in his bed and let the hostile world outside drift by. But he didn't. He had things to do, important things, and so he enforced his own personal discipline, so as not to waste any of his precious time.
   Before dressing, he cleared the discarded clothes of yesterday from a small area of his bedroom floor and carried out his regular series of exercises. After grunting his way through numerous press-ups, sit-ups and a variety of stretches, he stood up, panting, and appraised his naked physique in the full length bedroom mirror. Satisfied with what he saw, he left the bedroom for the bathroom to carry out his daily ablutions.
   There were a lot of bad tastes in the world, he knew that. But the one he woke up with in his mouth every day of his adult life, must surely have been one of the worst of all. Where this taste originated was a mystery, it wasn't there when he went to sleep, but every morning there it was. He had a idea that it was somehow connected inexplicably with his journey into adulthood.
   He certainly couldn't remember having to endure it as a child. In fact, he clearly remembered a childhood reluctance to clean his teeth at all, despite stern parental admonitions. Now though, it was unthinkable that he could start his day without brushing them. Quite apart from the foul taste, self-concious awareness of his bad breath would shatter his confidence in any dealings with others (especially the opposite sex) he might have during the day.
   Reaching for the most inaccesible recesses of his back teeth with the sleek angled head of his toothbrush, he inadvertently touched the back of his throat and gagged silently into the wash basin. This marked the end of his teeth cleaning. Teeth now immaculate and taste exorcised, he rinsed out his mouth and deposited his frothy spit into the basin, where it was washed away by a jet of water from the cold water tap.
   His attention turned now to his face shown in the shaving mirror in front of him. He wet his hands, splashed water onto his face and wet back his hair. With only a day's growth of beard, he didn't need to shave today - One of the biggest advantages of not being at work was the freeing from the hated chore of shaving. Now ready to face the world he returned to the bedroom to dress quickly in loose comfortable clothing before entering the kitchen where he prepared himself a light breakfast.
   He ate his breakfast whilst sat in front of the TV watching some inane children's programme. As he munched slowly through his muesli he tried not to think too much about the task ahead. In his stomach the butterflies of expectation were already fluttering, sapping his appetite. He knew only too well that if he abandoned himself to his excitement, the remaining hour or so before he set off would drag out interminably, and so he dourly resisted the temptation and battled to lose himself in the patronising drivel on the screen in front of him, designed to occupy inquiring young minds.
   Finally, the awaited time arrived, he jabbed the on-off button on his television remote control, picked up his sports holdall that he had prepared the night before and left the flat. Now safely embarked, he could allow himself to think about his approaching trial. As he walked, he let his mind linger over the details of how he wanted it to unfold; as if visualising it in such minute detail would make it more likely to happen that way.
    Football.
   When Chris didn't have to work, his Saturdays were dedicated to the game. He played for the Nag's Head football team, though he was undoubtedly good enough to exhibit his skills at a higher level, perhaps as far as semi-pro. But the Nag's Head was where he drank and where his mates played, and such things were important to Chris. His mates relied on him, and anyway he liked being a big fish in a small pond, where he was guaranteed to be appreciated and there was little chance of failure.
   He played centre-forward. Up front leading the attack. The glamour position. He was the player who scored most of the goals and subsequently received the majority of the plaudits. As the player with the most ability, he would probably have been of more use to the team harnessing his skills in the midfield, where he could get more involved and have a greater influence on the course of the game, rather than indulge himself in a quest for personal glory.
   As it was, if the team was struggling, he often found himself isolated in the opposition's end of the field, waiting in vain for the ball to be played up to him. All his superior ball skills were of no use if he didn't get enough of the ball to demonstrate them. In the end though, if Chris wanted to play centre-forward, such was the esteem which his friends held him in on 'matters football' that nobody was about to argue with him.
   Chris rounded the corner into the pub car park to be met by a fanfare of car horns. As usual he was the last to arrive, just as he had planned. Five minutes late. Enough time to guarantee that he wouldn't be the first one there, with all the anxious waiting around that would entail, but not too much time that he risked over-stretching their tolerance, that they might leave without him. Besides, let them wait. They needed him more than he needed them and he wasn't opposed to letting them know it.
   More car horns.
   'C'mon we haven't got all bloody day.'
   Chris smiled broadly and quickened his pace towards a waiting silver Ford Capri. He never drove himself to a match. He liked a drink afterwards and knew better than to drink and drive. Again his footballing kudos was sufficient to see that his lack of reciprocity went unchallenged.

+ + + + + +

No more than two minutes left in the game. The score, two all. Chris, the scorer of both the Nag's Head goals was pulling out all the stops, looking for his hat-trick. The Royal Oak had the ball, but their attack quickly broke down and the Nag's Head started to bring the ball out of defence.
   Here we go.
   Chris is stood on the half-way line, next to his marker. The opposition defence had pushed right out and so Chris had been forced out with them, so as not to stray offside.
   'Matt, over here, send me, send me.'
   Chris shouted for the ball from the Nags Head defender. Matt heared him and Chris being his only one real attacking option, he did as he was told and kicked the ball up the field, over Chris and his markers head, for Chris to run on to.
   Run, run, run.
   Chris ran flat out, stretching every sinew, his concentration totally fixed on to the rolling football. His marker was left trailing in his wake, more than ten feet behind. The ball was no further than five feet in front of Chris, rolling away from him towards the goal area which was another six feet on from the ball. The goalkeeper advanced to the edge of his area in readiness to collect the approaching ball.
   C'mon run.
   Chris was almost there, but too late, the ball crossed into the goal area. The goalkeeper stooped down and gratefully collected it.
   'Aaagh.'
   Chris cried out both in frustration and in a desperate attempt to shock the goalkeeper into dropping the ball. The goalkeeper was not distracted. He held firmly onto the ball, before kicking it back up the field to his waiting attackers.
   Shit.. Fuck. Shitty bastard.
   Chris turned around and trotted back up the field to get back onside if his team should regain possession, knowing that they might not, that he may well have just had his last kick of the match.
   The ball was in the air, played aimlessly in the general direction of the Nags Head goal by one of the Royal Oak players. It was headed away by a Nags head defender and fell towards Steve Gordon, a mid-field player who Chris rated as the most skillful of his team-mates (after himself of course).
   This time.
   'Over here Steve. To feet, to feet.'
   Gordon controlled the ball second bounce and hit it the thirty or so yards across the field towards Chris.
   Brilliant.
   The football looked set to land three yards to Chris's left, in front of him in open field. Chris set off to meet it, followed by his marker.
   Run, run.
   He intercepted the ball at the instant it hit the ground and stopped it stone dead with a deft touch from his favoured right foot. He looked up, with the ball at his feet, to see his marker standing off him, about two yards away, between Chris and the goal, trying to delay Chris long enough to give his fellow defender, who was racing over from Chris's right, time to catch up with them. In an instant Chris had made up his mind as to what he was going to do.
   Look left.
   He took the ball on his left foot and headed straight for his marker.
   Look left.
   Chris was up to the defender now, he glanced to the left and made to take the ball past his opponent on that side.
   The defender took the bait and started to move his right leg so as to tackle Chris as he came past him on his lef..
   Go right.
   At the last moment Chris abruptly changed direction, took the ball onto his right foot and passed the defender on the opposite side to that which he was expecting. He was passed him before he had chance to regain his balance.
   Yes!!
   To the right though there was the other defender, charging in at speed. The defender was moving too fast to make a considered attempt at tackling Chris, but he stuck out a leg and came sliding in at Chris in a desperate lunge for the ball.
   Chris was ready for the defender's lunge and merely kicked the ball forward and away from trouble and jumped over the oncoming defender's flailing legs.
   Yes!!
   The two defenders beaten, there was now no-one but the goalkeeper between Chris and the goal. He put his head down and raced down the pitch.
   C'mon run.
   Chris bore down on the opposition goal. As he approached the edge of the area, the goalkeeper started to move off his line to meet him and narrow down the angle for Chris's shot.
   Top corner.
   'Chris, over here.'
   Chris glanced over his left shoulder. The opposition defenders were too far away to matter, but almost level with him was Steve Gordon who had continued his run from midfield. With the goalkeeper coming out to meet him all Chris had to do was square the ball to his team-mate to leave him with an open goal. An open goal for Steve or the chance of a hat-trick for himself. No contest.
   Top corner.
   Chris unleashed an unstoppable shot towards the right hand top corner of the net.
   Get in !!
   With a reflex action the goalkeeper managed to stick out a despairing hand and impossibly got the slightest of touches with his fingertips as the ball sped past. The deflection to the balls path was infintesimally small, but significant. The ball hammered in to the cross-spar of the upright, bounced off the woodwork and out of the goal.
   Shit.
   The ball had been hit with such force that it travelled more than thirty feet through the air, over the heads of the still on-rushing Steve and Chris and into open field , where one of the trailing defenders gratefully collected it.
   Shit.
   The defender clumsily controlled the ball before launching a hopeful punt towards the Nag's Head goal. The ball bounced high to another Royal Oak player on the edge of the goal area, who miscued his kick and sliced the ball at an acute angle up into the air. The Nag's Head goalkeeper came out to collect the ball and jumped up to catch it with one of his own defenders and an opposition forward.
   C'mon.
   Chris watched with disbelief as his goalkeeper made a mess of it and missed the football completely. The ball bounced backwards, off the unwitting defenders head and into the empty net.
   Shit.
   At this point the referee, (one of the Royal Oak substitutes), decided that enough was enough and blew his whistle for full time. Three-two to the Royal Oak.
    Shit. Shit. Shit Shit.

+ + + + + +

An hour later, showered, refreshed and in the pub, already on their second round, all talk of their recent defeat was forgotten. Individual incidents might be recalled in the future, probably at great length, but the fact that they had been beaten was already lost to the depths of time and selective memory. If they had won, talk of their victory would have lasted for most of the next week. But they had lost and so they would have to find other subjects to occupy their conversations.
   .'.You should have been there on Thursday night Chris.'
   'Some of us have work to go to, keeping the streets safe for ungrateful bastards like you.'
   Chris remembered his evening spent reconstructing the Clarke killing. He'd had to play the part of the murderer as the witnesses descriptions sounded a bit like him. That had amused Elaine. He knew his mates would react in a similar manner and so neglected to mention it. What a waste of bloody time it had turned out to be. An evening spent pissing about running around outside Clarke's flat, his hands covered in stage blood, all for sweet FA. Typical. He wouldn't complain about the overtime, but he would have much rather have been out with his mates.
   'Only thing you're working for is to get into that Elaine's knickers !!'
   The witticism was clumsy, but it underlined Chris's, and through him the groups', overt masculinity. They roared with approving laughter.
   Chris shared their laughter and indeed relished the impression of himself that such a remark gave: Chris, he shags women. However a degree of perceived false modesty did no harm to this image and so he changed the subject back to his friends' night out.
   'So anyway, what did you get up to?'
   'Oh yeah, well we had a great time. We started off in here at about eight and had a few beers to get us going, you know the sort of thing.'
   Chris knew the sort of thing only too well. He had done it himself a thousand times before. Sitting, closely clustered around a bar-room table, in their usual spot, in their usual pub, drinking their usual drinks, their drinks punctuated by their usual conversations.
   Their position in the bar, though now ingrained by long habit, had originally been chosen at random in the far off days of their early adolescence, when they had first started to venture into the illicit adult world of alcohol and more importantly, its abuse. The 'Nags Head' was selected at the same time because it was the first pub which would serve them. Their choice of drink, now as then, was random lager: Uninspiring, bubbly and bland, but cheap, effective and possessed of an agreeably 'laddish' image engendered by a succession of expensive television advertising campaigns. Their conversations consisted in the main of the recounting of previous episodes from their collective past, as if to remind themselves just what they were doing and why they were doing it with this particular group of people.
   'Who was there ?'
   'Oh you know, the usual. Except for you of course.'
   Chris recognised only too well the stagnancy of the situation, but paradoxically he wished he had been there last Thursday to share/endure it. He knew that their collective behaviour was crass and facile. He recognised that the world must have much more rewarding pastimes to offer. It was just that he either hadn't quite worked out what they were, or hadn't yet had the opportunity to try them out. Drinking with his mates was here and it was now. It was all there was.
   'Anyway, at about eleven, we'd all had a few. Jonesy was out of his skull of course !!'
   'Of course.'
   Chris shared the in-joke.
   'Fuck off !!', interrupted 'Jonesy', his countenance contradicting the sentiments of his outburst, smiling broadly at the mere mention of his name.
   .'. and we headed off down town to Casanovas.'
   Though of course he couldn't show it, Chris selfishly hoped that his friends had not had 'that good' a time. Just as shared experience gelled the group together, missing out on a group experience made Chris feel threatened. He wanted to feel needed and needed to feel wanted. As if his presence was integral to the groups function, so that they couldn't have a good time without him; That if he wasn't there they all mourned their loss. So Chris listened to the report of Thursday night's escapade eagerly hoping for the slightest sign that his friends had not had quite as good a time as they would have liked, as they might have had if he had been with them.
   'The club was quite busy, for a Thursday. There was a Tequila promotion on: Triples for the price of doubles. So we were drinking slammers all night.'
   This did not look good. This was beginning to sound to Chris like the prelude to a memorable evening of debauchery.
   'Many wo.. I mean birds in ?'
   'Yeah loads, wall to wall skirt.'
   Definitely not good. Cheap booze and women, the perfect ingredients for a lads night out.
   'They didn't interest me of course. You know I'm faithful to my Carole. But if I'd wanted to they were there. They were giving me the eye all night.'
   'Yes', agreed Chris without the slightest hint of sarcasm. He'd heard his friend Matt's 'if I weren't so faithful' routine on countless occasions and though he knew it was a laughable fantasy, he had no intention of rocking the boat and being the one to call his friend's bluff. There was nothing except aggravation to be gained from it, and as it was they got a lot of amusement out of it whenever Matt wasn't there.
   'So I spent the night drinking and having the odd dance whenever the DJ played anything half decent, which wasn't very often, you know what they're like in there.'
   'Did anyone pull ?'
   'They tried. You know what some of this lot are like. Like dogs on heat.
   Do you remember that bird that Jed got off with last Christmas ?'
   'The one with the funny teeth ?'
   'Yeah, that's the one. Anyway, she was there again. Jed wasn't interested, so Horse thought he'd do her a favour.'
   'He doesn't mind sloppy seconds' interjected Jed to predictable raucous hilarity.
   Horse hearing his name mentioned and sensing his reputation was about to be sullied, pricked up his ears and moved into the fringes of the conversational group.
   'So Horse walks up to her, buys her a drink, gives her a bit of chat and starts to dance with her. Eventually the slow dances started and they starts to chew each others tonsils.
   We thought he was home and dry, so we weren't paying him too much attention. All of a sudden, there was a commotion on the dance floor. We looks round to see this bird slapping Horse in the face and storming off. What a laugh. He'd only asked her if her and her mate would go to bed with him !!'
   Much laughter and general hilarity all round.
   'I was already on a promise', explained the man called Horse.
   'And Jed had told me that she was a bit kinky, bi-sexual, like. 'Said that when he'd shagged her, her flat-mate had joined in. Three in a bed, well it was a chance in a lifetime, so I asked her if she thought her mate would like to join in. She went wild. Slapped me in the face and stormed off. That's the last time I listen to Jed. Bullshitting bastard !!'

More hilarity.
   'She didn't mind it with me. Maybe she didn't fancy you, or it was her time of the month or something?'
   Amid the laughter Chris was not happy. This story had 'folk tale' written all over it. His only consolation was that the story was one of failure. He would still have to endure endless variations along the lines of 'Do you remember the time horse tried it on with that bird with the funny teeth ? Oh No, YOU weren't there', but at least people wouldn't associate his absence with a night of sexual success.
   'So nobody actually pulled then ?', enquired Chris hopefully.
   'Oh no, Benbow copped off with some typist with his Phil Mitchell routine.'
   Chris was unperturbed by this revelation. Benbow was always seducing typists with his Phil Mitchell routine. Nobody would remember this one incident out of a countless number of similar ones. Benbow was by far the most sexually successfull of their circle. All because he bore a passing resemblance to some minor television celebrity.
   'What was she like ?'
   'Oh about average', Benbow answered matter of factly. 'Not much to look at, but she went like a train.'
   This remark was enough to spark off another period of back slapping boisterousness. When it had died down Chris resumed his line of questioning.
   'Anything else happen on Thursday ?'
   'Not really, Jonesy spent most of the evening throwing up in the club's bogs.'
   'Par for the course really.'
   'I just had a bad pint !!'
   More laughter.
   'The rest of us went down the Taj Mahal for a quick curry. It was a great night. You should have been there.'
   'I know. If I could of, I would of.'
   Chris meant it. But at least he hadn't missed too much. On balance missing out on Thursday night hadn't worked out as badly as he had feared.
   In the course of the report on Thursday night's activities, the dozen people sat crowded around Chris's bar-room table had all gradually been drawn into the conversation. Now the tale had ended, the group sat in an uncomfortable brief silence.
   In unison they all sipped from their drinks, gazing vacantly into their glasses, waiting for normal service to be resumed.
   'How's it going with that bird from your work ?' Benbow initiated that perenial favourite and inadvertently offered Chris the opportunity to dispel any of his remaining feelings of exclusion.
   'Elaine?? Steady progress, steady progress.'
   Chris raised his glass and took a sip of his beer. Silence returned. All eyes remained fixed on him as he looked up.
   'Well ???'
   Only teasing.
   'Oh yeah Elaine. As I said steady progress.'
   'Go on.'
   'Well the other day we were in the car, on a case in Battersea. Just me an' her. Out of the blue, she only breaks down and starts crying. Hysterical she was. I didn't know what to do with myself.
   She only blurts out that her husband's left her.'
   'Fucking hell Chris , now's your chance.'
   'If her old man's walked out, she won't be getting any, she'll be gagging for it !!'
   'That's what I thought. Anyway, she eventually calms down and I acted all sympathetically. Gave her a shoulder to cry on and all that...'
   'Oh yeah'
   'Ever since she's been as nice as pie, coming on stronger than ever.
   Yesterday she turned up for work in the shortest skirt I've ever seen her in, and this blouse that was unbuttoned so low she was almost falling out of it.'
   'What did I tell you.'
   'Three times during the day she accidentally drops something in front of me, her pen or something. She bends down to pick it up and shows me the lot. I'm telling you she's practically asking me for it.'
   'You lucky bastard.'
   'What were they like ?'
   'When are you going to put her out of her misery then ?'
   Chris's story was pure fantasy. He had heard from someone at work that Elaine had split up from her husband, but the rest was invention. There in the pub, surrounded by his friends, the beer induced bravado almost allowed him to believe it. Almost. That was how it had all started really.
   When he had first been transfered to CID he had happened to mention to his mates that his boss was a woman. Inevitably, they had leapt at the opportunity to tease him. He'd have done the same in their position. Ever eager to demonstrate his flourishing testosterone levels, Chris had gone along with them and told them about the obvious attraction between Elaine and himself. A white lie, which wouldn't hurt anybody. And who knows maybe she did fancy him. It wasn't completely beyond the bounds of possibility.
   Unfortunately, having set out his stall like this, Chris's self esteem would not allow himself to admit failure in his stated sexual goal. His friends demanded regular updates on his progress, and Chris was forced into an ever escalating cycle of untruth. His reports of steady progress were initially founded on mere exaggeration, but quickly degenerated into out and out lies.
    In the early days he had tried to fulfill his prophesies, make his fantasies real by acting out the facile scripts of his drunken stories. He had made several clumsy passes at Elaine and she had had none of it, putting him down with a practiced ease. Now she had split from her husband. When he had first heard the thought had crossed his mind that this might be the break he was looking for, but even he wasn't holding out much hope and he was without doubt his greatest fan.
   The picture painted by Chris of his relationship with Elaine grew ever more intimate, perpetually on the verge of that significant and crucial breakthrough. Chris had so far shied away from tales of carnal intimacy. He himself would put his admirable restraint down to a basic moral principle: You don't lie to your mates about sex. But this conveniently overlooked the fact that Chris had lied to them about sex on several occasions in the past. In fact, he'd lied to them on the vast majority of the times he'd talked to them about the subject.
   The moral principle that guided Chris's reticence was more like: You only lie to your mates about sex if you can get away with it. Any tales of sexual conquest would mean that his friends would probably expect some tangible proof; Elaine turning up to watch him play football or the like. Chris couldn't just claim to have slept with her and then just carry on as if nothing had happened. Of course the necessary proof was not about to materialise and so Chris's reported relationship with Elaine was doomed to advance further and further, but always fall frustratingly just short of the natural climax of penetration.
   Chris's friends dismissed Elaine as a cock-teaser. They'd all met her type before. Little did they suspect that it was Chris himself who was teasing them. The situation could not go on indefinitely. Chris knew that, eventually there would come a point where he would have to provide a tale of intimate sexual detail, or an explanation for his inadequacies, but it could go on for a good while yet. It would take an enormous pressure of suspicion before any of his friends might challenge his claims. For such a challenge would threaten the very well of unsubstantiated episodes upon which their mutual sexual prowess rested.

+ + + + + +

Jon sat in his curtained front room, with his new found revolver in his hand. He had never seen a real gun this closely before and he fascinatedly span the gun's chamber like a small child. He was struck by the weapons mechanical elegance, it's brutal simplicity. It was an object of rare beauty.
   When he had embarked on his quest to punish the perpetrators of the worst of society's crimes, Jon had drawn up his list of victims, but had given little thought to any long term strategy. He had thought that if he simply took on each killing in turn, meticulously planning each one, that he would eventually work through his list and accomplish his aims. He soon discovered however, that with the limited weaponry available to him, killing people was a very difficult process.
   Stabbing someone was physically demanding and very messy. Consequently, manouvering yourself into a situation where this stabbing could take place with the minimum of personal risk was time consuming and laborious. At the rate he was going it would have taken Jon years to work through the names on his list.
   The gun would change all that. Now, he had a much more efficient way to despatch his victims. It would make things much easier. The question was, where had the gun come from? The advertiser had produced it from nowhere and it had very nearly meant the end of Jon's crusade before it had really got started. Where had the advertiser got it from? Outside of the criminal fraternity hand-guns were almost unheard of. Jon had certainly never known anyone who had one. He could barely believe his stroke of good fortune. If it had happened in a film or a book Jon was reading, he would have struggled to credit it. But here he was, sitting in his front room with a gun in his hand.
   It was a gift from God. The idea materialised in Jon's mind, as if from nowhere, as if it had been placed there from outside. The idea fitted his situation perfectly. The advertiser having a gun was just too unlikely, the odds against it were just too high. He didn't even look the type. The gun was a gift from God. Like Mannah from above, he was being shown the right of what he was doing and being provided with the means to do it more effectively. Jon was elated. He wouldn't let God down. Thy will be done.

+ + + + + +

Midnight. The door to Chris's apartment was thrown violently open and Chris staggered through it, only stopping himself when he collided violently with his shoulder into the hall wall, dropping his kit bag to the floor at the moment of impact. He stood slumped against the wall for a few seconds as he fought to clear his head as best he could before pushing himself upright and swaying unsteadily. In the darkness of the unlit passage, Chris lurched towards the open door and slammed it shut. He dropped his jacket aimlessly to the floor and headed off towards the kitchen.
   'Shit.'
   Chris's progress was interrupted with a crash as he tripped over the vacuum cleaner he had forgotten to put away over a week before. The crash was swiftly followed by a dull thud as he hit the floor and the wind was knocked from him. Once again, long moments passed as Chris tried to assimilate what had happened to him and tried to come up with an appropriate course of action. With his face buried, slobbering into the hall carpet and the pain in his shins he worked out what had happened and pulled himself up the hall wall and back onto his feet.
   The fluorescent bar light on the kitchen ceiling flickered into life and Chris shielded his eyes from the brutal glare. He walked towards the sink and as he got closer noticed his reflection in the kitchen window. The consumption of vast quantities of alcohol had impaired the functioning of most of his brain's higher functions. Vanity wasn't one of them, and Chris ran his hands through his hair battling to revitalise his chosen style.
   He then took a tumbler from the sink draining board and filled it with cold water from the tap. After enumerable fragile mornings, he had learnt in his late adolescence that two pints of water before going to bed after a night's drinking would pay dividends the next morning. Now no matter how drunk he managed to get, he somehow always remembered this ritual and followed it religously.
    Though already bloated with liquids, he gulped down his statutory three glasses and staggered off to the bathroom. There, he stripped off his clothes and emptied his bladder in the general direction of the toilet. Without flushing, he left his clothes where they lay and headed for his bedroom where he collapsed onto his strewn bedclothes, where he soon passed out despite the alarming spinning of the bedroom walls.

+ + + + + +

Jon had a plan. His biggest disappointment so far had been the lack of impact his killings had had. The killings were not simply acts of revenge. They were meant to act as statements of society's ills. Examples to all. Designed to show people the error of their ways. In this role, the messages Jon left with the bodies of his victims were as important as the acts themselves. Without them the deaths were just random killings, in a city where such things were not even noteworthy. So far the media had made no mention of his notes whatsoever, indeed they had not reported any connection between the two killings and so rendered his efforts worthless.
   Jon was rational enough to discount any thoughts of a media conspiracy. Instead, he reasoned that the police were behind the lack of media interest. Having made this deduction he had looked for a way to rectify the situation. Now he had such a plan. He would make the police regret having attempted to interfere with his crusade.
   Jon picked up the telephone receiver and dialled a number he had scribbled onto the pad laid by it's side.
   In dockside Wapping a telephone rang. Whilst for most of the residents of the metropolis Sunday was still a day of rest, (leastways it was a day away from the hated routine of work), in the Globe Newspaper offices in the News International building, there was no Sunday respite. Tomorrow morning their loyal readership would expect their daily paper with its usual content of titillation, jingoism and patronising gross simplification. Duncan Sharpe was one of those charged with meeting those high expectations. The news-editor of the most popular daily paper in the country, his was a job of rare power and opportunity. A position of importance and responsibility.
   'Good morning, News International Newspapers, how can I help you?'
   'Hello, yes I'd like to speak to the Globe newspaper please.'
   'Thank you sir, I'm just putting you through now.'
   'Hello, The Globe Newspaper, how can I help you?'
   'Yes please, I'd like to speak to the Features Editor please.'
   'I'm sorry sir, the Features Editor isn't in today. Most of the features staff don't come in on Sundays. Could anyone else help you?'
   'Yes, is the News Editor available please.'
   'Yes, Mr Sharpe is in, would you like me to put you through to him?'
   'Yes please.'
   'Hello, Newsdesk.'
   'Hello, Mr Sharpe?'
   Sharpe racked his brain trying to identify the voice.
    'Speaking.'
   'Mr Sharpe. You don't know me, and I know you might not be the right person to speak to..'
   Christ, that's all I need.
   .'.but I have a story that I think your publication might be interested in.'
   Okay, let's get this over with.
    'Go on.'
   'I'm involved in what you might call an escort agency.'
   Aye, aye. Sounds promising.
   'My charges are all young boys. Rent boys you might say. I look after their interests..'
   Very promising.
   'Yeah.'
   'We have quite a high-class clientele, we're very clean, very discreet and the boys are young and very pretty. We have some very famous clients.'
   Sharpe sat forward in his chair, and with his free hand groped around on his cluttered desk for a pen and some paper.
   'Go on.'
   'Recently, I've had some rather bad luck. I won't bore you with the details. but suffice to say that I need rather a large sum of money, very quickly. Which is where you come in.'
   'I rather thought we might.'
    How much.
   'Quite. Anyway I have evidence; photographs, letters, tapes et cetera, which prove the identity of some of my more famous clients. My boys and I would be available to give extensive interviews as to the sexual habits of these clients.'
   'Just who are we talking about?'
   'I'd rather not say until we've finalised a deal. For now though I can say that one of our clients is a leading figure in this country's music industry, whilst another is an actor in a leading television soap opera.'
   'Eastenders, Coronation Street ?'
   'One of those yes.'
   Bingo. How much.
   'If you're interested, it only remains for us to agree on a fee.'
   How much.
    'Oh yes, we're interested. how much did you have in mind.'
   'I was thinking in the region of £20,000.'
   Peanuts.
    Sharpe whistled melodramatically through his teeth.
   'That's a lot of money.'
   'I've got a lot to offer.'
   'Granted, Now how do I know that you're telling the truth.'
   'I'll meet you and show you some of the evidence.'
   'Good. Did you have any time in mind.'
   'Yes, as soon as possible really. How about tomorrow night?'
   'Tomorrow would be fine. I can't make it myself, but I'll send one of my best reporters.'
   Sharpe could have made it of course, but why bother. He had junior reporters to spend their nights chasing stories on the street. You didn't keep a dog and bark yourself. No story was that good.
   'Fine, I'll meet your man in your neck of the woods. There are some railway arches by the intersection of the Old Kent Road and China Street in New Cross. Do you know the place ?'
   'I've got an A to Z, we'll find it.'
   'Good, I'll meet your man there at 4.00 am, Tuesday Morning.'
   'Fine. Can I have a name ?'
   'You can call me Alex Stone.'
   'Okay Al, see you later.'
   'I'll look forward to it Mr Sharpe.'
   Click.
   Yes!
   Duncan Sharpe replaced the telephone receiver and sat back in his chair. He lit himself a cigarette and drew long and hard on it, blowing little smoke rings of triumph into the air in front of him.

+ + + + + +

Chris awoke with a start at almost exactly 7.15 and glanced at his bedside alarm clock.
   Shit time to get up..
    ...Oh..Day off.
   He breathed a sigh of relief and settled back into his bed, closed his eyes and tried to re-join the dream he had been having. It was no use. Now he was awake he was aware of a pressing need to empty his bladder and he knew he would not be able to return to sleep until he had done so. Still, he would much rather lie there in the comfort and warmth, than be forced prematurely to leave it and have to muster himself for the monumental effort that was the walk to the bathroom. He tried to force his bladder from his mind and concentrate on other lighter thoughts. After all, if he hadn't woken himself up, he would still have been sleeping soundly and his bladder would have quite happily remained untapped.
   Sod it.
   Chris surrendered to the inevitable and jumped out of bed. He immediately regretted it. His senses swam and his head started to ache. He was hungover. In earlier, more naive years he would probably have vowed never to drink again, but he had made and broken that vow so often that he knew better than to bother anymore. He simply accepted hangovers as an occupational hazard and tried to get on with his life as best he could.
   As he lurched gingerly towards the bathroom, holding his head in his hands, he recognised the dull ache at the sides of his eyes. He disliked this symptom of his hangovers more than all the others. His eyes would feel fine as long as he was looking straight ahead, but as soon as he tried to move them, to glance to either side, he would experience a dazzling pain as if he had damaged the muscles that moved his eye-balls or something. Chris had never worked out how drinking (admittedly drinking to excess) could make his eyes feel this way. Until it wore off he knew it would be like wearing razor blade blinkers, and he hated it.
   Chris completed his 'mission' in the bathroom and felt much better for it. He splashed some water over his face and damped down the back of his hair which was somehow sticking out at an impossible angle. Refreshed, he walked back to his bedroom and got back between the sheets to try and sleep off his delicate condition.
   He reawoke at around ten. Though his head was still slightly cloudy, he felt much better. Furthermore, he was starving. He rose quickly and dressed in those clothes he felt most comfortable in; baggy T-shirt and track suit bottoms, ideal for lounging about the house. He entered the bathroom and there after completing his ritual ablutions, retrieved his discarded clothing from the night before. In truth, all he achieved by this was to take a scruffy pile of clothes from one room and create an identical pile in another.
    Spring cleaning over, Chris walked through his lounge into his kitchen where he picked out the least dirty plate, cup and knife from the vast pile of washing up. He wiped these selected items with a suspicously dank tea towel before using them to prepare himself some tea and toast which he took through into the lounge, to eat in front of the T.V.
   Loudly munching his toast, Chris flicked through the television channels with the remote control. Sunday television was dire. There was never anything worth watching. He finally settled for eating his breakfast in front of a farming program discussing the impact of the recent decrease in EC milk subsidies.
   At One O'clock, Chris switched off the television and left the flat to drive the mile or so to his parent's house. Their house was a mock Georgian affair, in a quiet cul-de-sac at the nicer end of town. They had bought the house when it had first been built, more than thirty years ago, before Chris or his brothers were even born. The street and its surrounding area had not been nearly as popular then.
   Today, an unambitious young draughtsman, as Chris's father had been, (and apart from the 'young' still was), could not dream of affording a house in the area. Chris, who was already paid more at the start of his career than his father was at the very peak of his, could only afford a modest flat at the other end of town, near the sprawling council estate. Until his parents died and unlocked the capital tied up in their house, to be shared between him and his two brothers, Chris could never hope to own a house like the one he had grown up in.
   That is not to say that his parents death was a possibility that Chris cherished. Chris loved his parents. They were the two greatest enduring constants of his life. Familiar landmarks by which he navigated his course through the torrid sea of existence. He didn't want them to die. Chris held a distinct childhood memory of himself aged seven, lying awake, unable to sleep, his thoughts troubled by the newly discovered realities of mortality. Not a fear of his own death. Instead, a fear of the death of his parents, of being left alone. It was not a memory he chose to recall readily, but it remained a malevolent flame, burning bright at the back of his mind. Waiting for an unguarded moment when it could slip into his consciousness.
   Chris rang the bell and waited for his mother to answer the door. He didn't try to turn the handle, as he knew the door would have its security chain in place. Ever since a spate of burglaries in the street two years ago, his parents had been almost obsessive about the security of their home. Chris knew what the world was like and did nothing to discourage his parents in their endeavours. Through the distorting glass window in the wood panelled front door Chris saw a vaguely 'mother' like shape approach. There was a rattle as the chain was slid from its latch and the door swung open.
   'Christopher.. Come in, come in.'
   Chris's mother's face lit up at his mere precsence. She was as overwhelmingly glad to see him as ever.
   'Mum.'
   Chris acknowledged his mother and smiled involuntarily. He was as glad to see her as she was to see him, he just wasn't as demonstrative as she was. He walked through the door and pecked his mother on the offered cheek as he passed into the house.
   'Well how are you. You're looking a bit pale. Are you feeding yourself alright.'
   'Of course, don't fuss.'
   A hopeless request.
   'I know you. All that fast food that you eat doesn't do you any good, you know. Anyway at least

you'll get a decent meal today. I'm just finishing off the vegetables now. Go into the living room and talk to Daddy. It'll be ready in about twenty minutes.'
   'Okay.'
   Whilst his mother hurried off to tend to her labours, Chris entered the living room. The stout, balding figure of his father sat in his favoured armchair. The chair was positioned so as to receive maximum benefit from the gas fire and also afforded the best view of the television. Not being winter, the fire wasn't on. The television was. On it, Chris's father gazed blankly at a swimming event from a Sunday afternoon sports program. Though he had heard his son's entry into the house and sensed him come into the room, he didn't look up from the T.V. Chris settled onto the well worn couch and arranged the cushions for his comfort before breaking the 'silence.'
   'Dad.'
   His father glanced round and acknowleged his son's presence with the subtlest of nods.
    'Chris.'
   'Alright ?'
   'Fine.'
   And that was that. Conversation over. Father and son sat together in total silence, both intently watching a television in which neither was remotely interested. Neither of them were uncomfortable with this state of affairs. Both enjoyed the other's company. The mere proximity was enough. No effusive demonstrations of affection were required, or would indeed be welcome. Chris's father had never been a man of many words. This was in marked contrast to his wife, who given the slightest opportunity dripped like a tap. The room's quiet was shattered as she entered the room.
   'Would you like a beer before your dinner Christopher ?'
   'Yes please.'
   'And what about you Daddy ?'
   'Yes.'
   Mrs Blecher left and the swimming commentary again ruled unchallenged. It didn't last long. Barely five minutes later she returned bearing a tray of drinks.
   'Here you are boys.'
   'Thanks mum.'
   'Now dinner's almost ready, so if you'll just sit up the table.'
   'Okay.'
   His mother returned to her ministrations in the kitchen and Chris obediently got to his feet. He walked over to the dining table set up at the far end of the large through lounge and sat at his usual place. He sipped his beer as he waited for his food. At the other end of the long room his father finally mustered up the effort to pull himself to his feet. He switched off the T.V. and walked slowly over to join his son at the table.
   With the television switched off, there was no longer any stimulus in the room to divert their attention from one another. Still, they managed to ignore each other and maintain their mutually desired distance. Chris traced the outline of the familiar hunting scene on his place mat, whilst his father studied the bubbles in his glass of beer
   Twelve minutes passed like this before Mrs Blecher swept back in, filling the room with her bird-like chatter.
   'Here we are boys.'
   She lay two plates piled with roast beef and all the trimmings in front of her husband and son.
   'Don't bother waiting for me'
   With that she was gone again, to pick up her own food. Chris followed her instructions and attacked his plate with gusto. His father was already eating his as he had been since the plate had been placed in front of him. Mrs Blecher soon returned with her own dinner and took up her place at the table. She loved having Chris round to visit. She loved each of her three sons dearly. But though she undoubtedly wouldn't admit it herself, she loved Chris, the youngest, the most.
   Her sons had been born less than two years apart from each other. She had enjoyed a mothers intimacy with each of them in turn, but with Chris's brothers this period of intimacy had been interrupted by the arrival of a new baby, whose needs were greater and who demanded her undiluted attention. Christopher was the last of her children. There were no more after him. No-one to steal her attention from him. He had enjoyed a much longer period of intimacy with his mother than either of his two brothers. A bond which had stretched into his early teens, and in a diluted form, even to this day. Chris was his mother's boy. His father and brothers knew that and resented him for it.
   Mrs Blecher enjoyed having company. She loved to talk, but so rarely got the chance. Isolated in her house, alone with her husband, his disinterested silence had long ago worn down her attempts at conversation. So that now they usually sat in silence, conversation limited to necessary questions and curt replies. Company gave her a cherished opportunity to exercise her vocal cords. And out it all came. Tumbling out in a seemingly random order. All that repressed inconsequential chatter. It was like opening the lid of a jar filled with over excited insects.
   'And what have you been doing with yourself Christopher ?'
   'Norfing moch', Chris replied through a mouthful of food.
   'You really should make better use of your time, not just waste your time in the pub with your friends. These are the best years of your life you know. You should be out there enjoying yourself. You won't get another chance you know. One day you'll get to our age and look back and think where did it all go.'
   'I know that mum. I am enjoying myself.'
   'That's alright then. As long as you're happy we're happy. Isn't that right Daddy, as long as Christopher's happy we're happy.'
   Mr Blecher didn't look up from his plate as his wife continued.
   'When are you going to bring a young lady back here to see us. Are you ashamed of us or something?'
   Chris swallowed his food. His mother now had his undivided attention. She was treading on dangerous ground here.
    'Of course not. As soon as I meet someone that I'm serious about then I'll bring her round.'
   'Well just you make sure you do. And don't take too long about it. Sowing your wild oats is all well and good, but it's not like it was in our day. There are some terrible diseases out there. I just hope you don't do anything stupid. We worry about you you know.'
   'I know you do and you shouldn't. I'm a big boy now and I can look after myself.'
   'Well just make sure you do.'
   The conversation was now safely out of the dark woods of Chris's lack of partner and into the rich fields of his implied sexual prowess. He relaxed and resumed his meal as his mother wittered on.
   'How's your work going at the moment Christopher ?..'

+ + + + + +

The shrill tones of the telephone plucked Richard Adamson from the comfortable unconciousness of sleep. Instinctively, he grasped around on his bed-side table trying to switch off his radio alarm. Finally, he realised what was happening and picked up his bedside phone, by about the fifth or sixth ring.
   'Hello.'
   'Richard, is that you.'
   'Yes.'
   'Christ you sound terrible. Are you okay?'
   'Fine, you just woke me up.'
   'Woke you up, it's two O'clock in the bloody afternoon !'
   'Who is it ?'
   'Work I think.'
   'Did you say something?'
   'No, I was just talking to Suzanne.. my girlfriend.'
   'Oh.. Look Richard, do you know who this is?'
   'Duncan Sharpe?'
   'Yes that's right.'
   'What time is it?'
    'About two O'clock.'
   'Pardon?'
   'Suzanne again.'
   'Okay, now you're probably wondering why I've rung you.'
   'It had crossed my mind, yes.'
   'Well a story's come up and I need someone on it that I can trust.'
   'What do they want?'
   'Excuse me for a moment Duncan.'
   Richard placed his hand over the telephone mouthpiece.
   'Will you shut the fuck up. I'm on the phone for Chrissakes. Sorry about that. You were saying.'

+ + + + + +

Chris finished his meal and after thanking his mother, he left her to the washing up and his father to his television, and set off for home. On the drive back to his flat he stopped off at the local corner shop to buy his Sunday paper; The Sunday Sport. He read the Sport for a laugh. All the papers bent the truth, it was just a matter of degree. At least when he read the Sport he knew the stories definitely weren't true. Nobody had been exploited, nobody's privacy had been invaded. The stories had all been made up and it kept him amused for an hour on a Sunday afternoon. Who could argue with that.
   At work one Sunday, Elaine had sneered at Chris's choice of newspaper. She had argued that the topless models found on every other page were degrading and insulting to women. That by buying the paper he was endorsing the exploitation of such women. That he was a sad, sexist pig. He had tried to explain that he didn't buy the paper for the pictures of women, that he bought it for the stories. It was just a laugh, that was all, but as usual she wasn't listening . She just ranted and raved at him from her right-on feminist soap-box. Silly bitch.
   Chris arrived back at his flat at ten past two. There was a football match on the television at five and so until then he switched on the television and settled back into his favourite armchair to read his paper.
   Man gives birth to two bedroomed semi... Ha.. Brilliant..

+ + + + + +

The first half of an average Premiership encounter drew to a close and the television coverage switched back to the studio for the endless half-time analysis, sandwiched between as many advertisement breaks as the producer thought he could get away with.
   'Trevor, at 3-0 down it looks all over for Liverpool.'
   'Well obviously it doesn't look good Richard. United must be over the moon with their first half performance, but obviously it's a game of two halves and anything could happen in the last forty five minutes.'
   'Quite. So don't go away. We've got an exciting second half to look forward to. More first half highlights and analysis, right after this break.'
   Even Chris, whose interest in football seemed inexhaustable, couldn't maintain his enthusiasm in the face of such unrestrained banality. He leaned back in his chair and let his attention drift from the television for the first time in almost fifty minutes. Defocused from the T.V., Chris noticed that he had an erection. Infact, now that he thought about it he was feeling quite frisky. He recognised the signs only too well. Not that it was anything to do with football. He would have reacted violently to any suggestion that he had been aroused by the spectactle of twenty two scantily dressed, muscular young men, running around a playing field. Certainly not. There was nothing bent about him. He was as straight as a die.
   Aware of a bodily need, Chris went about the business of satisfying it, as matter of factly as if he had been hungry or in need of the toilet. He unbuttoned his flies, took his member firmly in hand and started to masturbate, whilst with his free hand he reached for his discarded newspaper and flicked the pages through the various 'models' pictured within. As his sap rose, and his desire for release grew ever more pressing, he studied the erogenous zones of the bronzed lovelies postured so invitingly in front of him. With a speed borne out of practiced efficiency he came quickly and satisfactorily into a wad of tissue paper he held carefully in place, so as not to soil the furniture. Matters sexual, were always so tiresomely messy.
    At the moment of his orgasm, Chris had thought of Elaine.
   Whilst out drinking, in the heady moments approaching inebriation, Chris was often carried away by a feeling of well-being and wondered why he didn't spend more time drinking with his friends, which was undeniably the best thing the world had to offer. It never lasted. The elation of the approach to drunkeness was always better than the actual experience. What goes up must come down.
   Just as getting drunk seemed at the time to be the best thing in the world, the hangover seemed like the worst. Masturbation followed a similar pattern. Whilst he was doing it, Chris felt that it was the best thing there was. He often made a mental note to himself to repeat the experience immediately after he had finished the first time. In the post-orgasmic hangover though, he invariably felt guilty and sordid. All ideas of a repeat performance, lost in melancholic thoughts of self-reproach.
   That was how it was now. Chris sat slumped, half-naked in his chair. His paper, again discarded, lay to his left, whilst a damp wad of soiled tissues lay to his right. With all his ego's self-deluding illusions for once stripped away, he reflected on what a sad case he had become. Forced to manipulate his own genitals, to satisfy his basic animal desires. He was wasting his life. He had so many opportunities, the world was as his feet his mother always said, yet he chose to spend his time in the company of the same group of friends he had been with since his early teens, doing the same things he had always done. His life was going nowhere. He was twenty-four going on fifteen. He had no real friends of the opposite sex. He was lonely. God, he was lonely.
   He recognised only too well what he needed to bring himself out of his self-defeating behaviour patterns. He needed a woman, he needed a partner. Not someone to dominate, like the women with whom he shared occasional drunken fumblings - the women he fucked. That was as unfulfilling as the rest of his lifestyle. He'd rather wank. Those women were shit. He only went with them to satisfy his mates, to equip himself with the necessary sexual kudos. He wanted something different.
   He wanted to be loved. He wanted to love someone (some woman) as an equal. To share his life with someone he could respect. To find someone who would be both his best friend and lover. He knew that if he found such a person he would have to give up his friends, his drinking and perhaps even his football. For his present lifestyle and that which he coveted were mutually exclusive. But he would give it all away gladly. All he needed was the catalyst of such a woman and he would discard his chrysalis of crass insensitivity and emerge a butterfly of high thoughts and actions. All he needed was a chance.
   Until then though, he would persevere with his present lifestyle. For now it was all he had. Without his friends he would be completely alone. A failure. A non-person. No, he certainly could not face that. He would continue as he was and wait for that 'special person' to come into his life and take him away from all this.
    'Welcome back. And you join us here at Old Trafford with Liverpool trailing Manchester United 3-0. The question on everyones lips is can Liverpool come back or will United hold out to go five points clear at the top of the Premier League?'
   Chris realised that the football match had restarted and snapped out of his thoughts of self doubt, buttoned up his trousers and resubmerged himself into the comforting, uncomplicated diversion of the match.
   C'mon Liverpool.
   He hated United. He hated Liverpool as well of course; bloody Scousers, but you got more out of watching a match if you chose a team to support. On balance, for this match he hated United more.

+ + + + + +

Why were journalists the target of Jon's contempt?

Millions of people in this country, himself included, read a daily newspaper. For these people, their newspaper represented one of their primary sources of information about the world outside of their immediate experience; a window on the universe. In Jon's eyes, journalists occupied a priviledged position. They had an opportunity to speak to the people at large. More than that, they had a responsibility to educate people, to broaden their horizons, to make the world a better place.
   They could challenge people's narrow minded preconceptions. Show them what the world was really like. Make people think a bit more about the things they took for granted - why they behaved in certain ways, so that they might be motivated to attempt to improve the way things were. Through newspapers the consciousness of the nation could be raised. Instead, the popular press of this country chose the easy way out. They pandered to the lowest common denominator of their audience. Harnessing and thus endorsing and ultimately encouraging jingoism, sexism and self-interest; everything Jon despised about today's society. Rather than attempting to raise the national consciousness, they actively encouraged the 'yob' mentality.
   The photographs of half-naked young women that adorned the pages of the worst of the Tabloid press, were an obvious example of something that appalled Jon. In response to widespread accusations of sexism, these newspapers started to publish similarly degrading pictures of semi-naked young men. They really thought that sexual equality was only a matter of allowing women to act as offensively as men.
   The world of the tabloid press was one of absolutes. To ensure that their readers would understand, all issues were distilled down until they were just black or white. There were never any grey areas. Both sides of an argument need never be explored. Inside this world everything had a price. Anybody with a story to tell could be bought; chequebook journalism. Never mind the morality of what these people might have done - what the papers were encouraging them to do by rewarding them so generously.
   The journalists who were responsible for producing these newspapers were all educated people. They knew what they were doing. They had the opportunity to see the wider perspective. But rather than give their readers the same opportunities, they tried to harness their baser instincts with a patronising diet of what they thought the people wanted. Information delivered at the most basic level by middle class journalists who thought that was all their working class readers could understand.
   The British newspapers displayed a marked political bias. With all but one of them, this was towards the right, or more specifically towards the British Conservative Party. With his own left wing politics, this right wing bias outraged Jon. He saw it as undermining the democratic process. How could you have a fair vote, when tens of millions of voters had their view of the world presented to them from a right-wing viewpoint? The tabloid press were again the worst offenders. They tended to spoon-feed their readers with their right wing opinions - telling them what to think rather than giving them the information necessary for them to form their own views.
   As with most conservative politics, this right wing bias was rooted in self-interest. To own a national newspaper requires a lot of money, and so newspaper proprieters were by definition rich men. It should therefore not have been suprising that these men favour a political party which broadly speaking looks after the interests of the rich.
   Though Jon recognised that the political bias of a newspaper usually stemmed from the self-interest of the paper's owner, he still felt that the journalists that worked on that paper shouldered a large degree of the blame for both the paper's politics and the other sins of the paper which they helped produce. They were intelligent people with plenty of opportunities. They didn't have to work on their particular newspaper. By choosing to do so they endorsed the methods and opinions of the paper they helped produce. They were responsible all right, Jon was convinced of that. They were scum, and he would see to it that they were made aware of their crimes.

+ + + + + +

Duncan Sharpe glanced anxiously at his watch. It was almost two hours since he had talked to Richard Adamson and there was still no sign of him. Perhaps he should have rung someone else? But he'd worked with Richard before, and knew he could trust him. More importantly he knew that he could rely on Richard to keep his mouth shut when he had to. A rare commodity in this industry.
   Duncan's cigarette had almost burned down to the filter. He plucked another from the open packet on his desk in front of him, and lit it from the glowing stub of the first. Duncan was excited. Playing it by the book, he should have contacted the Features Editor as soon as he'd received the original phone call and handed the story over to him. But not just yet. If this story turned out to be as big as it sounded it might be, it would bring him bagfuls of Brownie points, and in this game, who knew when the Editor's chair was going to become vacant.
   If he wanted to get any further in this job than he already had, he'd have to be prepared to take any chances that fell his way. He would get Richard to follow the story up, meet the bloke, and negotiate a reasonable fee. If it didn't work out, Richard would keep schtum and no-one would be any the wiser, but if it did come through he could go over the Features Editor's head to the Editor and present him with the whole thing on a plate. Maybe he could even put his name on the by-line.
   Through the glass panel wall of his office, Duncan saw Richard come through the lift doors at the far end of the floor. He quickly averted his eyes, looked down at his desk in front of him and shuffled some papers that lay there. There was a knock at the door. His eyes lingered on the page for a moment longer, before he looked up. It was Richard as he knew it would be.
    'Come.'
   Richard Adamson entered the room and shut the door behind him. A tall, wiry man, he was unshaven as usual, his long limp blonde hair hung down to the shoulders of his grubby leather jacket. On his left arm hung a motor cycle helmet.
   'Christ Richard, you look like shit !!'
   'I've just got up. I had a heavy night.'
   Duncan understood. He was no advert for vitamin tablets himself.
    'Sit down before you fall down. Cigarette ?' He leant forward and offered Richard the open packet.
   'Thanks.'
   Richard gratefully accepted.
   'What kept you? I thought you weren't going to make it.'
   'My bike wouldn't start, I had to get the battery charged ..'
   'Anyway you're here now.'
   Duncan cut short any tediously longwinded explanation of mechanical deficiency.
    'Before we start I've got to tell you that none of this is to go any further than this room.
    Tell no one. Understand?'

+ + + + + +

Chris crawled into work at around mid-morning. He'd been out drinking in the Nag's Head the night before, and was feeling a little the worse for wear. He came into the office and saw Elaine was already in, as he knew she would be, typing away at the PC on her desk. Without talking to her he hung up his coat, made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. Sensing his arrival, Elaine turned away from her work.
   'Look what the cat dragged in. Now call me old fashioned, but I believe in a fair day's work for a fair day's pay.'
   'I work my hours, you know that. You're lucky I'm in at all today. I'm not feeling too good. I think I might have a cold coming or something.'
   'Or perhaps you just had a skinful last night. That's remarkable Holmes. Elementary my dear Watson.'
   Chris ignored her and sipped his coffee, whilst she laughed loudly at her own joke. An early morning dose of Elaine's acid wit was a regular occurrence. She'd already been at work for over an hour and was already up to speed. He'd just got in and was still half-asleep, if not hungover. He was no match for her and they both knew it. Elaine seemed never to grow tired of hitting such an easy target, kicking him whilst he was down.
   'Anyway, you'd better get your coffee drunk. George Young wants to see us in his office at ten, to see how we're getting on.'
   George Young had risen quite rapidly through the ranks. He had been promoted, not unreasonably, because of his ability as a detective. Promoted into a position where his role had become almost exclusively managerial, promoted away from the job he cherished. He knew what the job was all about and recognised all of those abilities he himself possessed, in Elaine.
   She was the most gifted of the detectives under his command. If she could just learn to play the game and act more like one of the boys, she might go far. The only thing that might stand in her way was her lack of a penis, and in this day and age that was becoming less of an obstacle all the time. They even had a woman head of MI5 now. Who know's? some civil servant might adopt her cause, elevate her to a position of real authority. Tokenism perhaps, but he thought that Elaine would make a better job of it than most. Better her than some masonic yes man like the people who normally floated to the top; more interested in PR than preventing crime.
   Elaine knocked on the door and walked in without waiting for an answer. Chris followed her inside.
   'Good morning Elaine, Chris.'
   'George.'
   'Sir.'
   Chris returned his superiors greeting as he and Elaine sat down.
   Elaine liked George. More than that she admired him and there were not many people she could say that about. He had shown on numerous occasions that he wasn't her superior just because he'd served his time, like most of them. He was there on merit. He often came up with pertinent suggestions, little things she'd overlooked, things he'd come across before that were new to her. Their meetings were characterised by an easy air of mutual respect. He was one of the very few men she knew who didn't patronise her.
   'How's it going, Elaine?'
   Of course having a boss who knew his stuff wasn't all good. It also meant that she couldn't bullshit him.
   'Basically, not well. We're going through all the right motions, but just aren't throwing up any real leads. Whoever did this is clever, too clever so far for us.'
   'Did you get anything back from the reconstruction?'
   'Not much. A few sketchy eye-witnesses, but nothing of any real use. Somebody said she recognised the killer when they published the photo in the paper, but it just turned out she knew Chris from school.'
   'I suppose he does look the criminal type.'
   George and Elaine laughed unaffectedly at Chris's expense. He laughed too, grateful at being brought into the conversation, even if it was as the butt of their jokes. He was a little intimidated by George Young, as he was by all people who held any power over him. He always found it difficult to 'be himself' around them. His words seemed somehow to get stuck in his throat making him sound clumsy and feel stupid.
   'Well his eyes are a bit close together.'
   They laughed again.
   George wasn't sure about Chris. He always seemed keen enough, and certainly showed him more than enough respect, but he never really said much. George thought that Chris was a bit dull. He'd have preferred it if he'd come up with an idea or two from time to time. There again he was still young and he was still learning. Elaine was a good teacher - he'd fallen on his feet there. And although she certainly hadn't given any glowing reports on her charge, equally, she hadn't yet had any real complaints.
   'So where do you plan to go from here?'
   'Really, we're just going to carry on the way we're going. All the usual things. Chase up anything we can think of, any new angles we can come up with.
   We're going to see the criminal psychologist tomorrow. Today, we're going to re-interview Frank Clark's friends. One of them must know where he got the gun from. Really though, I don't hold out much hope with either of those two. We're just waiting for a break. Until it comes, we've got nothing.'
   George knew that Elaine was telling him the truth. Equally he knew her lack of success was not through any fault of her own. She'd done all she could, all anyone could have done. The clues just weren't there to find.
   'Have you tried a handwriting expert?'
   'A graphologist? Yes, last Thursday. Nothing.'
   'Okay then, so you've got nothing. You'll just have to keep shaking things up and wait for something to fall out. Someone out there must know something. I know you're doing all you can do. I know you're pissed off with it. But we can't just sit around and wait for our man to do it again. You're doing the right thing. Keep it up, keep trying to think of those new angles.'
   'Thanks.'
   There's the carrot.
   Ever since he had been on some man-management course, George had felt that all his managerial techniques were awfully transparent. It was not that he had changed his ways substantially as a result of what he had learnt. Rather that he'd learn't that what he had always done instinctively were in fact classic managerial gambits. Now, as he went through the motions he felt slightly uncomfortable and somehow vaguely compromised.
   And here's the stick.
   'Look Elaine I'll level with you. There's pressure from upstairs to get this one cleared up. We've kept it quiet from the press up to now. But if he kills again, we won't be able to keep the lid on it, and there'll be all hell let loose. I might not be able to hold it. They'll want to be seen to be making an effort, and that might mean taking the case off you and giving it to one of their star players. So try and get this one sorted out before he kills again.'
   The stick was hardly necessarily. Elaine was always well motivated, but a bit of pressure never did anybody any harm and Elaine always seemed to thrive on it.
   Though her stomach dropped involuntarily Elaine managed to maintain her outward composure. She had thought about the prospect of losing the case, and what George told her came as no surprise, but to actually hear him spell out the situation she dreaded still came as a bit of a blow to her system.
   'I thought as much myself. we'll just have to make sure we catch the bloke. C'mon Chris we've got work to do.'
   Elaine and Chris got up to leave.
   'Good luck with it. Give me a ring in a couple of days and let me know how it's going.'
   'Okay, and if we get anything big, you'll be the first to know.'
   'Thanks.'

+ + + + + +

3.40 am, Lewisham High Street.
   During the day the average speed of the traffic that crawls along this road would usually barely make it into double figures. In the early ours of the morning, the city was asleep and the place was deserted. The cars lay parked along the sides of the suburban streets and for once the road system functioned in the manner which it was originally intended. The silence of the closed shopping complex was broken as Richard Adamson's motorbike sped along the empty road at break neck speed.
   Richard was excited. Sharpe's enthusiasm had infected him. He was under no illusions that the reason he had been given this job was that Sharpe couldn't be bothered to be out and about at this ungodly hour. But still, if this story came off, it would be more than worth his while. It would be a big one, no doubt about that.
   Richard knew Sharpe was only in it for the glory, a leg up in his climb up the company ladder. He wouldn't be interested in the nuts and bolts of the thing - the actual reporting. Sharpe would owe him a favour, a very big favour and Richard would call that marker in spades. He would ask for the story. His name on a front page exclusive. It would be the making of him. Put him in the big league, where he belonged.
   As his 500cc Yamaha roared through yet another set of red lights, Richard laughed loudly inside his crash helmet. A thought had just occurred to him. If Sharpe wanted to keep this quiet, he was probably trying to get one over on Mike Stowell, the Features Editor.
   If this was worth one favour from Sharpe it would certainly be worth two from Stowell. He laughed again, he was getting carried away with himself. Whatever he decided to do, it all hinged on whether this bloke he was meeting came through or not.

+ + + + + +

Richard rounded the corner and saw the railway arches crossing the road in front of him. His spirits dropped, the place was deserted. He eased on his brakes and glided to a halt beside the first arch. He looked at his watch. He was five minutes early, there was still time. Richard got off his bike, pulled it onto the pavement and rested it against the side of the arch. Leaving his helmet hanging on the bike's handlebars, he started to walk through the arch to see if he could see anyone from the other side.
   Towards the middle of the arch there was an area of total darkness. The night was as silent as it was black. Walking through the pitch black Richard had to suppress a slight twinge of anxiety. A throwback to childhood years and times spent cowering under the bedclothes at things that went bump in the night. The human imagination is a marvellous thing.
   Just as Richard reached the safety of the street lighting at the far end of the arch, the silence was shattered by a call from behind him.
   'Hello.'
   He turned on his heel. Back at the other end of the arch, from where he had just come, there was the dark silhouette of a man.
   'Hello?'
   The figure called again. Richard was relieved at the mere proximity of another human being and excited at the prospect of completing his task. He started back through the arch, butterflies in his stomach.
   'Alex?'
   'Yes. Are you from the Globe?'
   'Yeah.'
   He was back in the total dark at the centre of the arch now. In the approaching half-light he could almost make out the features of his contact. He extended his arm to offer a handshake, and half-suppressed the smile that was spreading across his face.
    'Richard Adamson, Duncan Sharpe sent me.'
   The dark figure extended his arm in return.
   'Stop where you are.'
   The command was so completely unexpected that for a moment Richard didn't grasp what had been said. Then all at once his mind caught up and he noticed the dark menacing object held in front of him. He jolted to a halt and moved his hands slowly above his head, as the adrenalin rush started to slow everything down.
   'What.. What do you want.'
   His voice trembled as his mind raced. He was afraid. More afraid than he could remember ever having been before. Perversely, he became intensely aware of his armpits. They were very hot and very wet. The man in front of him said nothing, but stepped forward and raised the gun towards Richard's head.
   'What do you want from me. I.. I'll give you anything you want.'
   Without being asked, Richard knelt down.
   'Don't kill me, Oh God please don't kill me.'
   Richard felt cold metal push against his forehead and he started to weep.
   'Don't kill me. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.'
   Shut your fucking whining mouth.
   Jon pulled the trigger.
   The noise of the gun was beyond Jon's wildest expectations. It echoed under the railway arches and seemed to hang in the empty night for several seconds afterwards. The recoil too took him by surprise. The gun jumped sharply backwards in his hand, so that Jon dropped it and it went sliding across the pavement. He took a deep breath to calm himself, stooped down to pick up his gun and then turned to look at his victim.
   The journalist was laid on his back, his legs bent under him, his arms stretched out over his head, his mouth and eyes wide open. The symmetry of his pose was only spoilt by the small dark hole in the left of his forehead. The journalist was dead and with the gun it had all been so easy. Jon reached into his jacket pocket for his knife. He had a job to finish.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 8.

THE UNORIGINALITY OF ACTION.

The red glowing digits of her radio alarm read 5:58, as Elaine opened her eyes on a new day. Her mind was clear, unmuddied by sleep and she felt completely rested. She was gratified that she had been allowed the luxury of waking of her own accord rather than being forced into it by the nagging persistence of her radio alarm. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked across at the clock display now, to see how long she had left, how much time she had stolen for herself.
   Whilst she watched, the bottom and lower left LED segments of the minute display switched themselves off; the eight transforming into a nine. 5:59, only one minute before her self-enforced sleep curfew. But those sixty seconds were enough to establish her moral victory, and it got her day off to a welcome good start.
   Her perceptions expanded to fill the entire bedroom and she noticed for the first time that she was alone in the vast double bed; the marital bed. Her first reaction was instinctive and was one of uncertainty, of vulnerability. Then her consciousness kicked in bringing with it memories of all the bad things; the bitterness and arguments of the last week and her feelings became one of relief.
   Finally, the last piece of her mental jigsaw fell into place and she remembered that the bitterness had ended for ever, that Pete had left her and rather than relief she lapsed into a familiar despondence at the rejection that her husband's leaving represented.
   She replayed the all too familiar episode to her mind's eye. She had come home from work, on that day less than a week ago. It was a day like any other. The case was going nowhere and she was increasingly aware that if the breakthrough didn't come soon, then it might be taken from her. She was tired and dispirited and really could have done without the aggravation that no doubt lay in store for her when she got home; those energy sapping, self defeating battles that had become such a part of their home life.
   She had entered the house expecting the worse. She knew her husband's shifts and habits and knew he would have been home all afternoon, waiting for her. In the hall she was thrown out of her stride. The house was subtly different. The silence was nothing new; the calm before the storm. But now there was a faint odour of furniture polish, and even in the hall Elaine could see that someone had hoovered up. Suspiciously, she took off her coat and shoes and walked towards the door to the lounge, on her guard against whatever this new ploy of her husband's might bring.
   'Pete?'
   'In here.'
   His voice came from the lounge. She opened the door and walked in. The lounge was as tidy as the hall. There he was sitting on the settee, dressed in casual slacks and that cardigan her mother had bought him last Christmas. Holding tightly onto his hand, there she was: the interloper. She looked straight at Elaine, with the glint of triumph in her eyes, whilst Pete looked nervously at his feet.
   'Elaine, there's something I've got to tell you.'
   She listened as he spelt out what she had already deduced -she was a detective after all. He was leaving. He had found someone else: The sister of one of his colleagues, a frumpy thirty odd year old spinster schoolteacher who knew a 'main chance' when she saw one. HE was leaving HER, and for this worthless excuse of a woman. Someone Elaine would have dismissed instantly if she met her in other circumstances, so sure would she have been of her own superiority. And now her husband had chosen this woman over her.
   He had measured this woman against her and judged Elaine inferior. She had sat down and listened silently as Pete had told her how she could keep the house. He'd got it all worked out. Elaine had watched how his confidence had grown as he spoke. Watched him and his new lover, Jenny her name was, exchange knowing glances, celebrating the exclusive clique formed by their illicit congress.
   It was all such a shock. Her world view had been shown to be badly wrong. She really hadn't thought that he had it in him. She didn't know him at all. All those years of her life had all counted for nothing. One of the few things she had always assumed to be permanent had been shattered as easily as a pane of glass. And there she sat, trying to take all this in, and all she could think about was how the bitch had cleaned her bloody house.
   The radio switched itself on and she was pulled from her thoughts by the familiar sounds of the radio four universe. Her minute of melancholia was over, and she was left with a feeling of sadness and total vulnerability.
   Elaine had managed to prevent her problems at home affecting her work. She was damned if she was going to let her husband jeopardise the thing he resented most and the thing that meant the most to her. During each working day she acted, and indeed felt as if nothing was amiss. Her work was so totally engrossing that it was easy for her to throw herself into it and forget about her outside worries. It was only when she got home to an empty house with all its ghosts, that she mourned her loss.

+ + + + + +

At work Elaine, had other things to worry about. She arrived at New Scotland Yard at her normal time of around 7:30. As usual, the office was practically deserted. She was always amongst the first to arrive, but was never amongst the early leavers. She didn't have to put the extra hours in, but it engendered her with a powerful feeling of control which was important to her. And since Pete had left what had she got to go home for?
   Some of her colleagues grumbled about her behind her back. They said she had a brown nose. It didn't bother her: She'd heard it all a thousand times before and dismissed it as so much chauvinistic bullshit - their fragile male egos feeling threatened by some competent female competition. In the short time before the office got going, without the constant interruptions that characterised the rest of her working day, Elaine found that she got some of her best work done.
   She switched on her PC.
   The case was going nowhere. This was by far the most important job she had ever had and it was going nowhere. The dust had settled on the Clarke killing and all their leads had long since dried up. They had all the evidence they were going to get, until he killed again and gave them something more to go on. And by the time he killed again it would be too late - the case would be taken from her. In a way, if the case was taken from her it would be a relief. She was exhausted. She had given her all and had got nothing in return. She would have been well rid of it. But her pride was too strong. She knew she was good at what she did - she had met no-one better. Taking the case away would be like a slap in the face - a public slight on her ability. It might be more than she could stand at the moment. The case was practically all she had left.
   She had picked over the evidence in her mind, over and over again. Shuffling the pieces, looking for the smallest thing, a connection, a deduction, some flash of inspiration, something she had overlooked. One by one she had exhausted each piece of evidence. She had wrung every thing of possible worth from them, until she was satisfied that they had nothing left to offer and she mentally laid them to one side.
   Little by little, she whittled down her stock of evidence, until all she was left with were the killer's notes. She felt sure that this was where the answer lay. The notes were the killer's justifications for his hideous acts. In all other aspects the killer had been very careful not to leave any trace which might lead the police to him. He had invested something of himself into those notes. For a short while he had lowered his defences and allowed a window on his soul. The words on those two pieces of paper; the thoughts they represented, were as unique as any fingerprint. Understand the notes and you understood the man. The notes were by far the best lead they had.
   For the umpteenth time, Elaine called up transcripts of the two notes held on her computer and read through each of them in turn.

+ + + + + +

Duncan Sharpe should have been in bed. Tuesday was his day off; they could manage without him for one day. In Duncan's chosen career he had to work bloody hard. He got paid well, of course, but he earned every penny. He worked some ungodly hours, and Tuesday morning was the one morning of the week when he allowed himself the luxury of a lie in. Today though was different. He couldn't sleep. Indeed, he'd hardly slept at all last night. Now he sat in an armchair in his living room, smoking nervously, his mobile phone by his side. His wife sat on the settee, watching a daytime chat show on the television.
   'Are you Okay Dunc?'
   'Fine. I'm fine.'
   'You seem upset about something. Is it something I've done?'
   'Look I'm fine.'
   'Do you want a cup of coffee or something?'
   'Listen to me will you. I'm fine. I don't want anything. Do you have to watch that crap on television?'
   'It's Kilroy, I always watch Kilroy.'
   'Well it's crap and it's pissing me off.'
   Yvonne dutifully turned the television off and they sat in silence.
   Two uncomfortable minutes passed before Duncan could stand it no longer.
   'Oh fuck off. I'm off out.'
   He stood up, picked up his mobile phone and stormed from the lounge, only stopping to pick up his coat before leaving the house and slamming the door closed behind him.

+ + + + + +

Chris came into the office at what for Elaine was mid-morning, but was well before the official deadline of ten O' clock. Elaine glanced round from her VDU screen, noticed Chris's arrival and smiled to herself. She was genuinely pleased at his arrival. Recent times had seen a development of both their working and personal relationships. So much so, that now she found herself actively enjoying his company; a state of affairs which would have seemed impossible a mere two months ago. Though their relationship had thawed, their interactions still followed the antagonistic scripts that they had mapped out for themselves in earlier times. Though now any antagonism was more tongue in cheek (perhaps even flirtatious) than genuine.
   Elaine opened the exchange.
   'Call me old fashioned, but I believe in a fair day's ..'
   'You're old fashioned. Oh yeah, and your jokes are boring.'
   Elaine chuckled lightly.
   'Have you got the time ?'
   'Yeah sure, it's about twenty past nine.'
   Chris replied hesitantly, unsure of exactly what he was letting himself in for, but suspecting it was some sort of wind up.
   'Just checking that that thing on your wrist works.'
   'Oh ha ha, very funny I don't think.'
   Elaine laughed again.

+ + + + + +

'Good morning Mr Sharpe. Is everything alright? We weren't expecting to see you today.'
   'Everything's fine Sharon. Has Richard Adamson been in this morning?'
   'I haven't seen him sir. Do you want me to ring around and see if I can find him?'
   'Yes please.'
   The please was spat out like an accusation of incompetence.
   'Unless you find Adamson I don't want to be disturbed.'
   Sharpe set off walking past his secretary towards his office.
   'Oh Mr Sharpe.'
   'Yes.'
   Sharpe paused in the doorway of his office.
   'You had a package delivered by courier, earlier this morning. It's on your desk.'
   Without another word Sharpe entered his office and shut the door behind him.
   'Who rattled his cage?', Sharon muttered under her breath.
   Where the hell is he?
   Duncan dropped into his high-backed chair and fished out an unopened packet of cigarettes from his desk drawer. He impatiently ripped off the cellophane wrapping, flicked open the cardboard lid, tore off the foil insert and picked out a cigarette, before throwing the open box on to his desk. He lit the cigarette and drew long and hard from it. It didn't relax him any.
   Where the hell is he?
   He had expected to hear from Adamson in the early hours of the morning. He'd told him to ring him at home as soon as he'd met the pimp, and he'd been up all night waiting for the call. He'd heard nothing and as the night had worn on his tension had grown. What could have happened? He'd thought Adamson could be trusted. He'd relied on him - gone out on a limb, where he was vulnerable. God, if Adamson had double-crossed him, his chances of promotion would be finished. He'd have shot his legs for sure.
   Where the bloody hell is he?
   The phone on his desk interrupted his thoughts. Sharpe snapped up the mouthpiece before the second ring.
   'Yes.'
   'Mr Sharpe, I checked round the newsroom. Nobody's seen or heard from Richard Adamson today. I've rung his home number and tried paging him, but there's no answer.'
   'Thanks.'
   He slammed the receiver back down.
   'Fuck.'
   Sharpe stared at the telephone, trying to clear his head. Attempting to calm himself down and collect his thoughts. For the first time he properly noticed the package on his desk. He reached for it and absent mindedly weighed it in his hand, trying to gauge what was inside. He was used to getting sent material from aspiring reporters and journalists and had little time for them. It didn't look or feel like it was films or paper.
   His curiosity was sufficiently roused and he ripped off the buff coloured outer paper. Inside, there was a smaller more tightly wrapped white package. Sharpe picked at the sellotape that held the package together and carefully unfolded the paper. Inside he found a note and three smaller packages. He laid the note on his desk to read later and took the first package. It was cigar shaped and about seven inches in length.
   He unrolled the paper that made up this cigar. As the cigar got thinner and thinner the paper started to get increasingly stained, until finally the paper was soaked in a dark red sticky liquid. With a growing sense of unease, Sharpe unrolled the final layer of paper to reveal the contents; A pair of adult fingers.
   Oh, fucking hell.
   Shocked, he pushed the offending digits away from him and picked up the phone.
   'Tracey, get me the police on the phone. And get a photographer up here, quickly.

+ + + + + +

Elaine and Chris walked swiftly down the empty white corridor, almost breaking into a trot. They had been caught up in traffic driving across London to the Criminal Psychology unit in Tottenham and were ten minutes late for their meeting.
   'Who are we meeting today?'
   'A Doctor Smith, in interview room A.'
   'What's he like?'
   'I don't know I've never met him before. Chris?'
   'Yes?'
   'When we get in there, let me do the talking. Just keep your mouth shut.'
   'You what?'
   Chris immediately started to bridle at this slur on his competence.
   'It's just that I'd quite like to take you out of here. Whatever you do, don't start talking about your mother.'
   Elaine laughed as Chris smarted.
   'Here we are.'
   Elaine opened the door and followed Chris through into the room. Inside, they were met by a woman sat behind a desk. She looked in her mid-thirties, was attractive and was smartly dressed in a skirt suit. Elaine recognised one of her own and was flustered for a moment both by this recognition of self and the realisation that she had assumed Doctor Smith was a man. She could only hope Chris hadn't noticed.
   Whilst she faltered, Chris took the initiative.
   'Hello.. Doctor Smith?'
   He offered his hand. The woman stood up to accept it.
   'Yes hello, I'm Sarah Smith.'
   'My name's Christopher Blecher, this is Detective Inspector Elaine Heaton.'
   'Hello'
   The two women shook hands.
   This wasn't like Chris. He normally hid behind Elaine's petticoats in unfamiliar surroundings.
   'Take a seat.'
   'Thank you. I'm sorry we're late we got held up in traffic, you know what it's like.'
   Chris again was taking the lead and speaking for both of them.
   'Yes it's terrible.'
   Elaine was slightly irritated by this unfamiliar turn of events; this challenge to her authority, however slight. Then she had it, why he was acting so extrovertly. It was obvious really; he fancied her.
   'Okay let's get on with it shall we. Did you get the case details I sent you?'
   Elaine re-established her authority, realising that her reactions could be interpreted as jealousy; heaven forbid.
   'Yes, I got them last Wednesday.'
   'So what do you think?'
   'Well you didn't give me much to go on. But I think I can give you a rough sketch of the personality of the man your looking for; a few ideas which might prove useful.'
   'Go on.'
   'Well to start at the top, your man is not well. From his notes - how he justifies his crimes - it seems obvious that he is having problems with his grasp of reality. I would say that he is going through some sort of schizophrenic episode.'
   'Killing people you don't even know isn't exactly the sign of a balanced personality', Elaine added.
   'Quite. Now it's hard to be sure, but the fact that the crimes have been so well executed point to our suspect still having the use of most of his mental capabilities.'
   'So he's mad, but he hasn't completely lost his marbles.'
   'That's right. In fact, he seems to have all his marbles in full working order. Schizophrenia can be a severely debilitating condition, leaving the sufferer incapable of living any sort of normal existence...'
   Doctor Smith's diagnosis was interrupted by a knock at the door.
   'Excuse me a moment.
   Come in.'
   The door to the room opened and a smartly dressed, fresh-faced young man entered.
   'There's a call for D.I. Heaton at reception it's from a Superintendent Young. He says it's important.'
   Elaine got to her feet, her pulse already starting to quicken.
   'I'd better go and see what's up.'
   She left the room and followed the young man through to reception, leaving Chris with Doctor Smith.
   She returned less than five minutes later. Chris and the psychologist were in animated conversation, but fell silent in anticipation as she re-entered the room.
   'Chris, he's killed again. We've got to go.'

+ + + + + +

William Barton walked quickly and with purpose along the near empty High Street. Carrier bag clasped tightly in his hand he approached the newsagents and slowed his pace as if to enter.
   Be empty.
   It was 11 O'clock in the morning, a time William estimated that the newsagency business would be at its slackest. The time of day when he made his monthly visits to them.
   Be empty, please be empty.
   He came along side the shop and his eyes darted to look inside. The shop was occupied. There were two customers; two women.
   Damn.
   His eyes lingered on the top shelf of the magazine rack inside the shop for a moment, and then he was passed. He quickened his pace and turned sharply right down the next side street, which opened up twenty yards past the shop. Forty yards along this quiet residential street there was another right turn, he took it. He followed this street for a further sixty yards before turning right again which twenty or so yards later brought him out onto the high street below the newsagents he had past just five minutes earlier.
   This time.
   He approached the newsagents again.
   Please be empty.
   And this time the shop was deserted, except for the middle aged woman shopkeeper stood behind the counter. William stopped and walked into the shop, where he walked up to the magazine rack. He scanned the second shelf for the familiar logo of his chosen magazine. He quickly spotted it and pulled out a copy of 'In Combat' from the shelf. His attention then turned to the top shelf. He searched the shelf stacked with soft porn magazines for his own particular brand of illicit pleasure.
   There was a much greater degree of urgency about his search now, than when he was looking for his first magazine dedicated to the glories of warfare.
   He found what he was looking for, quickly reached up -which was quite a stretch for his stocky five foot six inch frame - and took down the magazine. With an erection already distorting the hang of his jeans Barton approached the shop counter, the correct money held in his sweaty palm. He lay the magazines on the counter, glanced into the woman's face, and quickly looked back down to the magazines, keeping eye-contact down to the bare minimum.
   'I'll take these.'
   His voice sounded like a whisper of its normal self.
   'That'll be four pounds twenty pence, please.'
   The money already lay in front of her.
   'Thanks.'
   She offered William a smile, but he was looking at his feet and didn't see it.
   'Do you want a bag for those?'
   'No thanks.'
   Another whisper.
   William swiftly placed his magazine dedicated to matters sexual inside his other magazine dedicated to the more acceptable matters of mass destruction and put them both inside his carrier bag. The bag only contained an old newspaper, carried to give the bag some weight and legitimacy as to why he was carrying it. He left the shop and set off walking quickly down the High Street back the way he had come, his carrier bag held awkwardly out in front of him to hide his embarrassment.

+ + + + + +

Chris's Ford Escort sped through the capital's streets, light flashing and siren wailing. As Chris drove, Elaine recounted her phone conversation with George Young.
   'It's a journalist this time. He was shot dead in New Cross in the early hours of the morning. The local police found him, there was no note with the body and it had been deliberately mutilated. The local CID picked up the case. They checked the MO out with Scotland Yard, but it didn't match, so nobody linked it with our boy.'
   'So what happened?'
   'This morning, the journalists boss, the News Editor of the Daily Globe, received a package. In it were the missing bits of the dead journalist - an eye, an ear and a couple of fingers.'
   'Christ!'
   'And with it there was a note - all the usual stuff.'
   'So we're still on the case then?'
   'For now. George didn't say anything about it, but my guess is that they wouldn't take us off it until they had somebody else ready to take over. This killing must make it odds on that we're going to lose the thing, we've had enough warning. It's probably just a matter of time.'
   'But that's not fair. We've done as much as anyone could do. Everyone knows that.'
   'Look Chris, you're preaching to the converted here. We both know it's not fair, but we're not going to get anywhere whinging about... Bloody hell, look out !!'
   'What ?..'
   Chris had let his attention slip slightly from his driving. A light blue disabled three-wheeler had pulled out of a side road in front of them, indifferent to their siren and flashing light. As the car struggled to accelerate, the Escort bore down towards it at rapid pace. Assimilating the situation, just in time, Chris slammed on his brakes and swerved to the right, around the car amidst much screeching of brakes and melting of rubber.
   'Fucking spastic. You shouldn't be allowed out on the road.'
   Chris vented his fury as the blue car rapidly disappeared in his rear view mirror.
   Her stomach still feeling like it was lying on the road twenty yards behind them, Elaine decided that discretion might be the better part of valour.
   'Look, I know it wasn't your fault, but perhaps you'd better slow down. We'll get there soon enough. There's no point getting killed for the sake of a minute or so.'
   'Okay, I suppose you're right.'
   Chris surprised Elaine by succumbing to her logic with surprisingly little resistance. Perhaps he had been more shaken by the incident than he cared to admit.
   'You were saying.'
   'What ?'
   'The case, how we weren't going to get anywhere whinging about it being taken away from us.'
   'Oh yeah. Well we aren't going to get anywhere whinging are we. We've just got to get our act together, and get on with it. They're not going to take the case away 'til tomorrow at the earliest. So we've got today at least.'
   'Just like in the films, you have twenty four hours to crack the case.'
   'Yes', agreed Elaine.
   But in the films they always make it.

+ + + + + +

Elaine and Chris arrived at New Cross police station, and were sent to see Detective Inspector White, the local CID officer who had been working on this latest killing. A handsome man in his late forties, he had an easy (some would say over familiar) manner. He was a large man, in both build and character. The sort of person who would be popular with his peers. The life and soul of the party. Elaine took an instant dislike to him.
   She had met his type before. Local CID was littered with them; swaggering dullards, full of an inflated sense of their own importance, intoxicated by the power of their position. Though he had said nothing so far to suggest so, she fully expected him to harbour a healthy selection of racist and sexist sentiments. It was people like him that gave them all a bad name.
   White had no office of his own, and so he took them to an interview room to discuss the details of the case so far. They were accompanied by his assistant, a young female Detective Constable; Lorraine Anderson. She had a youthful attractiveness that she tried to emphasise in a none too subtle manner; a short skirt and a little too much make up. Elaine generally disapproved of such behaviour, considering it both unprofessional and in a wider sense, demeaning to her sex as a whole. For now though, she gave this woman the benefit of the doubt.
   It occurred to Elaine that the four of them sitting there resembled some bizarre double date. She and White both with their younger charges of the opposite sex. For a moment she idly wondered whether White and Anderson had ever... God, what was she thinking. She stopped herself sharply.
   Back in the real world White opened the exchange.
   'Before we start. Would either of you like a coffee or something ?'
   'Yes please. I'll have a coffee, white no sugar.'
   'Yeah me too. White one sugar.'
   'The usual for me Lorraine.'
   Without complaint the DC left the room.
   'She's a treasure', White added as the door closed behind his young colleague, compounding his crime in Elaine's eyes.
   Sexist pig.
   She glanced across at Chris, to see him chuckling lightly, but affectedly. She approved. Both of the implicit disapproval of the falseness she thought she detected in his laughter, and of his tact. She took her lead from him and forced a smile onto her lips.
   'Well shall we crack on then ?', White suggested.
   'Shouldn't we wait for Anderson ?'
   'It's alright, she won't mind.'
   The smile remained glued to Elaine's face as White started to recount the case details.
   'The victim was found at ten to five this morning, by a couple of bar staff, driving home after a night's work in Club 1000 in town. The body was lying in the middle of the road, the couple that found him nearly drove right over it. I interviewed the two blokes that found the body myself. They were both as bent as a couple of three bob notes, but we can't lock them up for that anymore..'
   Elaine got the distinct impression that White regretted this judicial restraint.
   Both she and Chris chuckled in unison.
   .'.I checked with the night-club where they work, and their story checks out. You can have their names and addresses, and you could interview them yourself if you like, but I don't think that you'll get much out of them.'
   'We'll take their names and addresses all the same.'
   'As you like, love. I'll get Lorraine to photocopy my interview notes for you.'
   White smiled broadly at Elaine, treating her to what he no doubt considered to be a full dose of his incorrigible charm.
   Love!!
   'Thanks.'
   Elaine beamed back as White continued. This 'safe-flirting' was like water off a duck's back to her. She had been playing this game for as long as she could remember. She was good at it.
   'The body was near some railway arches, just off the Old Kent Road. It had been badly cut up. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. One of the eyes, one of the ears and two of the fingers had been hacked off, there was blood everywhere. The bloke had been killed by a single shot to the head. It blew a hole the size of a grapefruit out of the back. His brains were all over the road.'
   'Sheesh.'
   Elaine gave White the reaction she guessed he was trying to elicit with his unnecessarily gory description.
   'We thought it looked like a gangland killing, we've had a few round here in the last year. Lorraine checked on the computer, but it didn't match anything on the MO, so we thought it was a local thing.'
   'No note with the body?'
   'No, nothing. The note came later. Anyway we started to look into the thing and we quickly found out that the victim was called Richard Adamson, a twenty seven year old freelance reporter. He lived in a flat with his girlfriend in Brixton.'
   'Have you spoken to her yet?'
   'Not yet, some uniforms went round to tell her what had happened. She was pretty cut up by all accounts..'
   Bad choice of words.

. '.We were going to give her time to pull herself back together.'
   'Have you got the address?'
   'Yeah, Lorraine'll let you have it later.'
   Good old Lorraine.
   'Speak of the devil.'
   The door of the room opened and Anderson returned carrying a tray of coffees, which she distributed around the table.
   'Who wanted no sugar?'
   'Thanks.'
   With the coffees safely in place White continued with his resume of the case. Elaine noticed that no recap was given for Lorraine. Her possible contribution to this discussion was so insignificant, that she did not merit such a consideration.
   'As I was saying, the victim was a freelance journalist. Remember that, it becomes important later.'
   Thanks for spelling it out for us.
   'Go on.'
   Elaine looked across at Chris beside her. He had said next to nothing so far, but had remained attentive throughout, nodding and providing tactful little affirmations in all the right places. She approved of his silence. Letting her do the talking in a tricky situation, where the feminine touch would probably work best. His silence also emphasised her superior role in their partnership, improving her status in White's eyes, and thus making him more likely to take her seriously.
   In the recent past Elaine had interpreted Chris's silence in similar situations much less sympathetically. Whatever the truth about Chris's motives, his behaviour had not changed, but Elaine's interpretation of that behaviour had shifted radically.
   'Forensics were called in. They're still at the scene now. Tell me something, how come before you got involved we only had two blokes from forensics down here, but as soon as Scotland Yard got involved they send a team of eight down?'
   This was an old gripe of local CID's, they always thought their more illustrious cousins at Scotland Yard got preferential treatment. Elaine put it down to jealousy.
   'It's just that when the body was found, nothing was known about the killing. A team of two forensics was sent down to carry out preliminary investigations, as standard procedure. We were called in when it was established that the victim was killed by a serial killer we're hunting. I don't have to tell you that a serial killing is a serious event, it makes us all look like monkeys. The whole scene of crime squad was called in because of the seriousness of the crime, not because of who was working on it.'
   'Maybe you're right.'
   White didn't look convinced.
   'But I still think that we'd get better results if we got more forensic help.'
   'I'm sure you would. I'm on your side. If it was up to me we'd all get as much forensics as we wanted.'
   She didn't give a damn about local CID's petty complaints, but a small lie here and there never did anybody any harm.
   'I know it's not your fault love. I just wish all your lot thought like you.'
   Love again.
   'One day maybe.'
   Elaine lit up with the room as she flashed White a smile to cement their common cause.
   'Anyway, I'm sure you don't want to waste your time listening to our moans and groans.'
   Too right.
   Elaine shrugged her shoulders sympathetically.
   'We'd just started to investigate the killing when we got a call from the Globe newspaper. Someone had sent the news-editor the missing bits of the dead journalist. With them was a note. When we got the note Lorraine checked the MO out again and here you are.'
   'And here we are. Have you got a copy of the note?'
   'Yeah. Forensics have got the original, but we've got a copy.'
   Lorraine already held the photocopied sheet out across the table towards her.
   'Thanks.'
   Elaine took the page and laid it diagonally on the table between Chris and herself, so that by straining their necks they could both read it. She immediately recognised the handwriting from the previous notes and her pulse quickened. This is what she had come here for. Another piece in the jigsaw. Perhaps it would be enough for her to make out the full picture.
   'SEE NO EVIL, HEAR NO EVIL, WRITE NO EVIL.
   EYE FOR EYE, TOOTH FOR TOOTH.
   Those who perpetrate society's crimes, beware. I will show you the ultimate truth, so that others may see the errors of their ways and repent. Three have died to pay for Susan's death, but it is not enough. Society is unchanged, so others must die also.
   My wife was innocent. Those I punish are guilty beyond doubt.
   The police recognise the truth of my message and try to silence me. But I will have my audience. I will speak to the people. The police have been told the crimes of the estate agent and advertiser. Ask them about Robert Tillman and Frank Clarke.
   The crimes of the tabloid journalist are many. I will outline just a few.
   - They trade in lies. Truth is sacred and they reject it.
   - They patronise their readers, when instead they should seek to educate. The lowest common denominator should be avoided. Populism should be discarded for quality.
   - Political bias is widespread and inexcusable. Newspapers should be organs of truth and education, not simply vessels for furthering the self-interest of their proprietors.
   These are the crimes of the journalist, and a journalist has been duly punished. Journalists, repent before it is too late. Change your ways or you might be next. Estate-agents and advertisers too, repent. I have shown you to be vulnerable. Change your ways whilst you still can.
   The first thing that struck Elaine about the note was that the murderer had given more of himself away in it. Susan's death. My wife was innocent. Was Susan his wife? It was certainly something to go on. Maybe it would turn out to be the key to the whole thing.
   The whole note seemed to be less coherent than the other two. This man was losing it. Before, he had been so careful not to give anything away, now he was letting things slip.
   Once again, the message in the note struck a chord. Though expressed in a much more extreme form, the killer's views on tabloid journalists were not that much different from her own. Elaine recognised this fact, but did not dwell on it. She quickly read through the note again, to see if she could spot anything that she'd missed the first time.
   'Fucking Hell.'
   She recognised Chris's dulcet tones expressing himself in his own, all too easily imitable fashion, and she looked up. White met her gaze. He wore a smug, almost proud looking grin, as he watched her face for a reaction. Her wish to develop a rapport with White was countered by a determination not to reinforce any of his sexist female stereotypes. She raised her eyebrows.
   'Heavy stuff eh?', White suggested.
   'Yes.'
   'Seen anything like it before?'
   'Twice. Similar notes were found on two other bodies. He mentions them in the note.'
   'The estate agent and the advertiser?', Lorraine chipped in.
   'Yes.'
   'Have you got anyone in the frame?'
   'Not yet.'
   Elaine guided the conversation away from their lack of success.
   'The News Editor. Did you get much out of him?'
   'You can ask him yourself, he's in the next room.'
   'What?'
   White smiled broadly at this master stroke, enhanced by Elaine's apparent surprise.
   'Duncan Sharpe, the Globe's news editor, we've got him in the interview room next door.'
   'Yes, but why?'
   White hesitated, his smile falling away as he searched his mind for a reason that just wasn't quite there. He looked across at Lorraine, inviting a contribution from her for the first time in the discussion. She shrugged her shoulders.
   'Well, he was the only thing we had.'
   Ha!
   With logic like that, he should ask for a transfer to the West Midland serious crime squad! Elaine could have laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of the situation, but instead she controlled herself and offered this drowning man a straw to cling to.
   'It was probably a good move. We don't want the press splashing this note all over their front pages. At least this way you've kept him out of trouble.'
   'Yeah, that's what I thought.
   He told us that he'd arranged for Adamson to meet this bloke about a story. Alf something, I think he said his name was.'
   'Alex Stone.'
   'Thanks Lorraine. Anyway he was meant to meet him at about four this morning. My guess is that it was this Alex Stone that killed him.'
   Elementary, my dear Watson.
   'You could be right there. Did you check up on the name?'
   'Lorraine ran it through the computer, but it didn't throw anything up. There can't be that many people with that name though.'
   'We'll check it out, but it's almost certainly a waste of time. If this is our boy he'll have made it up for sure.'
   Elaine finished talking and for a second the room lapsed into silence. The pattern of the discussion so far had been that White said something, Elaine had responded and then back to White again. Now though, White failed to fulfil his conversational responsibilities. Another second passed before Elaine realised that that was it. White had shut up, because quite simply, he had nothing more to say.
   'And that's as far as you got?'
   'Yes. Really we'd hardly got started before you turned up and took it off our hands.'
   'Well, you've done a really thorough job. You've saved us a lot of time. Thanks, thanks a lot.'
   'That's okay. We were just doing our jobs.'
   'Right then, Chris and I had better make a start. I'll speak to forensics and see if they've turned anything up yet, and then we'll interview Sharpe.'
   'Do you want us to sit in?'
   'No it's okay. We don't want to keep you from your other work. We know how busy you must be.'
   Elaine managed to keep her voice free of the slightest trace of sarcasm.

+ + + + + +

After she and Chris had left White and Anderson, Elaine called up the Scene of Crime squad. She was told that everything that had been found so far pointed to this being the work of their suspect, but they'd found nothing as yet that looked like it would be of any use in tracking him down. Their man might have been losing his grip on reality, but he was still being as careful as ever.
   They moved on to the second interview room to see what the News Editor had to tell them. Elaine anticipated that he would merely be able to confirm what White had already told them. They would only have to agree that they would have his full co-operation and they could all be on their way. It wouldn't take long.
   They entered the room to be met by a cloud of cigarette smoke. Sharpe sat at the desk hunched over a notepad on which he was busily taking notes. In one hand he held a lit cigarette. In front of him lay an ashtray which was full of cigarette butts. Elaine half-suppressed a cough as her lungs fought to adjust to the polluted room atmosphere.
   'Good afternoon Mr Sharpe, we're sorry to have kept you waiting. I'm Detective Inspector Heaton and this is Detective Constable Blecher..'
   Elaine offered Sharpe her hand. Sharpe glanced up, ignored the offer, then looked back down to his pad in front of him. Elaine let her hand fall back to her side.
   .'.We're the officers in charge of the investigation. We'd just like to ask you a few a few questions.'
   Elaine and Chris sat down in front of the news editor, who Elaine could see was writing their names out on his notepad. He finished and looked up.
   'Is that Mrs Heaton?'
   'Ms.'
   Sharpe jotted this vital piece of information down too.
   'Am I under arrest here, or what?'
   The question was framed in an aggressive impatience.
   'No of course not. We just want to ask you a few questions.'
   'Well if I'm not under arrest, I'm off. I've told Inspector White everything I know. I've been here for over two hours and I've got a paper to get out.'
   Sharpe started to stand up.
   Elaine met Sharpe's aggression with her usual patient charm, but she was more than a little irritated by his attitude. This bloke was as bad as White, what a day this was turning out to be.
   'We're sorry to have kept you waiting . But we would appreciate any help you can give us. It'll only take a few minutes.'
   'Okay then, there's a few questions that I'd like answered myself.'
   Sharpe sat back down.
   'Good, now if you'll just tell us exactly what you told Inspector White.'
   'Alright. It all started last Sunday. I was at work and got a phone call from this bloke Alex Stone, who said he had a story to sell.'
   'What time was this?'
   'I don't know, about eleven thirty.'
   'Did you notice anything about his voice?'
   'Not really, it sounded pretty ordinary to me.'
   'Well, did he have an accent.'
   'Nothing that I noticed. He was quite well spoken really. Well, this bloke claimed he was a pimp for some rent boys. Said he had some celebrity clients, and that he could give us some proof; photographs and tape recordings. He sounded genuine enough to me.'
   'Go on.'
   'I arranged for him to meet one of our people at 4.00 am last night, at these railway arches just off the Old Kent Road.'
   'Did he suggest the meeting place?'
   'That's right, he did.'
   'And then what happened?'
   'Well, I sent Richard Adamson to meet him, and told him to ring me as soon as he'd seen him.
   I stayed up all night waiting for that call. I was worried sick.'
   Something not quite right there.
   'Did you suspect something was wrong?'
   'Err.. No of course not.
   It was just a big story that's all. I was worried that Richard might have done the dirty on me.'
   Elaine was still not satisfied. She picked at this inconsistency like some dog with a bone.
   'Didn't you trust Adamson then?'
   'Well yes I do, I mean did. I was just worried that's all. Look am I on trial here or what?'
   Interesting.
   Elaine's curiosity was well and truly aroused. Sharpe's belligerence continued to irritate her, and she would certainly have gained some gratification from continuing this line of questioning and prolonging his discomfort. Instead, she mentally flagged the point as something to come back to and moved the conversation on.
   'Of course not, we've just got to cover all the angles. You know that. So after you didn't get the call from Adamson, then what did you do?'
   'I came into work. I asked around but no-one had heard from Richard, and there was a package waiting for me. I opened it and inside there was the note and the fingers. I rang the police straight away, and I've been down here ever since.'
   'Well we won't be keeping you much longer.'
   'Did the package arrive in the post?'
   Chris made his first contribution to the interview. Elaine immediately saw what he was getting at. The package had arrived too quickly to have been posted, so how had it got there? The incisiveness of the question was emphasised both by Chris's previous silence and the fact that Elaine had missed the point herself. She was quietly impressed.
   'No I think it came by courier.'
   'Do you remember which one?'
   'Of course not.'
   Again there was a hint of annoyance in Sharpe's response.
   Elaine retook the conversational reigns. 'Not to worry. We've got the packaging. We can get the name from that.'
   'Well that's my story. Perhaps you could answer some questions for me now.'
   Without waiting for a positive response Sharpe picked up his pad and started to read his questions from it.
   'I've read the note. What does the killer mean when he says he's killed before. Who are Robert Tillman and Frank Clarke?'
   'I really don't think that's any of your concern.' It was Elaine's turn to be defensive.
   Sharpe pressed on. 'That's where you're wrong. If there's a madman out there killing people, then the public have a right to know about it.'
   'I can assure you Mr Sharpe that we only have the best interests of the public at heart. Now I would ask you not to report anymore about this case than what is released by our Press Officer.'
   'Bullshit! Haven't you ever heard of freedom of speech. Look where your secrecy's got you. You read the note. Three people have been killed whilst you sat around on your fat arses trying to keep it quiet. We'll find out what happened to those other two, and then everyone will know what's been going on.'
   'Look, this isn't getting us anywhere. I think you've given us enough information for today.'
   Elaine stood up to indicate that the interview was over. Chris followed her lead.
   'I must remind you, that if you were to divulge any information about this case other than that authorised by our Press Officer, you might seriously hinder our investigations and you could find yourself facing some very serious charges.'
   Sharpe stood up, but not to leave.
   'You can't intimidate me with your petty threats. My paper's got friends in much higher places than you. We'll find out what's been going on, whether you like it or not.'
   Elaine battled to remain outwardly calm and reasonable, but she couldn't prevent her voice rising slightly in both pitch and volume.
   'Thank you Mr Sharpe, I think that will be all.'
   'You haven't heard the last from me Ms Heaton.'

Sharpe turned and left the room. As the door closed Elaine could retain her hold on her self-control no longer.
   'Bastard, anyone going around murdering people like him, should be given a fucking medal.'
   Chris watched open mouthed. This was a side of Elaine that he had never seen before.
   'Yeah, bastard', he mumbled sympathetically.
   Elaine's fury burnt itself out as quickly as it had erupted. She and Chris were left standing in a vaguely embarrassed, self-conscious silence.
   'Do you fancy going for a drink or something?' Chris's offer was well intentioned, but ultimately inappropriate. It was enough though to bring Elaine back to her old self.
   Time's running out and Chris wants to go down the pub!
   'I don't think so, Chris.'
   And then as an afterthought.
   'But thanks for asking.'

+ + + + + +

Elaine rang George Young and told him what had happened, and specifically what had happened with Duncan Sharpe. As usual he endorsed her actions, but was concerned at Sharpe's comments. The last thing any of them needed was trouble with the press. He promised that he'd do what he could to calm the situation down, but told Elaine that he expected that they'd have to release most of the details of the case so far, to keep the press off their backs.
   The killer had outmanoeuvred them by writing directly to the newspaper. He'd get the publicity he was after. The cat was in a different time zone to the proverbial bag.

+ + + + + +

Duncan Sharpe caught a cab back to his office, where he arrived at just after two. He immediately went to see his Editor Donald Carrforth who had been waiting to hear from him. At a little after half past two, Sharpe left the office and Carrforth made a phone call to a friend of his, a senior government minister.

+ + + + + +

Elaine and Chris left New Cross police station and visited the scene of the crime. Nothing substantial had been turned up. As was usual when visiting crime scenes, the frenzied activity of the forensic people contrasted markedly with their own redundancy and they soon left. That afternoon they interviewed Richard Adamson's girlfriend, his parents and the two men that had found the body.
   As Elaine had expected, none of them could tell them anything that seemed of much use. Elaine realised that the next logical step was to interview Adamson's colleagues at The Globe, but it was getting late in the day and so she surrendered to the temptation to put it off until tomorrow, and by then it might well not be her problem.

+ + + + + +

Jon stood propped up against the wall of the office building on the busy London street. Opposite stood the Stock Exchange Building. He had never seen it outside of pictures or television before. He was singularly unimpressed. Though in truth it would have been surprising if he had permitted himself to be impressed by this temple to all the things which he so despised.
   He'd liked his plan for picking out the advertiser, and so here he was again, this time looking for a stockbroker. It was five thirty, the end of the working day. He watched the selfish masses pour out of the building. Without exception he despised them all.
   A quarter of an hour passed, before Jon was satisfied and began to move off down the street. Tomorrow was another day.

+ + + + + +

On the portable television in his fusty bedroom, the Australian soap opera came to the customarily contrived cliff-hanging end to its daily episode. William's attention was elsewhere. Under the threatening gaze of a poster of his favourite rock group, he was sprawled out on his bed. His recently acquired pornographic magazine lay by his side whilst his right hand shuffled in his lap. The gradually increasing tempo of his strokes were interrupted, as something from the background noise of the television caught his attention.
   The Six O'clock news was now on. The headline story told of a murderer at large, who was killing people who offended his sense of right and wrong. He had already killed an estate agent, an advertiser and now a journalist, and the police were baffled. They didn't have a clue. Something in the report spoke to William, it drew his interest like a moth to a flame. He stopped what he was doing and watched the rest of the report.
   Almost half an hour later, the news programme ended. Finally assured that no more details of the killings would be forthcoming, William returned to the matter in hand.

+ + + + + +

Chris drove them back to Scotland Yard in silence. The cloud of failure hung heavily over both of them. The killer's note had given them something to go on; the killer's wife's death; but to follow this lead up properly would take time and effort, time they did not have. Once again, apart from the note they had nothing. There had been no witnesses and there was almost certainly nothing to link the killer to the victim.
   The killer had struck with his usual efficiency, and this time he had forced their hand, making sure that his message got to the newspapers, that he received the publicity he craved. With the case now out in the open, there would be increased pressure on the police to be seen to do something positive. It wasn't difficult to imagine how replacing Elaine at the head of the investigation with someone of higher rank and profile would seem like a very attractive and positive option to her superiors.
   They arrived at Scotland Yard at just gone a quarter past seven, to find the offices all but deserted. On Elaine's desk there was a note from George White. It read simply: Elaine, We've lost it, I'm sorry. George.
   The inevitability of the event didn't prevent Elaine's despair at this final confirmation of her failure. It washed over her, pushing the tears up into her eyes, ready to flow. But this time her grip on her self control remained true and the moment passed. She turned to Chris.
   'Take me for that drink, will you?'

+ + + + + +

The local pub was full of people they knew from work, but rather than join any of them, Elaine and Chris sat apart in a conspiratorial huddle around a small bar-room table, mulling through their collective grievances.
   'I tell you, that Sharpe bloke was such an arsehole.'
   'Yeah.'
   'He wasn't at all bothered that his reporter had been killed. All he was interested in was his fucking story.'
   'Yeah.'
   'He was just such a wanker. I tell you people like that almost make me want to murder them myself.'
   'Yeah, what an arsehole.'
   Two hours and several vodka and oranges later, Elaine had got it all out of system and Chris had heartily agreed with everything she had said. She was drunk and felt much the better for the experience. Looking at Chris as they talked, she felt a genuine bond between them, attraction even. On a moments impulse she turned to him open mouthed. 'Kiss me.'
   He didn't need asking twice.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 9.

DESPERATELY SEEKING SUSAN

Chris could not believe it was happening to him. He had pictured the event so often in the past; his imagination conjuring up an all too familiar set off images. But that was fantasy, and now finally, remarkably, improbably, all his fantasies had been made flesh. And it was all so much better than he had ever dared to imagine.
   He lay there, flat out on the bed, dozing after another frenzied burst of lovemaking. He felt completely drained and utterly content. Their coupling had been characterised by a mutuality that Chris had never before experienced. All his needs and desires had been met in full. Almost as importantly, he was completely confident in his own performance; that he had given Elaine as much pleasure as she had given him.
   Incredibly, Elaine reached for him again: Would this night never end? For a moment he wondered whether he would be able to summon up the necessary energy, as her hand caressed his flesh, moving upwards along his thigh. He groaned as her hand reached his genitals and impossibly he was hard again, all thoughts of fatigue gone as his tool twitched in eager anticipation.
   Chris shifted onto his elbow and made to pull Elaine against him, but she pushed him hard on the chest, sending him back onto his back.
   'Stay still', she commanded and he obeyed without question.
   Elaine was in total control of the situation. She removed her hand from Chris's body and threw the duvet off them and onto the bedroom floor. Then quickly, she moved to the foot of the bed and began to crawl up the bed over his legs. She moved slowly, sensuously with an exaggerated sinuous movement, like a panther stalking it's prey, and he lay there waiting, anticipating what she had in store for him. In the half-light afforded by the ill fitting blind on the bedroom window, her breasts hung pendulously downwards, swaying slightly as she moved over him.
   She paused as her head drew level with Chris's engorged organ and she took him into her mouth. As her hand pulled the foreskin back down the shaft of his penis, her tongue darted about teasing the exposed head, tracing the shape of his glans. Chris felt the familiar stirring in his loins and made to sit up so that he could stimulate Elaine in turn.
   'Keep still I said.'
   Elaine threw him back down, this time quite roughly, his chest stinging slightly where she had hit him with an open hand. When she had moved to push Chris backwards, Elaine had released him from her mouth. Now she moved so that she knelt over his thighs. Again she took his penis in her hand and pulled back the loose skin. Again he gasped, as the pleasure of the sensation of the skin being slowly drawn back over the sensitive head turned to pain when the skin would go no further. But still she kept on pulling.
   With his glans fully exposed, Chris felt his organ pulse. The pleasure/pain sensation filled his entire being, until almost all he was aware of was his penis. All concept of the rest of his body had gone, his arms and legs forgotten. All that mattered was his penis. Penis was all.
   Still holding his shaft in her left hand, Elaine moved her right hand towards his testicles. Slowly and deliberately, she extended her index finger and began to lightly brush the delicate skin between his testicles and his anus with an exquisitely manicured fingernail.
   He gasped again at this new sensation, his penis jerking in her hand. She began to increase the pressure of her fingernail, until she was scratching quite sharply. As before, the sensation of pleasure gradually became one more of pain, the distinction between the two becoming blurred. Elaine took her finger and started to move it ever so slowly across his genitals. Inexorably, the omnipotent digit travelled across his testicles, the pitted skin of his fleshy parcels shifting like some strange sea anemone.
   Then on it moved to the shaft of his penis, tracing a red line on the underside, up towards the head, the pleasure/pain becoming more and more intense as Elaine's finger nail moved into the increasingly sensitive areas of Chris's phallus. By the time Elaine reached the red bloom of Chris's exposed glans, his penis was twitching wildly. He was almost at the point of climaxing. Almost. All it needed was a moments more pressure, and he would have been past the point of no return.
   With impeccable timing, Elaine removed her finger. Chris moaned in disappointed frustration, as still holding his shaft in her left hand she retracted her index finger, forming a loose fist with her right hand which she moved up towards her face.
   She smiled at him, as she looked down at his helplessness, relishing the power she held over him, in the grip of her hand. She paused for a moment, before slowly extending the smallest finger of her right hand. She licked the finger and moved it down to the base of his glans, back to where her index finger had rested mere moments earlier.
   Pressing much more lightly than she had previously, careful not to damage this most delicate of Chris's private flesh, she resumed her direction of before. She soon reached the hole at the top, his urethra, where she paused again, heightening his anticipation, increasing his tension.
   Chris wondered both what Elaine would do next and where she had learnt to behave like this. The skill and imagination she had exhibited in her lovemaking had exceeded his wildest expectations.
   Chris's first query was answered as Elaine started to ease the tip of her fingernail into the entrance to his penis. The burning pleasure/pain sensation was intense. The distinction between the two feelings becoming more pronounced as the sensation passed from the grey area into a region where the pain definitely outweighed the pleasure. Chris moaned again as Elaine moved her finger ever deeper inside his sex, and the feeling grew ever stronger, threatening to overwhelm him completely.
   With her finger sunk deep inside him, up to the first joint, he thought he could bear it no longer. He was ready to cry out, to plead with her to stop, when once again Elaine showed her sense of timing. The pain was gone; the finger withdrawn and in it's place an all enveloping warmth. Elaine had moved to penetrate herself on his phallus.
   She bent low to kiss him full and hard, her tongue fighting for supremacy with his. She sat up and started to move back and forth along his length, slowly at first but with her tempo gradually rising. As she moved she started to tease his nipples, scratching and nibbling them, creating sensations in him that he had not previously thought himself possible of.
   'Play with my nipples.'
   Chris obeyed her command immediately, grateful for this small element of control.
   Faster and faster she rode. She was moaning herself now, her eyes closed and her teeth gritted. Chris moaned too, as they approached their climax in unison.
   'Yes, oh yes.'
   'I love you Elaine.'
   'I love you too Chris, I always have. You don't know how long I've dreamt of this moment.'
   Chris woke up.
   It had all seemed so real, and now in one cruel instant it had been shown to be illusory, a construction of his imagination. He lay there in his bed feeling cheated and foolish in equal measures, his erect penis forming a tent under the duvet.
   And then he noticed the warmth by his side, the touch of another's skin on his leg and it all came back to him: The events of the night before; the sex. This was not a dream, it was all real. He reached across for her. She was already half-awake, and she rolled accommodatingly towards him.

+ + + + + +

William Barton walked quickly and with purpose along the High Street towards the newsagents. He drew alongside the shop and looked inside and saw that there were customers inside; a woman with her two young children. He walked into the shop. What William was looking for today had no unsavoury implications. It didn't matter who saw him.
   He walked straight towards the familiar magazine rack. His eyes darted furtively to the top shelf. Momentarily, his gaze lingered there, caressing the front pages of the magazines like a lover. Then he tore his eyes away, down to the bottom shelf, which was stocked with daily newspapers. The front pages of the tabloid papers all carried the same story, and it was this that he had come for.
   Their headlines screamed out at him, competing for his attention: 'MADMAN AT LARGE', 'AN EYE FOR AN EYE', 'ANGEL OF DEATH.' He bent down and picked up a copy of each of the tabloids and moved off towards the shop's counter. On his way to the counter he noticed some scrap-books and added one of them to his pile of prospective purchases.

+ + + + + +

Chris drove to work feeling well pleased with himself. Though he had had little sleep last night and was physically tired and sore, mentally he felt a rare peace. A deep, almost spiritual need had been fulfilled and for an all too rare (and short) interlude he was allowed to escape the disaffected anxiety that his adult life, and felt at ease with himself and the world at large. He travelled down the residential streets, weaving in and out of the parked cars that lined both sides of the road, taking the back ways to avoid the rush hour congestion.
   He stopped at the end of a street, forced to wait for a gap in the traffic so that he could make a right turn and continue his journey. Normally, the smallest of such delays would seem intolerable to him. The limits of his patience being exhausted in just a few seconds, so that he would edge his car out into the road, forcing his way into the stream of traffic.
   Today, he patiently waited for a gap to develop of its own accord. He smiled to himself as he remembered a key incident from last night; Elaine leaning towards him in the pub and asking him to kiss her. Life was good sometimes.
   He saw some movement on the street in front of him. It was a man running for a bus. An every day scene, played out a thousand times on the city's streets. Nothing unusual there. Chris was about to look away when he noticed something amiss. The man was running with exaggerated, awkward movements. His arms and legs wheeled like a demented windmill, and though his effort was total, his progress was painfully slow.
   The man was obviously disabled in some way. Not severely, but enough to restrict his running speed to about half that of an able-bodied person. The man's bus stood at the stop some twenty yards away from him. The two other people who had been standing at the stop had already disappeared on to it, and it seemed that it would pull away at any moment.
   Chris watched the scene with anxious fascination. In that instant he knew with an absolute certainty that there was no God. That there could not be a God if such things as disability were allowed to exist, no matter what bullshit philosophical arguments the church might come up with. Chris willed the bus to wait for the man, feeling pity for the man that he knew he would not want, feeling guilt that he himself had been born able-bodied, that this man had to be disabled to even out the odds.
   Chris had not cried since he was fifteen years old, when the vet had put the family dog to sleep. It had been so long, he had forgotten what it was like. But Chris had drunken deep from the cup of life last night. He had skirted the large untapped abyss of his emotions and was temporarily vulnerable. As the disabled man reached his bus, relief washed over Chris, and though he was not about to allow himself to break down in tears, he remembered what it was like to cry.
   The insistent honk of a car horn dragged him from his thoughts. He looked at the road in front to see that it was empty of traffic in both directions. He made his right turn and continued his journey to work.

+ + + + + +

Chris floated along the corridors of New Scotland Yard towards his office, thinking about what he would say to Elaine. After the events of yesterday evening, their relationship would never be the same again. Chris anticipated that in the cold light of day, there might be some awkwardness between them. He decided that the best course of action would be to ignore it, and carry on as if nothing had happened. Once any initial embarrassment had passed he felt sure that their interactions would fall into their well worn, familiar pattern.
   He pushed through the heavy wooden fire-doors into the office, and immediately glanced across at Elaine's desk. He was surprised when he saw that her seat was empty. He was so used to seeing her, busily working at her desk when he arrived in a morning. Thinking that she must be elsewhere in the building, he walked over to his desk. It was only when he had reached his desk and was close enough to clearly see Elaine's, that he saw that her desk was undisturbed from the night before: She wasn't in yet.
   This really surprised Chris. In the two years he had worked with Elaine, he had hardly ever known her to arrive into work later than him. He could count the occasions on one hand, and even then she always had a good excuse. She hadn't said anything about being late in, last night, and knowing Elaine she would have done. Perhaps she was ill or something? Chris was beginning to get a bit worried. He went to get himself a coffee.
   Thinking about it, maybe Elaine was just hungover. She had been pretty drunk when he had put her in that cab last night. He'd been driving and so had mainly stuck to soft drinks, but she had been knocking them back. He smiled to himself as he remembered just how drunk she had been. Not that her drunkenness was the reason for what she had done.
   Chris was only too familiar with the effects of alcohol abuse. Being drunk only lowered your inhibitions, made you more likely to do things you always wanted to do, but didn't normally have the guts for. That was one of the main reasons that he got drunk in the first place.
   He reached the coffee machine, fished around in his pocket for some change which he posted into the coin slot, and without checking the key at the side of the machine, punched in the familiar number; 138 - Coffee, white, one sugar.
   Now he had an explanation, he felt much easier. He smiled at the prospect of Elaine being hungover. He'd give her precisely the same amount of sympathy she usually reserved for him on the numerous occasions when he'd crawled into work feeling fragile after a night's drinking.
   The coffee machine finished pouring Chris's coffee amidst much clicking and whirring, and emitted a synthesised beep to let him know his drink was ready. He bent down and lifted the plastic hatch, to get at his cup inside.
   'Chris, you old devil.'
   The voice came from behind him. Chris rose to his feet holding his coffee, turning to so that he could see who was addressing him.
    It was Warren Hurt, a detective from the vice squad. He was about Chris's age and had once played football with Chris in some works five-a-side competition. They were on nodding terms, nothing more. The sum total of all the conversations they had ever had, probably amounted to less than fifty words all told, most of that being single word affirmations of each others names as they passed in the corridor.
   'Warren.'
   Chris acknowledged the other's presence and made to walk off.
   'C'mon then Chris, spill the beans, what was it like?'
   Chris looked blankly at Hurt. He really had no idea what he was talking about. He tried to think back over what they had talked about in the past, to see if that would give him any clues, but he couldn't even remember when they'd last had conversation, so no help there.
   'C'mon Chris, what does it feel like to be the man who thawed the ice maiden? What was she like?'
   More blank looks.
   'We all saw you giving her a good tongue lashing last night. So tell me, what was she like?'
   Realisation dawned. Hurt must have been in the pub last night and seen Elaine and Chris kissing. Chris had been so pleased with the outcome of last night's events, that it hadn't even crossed his mind what everyone else in the pub must have thought when they saw him and Elaine all over each other.
   Chris smiled as he thought of what people must be thinking about him.
   Last night had been fantastic. It had been one of those precious, rare occasions when everything had gone just the way he had wanted. When Elaine had leant towards him and asked him to kiss her, it had been like a dream come true. They had kissed frantically and unashamedly, like teenagers clumsily exercising their fledgling sexualities for the first time.
   A thought had crossed his mind, that perhaps she was winding him up; leading him on so that she could humiliate him, and prove some feminist point - look at him, that's what all men are like. He pushed the thought from his mind and just let himself go with the moment. Eventually, Elaine had broken off the embrace. She looked at her watch and said that it was getting late, though it was barely Nine O'clock.
   They had stood up and left the pub, hand in hand, oblivious to the incredulous gazes of some of their fellow drinkers. Once outside, he had kissed her again, pushing her yielding body against the cold dark stone bricks of the pub wall. He was filled with his need for her, and the feeling seemed mutual.
   Chris had broken off the embrace this time. He looked down at her, and her wide green eyes gazed back at him, waiting for him to take the lead. She was his. In that moment, he knew that he could have done anything he wanted. Her trust in him was total. She was there for the taking.
   'Let's get you home.'
   He had looked forward to this opportunity so much, projected so many hopes and expectations on to it. He wanted their union to be special, not like the others. She had shown that she wanted him, and knowing this he could bide his time and wait until the time was right, until everything was perfect. He was a romantic at heart. She was drunk, very drunk. He put her into a cab and sent her home.
   Chris was left, alone in the centre of London, elated at the unexpected turn of events, filled with excited anticipation of the impending consummation of his long held desires. The night was still young and Chris had a story to tell. He picked up his car from the Yard's car-park, drove home, and went straight round to the Nag's Head. His tale of success in his long standing sexual goal was well received by his circle of friends and he spent what was left of the evening riding the crest of his surging group esteem. He was filled with confidence and consequently at the zenith of his social abilities. The centre of attention, all his jokes were hilarious, all his stories engrossing. He felt better about himself at that moment than he could remember ever having felt before.
   There was a bar-maid in the Nag. She was called Lucy; blonde, young, large breasted, beautiful but not tarty - they all fancied her. Most of them had chanced their arm with her at one time or another, all had failed miserably. That only served to increase the eventual value of the prize.
   That night, without really thinking about it, at the peak of his confidence and charm, Chris had got talking to Lucy. She laughed at his jokes. She listened to his stories. And at the end of the evening, much to his mates incredulation (and reluctant admiration) she had gone home with him. That night, he had the midas touch. He could do anything he wanted.
   Their love-making had been as meaningless, as empty as Chris's previous sexual episodes, but somehow on this occasion, Chris had accepted the emptiness and enjoyed the physical pleasure of their congress for what it was; uncommitted, uncomplicated sex. Chris's past sexual experiences had been characterised by a deep felt frustration. He was always looking for something deeper, something more significant, that the women he attracted could not provide. Now, Chris had found the depth he was looking for elsewhere. He no longer needed, or expected so much from this brief liaison. He was free to enjoy it as a celebration of his attractiveness, the perfect ending to an unbelievable evening.
   Back in the real world.
   'Well did you shag her then, or what?'
   To say yes would be a lie, but would bring him unlimited prestige amongst his male colleagues. The grapevine would circulate the news in an instant. Chris resisted what to him was a considerable temptation and merely smiled knowingly, shrugged his shoulders and walked off back to his desk.
   He hadn't said yes, but he hadn't said no either. Never one to let the facts stand in the way of a good piece of gossip, that was all the confirmation Hurt needed. He hurried off to find someone to tell his story to.

+ + + + + +

Chris came to within sight of his desk and saw that Elaine had arrived whilst he was getting his coffee. As soon as he saw her his stomach turned over. The strength of his physical reaction to her mere presence startled and slightly alarmed him, but he remembered his plan of action and continued his path to his seat.
   'Well call me old fashioned, but I believe in a fair days work, for a fair days pay.'
   Elaine heard Chris's voice and it immediately sparked off a rush of embarrassing half-memories of the night before. Her stomach sank. She had anticipated that it would be difficult at first and had decided to front it out and act like the whole episode hadn't happened. It had all been a huge mistake. She had got drunk and had lost control. She was attracted to Chris, that was now undeniable, and if he had pushed it, she would have slept with him last night.
   That would have been a disaster. It would have rendered their working relationship completely untenable and could have set her career back years. Comparatively, the kissing was a minor aberration,- that she hoped would go away if she ignored it. She was grateful to Chris for not taking advantage of her, and took it to show that he could also see the folly of any sexual relations between them. She wouldn't make that mistake again. She had enough problems without worrying about Chris. She looked up.
   'You are old fashioned Chris. And your jokes are crap.'
   'You look like shit. Are you feeling okay?' Mock concern laced Chris's words.
   'I've just got a bit of a headache. I think I might be coming down with something.'
   'Perhaps you just had a bad pint.' Chris laughed.
   Elaine ignored him. She knew she had no defence. She knew she would have done the same if the situations were reversed. She knew she probably deserved it. 'I haven't got time to sit around and chat with you all morning. I've got to go and see George. Find out what happens to us now. Why don't you have another read through the notes while I'm gone, see if you can spot anything else.'
   She got to her feet.
   'Are you going now?'
   'Best to get it over with.'
   'Good luck.'
   'I think it's well past the time when luck could make a difference.'

+ + + + + +

'Come in.'
   George Young was waiting for her. He'd expected her earlier. He knew her habits and had come in especially early to catch her. The time hadn't been completely wasted, he always had other things he could be getting on with, but he was slightly irritated by her absence.
   'Elaine, I've been waiting for you.'
   His irritation turned to concern as he read what he took to be an explanation of her lateness, in her face.
   'You look a bit peaky. Are you feeling alright?'
   'I think I might be coming down with something.'
   'Well, if it gets any worse, get yourself home. You'll be no good to anyone if you're full of cold and you won't get any thanks if you struggle in and infect the rest of us.'
   'Okay, thanks.'
   'Have you seen the papers this morning?.'
   'I heard about them on the radio this morning.'
   'Pretty bad, especially the Globe.'
   'That's no more than I expected.'
   'Did you get my note?'
   'Yeah, I saw it last night.'
   'Well, like I said in the note, upstairs have taken the case off you.'
   'I expected that as well.'
   'With all the media attention, they had to put someone more senior in charge of it.'
   'Who's got it?'
   'Peter Jones.'
   'That figures'.
   'They've formed a special team under his command'.
   Chief Inspector Jones was one of the golden boys of the department. Until his last promotion, he had never been a higher grade than Elaine. She had worked with him, but never for him. She had not been impressed. She condemned Jones for having no real interest or ability in the job. All the success he had achieved had been on the backs of others. She wouldn't deny that he was very professional, that he presented himself well and was an excellent communicator. It was just that the strengths that Jones had were the attributes of the salesman. She thought that he would be better off selling cars, rather than solving crimes.
   George Young was familiar with Elaine's opinions on Peter Jones. He didn't like the man himself, and for many of the same reasons as Elaine. But he thought that she rather missed the point when criticising his aptitude for the job. It was an undeniable truth that Jones had been (and presumably still was) a lousy detective. But those attributes he did possess made him an excellent manager.
   Paradoxically, his lack of detective ability, probably enhanced his effectiveness as a manager. Unlike Young, who had always found it difficult to let go of the nuts and bolts of the job that he so enjoyed, Jones was relieved to be rid of his detective responsibilities and consequently had no difficulty in letting his subordinates get on with the donkey work, whilst he concentrated on managing their efforts.
   Whilst others had found themselves promoted to their level of incompetence, Jones had been (finally) promoted to a position of competence.
   'When do I hand it over to him?'
   George knew that Elaine wouldn't like what he had to tell her. He knew that at that moment her greatest concern was losing the case. That if he asked her, she would say she would do anything to stop the case being taken from her. In this respect, what he had to tell her was very good news indeed. It would mean that she could continue to work on her precious case.
   George knew she wouldn't see it like that. He knew she would object vehemently to the circumstances under which she could continue to work on the case. On balance, he thought that the good news far outweighed the bad, but he knew that Elaine would interpret the bad as a personal slight on her ability, and he knew how sensitive she was about such things.
   He could have beat about the bush. Tried to sugar the pill by persuading her it was all for the best. But that wasn't his style. He had decide a long time ago not to take undue account of other people's personality foibles. Some might call him tactless, but at the end of the day he was a detective, not a social worker. He would tell it to her straight, though he knew she wouldn't like it.
   'You don't. You're working for him.'
   He wasn't wrong.

+ + + + + +

Peter Jones. Peter bastard Jones.
   Elaine walked back into the office, still smarting over this latest rejection. This choosing of Jones over her. This judging of him more capable than she. As she sat down Chris looked up.
   'Alright?'
   She could have unburdened herself to him. That would have made her feel a bit better, but it would have only served to demotivate him. When she thought about it, there was good as well as bad in the situation. It was just a matter of presentation. She turned to face him, a smile already on her lips.
   'Guess what ... We're still on the case.'
   Chris beamed back.
   'Brilliant.'

'Nice to see you again Elaine.'
   Jones stood up and offered Elaine his hand. Jones was in his late thirties. He was dressed in a fashionable wide lapelled loose fitting suit. Perennially tanned, with closely cropped dark hair, his appearance was impeccable. How he looked did nothing to dispel Elaine's preconceptions of him. As she moved to take his hand, a thought crossed her mind as to whether giving him the funny handshake would do her any good. Membership of the freemasons could have been a partial explanation as to his unmeritted rise through the ranks.
   His handshake was firm and strong; Unpatronising. He shook her hand as she imagined he would shake the hand of a male colleague. She liked that. Whilst they shook hands, he established an eye-contact that was as firm as his grip. Coupled with the openness of his face, his gaze seemed unthreatening, reassuring even.
   'Take a seat.'
   Elaine sat down obediently.
   'As you've been told, I've been placed in charge of the investigation into the Tillman, Clarke and Anderson killings.
   I know you must feel like this is a personal slap in the face for you, but that isn't true. Obviously, since you first started on the case, it's got much more serious, and so it was felt that it needed an injection of manpower. Now that's where I come in. I've been placed in charge of a team of twenty-five officers, including yourself and DC Blecher, and hopefully with all these extra bodies we might start to see some results.
   Now, my responsibility is to ensure that these twenty five bodies are made as much use of as possible. That's where you come in. I've read your reports on the Tillman and Clarke killings and I must say I was very impressed. You know the case better than anyone and you must have more idea than anyone else about how we find out who's been committing these crimes, and how to go about catching them. I want to hear your ideas on where we should go from here.'
   Elaine had come into this meeting with Jones expecting the worst. She had certainly not expected to be praised on her handling of the case so far, and then asked for her opinion on how the investigation should proceed. Though she was still wary, her grievances were crumbling fast and she was always ready to take any opportunity to give her opinions.
   'As you've read my notes on the earlier killings, you'll know that our killer has been extremely careful up to now. He's given us very little to go on, and there seems to be no connection between him and the victims. I think our best leads are the notes he's left with his victims bodies. It's in these notes that he tries to justify what he's done, and it's from these notes that I think we can get a genuine insight into how our killer thinks.'
   Jones nodded in agreement.
   'Have you seen a copy of the third note yet?', Elaine continued.
   'No, not yet.'
   'I'll bring you a copy when we've finished here.'
   'Thanks.'
   'Now, the first two notes were quite vague, but the latest one is much more specific. It talks about the death of his wife as the reason he's committing these crimes, and it says his wife's name was Susan.'
   'Really.'
   'We know the date of the first killing. We can work backwards from there, looking for any Susans that have died in Greater London over the last say three years, especially violent deaths, especially in South London, especially women who were aged between about eighteen and forty. Any we find we check out their husbands or any steady boyfriends.
   We can also check the records of any mental hospitals in the area. See if they've had any patients who fit the profile.'
   'It sounds to me like you've got it all worked out.'
   Elaine smiled broadly.

+ + + + + +

Elaine returned to her desk her enthusiasm for the case rekindled. Jones had agreed to her plan of action, and there was to be a meeting of the entire team in about half an hour where he would announce the plan to the rest of them. With all that extra manpower they should have been able to get through the donkey-work in no time. She thought about Jones. She didn't know why he had got his (un)popular reputation. There was nothing wrong with his detective abilities that she could see.
   As she sat down Chris looked up.
   'Alright?'
   'Brilliant', she beamed.
   Chris beamed back.

+ + + + + +

Jon despised the stockmarket and all those who serviced it. It was an institution totally dedicated to greed. A place who's only function was to make money. To make money, not from providing any worthwhile contribution to society, but merely to make money from possessing money, in a sordid incestuous cycle. It was supply and demand gone mad, taken to its philosophical extreme, unbounded by realism.
   Shares were bought, not because of any sense of their intrinsic value, but out of an expectation that others would want to buy these shares in the future. And why did these future buyers want to purchase these shares? For exactly the same reason - in anticipation that they would make some money themselves, because ever more investors would want to buy their shares in turn.
   Jon thought it incredible, that people continued to invest in ever more inflated priced pieces of paper, without any thought as to what it was they were actually paying these vast sums of money for, beyond the chance to make some easy money. It relied on some strange collective delusion. As long as people remained confident in the reasons for their actions, as long as the illusion remained intact, all would be fine, greed would prevail, stock would increase in value and the whole thing would continue to spiral ever upwards.
   Unfortunately, just as with chain letters or pyramid selling, the good times cannot continue indefinitely. Eventually, like the Emperor's New Clothes, people start to see through the illusion, to wonder just what it was that they were actually doing. People are not quite so confident anymore, they start to worry about the mechanism in which all their money is invested.
   Fear replaces greed, money is taken out of stock and the whole system collapses like a vast house of cards. The stockmarket crashes and the nation's economy is plunged into recession, causing despair and suffering for millions; millions of ordinary people. Those that suffered most, would not be those who had money to spare, gambling on the stockmarket, those who had precipitated the recession by sudden doubts about the means that they had employed in the headlong pursuit of personal gain.
   On such machinations the economies of the world rested. Recession followed boom as inevitably as night follows day. The economic cycle driven along by the stockmarket's headlong pursuit of money, without any thought as to the inevitable consequences of their action.
   Jon could see the folly of the stockmarkets and wanted no part of it. He owned no shares despite the best efforts of the government of the day to encourage wider share ownership.
   This policy was dressed up as a path to prosperity for all. As if it would somehow lead to a sort of capitalist collectivist utopia. The reality was as usual much more insidious and founded on self-interest. The government, broadly speaking represented 'Old money', and 'Old money' were the people who traditionally owned stocks and shares.
   If wider share ownership could be encouraged, then the demand (and consequently the value) of their existing stock would soar. The nation's economy would also receive a considerable lift, something which the government would certainly not be slow in taking the credit for.
   Jon despised everything about the stockmarket. Stockbrokers were the people who kept the whole thing going. They were the cogs that kept the engines of the stockmarket running, and for this service they received ridiculously high salaries. They were as culpable as any. Jon was going to kill one of them to show people the truth.

+ + + + + +

Three days had passed. Three days spent watching his men scour the capital, interviewing the nearest and dearest of any women called Susan who had died over the last four years. For all their effort, they had discovered nothing. Peter Jones was starting to count the cost. Three days, with twenty five men, twenty six including himself. At a flat rate of two hundred and fifty pounds per working day (The standard departmental rate used in such costing calculations), the investigation had so far cost the taxpayer eighteen thousand two hundred and fifty pounds.
   This wasn't a great amount in the general scheme of things, major investigations often ran into millions. But it was a lot to spend for no results whatsoever. They were no nearer finding the killer, and they were fast running out of Susans. They still had some women who had Susan as a middle name to work through, but Jones wasn't too optimistic.
   At the start of a big case like this, it would have been a major feather in his cap if he had been able to come up with a quick result. To this end he had asked Elaine for her opinions. She was a sound detective and she was already up to speed on the case, whilst the rest of them were still feeling their way around. She had a reputation around 'The Yard' as a bit of a hard bitch, but she was as susceptible to flattery as anyone else. He'd laid it on with a trowel and he'd had her eating out of his hand. She'd given him what he wanted. The one thing he was so limited at producing himself; ideas.
   He could have ordered the team to start the investigation from scratch. Use the extra manpower to look at all the evidence in more detail than Elaine could have possibly managed. See if they could find anything that she might have missed. That would have been the safe option, but it would also have taken valuable time. In the quest for a quick result he had gone with Elaine's hunch, and in the process had pushed Bob Grey's nose out of joint.
   Grey was the same rank as Elaine; Detective Inspector, one rank below Jones's own. Grey and he had always worked with one another. They had come up through the ranks together. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship; Grey provided the detective ability, whilst Jones provided the interpersonal and management skills. They made a good team.
   Grey had urged him to start the investigation from scratch. But his judgement had been blurred by professional rivalry. Jones had gone with Elaine and if Grey was put out by that, then that was just too bad. He would just have to live with it. This case was too important to be influenced by considerations of anyone's finer feelings. The needs of the investigation outweighed the needs of any one individual on the team, whoever they were.
   Now it looked as if Grey had been right. Elaine's hunch hadn't lucked out and they had already wasted three days. They could continue with their present line of enquiry for a short while longer, but the time was fast approaching when he would have to make a decision - to cut their losses and try another tack. At least he had been careful enough to give Elaine full and public credit when they had embarked on this line of investigation. Now he had a ready scapegoat when the need arose. It was better that way. It would be a devastating blow to the investigation if its leader was seen to make a mistake like that.

+ + + + + +

Mr and Mrs Howells were paid an unexpected visit by a pair of detectives. They were both very polite, smart young men, and though it was slightly painful to be reminded of the details of Susan's death, it was quite nice just to be able to talk about her again.
   Mrs Howells made them all a nice cup of tea (served in their best china), and they spent a pleasant half-hour chatting about their daughter. The main thing the detectives seemed to want to know about, was if Susan had had any serious boyfriends. Susan had been a very popular girl, there was nothing wrong in that, it was nice to be well liked, but neither Mrs Howells or her husband could think of anyone she'd been especially serious about. The detectives finished their tea, thanked them for their time, and left.

+ + + + + +

John Sheringham closed the front door of his house behind him and gave a sigh of relief. He was home and could relax at last. He had had a terrible day on the floor of the exchange, his back had been killing him, and now his stomach ache had come back. God, that was all he needed. His journey home had been particularly odious. It was bad enough on the best of days, but today the weather had been hot - somewhere in the low seventies, and when it was hot the tube was like an oven.
   Standing there, surrounded by the massed ranks of your fellow commuters, each obsessed with their own personal hygiene crisis. Sweat pouring down your back, your front, your collar, your brow. Everyone's concerns so alike, but the only common cause was suspicion of all others. It was unbearable, but it was by far the quickest way to get from A to B, so he put up with it, they all did. He had to, what choice did he have?
   He kept promising himself that one day he would move out of the capital. He would move to the country where he could live near his workplace and drive to and from work every day, like his father did. A move to the country though, would mean a massive cut in pay. He could never get another job that paid half as well as his present one, and houses were almost as expensive out there now as they were in London - bloody estate agents. He would move out eventually, but he could put up with London for a few more years yet. He was only young once.
   John kicked off his shoes and hung up his jacket on the coat stand next to the front door. There they would stay until he needed them the next morning. He bent down to pick up his mail, the thrill of receiving a letter undiminished from his childhood, his curiosity aroused by the limitless possibilities of what they might contain. There were four letters. Three of them were for the house's previous occupants. They had moved out over eighteen months ago, but still got more mail than he did. The final envelope was addressed to him. It bore the legend, 'You have already won a fabulous prize'; junk mail. Typical.
   He stooped again to inspect his answer machine. The red message light was not on, nobody had called him. Before he had bought the answer machine he had always suspected that the reason he received so few phone calls from his vast army of family and friends was that a large proportion of them must call him when he was out. Now that he had invested in this machine, he could see that this was not the case. That particular self-delusion had been stripped away from him. He had lots more where that one came from.
   He moved to the kitchen where he stuffed his mail into the already burgeoning flip-top bin. Then, he ran up the stairs to his bedroom to change out of the rest of his work clothes. He always ran, never walked up the stairs - another relic from his childhood. After hanging up his suit trousers, he took off his shirt, still damp from the sweat of his journey and carefully hung it on a hanger in his wardrobe.
   His desire for personal cleanliness, that is his anxiety not to be thought by his colleagues to be in any way unclean, was tempered by his laziness which in this case manifested itself in his hatred of ironing. He had developed a routine of using just two shirts in a working week, wearing them on alternate days in the hope that no-one would notice. Next he peeled off his socks, which had somehow crusted themselves to his feet, and threw them into the mouldering wash basket in the corner of the room, before finally he dressed himself in his house clothes; a tee-shirt and some sculling shorts.
   He came down the stairs and back into his kitchen. There, he poured himself a chocolate milk from the fridge and took two paracetomols which he kept in a kitchen cupboard. The milk would help settle his stomach, whilst the paracetemols would dull the pain in his back. He took them both through into the lounge where he collapsed onto his enormous settee and jabbed at the remote control to switch the television on. Though he knew that bad posture was one of the reasons for his back trouble, he made no effort to sit up straight, he was too tired to do anything more than stretch himself out and make himself as comfortable as possible.
   Twenty minutes passed and though the milk and the paracetemols had gone, there was no further evidence that John had moved at all.
   His inactivity was rudely disturbed by the ring of his doorbell. He rose wearily to his feet and went to see who it was, dreading the inevitability of having to deal with some pushy salesperson.
   He opened the door, to find a man of about his own age standing on his step.
   'Hello?'
   The man said nothing but raised a finger to his lips in an unmistakable request for silence. With his free hand he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a dark metallic object. John backed nervously into his hall. The man followed, closing the door behind them.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 10.

THE SINCEREST FORM OF FLATTERY

The 'Dark Angel' had struck again. The 'Dark Angel', that was what the papers had started calling him. William Barton liked that, it had a sort of ring to it. The 'Dark Angel' had struck again and the police were baffled. It seemed that nothing could stop him.
   'STREETS OF TERROR - DARK ANGEL STRIKES AGAIN'.
   William pasted the headline into his scrapbook. All around him lay the butchered remnants of the morning papers. They'd been full of articles about the 'Dark Angel' today. He'd almost filled his scrapbook already.
   William thought that the 'Dark Angel' was great. He went around killing people he didn't like. He was well hard. There were plenty of people out there who deserved killing, William could think of loads of them. The 'Dark Angel' actually had the bottle to go out there and do it. He was like a secret-agent or something. Like James Bond. William reckoned that he could probably have any women he fancied; models, actresses, anybody. The 'Dark Angel' was powerful and power was sex, power was money. William wanted to be just like him.
   Downstairs, he heard the front door slam shut.
   Good she's gone.
   He stopped what he was doing, emerged form his bedroom and went downstairs for the first time that day. He hated his mother. She was a slag.
   He had never known his father, he had left when William was small - the bastard. William couldn't remember him at all. He had been brought up single-handedly by his mother. Money had always been tight, his mother had no qualifications and had held a succession of poorly paid bar-jobs, but they had always been close; very close. In the absence of anyone else with whom to divide their affections they had maintained their intimate relationship as William moved through childhood into early adolesence.
   Then something happened to change everything. Something that William didn't like to think about. One night, aged fifteen, William's opinion of his mother altered drastically. For the first time in his life she refused him something, and he hated her for it to this day. She was a slag, a whore, a bitch, and he told her so. He despised her with all his being.
   From that night on, the atmosphere in their small council house had shifted irrevocably. They had argued incessantly. His mother had tried to placate him. She wanted to return to the way things had been before. She still adored her son, she'd forgive him anything. But William could not forgive her. He could see her now for what she really was. She was just like all the other women he had known.
   All that had all happened almost ten years ago. Nowadays William just avoided his mother. A non-paying guest in the house of a stranger.
   Alone in the house at last, William moved swiftly to the kitchen, to help himself to a breakfast of his mother's food.

+ + + + + +

Her man had killed again last night. He had rung up the Daily Globe at 4.00 am this morning and told them the address of his victim. They had contacted Scotland Yard, and Peter Jones had been called at home. Jones had sent a pair of detectives round to check it out. Significantly, Bob Grey had been one of them. Even before they had found the note, Elaine had not been called. She had only heard about this latest killing when she had been woken up by the news on Radio Four this morning. She had immediately rushed into work, eager to digest the details of this new murder, but wary as to why she had not been contacted.
   She had arrived at Scotland Yard at just gone 7.00 am, expecting it to be as empty as it usually was so early in the morning. Instead, the place was buzzing. Most of the detectives from the murder investigation team seemed to be already in, the notable exceptions being Chris and herself. Her initial worries quickly crystallised into fears of some sort of 'stitch-up'.
   At her desk there was a note in Peter Jones's handwriting telling her to 'Phone me, immediately'. Attached to Jones's note was a photocopied sheet. She recognised the handwriting on this sheet too. It was the killers. It was a copy of the note that must have been found with his latest victim. Elaine ignored Jones's instructions and instead read through the killers words.
    'So perish all who perpetrate society's crimes.
    My wife, Sally was innocent. She could see the truth, so society killed her.
    Four have payed for her death. It is not enough, more will follow.
   The crimes of the stockmarket are many:
   - It is a temple of greed. Greed is selfishness. Until people abandon their selfish ways there is no hope for society.
   - The stockmarket is a confidence trick on a global scale. Stocks and shares have no intrinsic value. Confidence in the illusion of value is all that matters. On such flimsy foundations the economies of the world rest. The stockmarkets should be abandoned, the stakes are too great to be gambled in the rich's pursuit of further wealth.
   - Stockbrokers are the cogs in the machine. Without them the stockmarket would cease to function. For their 'work' they receive indefensibly large salaries. They are rich men, and for every rich man there are a hundred poor men. These people are culpable and I have duly punished one of them.
   Stockbrokers repent your crimes. give up your jobs or you could be next.
   Society must be cleansed. The purge continues. I have only just begun.'
   . .my wife, Sally...
   As soon as Elaine absorbed the words her heart fell into her stomach. Instantly it all became clear; what was happening - why she hadn't been called at home. Those three short words destroyed the basis on which they'd been concentrating their investegative efforts. Their major lead so far - that the killer's wife was called Susan - was thrown into serious doubt. Their reasoning, her reasoning, that had led them to place so much emphasis on the killer's notes, and particularly the disclosure about the killer's wife, was shown to be wrong.
   She had screwed up, and how. There was no running away from the fact. She had made a huge mistake and soon everyone would know it. At that moment of realisation she felt utterly hopeless, completely vulnerable and totally stupid.
   She sat there for a minute as the feeling gripped her, robbing her of all energy and direction. Then it had passed, and she began to pull herself back together again. She snapped up the phone and stabbed out a ten digit number on the keypad.
   'Hello Chris, this is Elaine, have you seen the news?'
   'Yes I'm fine. Look our man's killed again. Some time last night.'
   'I think we're in the shit. Well I'm in the shit anyway. The note left with the latest victim said the killers name was Sally not Susan.'
   'I know, we can talk about it when you get in.'
   'Right, I'll see you in about forty five minutes then'.
   'See you then. Bye'.
   Still holding the telephone handset to her ear, she tapped the connection bar with her free hand, and stabbed in another number - shorter this time, just four digits; an internal call.
   'Hello Peter'.
   'I'll be right over'.

+ + + + + +

Elaine entered Jones' office. She was immediately surprised to see Bob Grey was already there, sat by the side of Jones' desk. She had expected him to be alone.
   'Peter. Bob'.
   She greeted them both, and received curt nods in reply. No open smiles or firm handshakes this time.
   'Take a seat Elaine.'
   She sat down facing them both, waiting for the inevitable. She didn't have to wait long. Whilst Grey sat looking down at some indeterminate object on Jones's desk in front of him, Jones started the dressing down.
   'Did you read the copy of the killer's note I left for you?'
   'Yes.'
   'So what do you think?'
   Elaine could think of nothing that might help her position. She shrugged her shoulders.
   Jones paused for a moment to allow Elaine to answer. The moment passed, realising she wasn't going to, he continued.
   'Well there's no point in beating about the bush. It's quite obvious that there has been a serious error of judgement.
   Bob and I have decided to abandon our current line of enquiry and start the investigation again at the beginning. We're going to rexamine the evidence and see if there is anything that might have been missed before. I think that being on the case from the start, you've got too close. I think it will prove valuable to look at the evidence from a fresh perspective.'
   Elaine sat in silence. Though it hurt to hear it spelt out, it was no more than she had expected.
   'Bob will lead the main investigation team. I want you to adopt a more supportive role.'
   At the mention of his name Grey looked up, a faint smile of triumph on his lips.
   Bastard.
   'Okay.'
   'Bob and I are of the opinion that the killer's notes are a red herring. We think that he's toying with us, so we've decided to place less emphasis on them.'
   Elaine broke her silence.
   'But the notes are all we have.'
   Jones's previous comments had been directed at her work performance. She knew that she had no adequate defence, so she just swallowed her pride and took it. Now though, Jones was suggesting that they abandon what Elaine considered to be their best leads. Whatever her personal position, she was still very much dedicated to the case. She could not just sit back and let Jones make a decision which she thought would devestate the investigation.
   'The notes contradict themselves. They're next to useless. We've already wasted almost a week because of them.'
   'Perhaps the contradictions can be explained. We don't understand how this man is thinking. Perhaps his wife was called Sally, but she liked to be called Susan.'
   'That doesn't sound very likely.'
   'But it's possible. I've already been through all the evidence, and I can tell you there's not a lot there. I don't think we should be so hasty in dismissing the notes. I still think that they're probably the best lead we've got.'
   'I'm sorry Elaine, but you're wrong. We've ...'
   Jones was interrupted as Grey attracted his attention by tapping on the desk in front of him. Elaine watched as Jones, looking slightly annoyed at being cut off in full flow, looked at Grey who pointed at a notepad in front of him. Jones read Grey's note and the look of aggravation vanished. He smiled at Grey and then turned to Elaine.
   'Perhaps you're right Elaine. Perhaps yourself and DC Blecher would like to concentrate on the notes'.
   I wonder whose idea that was.
   'Okay, fine'.
   Bastard.
   She had got what she wanted, but at the expense of allowing Grey another victory, of allowing him to exercise control over her. She had no doubts that in their eyes they were pushing her into a dead-end, saddling her with a useless part of the investigation, to keep her out of their, or more importantly out of Grey's, way.

+ + + + + +

William had decided. He was going to kill an estate-agent, and he had just the person in mind. Alexander Stuart had been in the same year as William at school. In those days Alex had been small for his age. William had bullied him unreletingly, his physical superiority over him was unquestionable. Stuart had been an intelligent child and had done well academically. He had left school with two A-levels, two years after William had left with next to nothing, but in the judgement of the playground he would always be an inferior person to William. William was harder than he was and that was all there was to it.
   William was a better person then, and as he saw it nothing had happened since then to change that - What could have? William still saw Alexander Stuart around town, and when he looked at the cards that life had dealt them both, it made him so angry. Whilst William had no job and few prospects, Stuart had a good job in the local estate-agents. William sometimes walked past the office and saw Stuart inside, sat behind his desk dressed in his flashy suit, maybe talking to a client or something - like he was someone important.
   Stuart's job gave him money to spend. He had a new Golf Gti, which William had seen him driving around in. William had never even been able to afford driving lessons. Stuart had one other thing that William covetted; his girlfriend. She was gorgeous; a stunner - much too good for him. There could only be one possible reason why she'd be with a loser like Stuart; money. William knew what her sort were like.
   It was all so unfair. William was undoubtably the better man, but he had so little, and Stuart had so much. William was going to show him who was boss, once and for all.

+ + + + + +

'Hello again'.
   Doctor Smith shook hands with both of them in turn. Elaine watched with interest for Chris's reaction to the psychologist, expecting him to resume his flirting of before, but though he was friendly enough, he was acting nowhere near as effusively as he had done on their last visit.
   Curious.
   'I hope you'll be able to stay a bit longer this time.'
   Smith didn't seem unduly worried by Chris's apparent loss of interest, and Elaine as usual filled the void. She had been quite looking forward to meeting again with this woman, who on first impressions seemed so like her. This was a woman that Elaine thought she could 'do business' with.
   'I should think so, our schedule's not quite as busy as it used to be'.
   Elaine exchanged a knowing glance with Chris. It had been two days since the killing of the stockbroker. In those two days all Elaine's suspicions about the nature of their new investigative role had been confirmed. They were 'out of it'. Whilst they spent their time pouring over the four notes, trying endless (and so far fruitless) different ways of analysing the handfull of words at their disposal, Grey was doing God knows what with the main investigation team.
   Elaine's belief in the value of the killer's notes remained as strong as ever. Inside them she thought there were valuable insights into the man they were hunting: Insights that could be used to guide the investigation - to point it in certain likely directions.
   Unfortunately Bob Grey and Peter Jones did not agree with her, and as far as the investigation went it was their opinions that mattered. She had been given the notes to look at to keep her quiet. They didn't expect her to come up with anything of any use, and indeed she fully expected them to ignore any deductions that she and Chris might come up with.
   'Good. Now I got the copy of the killers latest note that you faxed through, but I haven't had any further details of this latest killing yet'.
   'There isn't really that much we can tell you'.
   Grey had kept them completely uninformed of the progress of the main investigation. They had to rely on the newspapers and office gossip to keep them informed.
   'The killing seems to have followed the same pattern as all the others. The killer apparently choosing his victim at random from a target social group, and being very careful not to leave any clues behind'.
   On a purely instinctive selfish level, it did not entirely displease Elaine that Bob Grey appeared to be having no more success than she had had before him.
   'So your killer has found a routine he's comfortable with and he's sticking with it'.
   'It looks that way'.
   'Okay. Now if it's alright with you, what I plan to do this morning is to give you a brief psychological profile of your suspect, and then I'll move onto specific points that might be of use to your investigation'.
   'Fine by me'.
   Elaine's conversation with Doctor Smith had so far been as businesslike as Elaine had expected it would be. Her original feelings of empathy for this woman were only reinforced.
   'As I think we just started to discuss on your previous visit, your suspect seems to be undergoing a mild schizophrenic episode. Specifically, he seems to be suffering from Paranoid Schizophrenia. A paranoid schizophrenic is someone who might otherwise be normal, but who suffers from delusions of grandeur or persecution. Your suspect seems to be under the impression that society has conspired to kill his wife - the Sally/Susan figure, and that now he is on some sort of crusade to cleanse society, perhaps motivated by God - with the biblical references he uses'.
   'You say that this man is suffering from a mild schizophrenic episode. I would say that going around killing people are the symptoms of someone who is suffering from a serious problem.'
   'When I say mild, I'm referring to the depth of the man's mental illness. Obviously the effects of this man's delusions are very significant, but in purely clinical terms the man's mental illness appears to be relatively minor. At its worst, paranoid schizophrenia is a severely debilitating condition. The sufferer's delusions can be so severe, that they are completely incapable of functioning in anything like a normal manner. So far all your suspect's crimes have been meticulously planned and executed. This man seems well in control of most of his faculties. I would say that it is doubtful whether this man would be diagnosed as a schizophrenic at all'.
   'Why not?'
   'Delusions of one kind or another, are a normal part of healthy everyday thinking. No-one sees themselves and the world around them quite as others do. It's just a matter of degree. It's only where these delusional thoughts start to have a significant detrimental effect on a persons life that that person can be said to be mentally ill. To be clinically diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, a person's delusions must be causing a marked deterioration of their work, social life or their ability to take care of themselves. Furthermore, these symptoms must have lasted for at least six months. The killings, as the major symptom that we've seen of your suspects mental illness, have been going on for less than three months, who know's how long before that his illness started. Apart from the killings, we've got no idea how else this man's schizophrenia is manifesting itself. It certainly doesn't seem to be interfering with his ability to look after himself. You might well find, that to all intents and purposes your suspect is living a very normal type of life'.
   Chris was looking puzzled. He interjected for the first time.
   'So this bloke's like Jekyll and Hyde. Most of the time he's fine, but sometimes he switches to this mad personality and goes around killing people?'
   Elaine let out a slight sniff of derision. She knew enough about psychology to recognise the inanity of his question.
   Smith was used to such misconceptions, and patiently began to explain his mistake without the slightest trace of irritation. Again Elaine was impressed by her approach, in this instance contrasting with her own insensitive reaction.
   'No, this popular idea of schizophrenia is a misconception. Multiple personality and Schizophrenia are two completely different things. In schizophrenia there is a splitting of one mental process - like emotion, from another - like judgement. It is this splitting of the mental processes that cause the schizophrenics behavoural problems. Someone with two or more coherent and well developed personalities, is said to be suffering from multiple personality disorder. The two things are completely different.'
   'Oh.'
   'Couldn't our man just be a psychopath?'
   'He could be, but I think it's very unlikely. A psychopath kills on a whim - generally for no good reason. Now even though we think that your suspect's reasoning is unsound, the notes show that as far as he's concerned he's killing people for a very good reason.'
   'He could be just stringing us along with the notes.'
   Elaine advanced Grey and Jones' opinion as her own to see what the reaction would be.
   'Once again that's possible, but not very likely. The person you are looking for is obviously quite an intelligent man. Whilst schizophrenia is more prevalent in intelligent people, psychopaths are usually from socially deprived backgrounds, with poor educations and intelligence. The popular idea of a highly intelligent psychopath killing people as a form of intellectual challenge is another misconception. Psychopaths are generally remarkably stupid people.
   'Whoever is writing these notes is definitely not stupid. If it is someone pretending to be a schizophrenic, he's doing a bloody good job of it. He'd have to have quite a bit of knowledge about schizophrenia and it would be hard work making sure his killings fitted the pattern and the notes were consistent. At the end of the day you've got to ask yourself, why would he bother? To make the police look stupid perhaps? It seems a lot of trouble to go to. No, I would say that it is most unlikely that your man is not a genuine schizophrenic.'
   'Okay.'
   'So given that our man is a paranoid schizophrenic, what does that tell us about him? As we've already talked about, schizophrenia is much more common in intelligent people. From the way the notes are written, your man seems reasonably well educated, and the political ideas contained within those notes seems characterised by the sort of naive, 'right on' socialism that is so prevalent on our University Campuses. I would say it is very likely that your suspect is a graduate.'
   Obviously Smith did not share those socialist views that she so readily disdained, assuming that her audience would be similarly dismissive. She immediately went down in Elaine's estimation, who had not gone on to Further Education, but did sympathise with such naive 'right on' opinions. Still Elaine took the point that their suspect was probably a graduate.
   'Okay'.
   Chris who had recently enjoyed a university education himself, but whose political ideas when elicited were anything but 'right on', chipped in.
   'Because he still holds these views, he probably didn't leave University very long ago'.
   'Either that, or he's a social worker, or a teacher, or something'.
   Chris laughed along with Smith at her joke, as Elaine looked on, bit her tongue and barely managed a polite smile.
   Smith continued.
   'Actually, your recent graduate idea would tie in with the statistic that the mid-twenties are the most likely age for the onset of schizophrenia in males'.
   'That agrees with the descriptions we've had'.
   'If he is that young, it increases the chance that his schizophrenia is a recent thing. That makes it unlikely that you'll have much luck checking out the patients of mental hospitals and psychiatrists. Anyway, if he had been getting some sort of treatment, you wouldn't expect him to be still running round killing people. Schizophrenia can be effectively controlled by some commonly available drug treatments'.
   'So if we catch him, we can cure him?'
   'If we wanted to, yes. Personally, I think we'd all feel a lot better if we just locked him up for the rest of his life'.
   Smith and Chris laughed again.
   The empathy Elaine felt for the psychologist was crumbling by the second. When Elaine had been setting the earlier tone of their meeting, Smith had appeared businesslike, as Elaine had expected her to be; as Elaine considered herself to be. But now, the psychologist was relaxed and confident. Encouraged by Chris's enthusiastic reaction to her more flippant remarks, more of her true feelings were bubbling to the surface.
   Elaine looked on as Smith and Chris laughed at something that she could find no humour in whatsoever. She was on the outside, looking incredulously inside. Though she felt threatened by her exclusion, she had no desire to share the attitudes which would gain her admittance into this cosy clique.
   Just as on their last visit, Elaine questioned her own motives: Was she merely jealous of Smith's and Chris's apparent accord? This time she was more confident that she was not. She reasoned that the dismay she plainly felt, was caused by factors other than simple jealousy. Watching Chris share the psychologist's jokes, seeing him seemingly sympathise with attitudes that she found distasteful, Elaine was reminded of all the reasons that she had previously had for finding him so objectionable.
   Recently, with the warming of relations between them, these reasons had seemed less important and had been conveniently forgotten. Now, two shared half-jokes later, they were back in all their glory, as immediate and damning as ever. Elaine was disappointed too with the psychologist herself. Though she hardly knew the woman, she had invested an unreasonable amount in her.
   Elaine so rarely met people that she could judge as equals, that she could truly respect. It was so easy to spot differences in people; sex, ability, attitudes, aspirations, and so difficult to find anyone who thought the way that she did. People who by their similarity, endorsed her way of thinking; of living.
   Endorsing the choices she had made, by seemingly making the same ones themselves. She had thought this Sarah Smith was such a person, such a rare and precious individual, but she had been completely wrong. Smith was not like her at all. This mistake made Elaine feel foolish. Her judgement had been shown to be utterly wrong.
   Looking at the psychologist, Elaine could now see just how different they were. Smith was younger, better educated, probably more intelligent, undoubtably more attractive. She would go far; farther than Elaine at any rate. Rather than being like Elaine actually was, Elaine could see that the psychologist was actually how Elaine saw herself; how she would like to be. This realisation did not make Elaine feel any less foolish.
   Chris hadn't meant to flirt with the psychologist. She was very attractive, and on their last vist they had got on like a house on fire. But now he had bigger fish to fry. He didn't want to risk upsetting Elaine and so he had decided before they got there that he would say as little as possible at this meeting.
   He just couldn't help himself though. He had been alright at first whilst his intentions were fresh and still burnt brightly in his mind. But then he had grown bored, drifted off, relaxed, dropped his guard and before he knew what was happening he was laughing and joking with her. She was just so easy to talk to.
   Normally, he had no trouble staying quiet in meetings. He was readily intimidated into silence by people of superior rank or ability. (Not many people he met professionally fell outside both criteria). This Doctor Smith was different. She was a woman, and a very attractive one at that. There was no possible reason for him to be intimidated. He just slipped into his usual way of behaving around women of her looks, he couldn't help himself.
   'So basically, you're looking for an undiagnosed schizophrenic male graduate in his mid-twenties'.
   No real help there.
   'Now on its own I know that doesn't really help you all that much. But I think that knowledge will help us when we look at the best clue that you've got; the notes. I think we've got to believe that the notes are genuine; that they are the killer's justification for his crimes. It is any facts that are given away in these notes that you can use to lead you to your man.'
   'Like the death of his wife,' Chris added helpfully.
   'Exactly. Now the thing to bear in mind, is that the events detailed in these notes are only the events as your man sees them, and because of your man's schizophrenia, he might very well view those events quite differently from you or I. It's really just a matter of interpreting what he says in the notes in terms of what we know about his view of the world.'
   Even this explicit endorsement of Elaine's opinion on the value of the killer's notes, (Smith was the first person to do so apart from Chris - and he hardly counted), couldn't restore the psychologist's standing in Elaine's eyes. Respect was much harder to gain than to lose, just as concordance (on which Elaine's respect for Smith was originally based) is much easier to destroy than to establish.
   'As Chris said, the most obvious thing that he's mentioned in the notes so far is the death of his wife. Now I know you checked out all the recent deaths of women called Susan, and I know you drew a blank, but you shouldn't let that discourage you. All you've done is eliminated the most likely possibility.
   The killer's note tells us that he believes his wife was somehow murdered by society. He also thinks of his wife as both Sally and Susan. You might find that she's called Sally and Susan is just her middle name. She might not be called either. And his belief that she was murdered by society, what does that mean? All you can do is try and eliminate what seem the most likely interpretations. I would start by repeating the exercise looking at the spouses of recently dead women, this time looking for Sallys.'
   Elaine thought what Jones and Grey would say to that suggestion.
   'That might be a bit difficult.'
   'Well I think it would be well worthwhile. I think there's a good chance his disclosure about his wife could lead you to him.'

+ + + + + +

The journey back to 'The Yard' passed in silence. Elaine was pleased with how the meeting had gone - she couldn't have hoped for a more definite vindication of her approach to the case - but on an emotional level, she was strangely subdued. This lacklustre feeling was to stay with her for the rest of the day.
   Chris was sensitive to Elaine's mood, and took his cue from her. He was pleased with how the meeting had gone and he had enjoyed talking to Dr Smith. He was just worried that Elaine's silence might be due to her being upset by his flirting with the psychologist.
   Back in her office Smith smiled to herself. She too was pleased with how the meeting had gone. She always made an effort to ensure that she was well liked by the people she met (There was nothing unusual in that), and felt that she had succeeded with the two detectives.
   To this end she had flirted a bit with the bloke, and had espoused some of the unsavoury attitudes that experience had taught her that members of the police force almost universally shared. But such 'social skills' were par for the course really; all part of the job. Christ, if a psychologist couldn't manipulate a social situation to her own ends - who could?

+ + + + + +

Alexander Stuart looked up sharply from the cup of tea he was making. He thought that he had heard a knock at the door, but couldn't be sure. He reached to turn off the transistor radio which was blaring out the sounds of 'Capital Radio' beside him, and strained his ears to see if he could hear anything else. There it was again, this time unmistakable. Someone was at the door.
   Alexander renewed his mental note to remember to buy some new batteries for the doorbell, and went to see who it was. He opened the door to find a strangely familiar figure stood outside. It was a man, about the same age as himself, quite short but heavily built, dressed in a combat jacket and jeans. Alex racked his brains in an effort to recall where he had seen this person before.
   'Yes?'
   'Hello Alexandra.'
   That childish feminising of his name. Alex hadn't heard that since school. That's where he knew this man from. It was Barton, William 'Bozo' Barton. It all came flooding back to him. The remorseless bullying, the pain; both physical and emotional. A group of four boys, Barton amongst them, had made Alex's secondary school years a misery. At the time he had hated them all. He had silently vowed to track them down in adult life and punish them; avenge himself for the humiliation they had subjected him to. He hadn't thought about that for years.
   When he did think about his school days he chose to recall his two years in the sixth form, when his tormentors and their ilk had finished their educations and school became a place where intelligence was valued and could be enjoyed, rather than merely acting as a beacon for those with duller minds and readier fists. Halcyon days, when they had just started to explore the adult worlds of alcohol and sex. It all made Alex's blighted secondary school years seem a lifetime away.
   'William.'
   'Can I come in?'
   Alex was suspicous, but his natural sense of politeness would not allow him to refuse such a direct request.
   'Yeah sure, what's this about?'
   'I want to tell you something, it's personal.'
   Alex was intrigued. He followed Barton inside and closed the door behind them. As he turned back to face Barton again his natural politeness came to the fore.
   'Do you want a cup of tea or so...'
   The sentence went unfinished as something hard and cold struck him full in the face with a loud crack. His head a ball of pain and his nose pouring blood down his face, Alex crumpled to the floor.
   'Fuck you, Yuppie cunt.'
   Barton kicked Alex hard in the chest as he lay on the floor.
   'Fuck you', Barton repeated himself.
   All Alex could do was try and cover his head with his arms and wait for Barton to stop.
   After a few more blows, William grew tired of this particular sport.
   'Get up', he commanded.
   Alex tentatively withdrew his arms from around his head and moved to stand up. Though the pain was dulled by adrenalin, his nose - which felt as if it might be broken - was bleeding freely, and his side ached. Barton stood over him holding a large hunting knife. Alex was frightened and confused. He guessed the motive must be robbery, but asked the obvious question.
   'What do you want?'
   'Shut the fuck up.'
   William lashed out vicously with his foot sending Alex sprawling back onto the floor. Alex quickly scrambled back into his protective crouch, but no further blows came.
   'I'll do the talking. Now get up.'
   Alex did as he was told. He was no hero. He would do whatever Barton asked.
   'Take your tie off.'
   Alex was still dressed in his work clothes. He had only just got in when Barton had appeared. He undid his tie.
   'Now throw it to me.'
   'Now turn and face the wall and put your hands behind your back.'
   Barton shoved Alex forward. With his arms held behind him, he struck the wall with his nose. A renewed burst of pain filled his head as the blood splattered onto the wallpaper it had taken June and him so long to hang last autumn.
   Holding him pinned against the wall, William tightly bound Stuart's arms to his sides at the elbows, before spinning him back round to face him. Now that Stuart was completely helpless, William could start to relax and enjoy himself.
   'Where's your girlfriend?'
   'She's out, she goes to aerobics on Tuesdays.'
   'When's she due back?'
   'Not 'till eight.'
   Alex could expect no help there, but scared though he was, he was glad that June would be spared any part in this ordeal.
   'Pity.'
   William would have liked to have shown her a thing or too.
   'Have you got any pictures of her with her clothes off?'
   Alex's mind flicked onto the polaroid photographs, hidden in the bottom bedroom drawer. Just as quickly as his mind had thrown up the image, he cast it out, as if his thoughts might give him away.
   'No', he lied.
   'Don't lie to me Alexandra. You must have some pictures of her topless, on holiday or something.'
   Barton moved the knife threateningly towards Alex's throat.
   'Okay, Okay. I've just remembered. There's a couple of photos from last year in Corfu.'
   'Where are they?'
   'They're in the sideboard, in the living room.'
   Alex nodded down the hall, in the direction of an open door which led into the lounge.
   'Come with me.'
   Barton pushed Alex in front of him, down the hall and into the lounge. He pushed him to the floor. Without his hands to stop himself, he fell heavily.
   'Stay there.'
   Terrified and unable to push himself up from the floor, Alex could do little else. Barton walked over to the sideboard.
   'Where-abouts are they?'
   'In the top drawer.'
   With one gloved hand still holding the knife, Barton pulled the drawer open with the other and rifled around inside. He soon pulled out an envolope of photographs.
   'These the ones?'
   'It should say Corfu on the front.'
   'Oh yeah.'
   Barton pulled the stack of photographs from the wallet and quickly looked through them one by one. As he went, he laid selected photographs to one side on top of the sideboard.
   'Nice.'
   When he had looked through them all, he put the rest of the photographs back into their wallet and back into the drawer, which he pushed shut. He picked up his five selected pictures and walked over to where Alex still lay on the floor.
   'Good looker, your bird.'
   He pulled up an armchair and sat down to pour over the selected pictures once more.
   'Nice tits. Too good for you.'
   He picked up one of the photographs and pushed it in front of Alex's face.
   'Christ, she's fucking gorgeous. How did a wanker like you ever manage to pull a bird like that?'
   Alex stayed silent anxious not to further inflame Barton's wrath.
   'I mean look at her. What have you got that she could possibly be after? Is it your money? A girl like that would want to have nice things. Do you have to pay her to shag you?'
   Alex remained silent. He was utterly terrified. He worried about Barton's motives; he had shown no signs that he intended to steal anything. But if he wasn't going to rob him, what did he want? Some of the possible answers were too terrible to consider.
   This time Alex's silence was not enough. Barton slapped him in the face with the back of his hand.
   'I'm talking to you Alexandra. Do you have to pay your bird to let you shag her?'
   Alex looked at Barton and saw the face of the school-boy sadist, revelling in the power he held over him. Whatever Alex said would be the wrong thing. Barton wasn't looking for an answer, he was just looking for an excuse to humiliate him further. Alex kept his silence.
   Barton struck him again, this time harder, with his hand clenched into a fist.
   'Well. Do you have to pay for your fucks or what?', Barton shouted.
   'No', Alex half-whispered, resigned to further violence.
   What?', Barton demanded.
   'NO', Alex shouted back.
   'So you don't pay her then. Well what can it be. Why would a bird like that be interested in you? Have you got a big dick?'
   'No.'
   'Don't be shy Alexandra. If it's not your money she's after it must be your cock. Let's have a look'.
   Barton stood up and moved to stand over Alex, and reached to unbuckle his belt. Alex made no attempt to struggle and indeed moved his bottom off the floor to make it easier for Barton as he slid down his trousers and boxer shorts. All of Alex's sophisticated adult behaviour patterns had been stripped away to reveal the cringing schoolboy underneath. Nothing had changed - they were still victim and bully.
   Barton tormented him and he soaked it up like a sponge. They both followed the well worn path that they had last trodden over half a decade ago. Despite the passing of the years, this path was as easy to follow as ever. It still seemed to offer the easiest route through their immediate circumstances - the one most natural to them both. It had all been so easy.
   Barton had re-entered Alex's life and Alex had fallen straight back into ways of behaving he had considered long gone; just painful memories from his past. It was as if this trembling schoolboy, who sat there with his trousers around his ankles, was the essential essence of Alex, and all the adult ways he had developed since were just a sham. The child inside was always there, ignored, but just under the surface. Ready to take control given the right circumstances. Those circumstances had just arrived.
   Alex was completely in Barton's power. He would do whatever he was asked. He knew with an absolute certainty that there was no point what so ever in struggling. In the all pervading judgement of the playground, Barton was by far the superior individual. He was harder than Alex was, and there was nothing Alex could do to resist.
   'Ah, there we are. You were right, it couldn't be your cock that she's after'.
   Barton laughed aloud at Alex's puny member.
   'You can hardly call that a dick. It's pathetic!!'.
   Alex's genitals were infact no smaller than averagely sized. Not surprisingly, under his present circumstances they were not being seen at their best.
   Barton unzipped his own flies and pulled out his penis. In contrast to Alex, Barton's penis was fully erect. He was definitely enjoying himself.
   'Now that's what you call a dick. Wouldn't your bird be better off with something like that inside of her?'
   Alex ignored the question and stared at the floor.
   'Look at it'.
   'Look at it I said'.
   Barton encouraged him with a further blow to the face. Alex looked up obediently.
   Barton laughed again.
   'See, that's what a cock should look like. Let's see if we can do something about yours. Let's pull it out a bit, make it longer'.
   Barton reached forward and roughly pinched the end of Alex's foreskin between his thumb and forefinger and stretched it out in front of him.
   Alex winced in pain.
   'That's more like it. You take it'
   Though his arms were tied to his side Alex could still move them at the elbows. He took the wrinkled skin from Barton.
   'That's a good, but you can do better than that, stretch it further'.
   'Further'.
   'Further'.
   Alex sat there, his foreskin stretched out seven inches in front of him, like an uninflated balloon. It was uncomfortable, but not exactly painful.
   'That's better'.
   This was the moment that Barton had been moving towards. Unseen by Alex, whose attention was focused on his elongated member, Barton bent down and clamped his hand over Alex's mouth at exactly the same moment as he brought his knife across and through the stretched out scrap of meat that his victim was so pliantly holding out in front of him.
   There was a spray of scarlet. Under Barton's hand Alex tried to scream but the sound was smothered at its birth, his breath hot and wet in his palm. His body bucked violently, but Barton's grip on his head held him firm and restrained him.
   'Do you know who I am, you little piece of shit? I'm the fucking Dark Angel'.
   Barton raised his knife and brought it back down into Alex's chest.
   When it was over, Barton dipped a finger into the pool of blood that was soaking into the living room carpet, and stood up. He walked over to the wall and began to write. 'EYE FOR EYE...'
   Behind him he left a perfectly formed footprint on the stained carpet, with his Adidas Saturn training shoe. At size 10, he had big feet for his size.

+ + + + + +

June Churchfield arrived home, still sweating from her exertions of mere moments before. She had a dull nagging pain in her left thigh, and hoped she hadn't pulled anything. What she needed was a nice relaxing bath, that would soothe her muscles, even if she was squashed up into one half of the tub, sharing the bath with Alex as was their habit.
   She came through the front door and stopped in her tracks. Something was wrong. Christ, what was that smell. It was the worst thing she had ever smelled. Worse than shit, worse than anything. Her stomach skipped with dread as she looked around the hall, trying to work out was happening. Knowing that whatever it was, that it was bad. She saw a reddish-brown stain on the wall in front of her to the left. She guessed what it must be and her heart beat still faster.
   At that moment her perceptions seemed remarkably acute picking out the smallest of details. She spotted a small hunched shape in the far corner of the hall some ten yards away. What was it; a mouse? It looked about the right size. Was that what all this was about. She walked towards it, not pausing along the way to open the door to the lounge, not thinking to call out to Alex who would remove her fears in an instant and no doubt tease her unmercilessly for being so pathetic.
   She was standing over it now. Now that she was close, she could see that it was not a mouse. It looked like a sort of half filled sausage skin. Underneath it the hall carpet was stained slightly brown. What the hell was it? Her mind raced for a panic filled second, and then she had it. It couldn't be but it was. The very thought turned her stomach. She doubled up retching onto the floor, wailing with despair between the violent spasms of her stomach, her vomit hot and sharp in the back of her nose and throat.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 11.

DEEPER INTO THE MIRE.

For the umpteenth time that evening, Elaine called up the Teletext news menu with her TV remote control. Hunched forward in her armchair she anxiously scanned the screen. Nothing had changed since she had last checked on it, less than ten minutes earlier. She flicked the Teletext off, so that the TV was momentarily switched back on to the normal BBC1 program.
   A half-second of some tired middle-class sit-com went unnoticed before she changed channels to ITV. She was about to switch to Teletext on this channel, when her remote-control ritual was interrupted by the telephone. She had been waiting for a call, and leapt up out of her seat and shot from the lounge through into the hall where she plucked up the receiver.
   'Hello.'
   'Elaine, Hi it's me.'
   'Oh, Chris.'
   This was not the call that she had been hoping for.
   Chris did not seem to detect the disappointment in her voice, or if he did, he didn't let it bother him. 'Have you seen the news.'
   'Yeah, I heard.'
   'Another one so soon.'
   'Yeah.'
   'Do you want me to come and pick you up and drive us to the Yard?'
   'Thanks for the offer, but I don't think it's worth it. If they need us I'm sure they'll call us...'
   She had hoped against her better judgement that Grey or Jones would have called her in as soon as they had heard about this latest killing. That wasn't to say that she had actually expected them to call, but beyond expectation there was always hope. Now that it seemed that her expectations had been realised, she wasn't about to go in anyway, just so that they could ignore her; leave her with nothing to do. She wouldn't risk giving them the satisfaction.
   '..Just sit tight and watch the news, and try and get in early tomorrow morning, if you can.'
   'Shall I come round to your place anyway, we could watch the TV together?.. wait for developments.'
   Elaine was somewhat taken aback by Chris's transparent suggestion.
   'That's probably not a very good idea, I'm going to get an early night tonight.'
   'Okay, I'll see you early tomorrow then.'
   'Bye Chris, and thanks for ringing.'
   'Night.'
   Elaine replaced the receiver. For a moment she thought about Chris, and particularly about the pass she was certain he had just made. She had not expected him to be so audacious. She knew that he probably still harboured romantic expectations about her, but had expected that if she just ignored it, it would wither away and die in time. She was going to have to do something to put him right. Eventually.
   For now, Elaine's thoughts returned to the latest killing. She walked swiftly into the living room and slipped back into her armchair in front of the TV. She looked at her watch. It was 9:55, she just had time to check Teletext before the Ten O'clock News.

+ + + + + +

Elaine arrived at 'The Yard' at 7:30 the next morning. For the second time in recent days Chris was in before her.
   'Look what the cat's dragged in.'
   Elaine did not have time for their frivolous ritual. She smiled to assure him she was not in some sort of bad mood, but otherwise did nothing to rise to his remark.
   'Morning Chris, been in long.'
   'Oh, about ten minutes.'
   'Find anything out?'
   'Not really, I've only just had time to get settled. Get myself a cup of tea an' that. I'll tell you what though, this place is buzzing this morning.'
   Elaine had noticed that on her way to her desk. Just as with the killing of the stockbroker, the yard was a hive of activity. All the members of the investigation team seemed to be in. All of them except Chris and herself of course.
   'Yeah, I noticed.'
   'I met Doug Dewson in the bogs. He said they'd been in all night.'
   'Did they have any luck?'
   'He didn't say.'
   Elaine knew Dewson, and she knew that like almost all the other detectives, if there had been a breakthrough last night, then he would have bragged about it to Chris. It wasn't that she didn't want the rest of the team to make any progress, it was just that she wanted to feel as if she had something to offer; that she was somehow necessary to the process.
   She sat down, and turned her attention to her desk. She quickly realised that it was exactly as she had left it the night before. Nothing had been left for her. Puzzled, and with growing concern, she lifted up the few items that lay on her desk - a loose leaf binder and an internal memo -just to make sure that what she was looking for was truly absent.
   Chris noticed Elaine's disquiet.
   'What's up?'
   'Was there anything on my desk this morning, when you came in?'
   'I don't think so. I haven't touched your desk. Were you expecting something?'
   Elaine had satisfied herself that the expected item was not on her desk and looked up.
   'Well yes. I was expecting the killer's note from his latest murder.'
   Bastard Grey.
   She knew Grey wanted to keep her as far away from the meat of the case as possible, but this was outrageous. He had already manoeuvred her into a position where the only part of the case she was allowed to work on was the notes - notes that he thought were useless anyhow - and now he was even trying to prevent her work on them.
   A thought occurred to her. Perhaps this note had been so explicit that it had given Grey something clear to go on. He hadn't left her a copy of the note because he was too busy following up the lead himself; saving all the glory for himself. Well she wouldn't stand for that.
   Elaine snatched up the phone, punched in a four digit number and waited as at the other end of the line, the phone rang unanswered for almost a minute. She was about to hang up when the receiver was picked up at the other end.
   'Hello, can I speak to Bob Grey please?'
   'Oh. Well can I leave a message then?'
   'Yes tell him it's Elaine Heaton on 7398.'
   'Thank you.'
   Grey was out on investigations, which did nothing to ease Elaine's concerns. She couldn't wait for him to get back to her and so hammered out a second number on the phone's keypad.
   This time, the phone was answered almost immediately.
   'Hello. Peter Jones here.'
   'Hello Peter, it's Elaine here.'
   'Hello Elaine. How can I help you?'
   'I've just got in. I heard about last night's killing and expected Bob to leave a copy of the latest note on my desk for me when I got in. But when I arrived, my desk was empty. I was just wondering what was going on.'
   'That's quite simple Elaine. The killer didn't leave a note this time.'
   'Oh.'
   This was unexpected. The notes were so integral to Elaine's conception of the crimes, that for the killer not to leave one was completely unthinkable. For a moment she was stunned; lost for words. There was a pregnant pause in their conversation as Jones waited for her to continue.
   'Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?'
   'Are you sure this killing was our man?'
   'Almost certainly.'
   There was a further drawn out pause.
   'I suppose this changes things... I'm going to have to think this one through.'
   'Okay, no doubt we'll speak later.'
   'Thank you, goodbye.'
   Elaine replaced the receiver. The phone conversation had been an undeniable shambles. Normally, such a display of social clumsiness on her part would be guaranteed to leave her cringing with an all-pervading sense of embarrassment, but now it went virtually unnoticed, as Elaine was preoccupied by Jones's unexpected revelation: the killer didn't leave a note.
   If this was true (and she had no reason to believe that it was not), then it challenged Elaine's central assumption of the fundamental importance of the killer's notes. If the killer hadn't left a note, then he showed that they weren't nearly as important to him as Elaine had thought; he could take them or leave them, they contained no special relevance to him, nothing to lead Elaine to him. Jones and Grey were shown to be right, the notes were a red herring, and all Elaine's work on the case had been leading down a blind alley.
   Elaine's thoughts were interrupted by Chris.
   'What did Jones say?'
   'He said that there was no note.'
   Chris didn't immediately recognise the significance of this turn of events, but he recognised the glazed preoccupation etched on Elaine's face and knew better than to pester her with questions when she was thinking hard like this.
   Her first thought had been that it wasn't the same man. Perhaps it was a copy-cat killing? She recognised that the attractiveness of this option was greatly enhanced by the fact that it would leave her current theories on the case intact, and that her actions might be described by a less sympathetic observer (such as Jones or Grey) as akin to grasping at straws, but she decided to follow up the possibility anyway.
   Jones had said that it was the same man, but mistakes could have been made - how long had they had to be able to be so sure? When it came down to a straight choice between deciding whether she or someone else might have made a mistake, she would plump for the other person every time. And anyway, her present assignment was to concentrate on the notes. It was a logical step to investigate why there was no note with this latest killing: to ascertain whether there was any point in continuing with her present line of enquiry.
   She needed to look at the other evidence from this latest killing, and quickly. She hadn't even been officially told the details of the John Sheringham killing yet - she had been promised a copy of the forensics report, but these things were notoriously slow. She couldn't afford to wait around to find out the details of this latest killing through the proper channels. She would have to make a couple of short cuts. She snatched the telephone receiver back up and hurriedly tapped out another four digit number.
   'Hello Patrick?'
   'Yeah, I'm sorry to bother you Pat, but do you think you could spare the time to see Chris and me'.
   'About the latest killing.'
   'Yes I know you must be very busy, but I'd be very grateful.'
   'Well as soon as possible really.'
   'That'd be brilliant. Thanks, thanks a lot, you're a real life-saver. See you this afternoon then.'
   Chris listened to the object of his desire make her phone call. During his time with Elaine he had noticed that she had two basic phone conversational gambits: business-like and crawly-bum-lick. Her present conversation definitely belonged in the second category, and he found it vaguely distasteful to see her behave in such a shameless manner.
   Elaine lowered the receiver.
   'What was all that about?'
   'We're going to see SOC at 2.00 this afternoon.'
   'What for?'
   'To talk over the details of this latest killing.'
   'Oh.'
   Chris was none the wiser.

+ + + + + +

Five times in less than twenty-four hours; one day. That must be some sort of record. What a man he was, there was no denying that, especially now. As the orgasmic mists cleared from his head, he removed the wad of tissues he had used to catch his semen, crumpled it into a loose ball and threw it in the general direction of his bedroom waste paper bin.
   It was underthrown, and it bounced off the side of the bin and back onto the carpeted bedroom floor. No matter, he would tidy it up later. He plucked another tissue from the box that lay on the bed beside him, and wiped himself clean with it before screwing that one up and throwing it in the same direction as its larger brother.
   Yes !
   This time the throw was perfect. The soiled tissue flew straight into the bin without so much as touching the sides, gratifying him for a brief moment. Strengthening his view of the world and in particular his perception of his relative place in it.
   Cleaned up, William picked up the photographs that had taken him to his recent orgasmic heights. She was gorgeous, a real stunner; much too good for him. He'd have liked to have shown her what a real man was like, what a real dick felt like. God, Alexandra had had a pathetic cock; he'd have hardly touched the sides. If only she'd have been home when he'd gone round there last night, he'd have sorted her out. Compared to what she was used to, she'd have loved it. She'd have begged him for it.
   William put the photographs away in the envelope attached to the inside page of his new scrapbook; his scrapbook, full of newspaper cuttings about him. He had been to the newsagents first thing this morning and had bought a copy of all the papers. Not just the usual ones; the tabloids, but the boring posh ones as well. Every single one of them had a story about him in them. Front page news; he was famous.
   They all said the Dark Angel had struck again, just as he had wanted them to. They thought he was the Dark Angel and in a way they were right. The Dark Angel was someone the papers had invented. All they knew about him were the crimes. William had committed one of those crimes - the most important one, the latest one. He was as much the Dark Angel as anyone.

+ + + + + +

Elaine and Chris entered the SOC office.
   'Hello Patrick.'
   Strachan merely nodded in reply.
   'It's great of you to see us at such short notice.'
   Elaine flashed him a smile, anticipating the usual ready response to her flirtatious opening. She was a little surprised and somewhat perturbed when the warmth of her greeting was only met with apparent hostility.
   'I don't really see how I can be of much help to you.'
   Elaine only increased the dosage of sugar that laced her words.
   'Don't be silly Pat. We always find your opinions invaluable, whatever the subject.'
   Chris glanced round at her, this was laying it on a bit thick, even for her.
   'That's as maybe, but I haven't really got the time to spend chatting. There is a murder hunt going on.'
   What the hell is wrong with him?
   'And that's what we need to talk to you about. We appreciate that as someone so central to the investigation, your time is very precious, but we think a few minutes of your time now, could save the whole investigation days, or even weeks in the long run.'
   'So what exactly do you want to talk about?'
   Patrick had heard the rumours about Elaine and Chris. At first he hadn't believed them. He certainly hadn't wanted to. But so many people had told him the same thing, that after a while he started to think that there must be some truth in it. How the hell could she, and with him of all people. A woman like that could pick and choose, but what did she do? She chose that ungrateful little git. What was wrong with her? Was she looking for a bit of rough, or did she just not care? There were names for women like that.
   'We'd like to hear what you think about this latest killing.'
   And here she was, as bold as brass, talking to him as if nothing had happened; flirting with him. He had never really been aware of it before, they had always got on so well, but now he was having none of it. She was damaged goods; shop-soiled.
   'I don't know if I'm authorised to talk to you about that yet. I'd have to check with Bob Grey.'
   'Bob's out at the moment, and we can't really afford to wait until he gets back. You'll just have to trust me, after all what harm could it do? We're all on the same side.'
   She hit him with that smile again.
   When all was said and done, she was still a good looking woman.
   'Well, I'm not sure..'
   'I'd be ever so grateful.'
   And she was a fine detective.
   His eyes flicked momentarily down to below her neckline, and then back up to her face.
   And she was right, what harm could it do?
   'Oh alright then, I suppose it'll do no harm.'
   That was a lot harder than it ought to have been.
   'Thanks. Now what we'd like to know is everything you can tell us about this latest killing.'
   'Alright, but I can't take too long, so I'll have to be brief.'
   Thank heavens for small mercies.
   'We understand.'
   'How much do you know?'
   'Only what's been on the news.'
   'Alright. The victim is an Alexander Stuart, a twenty five year old white male estate agent, he lived and worked in Wandsworth. His body was found by his girlfriend at ten past eight last night. It had been badly mutilated, stab wounds to the upper torso, and the penis had been completely, and it seems deliberately, severed.'
   'Sheesh.'
   Chris, being as phallocentric an individual as you are ever likely to meet, was particularly appalled by this last detail.
   'The victim's arms were tied to his sides with his neck-tie. It seems likely that he was alive when the mutilation took place.'
   'Christ.'
   'The murder weapon was a very different knife than those used in the previous killings. About ten inches long with a serrated saw-like edge, probably a large hunting knife. They're designed to go in easily enough, but cause a great deal of damage when they are pulled out. From the angle of attack of the knife wounds, the killer is between five foot two and five foot eight inches tall. He seems to have worn gloves throughout the whole attack, so we haven't got any fingerprints. He did leave a message daubed in the victims blood on the wall; Life for life - you know, the usual stuff. He also left a footprint on the living room carpet. It was a size ten Adidas Saturn training shoe.'
   'Just like the Clarke killing.'
   'That's right. And that's about all I can tell you at the moment. Obviously, we've got a lot more work to do, to flesh out the detail, but I think I've given you the bare bones of what we know so far. Hopefully, it's enough to give you a feel for the thing.'
   'It's certainly done that.'
   The details that Patrick had described had only encouraged her suspicion (her hope?) that this was not the work of the same man. Subconsciously, she played down the similarities between this killing and the others; dismissed them as coincidences, whilst placing greater importance on the differences between the killings. In this way she selectively filtered what she was told; the evidence, to provide support for her original hypothesis.
   Now that Elaine's mind was made up - although in some sense her mind was made up as soon as the possibility of this being a copy-cat killing first occurred to her - Elaine went about the business of eliciting as much support as possible for her preferred theory.
   'Tell me Pat, there seem to be quite a few differences between this killing and the earlier ones, do you think it's the same man?'
   'It's difficult to say. You're right there are several striking differences between this and the other killings; the knife, the killer wearing gloves, the lack of a note, but there again the killer has consistently adapted his method, albeit less dramatically, over the previous four. On balance, I would say that it is impossible to be absolutely certain one way or the other.'
   'But what do you feel. Given these striking differences, do you think it's the same man?'
   Elaine pressed Strachan for the complete endorsement she wanted.
   'Well if I was pressed for an opinion I would say that it is the same man. The footprint is just too much of a coincidence and no details of the other footprint have been in the press; a copycat just wouldn't have known.'
   That was not the answer that Elaine had been hoping for. She rephrased the question.
   'But you wouldn't say that it was beyond all reasonable doubt?'
   Patrick watched Elaine as she talked to him. Her face was alive and open. It seemed to radiate both interest and warmth. There was no denying it, she was a beautiful woman. He was enjoying their conversation now. The earlier resentments almost forgotten as he succumbed to her captivating spell. Perhaps those rumours weren't true after all.
   'Certainly not.'
   'And you would say that it's not beyond the realms of possibility that it could be a copy-cat killing?'
   'It's possible, yes, but..'
   'Okay.'
   Elaine cut him short. She had what she judged to be as strong an endorsement of the copy-cat theory as she was going to get from Strachan. Her work there was done. She paused to indicate she had nothing more to say, a mere social formality; she certainly didn't expect Patrick or especially Chris to take advantage of the opportunity.
   Chris had been feeling a bit 'put out' all day. Elaine had been in a world of her own, rushing from one thing to the next, without pausing to let him in on what was going on. He thought he had worked it out for himself - The killer hadn't left a note this time, so they were checking if it really was the same man or just a copy-cat - but he was disappointed at being excluded by her, especially after he had made a special effort of getting in so early.
   After that evening in the pub, he had expected their relationship to come rapidly to fruition. It hadn't, in fact if anything she was more stand-offish now than before. He just didn't understand it, she'd shown him how she felt, so what was her problem?
   Now Chris asked Patrick a question. Not that he really wanted to know the answer, just a token contribution to remind them - and especially Elaine - of his continued existence.
   'The message on the wall. Was it the same handwriting as the previous ones?'
   Strachan looked away from Elaine and turned towards Chris. Patrick had almost forgotten about Chris's presence as he had succumbed to Elaine's persuasive charms. Now that Chris had gatecrashed Patrick's attention, Patrick's dislike for him rekindled his near-forgotten grievances of before. How could she have done the unthinkable, with him of all people??
   'Don't be ridiculous, he used his finger not a pen!!'
   Chris was somewhat taken aback by Patrick's quite violent reaction to his seemingly innocuous throwaway question.
   'Err..'
   Elaine was similarly surprised by Patrick's reaction to what she thought had been a reasonable enough question. She stepped in and attempted to smooth over their misunderstanding.
   'But does this latest message look similar to the others in terms of the basic form of the letters?'
   'They were similar, yes. Look, I really am very busy at the moment. If you haven't got anything else you want to talk about, I really must be getting on.'
   Elaine was still puzzled by Strachan's reaction, but she had got what she wanted.
   'Of course, well I think we've covered just about everything, so we'll leave you to get on. Thanks again for your time.'
   Patrick responded with a taciturn nod.
   'Bye then.'
   Elaine and Chris walked quickly and silently out of the SOC. area and down the corridor to the point they had previously established as being safely out of ear-shot.
   'Christ, who rattled his cage?'
   'Yeah, he was a bit cranky, even for him.'
   On reflection, Elaine thought that the whole meeting had been characterised by an uncomfortable undercurrent. It was almost as if something had happened that had prejudiced Strachan against them (and especially Chris - the way he had jumped down his throat), something that Strachan considered so obvious, so apparent to them all, that he didn't even have to mention it directly.
   Curious.
   Anyway, Elaine didn't have time to worry about that now. Whether Strachan was in a funny mood or not, he had provided support for her growing belief that this latest killing was not the work of the man they were looking for.
   'At least he confirmed that this killing might not be our boy.'
   'Yeah.. I suppose so, but who the hell does he think he is?'
   Chris had rather gained the impression that Patrick had come down in favour of the killing being the work of the same man, but no matter, he was more preoccupied with his indignation at the slight he had received at Strachan's hands, than with any thoughts about the implications of anything that he might have told them.

+ + + + + +

'Now then Elaine, perhaps you could tell us what's so important?'
   Elaine was sat in Jones' office, in front of his desk. To the right side of the desk, facing her, sat Bob Grey, whilst behind it sat Jones himself. If an outsider had entered the room at that point, they would have been able to infer the relationships between the three of them from the very positioning of the office furniture. No further explanation would have been necessary.
   'I want to talk about the latest killing.'
   'Fine, so what exactly do you want to discuss?'
   As Jones spoke, presumably for the both of them, Grey moved his hands behind his head. With his elbows sticking out to the sides, and his chest stretched out as far as it would go, it was the body language of domination. Elaine watched him perform this most masculine of gestures and sneered to herself. What a pathetic little man Grey was. A miserable toady, sat there in front of her, so confident in his position of power (with Jones there to back him up), with his flabby chest stuck out and his faintly yellow stained armpits on full display, he was a figure of utter ridicule.
   'I don't think it's the same man.'
   Grey brought his hands back down in front of him, Elaine had his full attention now. Jones remained as impassive as ever
   'And what makes you think that?'
   'Well, it's a variety of things really. The lack of the note, the seemingly senseless sadism of the killing, the different murder weapon, the lack of forensic evidence to tie him to the other murders.'
   Grey feeling his judgement threatened, spoke for the first time, somewhat aggressively.
   'There are lots of things to tie in this killing with the others. The MO was just about identical, the message on the wall, we even found a footprint in the carpet which was exactly the same size and type of shoe as one we found at the Clarke killing. There's no doubt about it, this is the same man alright.
   'Most of the differences you mentioned weren't even consistent throughout the previous murders. The sadism of the killing: The Tillman case was a frenzied knife attack, the killer left his knife stuck in Clarke's heart and he chopped the bloody ears and eyes off that reporter. I would say this man's crimes are mostly characterised by extreme sadism.'
   Elaine sat in front of Grey and let his arguments wash over her, hardly registering what was being said. She noticed that Grey's face had started to redden slightly with the emotion of his diatribe, and sneered to herself once more.
   Grey continued.
   'And you say that the lack of forensic evidence points to it being a different killer. How can lack of evidence point one way or the other? Our man has been getting progressively more careful as he's gone on, you'd expect him to be leaving less and less clues. He's getting good at it.'
   Grey's arguments were impressive, he certainly knew his stuff about the details of the killings. Jones, who already shared Grey's opinions on the matter in question was convinced.
   Elaine who did not share those opinions, was not.
   'It could be a copy-cat killing. Such things are not unheard of. The details of the case have been all over the papers'
   'That still doesn't explain the footprint: same size, same shoe. When it boils down to it, the only real difference between this case and the others is the lack of a note. Now we already know how reliable they are.'
   Jones sniffed in amusement as he caught Grey's reference to the time they had wasted - at Elaine's insistence -searching for the details of the killers wife, referred to in a previous note.
   Elaine noticed it too. It did little to endear Grey to her. She saw that she was losing the argument and so tried a change of tack.
   'Look, I know you both think that the notes are useless, but I still think you're being too hasty. I've talked with the people from Psych', and they seem convinced that the notes are genuine, that the inconsistencies in them are just symptoms of our suspect's unbalanced view of the world.
   The notes are fundamental to the crimes. They justify the whole thing. In a way they're the whole point. The killer kills people to draw attention to his notes. The notes come first, the killings second. There would be absolutely no point in him killing somebody and not leaving a note. The note would be the only part of the crime that a copy-cat couldn't replicate. He would probably be able to come up with something similar, but we'd know it wasn't the same handwriting straight away.'
   'I think we're all familiar with your view on the notes.'
   Grey cut her argument short, dismissing it almost casually.
   Elaine looked at them both. They both had a glazed look about them. They weren't really listening to a word she was saying. Their minds were made up about the notes, she had lost that argument for good. There was no point in trying to convince them, and she had only weakened her case by dragging up the notes again. She tried one last approach.
   'Even if you ignore the notes, this latest killing still doesn't seem quite right. You're right, there were differences between all the other killings, but there was a thread of similarity running through them all. The killer's finger-prints, the notes, the knives which might have been different, but all seemed to come from the same set. There was never any doubt that it was the same man. Now we can't be so sure. The similarities with the previous crime, just don't seem to be there.
   'Our man has been careful to target one person from a particular profession and then move on to the next profession. Why murder another estate-agent. He's never bothered to hide his finger-prints before, so why this time? It just doesn't add up. All you've got is a similar footprint. But do you know how many people in the country own that type of shoe? It must run into the thousands.
   'The shoe could well just be a coincidence. Even ignoring the note, I'd say this killing is not the work of the same man. I'd stake my reputation on it. The lack of note just confirms it for me.'
   Unfortunately, Elaine's reputation did not carry as much weight as it might once have done. Grey didn't even bother to answer her plea, so sure was he of his victory. He sat there looking impassively back at her, his arms once again behind his head, his yellow-stained armpits facing her. And he was right, he had won. Elaine knew that much already. Her arguments had fallen on deaf ears.
   After a moment's silence Jones was satisfied that Grey was not going to continue.
   'Well thank's for coming round to discuss your views Elaine, you've certainly given us something to think about.'
   'Yeah thanks,' Grey mumbled magnanimously.
   Elaine took her cue and left.
   She had lost. What was the point?

+ + + + + +

The killer sat in his front room, the curtains drawn though it was the middle of the day, the daily papers spread out all around him. They all said the same thing - the Dark Angel had struck again: Another killing, another estate-agent, slaughtered like all the others. People were taking him seriously now; people were scared. There was a story in one of the papers about some advertisers who had gone on strike, refusing to go back to work until their security was improved. People were starting to change their ways - he was starting to make a difference. The Dark Angel had struck again, the police were as clueless as usual, everything was going to plan.
   Only it wasn't. Jon was troubled. He was the Dark Angel - he liked the name that the press had coined for him, it evoked the image of an avenging spirit; an angel; a force for good, of God even. He had even planned to refer to himself as 'The Dark Angel' the next time he wrote one of his notes; after the next killing. But now the next killing had happened, and it wasn't him that had done it.
   He had been planning to make his next killing in about a week; a member of the aristocracy this time, but now another estate agent had been killed. All the details in the press made it sound like it was one of his, but he hadn't done it. He had been at home, watching the telly at the time it had occurred, it couldn't have been him, he was sure of it.
   Well, he was almost sure of it. It was so difficult to be sure of anything these days. So many things in his head were just so cloudy, less certain than they had been before, it was getting difficult to be sure of anything. No, he was positive, he hadn't killed this second estate-agent. But if he hadn't done it then who had?
   His first reaction had been one of indignation. He felt threatened. He was the Dark Angel; this had all been his idea, and now someone else was trying to take that away from him, going around pretending to be the Dark Angel, stealing it from him. It just wasn't fair. He had half a mind to contact the police himself and tell them the truth - Expose this impostor for what he was.
   It wasn't just that he felt pushed out. This impostor just wasn't doing it right. This latest killing didn't fit into his plans at all. He had planned to kill just one person from each of the targeted professions, but now a second estate-agent had been killed. It spoilt the whole symmetry of the thing. Where would it go from here? Three advertisers?? Five stockbrokers?? Twenty seven pressmen??
   Then again, this latest killing had certainly had an effect. That wasn't to say that Jon's own killings hadn't had any effects, because they certainly had. People had taken notice of them, people had been appalled and frightened by them, someone now seemed to have been inspired by them. It was just that the effect was so very temporary.
   After each murder, the members of that profession were undoubtedly shocked by the murder of one of their number, and frightened (and probably not a little titillated) by the thought that it could so easily have been them. But, after breathing a sigh of relief that they had been spared, and perhaps contributing to a hastily set up support fund for the victims' dependants, they just carried on with their lives as before.
   After this latest killing, the papers already carried stories about some estate agents being too afraid to carry on working as normal. Jon had included warnings in his notes, telling the professions he had already punished to change their ways, but it was an empty threat. He didn't have the time to go backtracking over old ground, repeatedly targeting the same groups of people to keep them in line.
   Now his previously empty threat had been realised; given teeth. People had been shown that he meant business. This killing, rather than spoil the symmetry of his crusade, had only enhanced its effect. Jon forgot all about exposing this impostor.
   Impostor was too harsh a word for it. The word 'disciple' occurred to Jon. It seemed much more fitting. This man (he assumed it was a man) had followed the basic principles that Jon had laid down. Every man of ideas had followers. All the visionaries had their disciples. The religious implications of this thought were not as attractive to Jon as (recently) they might have been. Somehow, his belief in the hand of God behind his acts had lessened; become less important, in recent days.
   It was not that he had in any way thought through his previous conviction and decided that it was unsound. It was more that in the absence of any examination, the idea had somehow decayed over time so that it no longer seemed all that important anymore. Even without the religious overtones, it was still flattering to think that someone was inspired by his ideas to try and copy his actions, and it certainly wouldn't do his chances of avoiding capture any harm if the police were confused by chasing the trails of two men, not one.
   The one detail that was missing from the 'disciple's' crime was the note. Jon's notes were the most important part of his crimes. They engendered his acts of violence with meaning. Without them the killings were senseless. With them, as he saw it, they were significant acts of national importance. The murders took a great deal of time and effort and planning and, for want of a better word, execution. By comparison, the notes took practically no time at all, they were already there, inside Jon's head.
   If this latest killing had been accompanied by a note of its own, Jon would have felt forced to contact the police somehow and expose the killer as bogus. He would not have been able to stand by and have someone else dictate the meaning, the moral content of his crusade. That would have been more than he could bear. As it was, there was no note. Jon could think of two possible reasons for this.
   The killer either couldn't produce a note sufficiently similar to his own to prevent giving himself away, or else the killer hadn't produced a note out of deference to Jon himself, being careful to allow him the exclusive custodianship of the meaning of the crimes. Either way, Jon thought that if the police and the public at large thought that this killing was the work of the Dark Angel, then it could only aid his cause. He began work composing a note.

+ + + + + +

The clink of glasses mixed with the tired AOR tracks spat out by the plastic pub jukebox. Bonhomie and cigarette smoke hung heavily in the air, stinging the corners of Chris's eyes slightly, but he was beyond noticing such trivial discomforts. The bar-table in front of him was a forest of empty glasses, set in a puddle of spilled, stale lager and torn, damp beer mats. All the usual crowd were there and they were all happily drunk. Chris was having a great time. The floor was his.
   'And so I told her, look let's cut the crap shall we. We're both adults and we both know the score. It's obvious that we fancy each other. It's been obvious for ages, and I'm getting sick and tired of being pissed about. You've got to decide what you want. If you want to then we'll go for it, no commitments and we'll have a good time. If you're not interested, then fine, but at least we'll both know where we stand.'
   His audience was rapt. Since the episode with the barmaid (who had since left the Nag's Head to seek alternative employment), Chris's sexual prestige had never been higher, bordering on the Benbow-esque. His increased standing had lent new interest to the ongoing Elaine saga.
   'What did she say to that?'
   'Not a lot. I think she was shocked that I'd been so up front - that I could see through her so easily.'
   'So what happened?'
   'Nothing yet. She hasn't said anything one way or the other.'
   'She'll come round.'
   Benbow lent his authority to the proceedings.
   'Her type always do.'
   He knew her type only too well.
   'You've just got to show them what they really want. She'll be begging you for it.'
   'Let's just say I'm quietly confident.'

+ + + + + +

Such is the wrath of the Dark Angel.

Eye for eye, life for life.

I had shown estate-agents the errors of their ways. They did not heed my warning, and so I have taken another of their number. Change your ways now, or I will strike again. Change your ways or you could be next.

Newspaper employees, advertisers, stockbrokers you too have been warned. Change your ways. Do not make me have to remind you.

Eye for eye, life for life.

Bob Grey finished reading the copy of the note that had been faxed over from the Daily Globe offices. He could see that the note would only increase the public's fear and consequently the clamour for the Dark Angel to be caught. The pressure on him could only get greater.
   He smiled broadly. The victory was his. 'Even ignoring the note... it's not the same man... I'd stake my reputation on it', Elaine's words not his. He picked up the phone and dialled Elaine's extension number, the smile still disturbing the usual set of his drab facial features.
   'Elaine, yes it's Bob here.'
   'I just thought you'd like to know. We've just got a note from our man covering the latest killing.'
   'Yes, it arrived at the Daily Globe this morning.'
   'It's the same handwriting as the others.'
   'Okay then, I'll talk to you later.'
   He replaced the receiver and chuckled to himself, imagining Elaine's discomfort at the other end of the line.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 12.

A DRIVE IN THE OLD COUNTRY

Jon sat in the front room of his flat, slowly picking over his plans for his next killing; making sure everything was as it should be. The room was lit by natural light. The curtains were un-drawn. Jon had found that like a lot of other things recently, his over anxious desire for privacy had become less pressing, less important to him. It was as if those ideas had some sort of radioactive half-life and had simply degenerated over time to become less and less powerful, until now they hardly existed at all.
   On his lap there lay an A4 pad on which the embryonic plan was written. He worked slowly, without urgency, for there was no need to rush, reading through what he had written, making corrections here adding details there. Soon he would be satisfied and would be ready to strike again.
   In front of him as he worked, the television blared out to no-one in particular. Jon paid it little attention, he left it on, half out of habit, to provide background noise and stimulus to the room. The quality of daytime television was such that little or no attention was required to absorb the full extent of the information broadcast. The programmes were so undemanding, so banal and simplistic, that the most undedicated of viewers could keep up with what is happening.
   Jon had often been surprised in the past when he was still working, on those rare occasions when he had been at home during the working week, usually through illness, he would watch those daytime television programmes which he normally could not, and would find that he immediately understood everything that was going on, he had missed nothing of any consequence since last he had watched them, which would probably have been several months ago. Now though, he focused his full attention on the television screen. It was One O'clock, time for the news. He might be on it.
   He wasn't disappointed. He was featured in the main story, or rather the Dark Angel was the main story, and now Jon and the Dark Angel could no longer be strictly said to be one and the same person. The story featured the Dark Angel's latest killing. Two days after the event today's news angle focused on the killer's note and a news conference where the victim's girlfriend had appealed for any witnesses to come forward.
   The feature on the killer's note was (obviously) old news to Jon, but it was always flattering to have people discuss a piece of your work, as if it was important. Jon watched the report intently
   Quick intro' by the news reader.
   '..New development in the hunt for the killer known as the Dark Angel.'
   Cut to VT (archive footage) showing the outside of the Daily Globe's offices in Wapping.
   'The note was sent to the Daily Globe's Wapping headquarters this morning... addressed to Duncan Sharpe.... Richard Adamson the young Daily Globe journalist and earlier victim of the Dark Angel.' Cut to a transcript of the note which is then read through (curiously by a woman) in flawless BBC English (no regional accents here).
   'Eye for eye...'.
   Cut to archive footage showing revolving (70's style kitsch) sign outside New Scotland Yard.
    'In a news conference earlier today... new details emerged of the ferocity of this latest murder.'
   Cut to film of a serious looking Detective Inspector, in full uniform, addressing the news conference.
    '..Extremely cold blooded and vicious attack, the victim appears to have been systematically and sadistically tortured, culminating in the removal of the victims genitals...'
   Jon was shocked. This was certainly news to him. Up to now the media had only reported that the details of this latest killing matched the previous ones (Jon's ones). Jon was used to the police condemning his crimes as cold-blooded and violent, after all he could hardly expect anything else, but these revelations of torture and mutilation were something else. He wondered whether the police were somehow trying to discredit him, but they had always truthfully reported the details of his previous killings and so he had no real reason not to believe them this time.
   No, he had to accept that these allegations were true. By its very nature, killing was a brutal violent business, but the violence Jon used was as he saw it justified by the righteousness of his cause. Like a soldier in wartime, Jon was absolved of any responsibility for the murders he carried out. He was just applying necessary force in the pursuit of the common good. He took no pleasure from his actions, far from it. He was simply performing a task, which as he saw it had to be carried out (It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it.)
   He had himself, mutilated the newspaper reporter, but there was a point to that; the police were trying to hush-up his crimes, to stifle his message, and so he had made sure he got the publicity he needed and deserved. Even then he had only disfigured the reporter after he had killed him. He hadn't enjoyed it, it was just something he had to do. And now this; deliberate (and, as far as he could see, pointless) mutilation and sadistic torture even.
   If he'd have known about this in the first place, he might not have written the note and decided instead to expose the impostor (the idea of a disciple seemed suddenly redundant). But it was too late; he had claimed the act as his own, he couldn't backtrack now, that would only make him seem ridiculous. He would have to take the rough with the smooth - perhaps he could make some oblique reference to it in his next note.
    His attention flicked back to the screen.
    '..Fiancé Suzanne..'
   More film from later on at the news conference. The victim's girlfriend made an emotional appeal - punctuated by spasmodic outbreaks of tears - for any witnesses to come forward. Even red-eyed and drained by grief, Suzanne was obviously an attractive woman - in a straightforward sort of way. She reminded him of his wife. Suzanne ... Susan; she had been red-eyed too when she had walked out on him, on that fateful day when last he had seen her. But surely, that wasn't the last time he had seen her, it couldn't have been - he'd killed her, it wasn't his fault, society had forced him to.
   He had been forced by society to kill his wife, and as a result had embarked on his quest to punish those who bore most guilt for the state of society; for society's crimes. Though he might sometimes have lost sight of it, Susan's death underpinned the whole thing. It underpinned everything - So why did he have practically no recollection of this most significant of events? The last time that he had seen his wife. The time when he had pushed her under the tube train.
    Was it possible that he had just blacked the whole episode out? He knew that people did that at times of acute stress, but nothing like that had happened to him before. He could remember the details of all the other killings - God knew they were stressful enough. Indeed he could remember all the surrounding details of that dreadful day in the tube station, it was just that he couldn't actually recall any details connecting his wife to the scene.
   He remembered pushing someone forward, he remembered how he felt at that moment - the all consuming hatred. He remembered the horror of the crowd, the screams, the blood. He could remember it all perfectly, but he could remember nothing about his wife. His latest real memory of Susan was still that day when she had walked out on him.
   And then again, wasn't his wife called Sally, not Susan at all. Things were so confused, he couldn't even remember his wife's name - what was wrong with him? Sally or Susan, he still had the newspaper cutting about his wife's death, stuck to the living room wall. He hadn't actually read it since the time he had first put it up there, but he could read it now. Settle what his wife's name was once and for all. It would only take a minute.
   On the television the Dark Angel feature had drawn to a close.
    'And now further home news. Buckingham Palace today denied rumours..'.
   Thinking about it, checking the newspaper cutting was pointless. His wife was called Sally, he was certain of that now, and that was all there was to it. He must have picked up Susan's name from somewhere else - some film he'd been watching or something. It was ridiculous to think that he needed to check what his wife - the most important person in his life - was called.
   Much better to get back to his preparation, to get his mind back on to firmer (safer?) ground. He had wasted enough time already. He searched about for the television remote control, eventually finding that he was sitting on it. He dabbed at the red on-off button, switching the television off, and picked his pad back up.

+ + + + + +

Two hours later, his preparations had been completed and his attention had turned to the more mundane task of the washing up. Before, when he had been working - when both Sally and he had been working, the washing up had always seemed such an onerous task; all the household chores had. When they had got home after a long day at work coupled with the usual rigours of the commuter's journey home, all they had wanted to do was relax.
   In the week, they had done the bare minimum of housework - just enough to feed and clothe themselves, but nothing more. Anything that could possibly have been put off until later, was put off. Dusting and hoovering were reserved for frantic periods, usually preceding the infrequent visits of friends or relatives. Between these visits the dust and detritus of everyday life was just allowed to pile up. The house had been a pig-sty.
   Sporadically, they had flirted with the idea of becoming more organised, of developing a rota system, so that the household chores were done at more regular intervals - the fridge door still bore the year old yellowing schedule that Sally had drawn up the last time they had tried it -but these things were always doomed to failure and they soon lapsed back into lethargic inactivity. The resolution embodied on the piece of paper on the fridge door had lasted less than a fortnight.
   Some of their friends, faced with the same predicament had employed a home help at what were undeniably very reasonable rates. Sally and Jon had considered the idea, but decided that their socialist sensibilities wouldn't allow them to employ someone in such a servile role, which was almost tantamount to having a servant. Untidiness reigned unchallenged.
   In those times gone by, it was not uncommon for a week's worth of washing up to be left until the weekend, when Jon would tackle the whole lot in one go. The washing up was Jon's domain, because Sally did the vast majority of the cooking, despite their (mainly her) reluctance to adopt such a stereotyped division of labour.
   In the early days of their relationship, both were eager to impress and please the other, and they had shared the cooking more or less equally. Later, when this phase had passed and neither could really be bothered to cook, Jon simply outfaced Sally in terms of basic laziness. They had to eat, so one of them had to cook - they couldn't eat take-aways every night - and neither of them wanted to do it, but Jon 'couldn't be bothered' more than Sally.
   She would always crack first and end up cooking the evening meal. Soon the role of cook was hers by right, and Jon got what was left - the washing up. It was unfair. Sally resented it, and Jon when he thought about it felt (temporarily) guilty about it, but it was easier for them both to just go with the flow than to try and rock the boat.
   Occasionally, Sally's resentment would boil over and they would argue about this unfair division of labour. Jon hated it when they argued. He used to think that he and Sally were so alike - soul mates - with identical views of the way that the universe worked. He just couldn't understand why Sally would choose to precipitate arguments about such trivial things as the washing up. The concept was completely alien to him, especially considering that they both knew full well that neither would gain anything by such an argument.
   They knew each other so intimately that as soon as they started, their responses were so predictable, the course of their mutual angst mapped out in front of them like a script that they were both unable (or unwilling) to change. Why did she bother? They both knew that whatever Jon promised to do, however good his intentions might be, that he would soon lapse into his apathetic (and by default) selfish behaviour of before. Nothing would change.
   Meanwhile, the row would make them both feel bad; Jon guilty, Sally aggrieved, the inevitable escalation, both of them upset by the attack of the loved one, this graphic demonstration of the differences between them. There would be tears before bedtime - there always were - and what did it achieve? Nothing. But still Sally would insist on starting such arguments. Jon hated it.
   His thoughts elsewhere, Jon mechanically groped around the bottom of the washing up bowl for the cutlery. Now that he was the only one around to do the housework, now that he had the time, now that he had no choice, he was very fastidious at the household chores. The house was regularly cleaned and he washed up after almost every meal. He sniffed in amusement to himself. It was funny how things worked out. Feeling around the washing up bowl, he felt a sharp sensation in his right hand.
   He snapped out of his thoughts and quickly snatched his hand out of the water. He had cut himself and it was bleeding slightly, but nothing serious, it wouldn't even merit a plaster. He felt around the bowl with the other hand - more carefully now - for the offending object that had caused the injury. He soon found it and pulled it out of the grease-filmed water.
   It was a knife. A four-inch Sabatier kitchen knife. The knife he had killed the advertiser with. One of a set that Sally's parents had bought them for an engagement present. The set that Sally must have overlooked when she had left, or surely she would have taken it with her.
   He dried the knife and slid it into the triangular block of wood that housed the expensive set. The set that now had one missing. He wondered for a moment if he might buy a replacement for the missing knife, then quickly dismissed the idea, thinking that if it proved difficult it would only risk bringing attention to himself; throwing him into unnecessary danger.
   The set of knives had been a typically extravagant gift from Sally's parents. More accurately they were an extravagant gift from Sally's father. Her parents had divorced when she was eleven, but it was so typical of both of them to make such an overtly generous gesture. Her mother had bought them an ostentatious set of saucepans which Sally had taken with her, and it wasn't as if either of them were rolling in money. All this after Jon and Sally had told everyone not to bother with any presents for their engagement. Jon's parents (along with everyone else) had taken them at their word.
   That was the other big thing that they had argued about. Other than the every day altercations - like the washing/cooking example, caused by one of them failing to live up to the expectations of the other, usually through oversight or neglect rather than by any conscious design - the only other thing that they really argued about were their families and more specifically their parents.
   In a way their parents were the only subject that they disagreed consistently about, the only thing their opinions differed so fundamentally on that they could never come to some sort of mutually acceptable consensus or compromise. Certainly they argued more frequently about the housework, or even about what to watch on television, but these arguments were shallow, they had no real root of disagreement behind them. They were caused more by a failure in communication, a momentary lapse in the necessary effort of understanding, than anything else and when they talked them through they simply evaporated and left them both wondering what all the fuss had been about.
   The arguments about their parents were different. They both knew only too well what all the fuss was about. The battle lines had been drawn out so many times before, their positions entrenched, the battleground mapped out in such fine detail that the smallest gains were both recognised and fought for tooth and nail. No quarter asked. No quarter given.
    Jon was the second of three children of what he thought of as a typical happy family. His parents, a pair of schoolteachers, had skilfully raised him and his two sisters, managing to avoid any major emotional traumas to eventually produce three well adjusted young adults. The family was characterised by mutual respect and love. Even in adulthood the family's dynamics remained pretty much as they had always been, as they had been when Jon and his siblings had been very young children.
   With all parties satisfied with their relationships, why should any of them challenge the status quo. Jon didn't find anything wrong or unusual in this. Why should he, his relationship with his parents was the only parent-child relationship he had ever directly experienced. It seemed perfectly normal to him.
   Sally had found it virtually unbearable.
   She despised the patronising way his parents treated him - and by extension her - as a child. The first time that she had visited Jon's parents, they had made up beds for her and Jon in separate rooms. They had not complained when they had slept together in Jon's room anyway - they never seemed able to refuse Jon anything - but it was the thought behind their actions that Sally objected to.
   It was indicative of their whole attitude, like the way they were always organising things, without asking Jon or herself whether they wanted to do them, telling them where and when these arrangements had been made for, and expecting them to dutifully be there, or the way they didn't allow any swearing in their house, when their definition of what constituted swearing extended to such heinous words as 'bloody' or even the names of any farm-yard animal!
   This patronising behaviour of Jon's parents irritated Sally intensely, but it was by no means uncommon for Sally to find herself irritated by the actions and attitudes of others - nobody was perfect after all - and she managed to put up with most of them. What Sally really objected to about Jon's parents was not so much their actions, as the effect that they had on Jon.
   When it came to his parents, Jon was completely irrational. He would brook absolutely no criticism of them whatsoever. This seemed to fan the flames of Sally's irritation at his parents' behaviour still further - Jon, who she was so used to being in accordance with on virtually every other topic, refused to recognise that his parents had these most obvious of faults. - This denial somehow emphasising the faults still further, making them more unbearable to her.
   Jon's refusal to even consider the possibility that his parents were anything other than perfect human beings, seemed to Sally to be almost childlike in nature. And here at last was the root cause of her grievance; the dark heart of her resentment that beat beneath all those endless arguments that they had about his parents and their 'eccentricities'.
   That brutal 'truth' that was so damning that it was only ever spoken aloud at the very zenith of the argument, after prolonged provocation spent skirting around this central issue, until finally her patience was exhausted. It wasn't just that Jon's parents treated him as if he was a child, but moreover that when he was in his parents' presence Jon actively encouraged their behaviour by acting like a child.
   He cow-towed to them, did as he was told, let himself be organised, unquestioningly obeyed their petty demands and rules, and when Sally's tolerance finally slipped - as it invariably did - and she found herself making a rash comment - undoubtedly cloaked in her characteristic brand of bone-dry sarcasm - then Jon would pitch in with his parents to put her in her place; the cosy family unit rallying round to repel the interloper.
   Sally entered the house of Jon's parents with her husband, her lover, her best friend, her soul-mate, and suddenly she was alone in the house of (fairly hostile) strangers, her husband transformed into a pre-pubescent mummy's boy. She felt abandoned, excluded and threatened. Sally hated it, and she projected this hatred onto those circumstances that she blamed for bringing about this drastic change in her husband's behaviour.
   Though Jon was more than able to answer for his own actions, it was far easier for Sally to blame his parents for causing his behaviour rather than question the character of the man she loved.
   Jon was very disappointed with Sally's attitude towards his parents. He didn't understand how the most important person in his life could not seem able to get along with the two people who had previously occupied that lofty position. When he argued with Sally about his parents, he responded in his usual way to an attack on something he held dear; he reacted against it.
   Sally's major - leastwise certainly most frequent - complaint seemed to be that his parents had some strange - she would say irritating - habits, and that was undeniably true. But they were old and set in their ways; there was no point in trying to change them. Everybody had their little foibles; you only had to look at Sally's friends and family to see that, and Sally got on well enough with them.
   Putting up with people, and their irritating ways, was a basic social skill, and one which in all other company bar his parents Sally demonstrated a proficiency of. Jon would meet Sally's criticism of his parents with equally fervent criticism of those in her family. In truth, he would usually go further than that, to compensate for the fact that her attacks hurt him more than his seemed to affect her.
   When he thought about it, Jon suspected that there might be something else behind the criticisms of his parents that Sally voiced, an unenunciated reason that lay beneath her apparently unreasonable resentment. Her other, less frequently aired complaint about the nature of his relationship with his parents, seemed to Jon to be closer to the underlying problem. She said that the relationship between him and his parents was unhealthy, that he should act more like his usual self when he was with them, that he should be more assertive in their presence, not let himself be organised all the time, not just do as he was told, that he should stick up for her more in her disputes with his parents.
   What Sally didn't seem to understand was that when he was with his parents he was acting like his usual self. It was the most natural thing in the world for Jon to act in that way when he was with them. That was how people in a normal loving family were supposed to act.
   Jon could see why Sally might have difficulty in understanding that. Her own parents' divorce and the protracted period of antagonism that he assumed had preceded the split, had inevitably meant that she had been largely deprived of the type of warm family atmosphere as that which he had enjoyed. She just didn't know how you were meant to act in such a situation. When they had visited one or other of Sally's parents, Jon had always found the atmosphere strangely stilted.
   Her parents had always appeared glad to see them, and acted affably enough, but they were somehow distant. It was as if they were meeting with casual acquaintances that they had not met for some time. There seemed to be nothing special between Sally and her parents; no instinctive parental bond. They interacted as equals, on a purely adult level. They were friendly, but as people of a different generation, there was a limit to the amount of things that they could have in common, and so were not especially so.
   Sally's parents were always generous in the extreme, especially on Birthdays and at Christmas, but it was apparent to Jon that this generosity was meant to somehow compensate for their inadequacies as parents. That lack of love between them and their children.
   Sally's parents were nice enough people. They didn't impinge themselves in any way on the way Jon wanted to live his life, and he got on well enough with them. It was only later in Sally's and his relationship, when she had made such a big issue about his parents, that he had retaliated in turn and started to actively cultivate a dislike for her parents, blaming them for leaving Sally emotionally blighted and so indirectly causing most of the problems between them.
   Thinking about it now as he finished the washing-up, Jon chuckled to himself. What a cliché it was, not getting on with the in-laws. Sally and he had always strived so hard to be 'right-on', so politically correct in everything that they did, but they still managed to fall into the traditional traps.
   Jon had always thought that Sally in not understanding the way a 'normal' loving family functioned, might have felt slightly intimidated, excluded even, by the tight-knit nature of his family. He himself had felt similarly intimidated when introduced to those close-knit groups of which Sally was already an established member; such as her work colleagues or school friends. It was only natural.
   Such a feeling of unease was only temporary, and with a modicum of effort on his part was soon overcome. He trusted his wife's judgement on people, and found that he generally hit it off with people that she was friends with. As indeed, she generally got on well with his friends. It was just his parents that she had problems with, despite all their efforts to make her feel welcome.
   She just didn't seem to want to make the effort. It was as if she actually wanted not to get on with his parents, as if she actively strove to maintain her antipathy towards them, as if it was something worth preserving, something valuable. Sometimes, Jon suspected that Sally was trying to come between him and his parents. That she was jealous of his relationship with his parents and was trying to destroy what she herself had not had. It was a horrible thing to think of the person that he loved, and normally such an awful thought would not have occurred to him, but in the heat of the argument, reacting to the hurtful things that she was saying to him, such ideas might quickly develop, and just as quickly find voice.
   In the heat of battle he'd said some terrible things to her. It was true that she had said some nasty things to him in turn, but he had always felt the need to go that bit further, justifying it because she had a thicker skin than him, she didn't seem to care about things as much as he did, she was harder than he was; another product of her loveless childhood.
   He remembered once, in a particular savage argument they had about his parents, he had accused her of not understanding how a proper family was meant to behave, and as a result of her blighted childhood being incapable of true love. Of course it ended in tears, it usually did and always hers. He wasn't one for crying himself. He hated it when she cried, both because it made him feel guilty, and because it was an unfair weapon to have in your argumentative arsenal - a devious and typically female guise, a trump card to always ensure they had the last word. There had been plenty of tears on the day that she had left him and there was no suggestion that they had been in any way contrived. Jon had felt so guilty. He hated it when she cried.
   With the washing up water at about room temperature, Jon decided that he had spent long enough in melancholic reminiscence of the bad times and pulled himself out of his train of thought. They hadn't argued all that often, the good times far outweighed the bad. He loved her so much - he'd have done anything for her. If he could somehow get her back, everything would change, his life would be perfect; like it had been before.
   He couldn't get her back, he knew that. She was gone for good. Dead. He had killed her and now he was hunting down those who were responsible - as a penance for his part in her death, as a tribute to her, his dead wife.

+ + + + + +

The car came out of the tight corner, and seeing only empty road ahead Jon pushed sharply down on the accelerator. The eager fuel-injected engine of the hired car instantly responded, pushing him back in his seat as it accelerated away. Right foot down, one..two..three ,right foot up, left foot down; clutch in, left hand performing a zig-zag motion on the gear stick to send it into third. Left foot up, right foot down, one..two..three..four, right foot up, left foot down, left hand pulls the gear stick back and into fourth, up to cruising speed, fifty miles an hour; fast enough on this country road.
   The freedom of the straight lasted for less than two hundred yards - not long enough to be worth going up into fifth - before the next corner approached. Right foot off the accelerator and down on to the brake. The corner didn't look too tight - there were no warning chevrons - he'd probably get away with third gear. Decelerating quickly, fifty..forty..thirty, left foot down, gear stick pushed forward and into third, through the corner, right foot off the brake and on to the accelerator and he was out of the corner, back onto the straight.
   The rhythm of the road. Driving with the sun-roof up and the stereo pumping out one of his favourite all time albums it was the perfect driving experience. In the late May sunshine, the English countryside was at its most beautiful. The roads were flanked by hedgerows garlanded with white flowered hogweed, interrupted by statuesque and ancient trees; chestnut, sycamore and oak. Beyond the hedgerows, verdant green seas of immature wheat swayed gently in the slight breeze. Everything seemed full of life and the joy of being so. Graceful butterflies and darting birds laced the air, and even the occasional squashed animal, just so much fur and unidentifiable offal at the side of the road, could not disturb the mood.
   This was the countryside as Jon liked to think of it. The canvas on which his childhood memories were etched. Those memories were especially poignant for him today, as he made his way back to his home town. He remembered a particular occasion, from almost two decades before. It was school sports day. A hot summer's day; it was always so sunny in the summers of his youth, so much for the greenhouse effect.
   The smell of grass, girls in gym slips, boys in vests and shorts, everyone in anonymous black plimsolls; it was before the training shoe revolution, everyone wore identical functional sports shoes and no-one seemed any the worse for their lack of designer logo. With his birthday towards the end of the school year, Jon was smaller than most of his peers and not suited to the traditional running, jumping and throwing events. He had been forced to settle for the novelty races; the sack, the three-legged and the egg and spoon. They had been practising these races for weeks. He had good hand-eye co-ordination and had won the egg and spoon on every trial run. The race was his.
   The big day arrived. Eight boys stretched out in a line across the school field, each with a hard boiled egg balanced on a desert spoon out in front of him. Jon was confident of success and had not been shy in letting everybody know so. On your marks, get set, go. They were off. Jon streaked off into an early lead.
   Halfway down the fifty yard course he was already some five yards in front of his nearest challenger. The spectators, the rest of the school, were cheering, as over enthusiastically as only pre-adolescents can. His mother was in the crowd. He knew she would be so proud. Victory was all but his, his first true non-academic achievement. It felt great.
   Then disaster. Less than ten yards away from the finishing tape. Jon's foot slipped in a small divot. He stumbled, and just managed to stop himself from falling, but the egg was dropped. He quickly bent to pick it up and replace it on his spoon, but it was too late. His rhythm was broken and he had already been overtaken by the hated, useless Fatty Bottomley. Trying too hard, he dropped his egg again before he reached the finish line. He eventually trailed in fourth, in floods of tears.
   He joined his mother in the crowd and as she tried to console him, watched from the sidelines as 'Fat Bottom' was presented with 'his' winner's medal by the local dignitary, Lord Mowbray. That was the closest that Jon had ever come to meeting the local member of the aristocracy. From what he could remember he seemed very tall, very old, very dignified and very important, but then to a nine year old every adult seemed like that.
   Lord Toby Mowbray was a local fixture. As part of the town where Jon had grown up, as the market place clock tower or the town hall. Everyone knew about him and Jon was no exception. Young Lord Toby as he was known until well into his mid-forties, had inherited his father's estate and title almost thirty years ago when he was in his early twenties.
   Despite being assumed to be tremendously wealthy - the large house and grounds alone must have been worth a small fortune - there was little local envy-induced resentment, and he was generally well liked. Publicly, he was a quiet unassuming man, who didn't flaunt his position of privilege, and though willing to fulfil his role as a neighbourhood dignitary, he preferred to keep himself to himself.
   He lived alone in the large old house some five miles outside the town. He had never married, nor indeed had he ever had any romantic attachments that anyone in the town was aware of. Rumours abounded about deviant sexual practices behind the locked doors of the old house, but Jon dismissed them as so much local gossip. In Jon's opinion he was just a mildly eccentric middle aged man, who for whatever reason preferred his own company. Jon was going to kill him.
   It wasn't that Jon had anything against Lord Mowbray personally. He was going to kill him because of what he was; a member of the aristocracy. And more to the point when it came to selecting his next victim - a very convenient member of the aristocracy.
   Jon despised the aristocracy and everything that they stood for. How could society be said to be in any way fair when a privileged class of people were allowed to exist, whose only qualifications were that they were the direct descendants of someone who had managed to kill, maim and torture themselves into a position of power, some time in the middle ages.
   For the wonderful achievement of being born into the bloodline of some long forgotten mass murderer, these people got to live a life of leisure; inheriting the spoils of their despotic ancestors, the wealth, land and property stolen from the common people of the area over the ensuing centuries. And for this they expected to be treated with respect by the same people whose own less illustrious ancestors their forefathers had so mercilessly tyrannised.
   The royal family were the most obvious, and as Jon saw it, worst example of the aristocracy. The question of whether or not we should continue to have a royal family was one of those classic topics of argument. Everyone had an opinion - usually a deeply held one - and at almost any social gathering you could find champions of both persuasions; both pro' and anti'. It was a perfect recipe for endless and pointless debate. Jon had lost count of the times that he had spent espousing the anti-monarchy cause at dinner parties or over bar-room tables.
   He would have much rather have targeted a member of the royal family. Such a killing would undoubtedly make a massive impact. But he was realistic enough to recognise that with the constant security presence around the royals, such a killing was impossible. Instead, he settled for a low-profile member of the aristocracy. Someone who he knew about by chance. A virtual recluse living on his own, miles from anyone, with little or no security. Mowbray was just very convenient.
   Supporters of the royal family often cited as their argument the 'fact' that the royal family were worthwhile because they attracted valuable tourism. Jon thought that this well worn point facile in the extreme. The thing was, nobody actually cared about the tourism.
   The pro-royalists, were made up of two main groups. To the majority of them - and Jon would concede the majority of the population of the country - the question of whether or not we should have a monarchy was a purely emotive issue. At the most basic level, they liked the royal family. Any arguments that they might come up with, were just window dressing, souvenirs that they had picked up along the way, arguments that they had heard other people using, which served to justify their own incontrovertible gut instinct.
   This was why the pro-royalists generally used such a uniform set of arguments. These arguments were so unimportant to them that they applied little original thought to developing new ways of justifying their position. Relying instead on second hand lines of reasoning to articulate that which was inarticulable. They didn't care about the possible philosophical justifications for retaining the monarchy. They didn't really give a damn about the tourism. They just felt good about the royal family and that was all there was to it.
   The second much smaller group of pro-royalists were more imaginative in their arguments. For them the issue was more fundamental, more personally threatening than being just a question of liking a group of people (or not). These people, broadly speaking, represented the old order. People who were doing very nicely from the way society functioned at present thank-you-very-much. Old money, Tory MP's, business leaders; the upper classes if you like. Conservatives with both a small and large 'C'. To them, the royal family were a figure-head for the established hierarchy of our society - the same hierarchy that so favoured them.
   Their concern for the continuation of the royal family was founded squarely in that most central pillar of human motivation; self interest. For them the arguments about retaining the monarchy were simply a smoke-screen for their own more selfish concerns. They cared as little for the philosophical reasons for keeping the royal family - the tourism and all the rest of it - as the populist royalists did.
   Not surprisingly, the anti-royalists were not renowned for their enthusiasm for the pro-royalty arguments. Jon, as staunch republican, thought that trying to justify the existence of a monarchy , a privileged class at the top of our society, destroyed any chance that society had of functioning as a meritocracy. The royal family should be 'discarded' as quickly as possible. When Jon did let himself get side-tracked into addressing the tourism argument - as he was apt to do during such free flowing discussions - he would say that he didn't believe that the royal family were as cost-effective attractors of tourism as people said.
   Surely most of the tourists who came to this country didn't come specifically to see the royal family. How many of them actually saw the royals anyway? If the tourism was the issue, the money spent on the royals would be much better spent turning Windsor castle into a theme park; a sort of Royal Disneyworld and that would surely attract more tourism than the monarchy did at present.
   Jon didn't blame the populists for their love of the royal family. He could see that was the way that all the conditioning in our society encouraged people to behave. The media in all its multifarious forms was almost unanimous in its portrayal of affection for the royal family as the norm. The idea of monarchy had become entwined with the country's national identity, and the concept of pride for that country; patriotism - for King and country.
   Even the traditional children's stories encouraged the idea of a benign king and queen who all their subjects were loyal to. Given this social pressure, he couldn't condemn people for succumbing to their conditioning. In fact, it was surprising that antipathy to the monarchy was as widespread as it was, flourishing despite the pressure to conform to the pro-royalty consensus, perhaps indicating the justness of the cause.
   Jon could however blame the old-order pro-royalists. Their support for the monarchy was not founded in unthinking affection, but in calculated self-interest. It was this group that held positions of power and influence. This group that used these positions of power and influence to perpetuate the pro-monarchy slant of our society. These people were aware of the issues, and had made a conscious decision to act in a way that Jon considered criminal. These people had earned Jon's contempt for their actions.
   The aristocracy were part of the established order. They had a vested interest in maintaining the monarchy, and acted accordingly. Furthermore, they shared the sins of the monarchy. Their existence undermined the equity of society almost as much as the royal family's did. They just had a lower profile. In a way, their crime was greater, as most of them made no attempt to perform the same sort of public role as the royals - however useless Jon might consider that role to be - to justify their positions of privilege.
   A role the aristocracy did perform, together with a selection of luminaries - mainly ancient politicians and successful businessmen loyal to the government of the day; the nouveau aristocrats - was to sit in the House of Lords. Here they passed judgement on the laws passed by the lower house, the House of Commons. For all Jon's complaints about the way the 'democratic' process in this country functioned, he still found it incredible that the decisions made by the elected representatives of the people of Britain were then subject to scrutiny by a group of unelected, unaccountable geriatrics.
   The members of the House of Lords, as people at the upper end of society, were bound to have a vested interest in maintaining the status-quo, were bound to be fundamentally conservative in nature, thus providing yet another barrier to reform. It might have been argued that the House of Lords didn't actually do all that much, that their powers were virtually cosmetic and that they rarely had any real effect on the laws of the land. But, if this was true, and the House of Lords was ineffective, then why bother with it at all.
   Jon thought that it was important to have an effective second chamber in parliament, to moderate the excesses of the first, but he thought that this second chamber should be elected, perhaps by a different method to the first, for example proportional representation. The existing House of Lords was just another symptom of the deep-rooted class division in British society.
   With first and second class travel accepted as the norm, and with a first and second class postal service, class divisions went right down to the very core. And it was getting worse, not better. With the emergence of two tier health and education systems; truly a return to Victorian values. It all made Jon so very angry. It had to stop. It was about time that someone made a stand.

+ + + + + +

Toby Mowbray sat in the conservatory, eating his breakfast and reading the morning paper. The spacious cast iron framed Victorian glass-house had been used by his father as a plant-house; a glorified greenhouse, stuffed full of a multitude of exotic plants. Toby had tried to keep the plants going during the first few years after his father's death, when the house had still felt more like his father's than his own, but he did not share his father's interest in all things horticultural and it had been a losing - if somewhat half-hearted - battle.
   Now, more than thirty years after his father's death, the plant population of the room had been reduced to just a couple of hardy pot-plants requiring the minimum of attention. The room was totally dedicated to Toby's own interests. He sat at the small breakfast table at one end of the room. At the other end of the room, there was a large leather brown sofa, facing a television and music centre. It was his favourite room in the house. The room where he spent most of his free time, and with no job to occupy him, he certainly had plenty of that.
   The conservatory was built onto the south side of the old house and was a veritable sun-trap. Even in winter, it could get quite hot inside, and with early afternoon sunshine streaming in through the glass panelled roof, it was practically tropical. Toby loved the sun; the hotter the better. He always made sure that he spent at least one month of the year on some sun-baked foreign beach. He adored the beach, but hated the crowds, and it was getting increasingly difficult to find one without the other. This year he was going to spend October in the Algarve - out of season it shouldn't have be too crowded, and the weather should still be good - he was looking forward to it.
   As usual he had risen late. He was rarely out of bed before eleven thirty. He considered himself not to be a 'morning person', there was always more to do - even on his own - late at night, rather than early in the morning, so he stayed up late reading books, watching television, listening to music or whatever and forfeited the dubious pleasures of the morning hours. That was one of the great things about living alone; you could do whatever you pleased.
   The conservatory overlooked the large gardens; another thing which Toby didn't share his father's all consuming enthusiasm for. Though the grounds were nowhere near as magnificent as they had been in his father's time, he hadn't given up on them altogether. Toby liked a nice garden as much as anyone, it just wasn't an obsession with him. The garden wasn't his own work of course - as it hadn't actually been his father's hands which had worked the land that he had been so proud of. He had a man who came in twice a week to see to it.
   His father had employed a full-time gardener; Robert, a handsome young man from one of the local villages. Toby had got along well with Robert, very well, but it had all turned sour in the end and he had left under a bit of a cloud. Toby had been lucky to have avoided a scandal. That had all been a long time ago, and he had been younger then. Much younger, and more foolish. The desires of the flesh seemed much less pressing nowadays. Anyway, the current incumbent of Robert's old post wasn't Toby's type. He had taken care to avoid risking ever making that mistake again.
   Toby didn't employ any full-time staff these days. Just the gardener and a lady who cleaned up, who came round for a couple of hours every other day. The rest of the time he was on his own, as he liked it, in the big old house.
   He was in a privileged position, he could see that. A big house, a healthy investment portfolio. He was made for life, it would have been churlish of him to attempt to deny it. And from time to time Toby had considered the morality of his position.
   He could see that some people might think it unfair that he had so much when so many others had so little, but what could he do? He hadn't asked to be born rich, it was just one of those things; the luck of the draw. There would always be some people who were better off than others; that was the way the world worked. It was human nature to look after number one, to try and get what was best for you and yours. Nobody really believed that everybody should have the same anymore, that all resources should be divided equally.
   Communism had tried that and failed, and even the socialists - which he most certainly was not - now believed in personal advancement. Force everybody to have the same, and you removed the incentive for people to try hard. You also needed a massive state-bureaucracy to administer such a system and where you had a bureaucracy you'd always get corruption, you only had to look at the old Eastern Bloc. No, it was perfectly justifiable for some people to have more than others. He was just fortunate to be one of the privileged few.
   Some people might say that it wasn't the fact that he had more than most that they objected to, but that he had inherited what he had; he hadn't earned it. Toby thought it perfectly natural for people to want what was best for their family. It was human nature to want to think that what you had worked so hard for while you were alive, would pass on to your off-spring when you were dead. Stop that, and the whole economy would collapse.
   As well as removing an incentive for older people to work hard, you would find that people would blow all their investments if they knew they were going to be taken away when they died anyway. You could never enforce such a system, people would always find a way of getting round it. It was perfectly reasonable for a son to inherit his father's wealth. God knows, inheritance tax was enough as it was. Once again, he was just fortunate to be the son of a rich man.
   Finally, people might argue that it was unfair that he was afforded privileges because of his class. In this Toby would agree with them. The antiquated class-system of Britain was indefensible, but he thought its influence was much less than it had been in the not so distant past. It did still retain some of its effects though, and Toby had made a conscious decision, not to take advantage of any of the privileges afforded to him. As a naturally private person, he had never really wanted to be part of the social set where his title would have been an advantage.
   He didn't have any interest in politics and had never taken up his seat in the House of Lords. The only time he had ever used his title at all was when he'd open some fete or other in the local villages. He didn't do that all that often nowadays, and when he did it was only out of a sense of obligation.
   Even if he thought that his position of privilege was unfair, what could he do? If he gave up his money it would make him poor and his life less comfortable, but it wouldn't make any real difference to anyone else. It would be like a small drop in a large ocean. He could do a 'Wedgy Benn' and give up his title, and that idea was quite attractive to him, but it would be an empty gesture. Nobody would thank him for it, and his family, especially his sister - her eldest son was due to inherit the house and title - would never forgive him. It was much easier to just keep his head down, accept what fate had given him with good grace and get on with living his life.

+ + + + + +

Jon pushed the gear stick into first as the car came to a halt at the entrance of the roundabout. He moved his right foot to put slight pressure on the accelerator and eased off the clutch slightly, keeping the gears on the verge of engaging, resting the car on the clutch while he waited for a gap in the traffic. He didn't have to wait long. In the early hours of the afternoon, in the middle of the normal working day, the roads were not busy. Though compared to the city, the roads out here probably never really got busy.
   Jon waited as a car passed. There was a gap after this first car and the next car coming round the roundabout, which was just about big enough for Jon to force his way in to. In the city, he would have charged into it without a second thought, but out here he was in country-driving mode, everything was more relaxed and he happily waited until the second car was passed, when the road would be completely clear.
   Whilst Sally had undeniably been a more accomplished driver than him, Jon had always thought - though he knew much better than to enunciate such a sentiment - that her driving was characterised by a reckless aggression. As a matter of course, she would attempt to intimidate any driver who she adjudged to be not driving fast enough, by driving as closely to them as possible, forcing them to pull over and let her past. And it was almost a point of principle for her to accelerate away when at the front of traffic light queue, faster than the cars in any other lanes.
   Jon thoughtit ironic that his wife, who was so damning in her condemnation of all the innumerable selfish traits that she saw as being typically masculine - especially those she identified Jon as possessing - drove in such a selfish and as Jon saw it typically masculine way.
   She would have loved the powerful sports-model hire car, exploiting its capacity for high speed and quick acceleration to the full. Jon smiled to himself at the thought of Sally enjoying herself, and for an instant was swamped by an unexpected wave of intense melancholia for his lost love. Christ, he missed her. If she had been driving they would undoubtedly made much better time, but today time was not something that was in short supply and he was happy to travel at his own natural, more relaxed pace. Anyway, Jon didn't want to do anything that might risk unnecessarily bringing him to the attention of the police.
   The car passed. Jon eased off the clutch, pressed down on the accelerator and moved out behind it, following the curve of the roundabout. In the rear window of the car in front there was a car-sticker proclaiming 'My other car's a Porsche!!'. Jon sniffed to himself, but not out of any sense of amusement at the inherent humour of the joke. He found it amazing that such car-stickers were as popular as they so plainly were. By displaying such a sticker the owner was making exactly the opposite statement to that which Jon assumed was intended; I have absolutely no sense of humour. Such stickers were banal at best, but still there seemed to be a stream of humourless cretins prepared to part with good money for them.
   These people must really think that such erudite witticisms as 'Honk if you Bonk!!' were the funniest things that they'd ever seen. They must laugh out loud when they first set eyes on the damn things, minutes later they walk up to the till still chuckling to themselves, and hours perhaps days afterwards they still think they're funny enough to attach them to their beloved automobile, to associate themselves with the joke for all eternity, safe in the knowledge that the sticker's humour will last for as long as the car. Nothing was that funny, and especially not such all time favourites as 'Don't follow me I'm lost too!!'.
   Jon left the roundabout at the second exit. Right foot hard down. The car accelerated down the long straight road. A roadsign flashed by telling that the road would soon become a dual-carriageway. Another two seconds passed as the car speed built up, before the road opened up into two lanes in front of him. After the repressive confines of the meandering country roads, the impatient fuel injected car could open up to a gallop for the first time since the motorways out of London.
   Before today, Jon hadn't driven since Sally had left him. The car was another of those items that she had taken with her. She had always been the more eager driver of the pair of them. Jon was often amazed at how she would drive the two hundred yards to the corner shop, rather than walk it herself. It wasn't just laziness that motivated such behaviour - though it undoubtedly played a part - Sally just loved to drive.
   In contrast, Jon who thought of himself as a competent driver, had a utilitarian attitude towards driving. He could take it or leave it. It was a means to an ends. If he needed to drive to get somewhere, then he would. If he could get to the same place easier some other way; on foot or using public transport, then he would use the alternative method. The outcome of this difference in enthusiasm was predictable; Sally drove all the time, and except on those (rare) occasions when Jon needed to go somewhere on his own - in which case public transport was usually the more convenient option anyway - he was a willing passenger.
   In Jon's eyes, this would have been a satisfactory state of affairs. He would have liked to have driven occasionally, but if she wanted to drive so much, then so be it, it was no skin off his nose, and that should have been the end of it. What irritated him was that wasn't the end of it. He had expected her to have been happy that she had secured the beloved task of driving for herself, grateful even for Jon's magnanimous gesture, but instead she somehow seemed to think less of him for it.
   Driving was such an important thing for her, that anybody who didn't - or couldn't, what was the difference? - do it was somehow lacking. Sally had never actually articulated such an opinion, but the occasional pointed remarks about the fact that he never drove, in front of (her) family and friends, were enough to convince Jon that this was how she felt.
   After such a perceived slight - indeed often on the journey back from the social gathering where it had 'occurred' - Jon would often make a point of driving, just to show her. This was when he was reminded of another reason why Sally did the lion's share of the driving; she was a terrible passenger. She would wince as he completed the simplest of overtaking manoeuvre, push her feet down on imaginary brake pedals as he approached the most innocuous of hazards, hold down on to the sides of her seat as he rounded the least acute of corners.
   Her behaviour did little to engender him with the confidence he needed to overcome the inevitable rustiness in his driving. It was purgatory. Jon's attempts at driving were simply not worth the aggravation. He was a better passenger than Sally. She was a more eager and more practised driver. She drove, he was driven, and resigned himself to enduring her periodic churlish complaints about the inequities of this situation.

+ + + + + +

Toby looked upwards through the glass ceiling of the conservatory. It was a beautiful day, hardly a cloud in the sky. If the weather held, and the TV weatherman had said that it would, he would stay in his 'sun-room' all day. It was one of the first really sunny days that they had had this year. With the depressing gloom of the seemingly never ending winter still fresh in the memory, he wanted to take advantage of it to the full.
   He looked back down to face the wide-screen television before him, to see the end of the credits for the lunchtime quiz show that he had been watching. He knew from habit that there would be nothing worth watching now until this evening. He reached for the cluster of remote controls that lay on the coffee table in front of him, turned off the television and switched the CD player of his music centre on. As the familiar soothing strains of Duke Ellington began to fill the glass house, he picked up his copy of 'The Times' and focused his mind for his daily attempt at the paper's crossword puzzle.

+ + + + + +

Cruising along the half empty dual carriageway at a comfortable seventy miles an hour, Jon was approaching the end of his journey.
   He passed a large green sign, telling him that there was only half a mile to go to the next turn-off for Westcliff, Great Thirth and Hillston. Hillston, his home town. Thirty seconds later he had reached the turn-off. He drove straight passed. He didn't want to risk being recognised by anyone who might know him, so he planned to continue along this road until the next turn-off, where he would double back and reach Mowbray's house whilst keeping as far away from Hillston as possible.
   Another green sign flashed passed, showing the distance to the approaching major towns. He paid the sign only the smallest modicum of attention, for he knew where he was going, and didn't expect it to have been of any interest to him. In that half-glance, one destination name leapt out at him, and his heart sank. Market Wharton was a mere eight miles away. Market Wharton, the town where Christine had come from. That was what had got them talking the coincidence of their roots. The only thing that they had in common - the only thing that he had known about, the only thing he had needed to know - the fact that they had both come from the same area.
   He hadn't thought about Christine for a long time. He had often spent time considering that thing that she represented; his big mistake, but he couldn't recall the last time that he had thought about Christine as a person. The person he had chosen to sleep with.
   What had been her surname again? Something beginning with 'B'. Christine Brown, Christine Bower, something like that. It was no use, he couldn't remember. He had always been useless with names. He turned his mind instead to trying to recall her appearance. He had a vague mental image. Slim, medium height, dark hair, about his age. Quite attractive, though not as attractive as Sally, she certainly fell within the acceptable range of attractiveness. Attractive enough, but not too attractive to put her beyond the reach of his possible aspirations; a possible sexual partner.
   It wasn't that this judgement of her attractiveness indicated any intent on his part. It was a judgement he made about every single woman he encountered. An instantaneous thing. A gut reaction, based solely on the most superficial of factors; the set of their facial features, the hang of their breasts. An instinctive dichotomous decision. Based on what I see, would I, could I, have sex with this woman; yes or no.
   The criteria that Jon employed in this decision were surprisingly undemanding. On average about forty five percent of women in the post-pubescent, pre-menopausal age-range were honoured by the yes vote. This judging of whether a woman was 'acceptable' or not was strangely gratifying. It was nice to think that he could have sex with someone 'if he wanted to'. It was also nice to think that he had the power to make such a 'crucial' decision.
   Jon made a corresponding judgement about the men he met too. In this case the judgement he made was not, Will I have sex with this person?, but rather, How do I compare against this person, this potential competitor. The evidence on which he based both types of decision were similar. He would (surreptitiously) look a man up and down in exactly the same way that he would appraise a woman. Assessing their attractiveness, their relative worth, on a purely physical basis and comparing that to his own assessment of his own attractiveness.
   The big difference between the sexes, was the number of people that met his criteria. Whilst almost half the women he saw met with his approval, only about five percent of the men he met were rated as more attractive than he. The rest were dismissed as inferior and of no threat. Once again, it was somewhat gratifying to be able to look at another man, and judge him inferior.
   The world view engendered by these surveys of the people he met, was one of a large female population of potential sexual partners (if he put his mind to it) and a very small male population who were more desirable as a sexual partner than himself.
   The ego-nurturing devices didn't stop there. For those rare individuals who he had (begrudgingly) judged as more attractive than he, he would look deeper for a criterion other than physical attractiveness on which to judge them against himself. A caveat as to why after all they were not as desirable as he. Were they perhaps homosexual? Surely they weren't as intelligent as he? Certainly not as down to earth. There would always be some dimension on which he could rate himself superior. There were literally millions to choose from.
   A yellow hazard warning sign flashed by on the side of the road. Roadworks two miles ahead, where the road would converge into a single lane.
   So Christine had been attractive enough, but so were countless other women that he met everyday. There must have been more to it than that.
   He hadn't so much as spoken to her before that night. Most of their time on the course was spent in small syndicate groups. They weren't in the same group, so they'd had no real reason to talk to each other.
   He had come out of dinner on the third evening of the five day course and had joined a large group of his fellow delegates in the hotel bar. Before he sat down, he had asked if anyone wanted a drink - it was on company expenses, he didn't care - and Christine was one of those who had taken up his offer. The first words that they had actually exchanged. 'Does anyone want a drink?' and whatever it was that she had asked for, he couldn't remember. Nothing very significant there. Nothing to hint at what was to follow.
   He returned from the bar with his tray of drinks, and sat down at the first available bar-stool, which by chance was next to Christine. Still he hadn't singled her out as anyone important. Just another face in the crowd.
   At first he had remained on the edges of the group. Sitting quietly, drinking his beer, thinking of home, of Sally. He wasn't really very good at holding court with large groups of unfamiliar people. The forced bonhomie of such gatherings made him somewhat uncomfortable. So he had sat, taking in what was said, laughing in all the right places, but contributing little.
   Time passed, drinks were drunk. Jon relaxed and started to ease his way into the conversation. Appending interesting (and only slightly exaggerated) experiences of his own to the similar accounts of others, telling a few 'lowest common denominator' jokes. The group were receptive to his stories and laughed at his jokes. He warmed to them. He was feeling good about himself and allowed himself the luxury of getting pleasantly drunk.
   At about ten O' clock, the group had started to thin out, as it always did around this time. Most people leaving to retire to their rooms, keeping to their usual home routine as much as possible. Whilst a smaller group of 'die-hards' stayed up drinking and talking into the early hours of the morning. On the previous nights of the course, Jon had been a member of the first group, scuttling back to his characterless hotel room to sit watching the television, feeling lonely and homesick. On this night though, for the first time since coming on this course he was enjoying himself. He decided to treat himself to a late night.
   It was only now, with the group reduced to just a handful of people, that he started to have any sort of meaningful dialogue with Christine. With the large group, she had kept quiet, like himself at the start of the evening, listening attentively to what was said, but keeping her own thoughts to herself. It was not until the group's numbers had been diminished that she started to come out of her shell.
   Somehow the conversation moved on to their youth, and it was here that they discovered the happy coincidence of their upbringings. This was enough to send them into animated reminiscences of episodes in the common areas of their childhoods - the area Jon was currently driving through - reminiscences however interesting they might have been to Christine and Jon, that the rest of the group were precluded from. The group's conversation passed on, leaving Jon and Christine to their own private conflabulation.
   Time passed and further drinks were drunk. Tales were told. Empathy was established. Jon and this interesting woman seemed to have so much in common. It was like discovering a friend that he had never known he had. He wanted to talk all night, but eventually the evening had to end. It was Christine who cracked first. Yawning widely, she proclaimed that she was shattered, said her goodnights and headed for her room. With his reason for staying up any later now removed, Jon soon made his excuses and made to return to his own room.
   He caught up with her in the hotel lift. They continued their conversation, picking up where they had left off. Laughing and joking as they exited the lift and walked along the corridor to their rooms. Now that he was on his feet he realised just how drunk he was. It felt great.
   They reached the door to her room. They stood there talking for a while, waiting for a convenient point to conclude their chatter. It didn't materialise. She invited him inside. He accepted, eager to continue their conversation, to have a hot drink before he left for his own room. As soon as the door shut behind him, the atmosphere changed. She pulled him towards her. He was drunk and he liked this woman so very much. He didn't push her away. She kissed him full on the lips. He put his tongue in her mouth. They fell onto the bed that filled her small room. They made love and it ruined his life.
   The traffic on the road in front of him slowed abruptly. Another yellow sign to the left of the road informed that the approaching roadworks were a further four hundred yards ahead and that the traffic should move into the left hand lane. Jon moved into the left lane as directed, as the weight of the converging traffic forced the line of cars to a crawl.
   Why had he risked (and eventually lost) everything on a one night stand? Was sex so important to him that it overshadowed all other concerns? Did he think so little of his relationship with Sally that he'd jeopardise it for the sake of a tawdry sexual encounter? Of course not. Sally had mean't the world to him. The problem was that he hadn't thought at all. He'd been drunk. He'd found himself in a situation and had reacted instinctively, the way he was genetically programmed to. It wasn't really his fault, he just couldn't help himself.
   Of course, claiming something was human nature didn't excuse that action. That was the whole point of having an intellect. To be able to resist our maladaptive baser instincts. That was what separated us from the animals. The thing which we used to justify our wholesale abuse of the animal kingdom.
   Under normal circumstances, Jon stridently resisted pornography in all its many forms - from the obvious sexual pornographies, to the more subtle pornographies of violence and greed - where pornography as Jon defined it, was anything which relied on the exploitation of others for the titillation of our instinctive desires.
   The problem was that alcohol made us so much more susceptible to these instinctive desires. That was why people drank after all; to relax themselves. to lower their inhibitions, so that they could have a good time. Drinking was so institutionalised in our culture that these dehumanising effects of alcohol were seen as perfectly acceptable, even positively encouraged. If it hadn't been for the drink, Jon would have never been unfaithful to Sally.
   If it was the effects of alcohol that had prevented him from resisting the temptations presented to his baser instincts, then the part played by chance in presenting him with the circumstances in which these temptations were embodied, could not be discounted. After all, it was a far from common experience for him to find himself in such an intimate situation with a woman other than his wife.
   As a married man he had actively avoided such risk filled intimacy. But on this one occasion, fate had conspired to put him in a position where he might be vulnerable, and there had been nothing that he could have done to resist the inevitable. The fact that he was on the course, that he decided to stay up drinking on that particular evening, that he had sat next to Christine, that she had come from the same area as him, that she had misinterpreted his friendliness as being something more, that she had made a sexual approach to him, that he had been too drunk to resist. On their own most of these factors were unlikely. The chances of them all occurrencing at the same time must have been astronomical - a million to one shot - it was almost beyond belief.
   None of these elements - with the exception perhaps of his decision to get drunk (ignoring social pressures) - were under his direct control. At no point on that night had he made a conscious decision to do anything that might directly have made his eventual infidelity more likely. It wasn't really his fault. He had been a victim of circumstance. Swept along on a tide of misfortune into a situation that he couldn't avoid. Anybody (any man at any rate) would have done the same thing. Even the strongest relationships - which Sally and his had been - was only a combination of unfavourable circumstances away from infidelity.
   The whole episode wasn't really about sex at all. He'd been racked by guilt immediately afterwards, and had nothing further to do with Christine, as he surely would have if illicit sex had been his motivation. The incident was really about reacting quite normally to a series of freak circumstances thrown at him by fate. He was as much a victim as Sally had been.
   The traffic in the left hand lane had now slowed almost to a halt. Forced to a snails' pace by the cars shooting down the right hand lane, who were ignoring the warning signs, and forcing their way into the left lane further down the road, thus disrupting the smooth flow of the 'responsible' traffic in that lane who had moved to the left as soon as they were instructed to. Jon could still not yet see the roadworks on the road in front of him, but estimated that there was at least another two hundred yards to go.
   Jon had an erection.
   Who was he trying to kid, that the episode had nothing at all to do about sex. Just thinking about it now was enough to give him a hard on. Christ, he was pathetic. Why couldn't he be honest with himself? Face the facts, face his guilt. He liked to think that he had been racked by guilt, immediately after his act of unfaithfulness, and had nothing to do with Christine ever again, but that was only half the story. Certainly, he felt guilty the next day, but not immediately after the act itself.
   They made love five times that night, there was no guilt - and little sleep - there. And the sex was fantastic, filled with the urgency, the passion, the invention that familiarity had long since stripped from the sex Sally and he had shared. He'd felt bad the next morning, but even then that was more fear at what he might lose, rather than any true sense of guilt at having done wrong. On that night the sex was tremendous.
   A terrible thought struck him. What if he had got AID's? What if he had been infected and he had then gone and infected Sally in turn? What if they had both been condemned to long and painful deaths, for the sake of his one night of illicit pleasure? Then he remembered, he wasn't stupid, he'd taken precautions. Nothing was worth that sort of risk. But wait a minute, something wasn't quite right there.
   This recollection didn't quite fit in with the way he remembered the whole episode. Where had these precautions, these condoms come from. Christine wouldn't have had them, she wasn't that type of girl, and he certainly didn't carry any around with him. If he'd really not premeditated his act of infidelity, then where did the condoms come from. His version of the facts just didn't hang together.
   That was the trouble with memories. You weren't actually recalling the event - like the replaying of some internal video camera - you were actually remembering the mental images from the last occasion when you had recalled the events. You were remembering memories, and those memories were probably the memories of other memories in turn. Stretching back in some extended chain to the long-past event itself. In this way, people's recollections of events become clouded by the way the mind and all its ego-saving devices interprets those events. It was like a game of mental Chinese whispers. Memories were just not reliable. Sometimes it was necessary to re-examine them.
   Jon went back over his recollections of that night. He could remember events clearly up to the point where he had started to talk to Christine. He was fairly certain of the facts up until then. Some time after he had started to talk her, and before they had entered her room, he must have bought the condoms, but when? Where could he have bought them from? The bar-room toilets were the obvious place.
   Now that he thought about it, he could remember buying them in the toilets, almost an hour before they left the bar. By buying the condoms , he showed that he must have anticipated that they might be going to have sex, and if he anticipated what was going to happen, but still did nothing to prevent it other than to invest in a couple of packets of prophylactics, then he showed that he must have wanted it to happen.
   He had actively chosen to have sex with Christine, at least an hour before they had left the hotel bar. Accepting this truth, the self-serving illusions that he had built up around the events of that night started to fall away, leaving the unadulterated, painful, truth.
   He had wanted to sleep with Christine alright. He couldn't pinpoint the exact point when this desire had first manifested itself, but he was certain it was sometime during their conversation about their common childhood roots. When they had started to talk, she was just another acceptably attractive unremarkable woman. But as they had talked, as their empathy had developed, her attractiveness had seemed to grow.
   Slowly, inexorably, she started to dominate his senses, until all that he could think of was her, all that he wanted was her. The attraction seemed to be reciprocated, all the signs were there. They talked some more. As they talked they drank. As they drank, he forgot more and more about Sally and his life outside of the confines of this small Hampshire Hotel bar. They drank some more.
   Eventually, Christine declared (almost melodramatically) that she was tired and left the bar heading for the hotel lift and her room. Jon followed her, (a respectable) two minutes later and was not at all surprised to find her still in the lift. They took the lift to the third floor, where her room was. They both got out, even though Jon's room was on the second floor. Neither of them commented on his oversight. They walked along the corridor to her room, still laughing, joking, flirting, but nothing more than that; yet. They reached the door to her room. She opened it and stepped inside. He waited outside waiting for the invitation to join her.
   She turned, uncertain,
   'Well I suppose this is good night?'
   She hesitated, as if waiting for an answer. He forced the issue.
   'Well, aren't you going to invite me in for a coffee?'
    She acquiesced instantly. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him.
   Jon could see the roadworks now, less than one hundred yards away on the road in front of him. Still cars sped past him in the right hand lane, leaving it until the last minute when they barged their way into the left hand lane, forcing this lane into a frustrating succession of stops and starts.
   Why was his sex with Christine so good? What was wrong with Sally and his relationship, that the sex he had with this stranger seemed so much better? At the beginning of Sally and his relationship, their lovemaking was of an intensity to eclipse anything Jon had experienced with Christine, but these halcyon days had not lasted. As their relationship had developed, the desire to impress and please the other had faded, and this had lead in a reduction in effort, in the sexual arena as in all others. Sally just didn't seem to be interested anymore. Jon's desires were as strong as ever, but he was careful not to force his attentions on her. The frequency of their couplings had decreased exponentially over time.
   When Sally and he had first got together, they used to talk about anything and everything, exploring the nuances of each others thinking on every topic imaginable. Later though, with each other's viewpoints thoroughly mapped out, such discussions seemed redundant as both could fully predict the other's response. There was no need to ask. Jon thought that there was a parallel in Sally's diminishing interest in sex. As if having explored most of the options in the early days of the relationship there was little of worth to be gleaned from such activity.
   It seemed to Jon, that Sally and he - and probably men and women in general, though he could have been assuming false consensus in this - held fundamentally different attitudes towards sex, and how it was important. To men, it was important to have sex, but it was not particularly important who they had sex with. That is, the act of sex in itself, did not signify any 'special bond' with the sexual partner. Their 'special bond' with their partner lay elsewhere. They had sex with their partner, simply because they were convenient, and could not really understand why their partner might ever not want to have sex with them at every opportunity.
   Sex was such a gratifying, easy thing, they could not imagine refusing an agreeable offer, especially not an offer from a person they were meant to be in love with. With women, the position was reversed. The act of sex was not nearly so important, as was the person they were having sex with. Sex was a means to an end. The whole point of the sexual act was not so much gratification as it was to reinforce the bond with the sexual partner.
   From this premise, the only thing that had stopped Jon being unfaithful to Sally in the past, was the knowledge that she would feel betrayed at him forming what she considered a 'special bond' with another woman - a bond that she saw as unique between him and her - rather than any sense of transgressing his own personal moral code. After he had been unfaithful, the 'guilt' that he had felt was more fear of Sally's reaction, than regret at having done anything wrong.
   These thoughts about his lack of sexual fulfilment in his relationship with Sally, and ideas about the differences in men and women's attitudes towards sex that led to such strains on a relationship, were not new to Jon. Before his affair he'd been through these lines of reasoning countless times before. Since his infidelity though, and particularly since Sally had died, he'd been living with the idea that his relationship with Sally had been perfect, and that his infidelity was the product of nothing more than a string of unfavourable coincidences.
   A string of coincidences that could have happened to anyone. He had been an unwitting victim of fate, never having made any conscious decision which might implicate his guilt. Now it seemed that this was all a self-deception. He'd been guilty alright. His infidelity was pre-meditated. He was to blame for it and everything that it had caused. If he'd been lying to himself about this, then what other untruths had he been harbouring. In a way, his infidelity underpinned it all; Sally leaving, her death, his crusade. If the infidelity was his fault then where did that leave the rest of it?
   Fuck it.
   He'd been in the traffic queue for almost half an hour now. Half an hour spent sitting in the left hand lane, watching a stream of selfish bastards shoot past in the outside lane. What was wrong with these people? Did they just assume that their time was somehow more important than that of the people in the left hand lane, the people who were doing the civilised thing, waiting patiently, whilst they jumped the queue, forcing everyone else to wait that much longer.
   Jon was only thirty yards from the start of the roadworks; the point where the two lanes actually merged. From here he could watch the right lane queue jumpers force their way into the left hand lane. Each one seemed like a personal affront to his sense of natural justice. Each one enraged him still further.
   Don't you fucking dare let them in.
   He silently urged the people in the queue in front of him.
   Spineless Bastards.
   He admonished them when their innate reasonableness forced them to give way and let the queue jumpers in front of them, rather than risk crashing into them.
   Then it was his turn, almost at the place where the lanes met, once he was past it, the traffic would speed up, it would be plain sailing from there.
   And there it was, a flash of red in his right hand mirror. A ford Sierra, with suit jacket hung up in the back rear window.
   Bloody sales rep'.

+ + + + + +

Trevor Saunders sped down the outside of the line of traffic, ignoring all signs instructing him to join that line himself. He felt no compunction for his actions. He regarded himself to be a 'professional' driver; he did tens of thousands of miles in his company car every year. He was just following the unofficial driving code of his fellow 'professionals'. And though it might not exactly lay within the current laws of the land, if more people followed it, then the road would certainly be a much safer place.
   It wasn't your experienced driver doing ninety miles an hour in the outside lane of the motorway who would cause an accident. It was your Sunday afternoon driver doing forty who pulled out in front of them. Bloody amateurs. The people who sat in the row of cars to the left of him were all amateurs, pulling obediently into the left hand lane as soon as they were told to. Roadsigns were designed for such people. People who had a bit more sense like him could take them with a pinch of salt. He knew what he was doing.

+ + + + + +

The car decelerated quickly as it came alongside Jon, then dived for the gap between him and the car in front. Jon quickly tried to close that gap, which couldn't have been any wider than three foot at most, but it was too late; before he could react the Sierra had forced its left wing in. There was nothing that he could do, short of ramming the thing and he was forced to let the car in front of him.
   Bastard.

+ + + + + +

Trevor came quickly up to the point where the two lanes converged, pressed hard on the brakes and nipped in front of a Blue Ford Fiesta on the inside lane. Such a manoeuvre was so routine for him, that he did it all automatically, almost without thinking. With the two lanes of traffic now safely merged into one, the speed of the traffic started to pick up to a respectable fifty miles an hour, though for Trevor it had hardly slowed at all. The roadworks continued for about three miles before the road once again opened up into its two lanes. Trevor immediately swung his car into the outside lane and accelerated away.

+ + + + + +

Jon glowered at the car in front of him. Driving along the side of the roadworks, the pace of the traffic picked up. This was how fast the traffic should have been going approaching the roadworks, if it hadn't been for those selfish bastards speeding down the outside and nipping in at the last minute, screwing it up for everyone else. He was going to teach them a lesson.
   The roadworks finished and the road opened up into two lanes. The red Sierra moved to the right and started to speed away. Jon let him get about fifty yards in front of him, before moving into the outside lane himself and following him at a discreet distance.

+ + + + + +

Trevor was heading for his final appointment of the day. A small electronics company who which be interested in placing an order for some machine lathes. With any luck he'd be out of there by four thirty. Another seventy miles home, he could be there by half five.
   Jon followed the red Sierra at a distance for almost ten minutes, before accelerating up close behind it. He flashed his lights and used his horn to attract the driver's attention, and started to point to the side of the road.
   Trevor noticed the car behind him flashing his lights and wondered what was happening. He looked behind him to see the car's driver pointing to the left hand side of the road, seemingly trying to flag him down. He didn't recognise the car, or what he could see of the driver, so wondered if there was something wrong with his own car. He moved into the left hand lane and pulled into the next lay-by.
   The lay-by was empty. Jon pulled up behind the red Sierra. He quickly unbuckled his seat belt and got out of his car, and walked towards the driver's side of the car in front.
   Trevor watched in his rear view mirror as the man walked up to his car. He looked normal enough, but Trevor certainly didn't recognise him from anywhere. The stranger came up to the right hand side of the car and tapped on the window.
   Trevor pressed the button to lower his electric window.
   Jon spoke.
   'Thank heavens I've caught you.'
   Trevor was none the wiser.
   'What is it?'
   'I've got something of yours.'
   'Yeah?'
   Standing so that his body obscured the car's driver from the view of the cars on the road, Jon reached inside his jacket pocket. In one fluid movement he whipped out his revolver and placed it against the driver's temple.
   'Don't move, stay where you are.'
   Before Trevor had a chance to react the cold iron of the gun was pressed against the side of his head. He stayed quiet, not wanting to antagonise his assailant. He wondered what this man wanted. Perhaps he was going to rob him. That bloke in the papers flashed across his mind, the Dark Angel, that was what they called him. He hoped this man was going to rob him.
   Jon spoke again.
   'What do you do?'
   Trevor answered weakly.
   'Sorry?'
   'Are you a salesman or something?'
   'Yeah, I'm a rep'.'
   'Good, I thought so.'
   Jon moved his right hand, tracing a line with his gun's barrel from the side of the salesman's head to the centre of the man's chest.
   'Have you got any money on you?'
   'Yes, yes I..'
   Jon squeezed the trigger, sending the man's body jolting back in his seat. The sound of the shot rang out, but was barely conspicuous against the din of the road. Jon put the gun back inside his jacket's inside pocket and turned to survey the road behind him. Nobody had slowed. The traffic raced by, impervious to the drama played out by it's side.
   Jon walked round to the passenger side of the car and got in beside the dead man.
   The man had been a convenient outlet for his anger. The aristocrat could wait. For now, a salesman was a fitting victim. He retrieved a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. After the problems with the impostor, Jon had decided to leave his notes with the bodies of the victims. That way, there would be no mistaking the impostor's crimes for his. He had a note prepared for Mowbray, some of which was non-specific and he could still use that, but he'd have to think up some anti-salesman rhetoric. He'd have to be quick. He didn't want to remain in this exposed position any longer than he had to.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 13.

TINDERBOX

'Eye for eye, life for life.
   A note with each criminal. That is the way of the Dark Angel. That is how you will recognise my acts from those of my imitators.
   A salesman has been selected. The aristocracy have been temporarily reprieved.
   Sally was innocent. The guilt is mine. The infidelity was my fault alone. My penance is to fulfil this crusade. To cleanse society of it's most abhorrent elements.
   Sally's death was not my fault. I was merely society's instrument. Thrown under the unforgiving steel wheels, in the dark tunnels. It was not my fault. Society was to blame. I am absolved of all guilt for my unwitting actions.
   The salesman is society's parasite. They feed off the labours of others, producing nothing of any value themselves. They act as mere intermediaries, separating producer from consumer, stealing from the pockets of both, concerned only for their profit margin. The only commodity that they have to offer is their confidence. They use every ploy imaginable to maximise their own personal gain. All's fair in love and commerce. Persuading the supplier to sell their product for less, persuading the buyer to purchase the product for more. They are legitimised confidence tricksters, and the world would be better off without them.
   The rewards given to such people are in inverse proportion to their worth. The richest men in our society - the nouveau riche - are all salesmen in some form or other. The rewards for hard work, for invention, for original thought, for talent, are relatively small. It is the leech-like salesman who prevents the rewards reaching those who have truly earned them.
   My earlier victims; estate-agents, stock-brokers, advertisers are all salesmen of a kind.
   Salesmen heed my warning. Give up your jobs. You fulfil no useful function. Let goods be bought and sold at prices determined by an idea of their intrinsic value, with no need for self-interested intermediaries.
   Repent your sins and you will be saved. Society will be a better place for your choice. Ignore my words and you could be next.
   Eye for eye, life for life.'

Peter Jones laid the photocopy of the note back down on the desk in front of him and sighed deeply. It had been waiting for him when he had got in early this morning. The news had broken about the latest killing late yesterday evening. He'd been rung at home, interrupted during a dinner party. They'd been entertaining Chief Inspector Davison and his wife Talk about shitty timing, he'd been cultivating the relationship with Davison for months. Taking care to make deliberate ingratiating small talk with him at the lodge. Nagging him to bring the 'little-woman' round for dinner sometime. Eventually, he had relented. Just as Peter had known he must. Another social bridge built. Another minor leg up in his relentless climb of the career ladder.
   Jackie, his own wife, had really surpassed herself. Chateau Briand, one of his favourites. The evening had been going swimmingly. They were well into their third bottle of Neuf de Pape, all pleasantly drunk, when the call had come through and spoilt it all.
   There hadn't been any point in him going in to the Yard. There wouldn't have been a great deal that he could have done. Best to let Bob Grey run around and do that which he was best at, but he was forced to go through the motions and show willing for Davison's benefit. Thankfully, Charles as he had been calling him all evening - no ranks outside the office, just call me Charles - had 'persuaded' him that he would be better served staying at home and going in fresh the next morning.
   They had finished the meal, but the rest of the evening had been a write-off. The conversation that had flowed so freely before, had all but dried up. This new killing was not mentioned, but hung over the dinner table like an awful shadow. Their wives had tried to instigate several friendly, if empty, exchanges, but both men were lost in their own grey thoughts and such attempts were doomed to rapid failure.
   Jones got the impression that Davison almost personally blamed him for the killing, that it was somehow his fault for not having caught the murderer earlier. They ate their deserts in silence, punctuated only by the occasional sharp peal of spoon on china bowl. The Davisons didn't stay for coffee.
   He had hardly slept a wink last night. He lay silently next to the unconscious body of his wife, as the details of the case span round in his head. It had all been so different when he had first been placed in charge of the investigation. It had been a feather in his cap to be given such an important case. A real step up the ladder. All that had been apparent to him were the positive things. He hadn't even contemplated the possibility of failure, that they might not be able to catch the man they were looking for. He hadn't thought much about the actual catching of their man at all.
   He never got involved in the nitty gritty of the cases, that was strictly Bob's department, effective delegation and all that. This case for him was not dissimilar to all the others he had ever dealt with; a series of management meetings, staff schedules, staff briefings and media releases, all of which he had performed to his usual exemplary standard (false modesty was not a virtue he valued highly).
   What he did, was as important as the detective work itself, more important in fact, that's why the rewards were greater, his skills were much rarer than your run of the mill detective's. How well he fulfilled his role was directly linked to how quickly they caught their quarry. He accepted this fact without question. He was good at his job, he knew that and nobody had ever failed to confirm his high opinion of himself, and up to this point he had always been very successful in catching the people he was looking for. Success he was only too willing to take the credit for.
   Now, he was working on the most important case of his career to date and he was getting nowhere. There was a man out there, killing people at will, and they seemed powerless to prevent him. He felt so helpless. He was working as hard as he could, but his efforts did not seem to have any effect on the course of the investigation. His career was slowly but surely going down the toilet, and there seemed to be nothing that he could do about it.
   Today would be a nightmare. He could clearly visualise the rest of the day stretching out in front of him. Meetings with his superiors (what would Davison's mood be like today), a press conference, explanations as to what he was planning to do, making excuses for their lack of progress. It would be a rear guard action from start to finish. On the defensive, under pressure, covering his back, doing his best to make sure none of the mud stuck. He knew there was nobody better suited to the job than he, no-one he would trust to tackle it in his place, but he was not looking forward to it.
   The note had been left on his desk by Bob Grey. Attached to it there was a scribbled note in Grey's familiar handwriting. It read 'No strong leads, will ring you when I get in, or if anything turns up'. Bob would have been in ever since the news first came through last night. At the scene of the crime, gathering the evidence, trawling through the minutiae of this latest killing in his usual meticulous fashion.
   Bob's effort couldn't be faulted. His dedication was beyond question. Nobody could do more. The sheer number of hours that he had been putting in was phenomenal. But then again the effort that Bob put into any case was similarly Herculean. He seemed to have an insatiable appetite for detective work. He ate, drank and slept the job. There was no time for anything else. That was all he did. It was his life.
   Grey didn't seem to have any sort of existence outside of work. He lived alone, in a flat North of the river. Jones had never been there, he'd never been invited, nor indeed had any inclination to socialise with the man other than the minimum he was obliged to outside of work, but he could imagine only too well what it must be like. Grey had never mentioned any woman in his life.
   It was difficult to imagine where he would find the time, but in all the years Jones had known him, he couldn't recall ever having heard him talk about a woman - any woman - in an overtly sexual light. Not so much as a 'look at the tits on that', nothing. It wasn't that this absence suggested Grey could be gay or something, heaven forbid - Jones didn't have anything against them you understand, but he wouldn't feel right having one of them working for him. It was more that Grey seemed to have no interest in sex whatsoever, as if he was somehow completely non-sexual. Sad.
   Whatever Bob's life outside work was like, Jones was glad that he worked for him. He appreciated Bob's abilities that so complemented his own. Bob was everything that he was not. Bob's main strength lay in his inexhaustible attention to detail. He would break the available evidence of a case down to the lowest possible level, and then burrow into it, searching for patterns within this multifarious collection of facts, patterns that might lead him to the truth of the events and the perpetrators they were looking for.
   There was no room in Grey's approach for the inspirational; the sudden leap of logic, the old fashioned hunch. It was a long slog from start to finish. Nothing was overlooked and so details were picked up which others (with their more haphazard methods) might overlook, but it was incredibly labour intensive, and to Jones (and he assumed to everyone else with the exception of Bob Grey) appeared soul-destroyingly tedious.
   Bob wouldn't have had it any other way. He seemed to relish the challenge to his analytical abilities. In fact, the more impenetrable the evidence, the more he appeared to like it. The large majority of cases they tackled didn't require such a process of analysis. There was a clear path between the crime and the criminal, that the detective merely had to follow. Though Bob tackled such cases as effectively as anyone else, Jones got the impression that he was somehow disappointed when the case was solved quickly and he was denied the opportunity to exercise his particular talents.
   Paradoxically, though Jones appreciated Grey's talents for the success they brought, at the same time he thought less of Grey as a person for possessing them. Abilities such as Grey's were tedious in the extreme, and were not the characteristics of a well-rounded personality (such as Jones' own). As a nuts and bolts detective, Bob was outstanding, but as a person he was worthless. Jones could (and did) dismiss him in an instant, his own superiority as a human being unquestionable. This complete lack of competition on a personal level that Grey provided, was almost as valuable to Jones as Grey's detective abilities.
   In the past, Jones had always been happy to let Bob get on with it. His favoured methods, on those rare occasions when he had the opportunity to employ them, may have been long-winded, but because of the ridiculous number of hours he was prepared to put in he could get away with it, and he could deliver results within a reasonable timescale. People who had to work with him might (and invariably did) complain that he was difficult to work with, that they found him unhelpful and secretive, and that his approach was impenetrable, but the bottom line was that he got results.
   Until Now.
   Despite all Bob's efforts, the investigation seemed to be going nowhere. Bob always liked to play things close to his chest, and so it was difficult to tell, but Jones could see no evidence of any significant progress being made. Bob's response to this apparent failure was to become even more taciturn and obsessive than usual. He didn't know exactly what hours he was putting in, but he was looking decidedly the worse for wear. He had become withdrawn, irritable and jumpy, and the longer it went on, the worse he was getting.
   Jones wondered if Grey's approach was suited to a case as big as this one. There was just so much possible information, so much raw data to go on, that Bob seemed to be blinded by the sheer scale of the thing. That he was simply lost in the endless amount of information. Unable to see the whole picture in the way he was used to, that he couldn't see the wood for the trees. Perhaps Jones had been too eager in his marginalisation of Elaine. Her note theory seemed to be leading them in circles, but at least she had a theory. At least they had something to go on. Something to prove or disprove.
   It couldn't continue like this for much longer. The time was fast approaching when he would have to make a change. Decisive action was required, but he had to be sure that the decision he made was the right one. He might not get another chance. One way or another something had to change, soon.

+ + + + + +

Kevin Howey sat at his breakfast table eating the toast and coffee that his wife had prepared for him. Joanne, his wife sat opposite him, not eating herself - she would do that in half an hour's time when she got the kids up - but sat in her dressing gown, awaiting the off-chance that her husband might want to communicate with her in any way, out of some sense of matrimonial obligation.
   Kevin ate quickly and in silence, he should have left for the Depot about ten minutes before, but when his alarm had gone off at six in the morning a stolen half hour in bed seemed ultimately preferable to such trivialities as being certain of being in time for work and having enough time to properly get dressed and eat his breakfast without having to rush.
   Kevin swallowed his last bite of toast, gulped down the dregs of his coffee and stood up to leave. Joanne stood up and leaned towards him offering her cheek as was her habit and without thinking he moved towards her to give her a farewell peck. Their ritual was interrupted by the transistor radio which had up to then been practically unnoticed as it pumped out its aural wallpaper, switched to one of its half-hourly news bulletins. Eager to catch any traffic news which might effect his day's work as a lorry driver for Sainsbury's, Kevin paused in his automated train of actions and listened.
   '..Another victim for the killer known as the Dark Angel. Trevor Saunders, a sales representative for Murray Industrials, was found dead late last night in his car parked in a lay-by by the side of the A342 just North of the Hertfordshire town of Westcliff...'
   Kevin's heart skipped a beat. He had been driving back from a delivery along that road yesterday afternoon. and had witnessed something that had seemed strange to him at the time.
   '..Mr Saunders was killed by a single shot to the chest. At present the police have not released any further details. More news as we get it..'
    He had seen a blue Fiesta driving wildly, dangerously close behind a red Sierra flashing its hazard warning and headlights and sounding its horn seemingly trying to catch the Sierra driver's attention.
   '..And in further news this morning, scientists in California have today claimed..'
   A single incident on the hundreds of miles that he travelled every working day, hundreds of miles which invariably contained a sprinkling of examples of both eccentric and downright dangerous driving, but something about yesterday's event had raised his suspicions and he had found himself noting down the licence number of the Fiesta - something that he was not in the habit of doing - on a discarded chocolate bar wrapper that littered his dashboard that had been the first thing that had come to hand.
   The episode was over almost as soon as it had come to his attention, disappearing in his rear view mirror, as the two cars slowed and pulled to the side of the road behind him.
   By the time Kevin had travelled the remaining thirty or so miles to his Depot, finished his shift and driven home, he had all but forgotten the entire episode.
   Now, the incident had leapt back into the full focus of his consciousness.
   In the background the traffic news passed unnoticed.
   'Bloody Hell, who'd have thought eh?'
   Joanne enunciated her concern at the proximity of this drama to her own existence.
   'Yeah.'
   Kevin considered the car licence number scribbled on the scrap of paper on his dashboard. Should he phone the police and tell them what he had seen? It probably wasn't anything to do with the murder. The radio had said that the bloke had been found at night, and when Kevin had seen the two cars it had been the middle of the afternoon. If he rang the police, it might take them ages to take his details down. They wouldn't thank him for wasting their time. He was already late for work.
   He would ring them tonight. Maybe.
   'Right, can't stand here all day.'
   Kevin resumed his journey to his wife's cheek and successfully completed the manoeuvre.
   'See you love.'
   'Bye then, be careful.'

+ + + + + +

The morning sunlight streamed through the lounge window of the Tooting flat. Sat on the futon, dressed in a towelling dressing gown, unshaven and surrounded by the accumulated detritus of several days neglect, virtually unmoved from the same spot throughout. Jon's mind was racing. He was thinking through the same line of argument for the umpteenth time since the killing of the salesman, since his self-revelations in the car.
   He had been unfaithful to his wife. Unmanipulated, at his own volition, he had engineered his own adultery. He had wanted to have sex with a woman other than his wife. He had actively pursued this illicit desire, and that desire had been consummated. He had quite deliberately and premeditatedly betrayed the trust that lay between him and his wife. The trust that had been the foundations on which their relationship was built. Nobody had cajoled him into doing it. The responsibility, the blame, the guilt was entirely his and his alone.
   The facts were inescapable. Though it was uncomfortable for him to accept them, he could deceive himself no longer. This was the type of man that he was. An adulterer, a user of women, an exploiter, someone who could not be trusted, an individual devoid of morals, a person deserving of universal contempt.
   What was a person, except a sum of their previous actions? Jon was only too ready to condemn the selfish actions of others. But now he had been shown to be as bad as those he had previously judged. He had been compromised. He was morally bankrupt. He had no authority to pass judgement on the behaviour of others. And without that authority, what did that make those acts of retribution he had already carried out? He was a murderer. The most abhorrent of all possible crimes. He had broken the oldest taboo. The most selfish act of all. The taking of that which is most precious, most irreplaceable. The taking of another's life.
   These were the facts. They were not open for debate. He was an adulterer and murderer. Mass murderer even. The lowest of the low. Accepting these facts, the question was, what was he going to do about it? Jon glanced to his right at the revolver that lay at his side on the futon. That was the most immediate, the obvious solution. Suicide. For what he had done, he deserved punishment more than any of the people who's lives he had so readily taken.
   He had considered the option many times. It would be so easy to just reach down, bring the gun up to his head, open his mouth around the cold stub nosed steel muzzle and click. It would all be so easy. One squeeze of the trigger and then nothing. Game Over. The end of it all. No heaven, no hell, just nothing.
   There was no God, he knew that. He had convinced himself of that once and for all in his late teens. He had dallied with religion during his early adolescence, but he had experimented with a variety of things around that time that he had later decided were not for him and cast aside. In the sixth form, his best friend had got heavily involved in Christianity and the strength of their friendship had pulled Jon in with him.
   At a time in Jon's life when he had been desperate for answers it had been attractive to him, and for a while it had formed an important part of his existence. But after he had moved from school on to University with all its distractions, separated from his erstwhile mentor his fervour had waned (along with their friendship). By the time that he had met Sally, his beliefs were at best vague. He thought that there might be a God, but was by no means sure, and did nothing to moderate his behaviour as a result of this 'God's' possible existence.
   Sally had been an ardent atheist. She had argued at every opportunity that a belief in a superior being controlling the universe was just a mechanism by which people could absolve responsibility for their own actions. Basic attribution theory. As in so many things, he had found himself coming round to Sally's way of thinking.
   That was all a long time ago. The acceptance of the non-existence of God had hardened over time, until it was no longer open to question. It was a fact. As much a fact as his infidelity and murders. But reading through copies of the earlier notes he had written to justify his killings (his crimes) he had found that they were peppered with references to God and the bible.
   Some of the biblical references were effective in engendering a flavour of vengeful retribution, and in that light he had been happy to use the 'Eye for eye' stuff in the note he had produced more recently. But the earlier notes went way beyond this. Reading them it was impossible not to come to the conclusion that the author of the notes not only believed in God, but probably thought of himself as having some special relationship with such a deity.
   It was intensely disturbing for Jon to read such sentiments expressed by himself only a relatively short period of time ago. It was if he was reading the words of a stranger, and by all appearances a reasonably disturbed stranger. Casting his mind back to the time when he had written these notes, Jon found that though he could remember his actions of the time (primarily the killings) quite clearly, he had a very poor recollection of the way that he had been thinking at the time that he had performed these actions. It was as if the memories of his thought processes of the time were so out of sorts with his current more normal (healthy) way of thinking, that his mind just could not cope with them, like trying to play a Betamax tape in a VHS video recorder.
   Even with no recollection of his thinking when he had written these earlier notes, there was no escaping that fact that when he had written them, indeed when he had embarked on his trail to purge Society of its worst elements, Jon had been thinking about the world in a very different way to that which he considered normal. At the time, there had been an imbalance in his state of mind. He had without a doubt been suffering from some form of mental illness. He was insane.
   All thoughts of suicide displaced by this new discovery of his insanity, Jon replaced the revolver down by his side. He brought his empty hands up to his face and started to weep uncontrollably.

+ + + + + +

The chimes of the teaspoon glancing off the sides of the coffee mug rang around the office. Chris marked off his 'consumption' on the chart attached to the cupboard above the kettle and picked up the two mugs to return to his desk. He had recently forsaken the coffee machine and joined the office coffee-club. Elaine and he now took it in turns to make each other drinks. Between drinks they both spent an inordinate amount of time and (light hearted) effort complaining that they were doing slightly more than their fair share of the preparation duties.
   'There you go.'
   'Thanks.'
   'That's okay. Just remember it's your turn next.'
   'What do you mean, I got the last three.'
   'Get a grip. You've only made one all week.'
   'Okay, okay, I'll make the next one'.
   Satisfied with the settlement, Chris sat down.
   'No note then?'
   'No', Elaine concurred, 'Well after last time I half expected as much. One might turn up in a day or two.'
   'I wonder why he changed his pattern?'
   'Who knows. The mind of a paranoid schizophrenic must work in mysterious ways.'
   'It could be worth another visit to Sar.., Doctor Smith to see if she's got any ideas.'
   'I don't think so.'
   Something in Elaine's tone indicated that this was not a point that was open to debate. Chris took his cue and changed the subject.
   'At least Grey's not having any more luck than we did, and he's got ten times the resources we ever had.'
   Elaine agreed wholeheartedly with Chris's sentiment. Whatever happened now she could always argue (at the very least to herself) that the case had been taken prematurely from her. She still had a responsibility though, to set Chris a good example, and didn't consider it apt to crow in front of him.
   'I'm sure that's a great comfort to the families of the victims.'
   Chris was taken aback by Elaine's caustic response to what he had intended to be merely an empathy building throwaway remark. Her reply was a throw-back to the bad old days, before she had begun to thaw before his charm.
   'I didn't mean that. I was just saying..'
   Elaine saw that she had overstepped the mark and moved swiftly to repair his fragile self-esteem.
   'I know what you meant, and to an extent I agree with you. It's just that I'll be much happier when we catch the bastard that's doing this. That would really show Grey and Jones.'
   'Yeah,' agreed Chris, the synchronicity between them reestablished.
   'You know, I've just got this feeling, that somewhere, somehow, something important is about to happen soon. Like there's a storm brewing.'
   'You know Chris, there's hidden depths to you that most people just don't get to see.'
   Elaine battled to keep the tone of her voice as serious as possible as she delivered the hook.
   'You reckon?'
   Chris was as susceptible to flattery as ever and walked right into it.
   'Underneath that crass exterior, there beats the heart of a new-age hippy.'
   'I tell you what. If you ever get sick of police work, you could get a job as an astrologer with predictions as remarkably specific as that. Aries - Something's going to happen to you. Cancer - Something might happen to you too !'
   She laughed gaily at his expense.
   'Philistine.'
   Chris retorted with a term that had only recently entered his vocabulary (borrowed from Elaine's). He did not take offence at this leg pulling, but recognised it as important in building the relationship between them. And he did so want to build a relationship between them.
   'Your problem is you've just got no soul.'
   Elaine's phone interrupted their idle banter. She spent a moment collecting herself, stifling her laughter, and then plucked up the receiver.
   'Elaine Heaton.'
   'Yes.'
   'Well I just assumed he hadn't sent one, like in the Stuart killing.'
   'Oh.'
   'Yes of course.'
   'Well then, I'll be right over.'
   'Thank you sir, goodbye.'
   Elaine replaced the handpiece an looked up to meet Chris's questioning gaze.
   'That was Jones. The killer did leave a note. I'm just going to pick it up now.'
   'Why didn't he send us a copy of the note straight away?'
   'He apologised for that, said he'd been pre-occupied this morning.'
   'That doesn't sound like Jones, apologising I mean.'
   'No, he sounded odd on the phone. Sort of uncertain'
   Chris raised his eyebrows at this report of Jones' uncharacteristic behaviour.
   Elaine rose from her seat.
   'Well let's see what our killer has got to say for himself shall we. See you in a minute.'

+ + + + + +

Kevin eased on the air-brakes as the traffic slowed to a crawl in front of him. He was on his way to make a delivery to Chempford branch and noticed that this was almost the same stretch of road where he had seen the incident with the two cars the day before.
   He wondered what was the matter with the traffic. He had just spent almost half an hour getting through the road works no more than five miles back. Those roadworks had been there for weeks, but this was new, unexpected, there had been no problem here yesterday, it was probably an accident or something.
   The traffic didn't actually come to a dead-halt, as it normally did in such situations, but continued at a steady slow pace of around twenty miles an hour. This steady crawl continued for about half a mile before Kevin saw what was causing it. Rubber-necking. People were just slowing down to see what was happening on the opposite carriageway. There was a lay-by swarming with police, cars with lights flashing, the works.
   For the second time that day his heart jumped, and the memory of yesterday's episode was thrown into the forefront of his mind. The killing must have happened in that lay-by, it was just after the place where he had seen the two cars. What he had seen might be important. He could, he should stop and tell them about the licence number. But he'd have to cross the central reservation somehow to get to the other side and there were no turns for miles.
   With the two hold-ups he was already behind time, and there must have been hundreds of people other than him yesterday who had seen what he saw, someone would probably, almost certainly have already told the police what he knew, even if it was connected to the killing, which was unlikely. Past the point on the road opposite to the lay-by, curiosity satisfied, the traffic started to speed back up. Kevin put his foot down.

+ + + + + +

It was all so confusing. There were so many things to think about. A myriad of considerations vying for his attention. He thought too much, that had always been his problem. Things started to get cloudy, confused. He had got too wrapped up in his abstract thought processes, so that he started to lose sight of the simple things, started to forget the basics, the things that he took for granted, so that he didn't know where he was.
   It wasn't anything to worry about. It was a perfectly normal experience, everyone had off days from time to time, where they just let things slip and get on top of them. It wasn't unusual. It wasn't as if there was anything wrong with him. All he had to do was stop worrying - he had always been a worrier, ever since he could remember - Stop all his endless soul-searching and self-analysis. Get back to basics. Remind himself of those things which were really important to him. The simple things that underpinned his very personality. His raison détre. Once he got his focus back onto the basics, everything would be alright.
   His wife was dead, and he was punishing those who had contributed to her death. These were the facts. Everything else was mere window-dressing. His infidelity - though inexcusable - was just a side issue. The overt religious fanaticism of the notes, was merely a useful device for spreading his message. He wasn't mad. He was worthy. Someone to be admired.
   His cause was just. He was seeking out those who had killed the person in the world who was most important to him. All right minded individuals would endorse his actions. These were the only two things that mattered now. His wife's death and the crusade that resulted from it. Cause and effect.
   The death of his wife was the start of it all. When his life was irrevocably altered, all meaning stripped from it, as the person whose existence was most important to him - more important, by far than his own - was taken from him. In the aftermath of his loss, the crusade was the thing which gave his life some semblance of focus. The crusade was all he had left.
   His wife was dead, she (had) meant everything to him. He'd give anything to bring her back. His crusade, his own life, everything he had, in an instant, without a second thought. But there he went again, thinking too much. She was dead, he couldn't get her back, there was no point in considering the matter further. Better to spend his time thinking about those things he could affect. Jon snapped himself from his thoughts. He had wasted more than enough time in indulgent self-contemplation. His next killing wouldn't plan itself. He had things to do.

+ + + + + +

'..always reckoned she was a lesbian myself, but apparently they've been at it hammer and tongs, and her almost old enough to be his mother, and his boss and everything.'
   Elaine half caught a snippet of conversation as she opened the door to the ladies toilet. What she had heard meant nothing to her and she would have paid it no attention if it wasn't for the fact that it had ended so abruptly as she had entered the room.
   A woman DC and two of the secretaries stood by the wash basins. One of the secretaries was leant over one of the basins towards a large mirror, applying the finishing touches to her make up. The other two stood beside her facing each other. Elaine had obviously interrupted something.
   A pregnant moment passed.
   'Well see you later then Max.'
   'See ya.'
   The two fully made up women left their companion to concentrate on her creative art.
   Elaine had little time for the vacuous tittle-tattle that frequented such office situations. She pushed the incident to the back of her mind and made her way to an unoccupied cubicle.

+ + + + + +

Sally finished reading the report and laid it down on the desk in front of her, and in that moment she made her decision. The report was completely unconnected with the decision she had just reached, but the decision had been coming for a while now. Bubbling away almost unnoticed at the back of her mind like a pot on a low flame.
   Though she had strived not to admit it to herself, things had not been quite right since at least two weeks ago when she and Mark had called it quits (a mutual decision) and decided not to persevere with their fledgling relationship, and she could hardly claim that things had been entirely perfect before that. Mark had been her second lover since she had left Jon. Both of these relationships had been with men she had known from work - where else did she ever meet anyone - and both had proven equally unsatisfactory.
   These two abortive relationships were meant to help her forget all that had happened with Jon, to allow her to move on and leave her marriage - her failed marriage - behind. Instead, they merely served to emphasise just how special the intimacy she had shared with Jon had been. It had been true love. A one in a million thing. Most people didn't even get one chance at it, so what were the odds on Sally meeting someone else with whom she could share such a rapport.
   She had left Jonathon on a point of principle. He had been unfaithful to her, and his infidelity had shattered the fundamental trust, the total respect for the other, on which their relationship had been based. He had said that he was sorry, that he wouldn't do it again, and she believed him. But that just wasn't good enough. She had always said that she would leave him if he was ever unfaithful to her, and when the time had come, when he had called her bluff, she had left him without a second thought, for she was a woman of principle.
   Now more than three months had passed - It had flown by - and she had already exhausted the stock of likely candidates to replace Jon. Her principles didn't seem quite so important as once they had. She looked back at the time she and Jon had spent together as the happiest days of her life. She just wished that things could have gone on that way forever. Those days were gone, finished, they could never return, but thinking about it, both she and Jon were the same two people that they'd always been. The same two people who had meant everything to each other.
   Jon had betrayed her trust, and she could never forget that, but perhaps even with their relationship irrevocably blighted by this betrayal, it was still the best thing that she could hope for. Perhaps she should swallow her pride and try and find it in herself to forgive her husband.
   Sally had made her decision. She would contact Jonathon and see what she felt like after talking it through with him.

+ + + + + +

It was the same as with all the others. Nothing. They had nothing at all to go on. Of course the forensic boys hadn't got fully into their stride yet, but he could read the signs. He had seen it all before. They were just going through the motions. They wouldn't find anything. Sure there would no doubt be plenty of stuff to tie their man in to the previous killings - their man was certainly not over careful - but nothing to lead them any closer to identifying him. A man was murdered by the side of one of the busiest roads in the country. Shot in the chest in broad daylight, and they had nothing to go on. No witnesses, no leads, nothing.
   Bob Grey sat leant forward over his desk in his portacabin office, his head in his hands. His mind was awash with the details of the case. A million, glittering, misleading unconnected facts spinning faster and faster, tantalisingly just out of his reach. He was lost, he didn't know what to do. He hadn't slept for more than thirty six hours, he had been up all night, at the scene of the crime, directing investigations, never idle for a moment, feeding from his adrenaline, barking orders at his men, the centre of the storm. For the first time since news of the killing had broken, he had a moment to himself. A moment to reflect. A moment to panic.
   He had to do something. He couldn't just sit there all afternoon. He was letting people down. He was letting Peter down. The only real friend he really had. The only person who had really respected his talents, who had unceasingly championed his cause. And now he was letting Peter down. He was letting himself down. He had to snap out of it. Try and relax. Empty his mind. Give himself time to think.
   Time to think, that was the key. That was all any case really required. A period of sustained, logical, consideration. No problem could resist the relentless scrutiny of his mind. At least none of his previous cases had been able to resist. He had grown to believe that he was infallible. Detective work was his forte. He had never been more than average at anything else. Even since he was a boy, he had never been popular. Never been a ladies man. But all that had been forgotten when he was working on one of his cases. None of that was important anymore.
   All that mattered was how good he was at catching criminals. And he was good, he was very good indeed. Better than all the others. Better than all those people who in other walks of life might sneer at him. At work, the only people who belittled him were the jealous masses. The dispossessed and the never-possessed,
   He loved his work. Criminal detection was his home turf. His opportunity for excelling. The more complex the problem, the greater he liked it. More of a chance to go through his paces. To demonstrate his power. With the strength of his intellect he could solve any crime. All it required was a little thought.
   He had already given this case a great deal of thought. He had spent literally thousands of hours sifting through the reams of evidence. Searching for the answer that he knew lay within. He had tried every way of examining the data that he could think of. Over and over again, he had pored over the facts, looking for the subtle connections that would lead him to his quarry. For all his efforts he had discovered practically nothing. He had exhausted all his options. He had no more to give. No new angles to try. There was nothing left, nowhere left for him to go. He had nothing.
   The scale of the thing was just so vast. So many possible suspects; it seemed like almost every able bodied man in the country. So much incidental evidence, seemingly irrelevant, but with none of the evidence seeming more promising than any other, he could not bring himself to discard any of it - that had always been his strength - his attention to detail. The smallest piece of insignificant seeming evidence might eventually be revealed to be the key to the whole case. He dare not discard anything.
   The only piece of evidence that he had allowed himself to dismiss so far were the notes and that was Elaine's theory. Air-headed bimbo. Power crazed, career-bitch on heat. She had no ability what so ever. There was only one way that she had got to where she had. She was just so stupid. The notes had got her nowhere. They were deliberately misleading, an obvious crank wasting their time, anyone with an ounce of intelligence could see that. She was welcome to the notes. Stupid cow. She was completely useless.
   It was people like her that would be only too happy to see him fall flat on his face. To see him defeated by a case, as he was in grave danger of being defeated by this one. What he needed now was a stroke of luck. Something out of the blue. Nothing big. Something so small that anyone else would overlook it. The smallest fragment of evidence, the corner piece of the jigsaw, to put him on his way.
   A knock at the office door interrupted his thoughts. Ignoring a strange sense of deja-vu, Bob composed his faculties, and moved his hands down onto the desk in front of him.
   'Come.'

+ + + + + +

As the articulated lorry slowed to the pace of the traffic in front of him, its driver watched in his rear-view mirror to ensure that the car immediately behind him noticed his manoeuvre and didn't run into the back of him. He knew what the cause of this delay was. He had been caught up in its effects when he had driven along the same stretch of road in the opposite direction earlier. The traffic wasn't as busy as it had been in the morning rush hour.
   The queue continued at a crawl for about four hundred yards around a gentle curve, and there it was, the lay-by with all its obvious police activity. Again Kevin considered his actions. He could - he should - stop and tell them the details of what he had seen the day before. It would probably turn out to be nothing, and somebody must have already told them about the blue Fiesta, hundreds of people must have seen it and surely at least one of them had been more public spirited than he.
   Less than thirty yards away from the lay-by entrance Kevin passed a large police incident sign, appealing for information for anyone who had seen anything suspicious between the hours of 1400 and 1800 yesterday.
   Oh well, it's on company time.
   Kevin flicked the indicator arm mounted on the side of his steering wheel and pulled into the lay-by. As he moved off the main road a uniformed police officer noticed his arrival and trotted towards his oncoming truck, waving for him to stop. Kevin did as he was told and turned off his engine. The policeman walked round to Kevin's side of the cab and Kevin lowered his side window.
   'Sorry mate, you can't park here. Police business.'
   'I know, I think I might have seen something.'

+ + + + + +

'So what do you think?'
   Elaine watched Chris as he read through the photocopied sheet that she had just handed him.
   'Well it's definitely our boy.'
   'Definitely. But what about the bit at the start, about recognising his acts from those of impostors.'
   'What about it?', Chris shrugged.
   In an attempt to elicit Chris's endorsement for her own ideas, Elaine nudged him in the right direction.
   'Don't you think it implies that our boy's worried about getting mistaken for a copy-cat?'
   'I suppose so.'
   Chris was still not thinking along the same lines.
   'And why would he suddenly start to get worried about a copy-cat?'
   The penny dropped.
   'The killing before this one, Stuart. You said you thought it was a copy-cat at the time. He says that we'll recognise his acts by him leaving a note with the victim. The note for the Stuart killing didn't turn up until days after the murder.'
   'That's right.'
   Elaine was gratified that her partner's conclusions now matched her own.
   Chris continued with his line of thought. 'But the note was definitely genuine. Why would our boy bother sending a note for a copy-cat killing at all, and then try and deny it afterwards?'
   Elaine was not so pleased at Chris's undermining of 'his' earlier deduction. She was familiar with these contradictory arguments but had chosen not to dwell on them.
   'Perhaps he wrote the note before details got out about the sadism of the killing?'
   'Maybe, but why would he want to try and claim responsibility for a murder that he didn't commit in the first place?'
   'I Dunno. All that I'm saying is that we can't be certain about the Stuart killing. We shouldn't draw any firm conclusions from that one killing on its own. Without corroboration it's not safe to dismiss anything.'
   'Fair enough, but the note's okay though. We can be sure that the note's genuine.'
   'Agreed.
   What did you think about the rest of the note?'
   'Well most of it is just the usual rabid left wing diatribe about the evils of the world we live in. Nothing really of any importance there.'
   Elaine herself, had some sympathy for some of the sentiments expressed in the note. Though her own opinions were nowhere near as extreme as those of the killer, she certainly didn't think they justified going out and killing anyone. She knew better than to reveal even her partial support for the killer's message.
   'Yes, but what about the bit about his wife?'
   'Where was that?'
   'Near the start, straight after the bit about recognising his killings from those of impostors. Sally was innocent.. Got it?'
   'Oh yeah.'
   Chris re-read the paragraph.
   'Well Sally again. At least he seems to have decided that's his wife's name now.'
   'That's one thing I suppose.'
   Elaine didn't need reminding about the two different names the killer used to refer to his wife, and how they had led to the reduction in her responsibilities on the case.
   'And then he goes on about his infidelity, and it being his fault. That's new, difficult to use though, I suppose we could look for Sallys or Susans who have been violently killed after a recent divorce or separation, but I don't hold out much hope.'
   'We could do, but I agree it doesn't seem that likely. We checked out partners when we looked at the Susans before, and we didn't find anything.'
   'Then he mentions his wife's death again. Implies it's his fault in some way. Pushed under the steel wheels in the dark tunnel. I wonder what that means. If we could work that one out, it could lead us to this woman he calls his wife.'
   'Yes, that's what I thought. It sounds to me like she was killed in some sort of traffic accident. Wheels of steel and all that.'
   Chris' face looked blank.
   Elaine spelled it out for him.
   'Wheels of Steel, wasn't that a Stones track.. Oh forget it. That was probably before your time.'
   'Even I've heard of the Rolling Stones.'
   'There's hope for you yet.'
   Chris moved the conversation on and offered his own theory.
   'No, I think it sounds more like a train accident, and with the dark tunnel bit, perhaps it was on the underground.'
   'Bright spark. That does seem to fit together nicely.'
   'Perhaps his wife jumped in front of a tube-train after she found out he'd been unfaithful to him.'
   'And hence he feels like he's directly responsible for her death. As if he's pushed her himself. You're on a roll today.'
   Chris smiled at Elaine's recognition of his contribution, as she started to plan out their course of action.
   'I suppose we check out tube deaths going back a year before the first killing of any woman called Sally or Susan and see how many we come up with.'
   'Sounds good to me.'

+ + + + + +

'Thank you for your cooperation. You've been very helpful.
   Morris, if you'll show Mr Howey to his vehicle.'
   The door closed behind the young Detective and the witness leaving Grey alone in his pre-fabricated office.
   'Yes!'
   Grey punched the air in an almost unselfconscious expression of delight.
   It was the stroke of luck that he had been waiting for. Dropped straight into his lap. His problems were over. If this smallest piece of evidence bore out, it could be the key to the whole case. It would be plain sailing from here on in.
   Bob Grey collected his thoughts and stopped himself from running away with the thrill of his good fortune. He had to think it through. There were still a multitude of facts to consider. What was the first thing he should do? Run a check on the licence number. Find out the name and address of the owner, the name and address of his suspect. He would also verify the colour and make of the car whilst he was at it, at least give him some security that the witness hadn't been a crank.
   There was a knock at his office door. Grey looked up, irritated at this interruption to his ministrations.
   'Come.'
   Morris entered the room. There was something about this enthusiastic energetic young man that Grey had taken - and was rapidly developing an increasing - dislike to.
   'What about that sir. The licence plate of the killer' car. What a stroke of luck.'
   Morris's almost insolent failure to be intimidated by Grey's rank did little to ease Grey's antipathy towards him.
   'Quite.'
   'Is there something you would like me to do? Run a check on that plate or anything?'
   'Yes, that would be useful.'
   Morris didn't need asking twice. He snatched up the receiver of the phone on Grey's desk and quickly stabbed out a number on the phone's keypad. Grey watched disdainfully at this display of youthful impetuousness. It was just so typical of his ilk.
   'Hello, this is DC Morris on the Dark Angel case, I'd like you to run a car registration check for me.'
   'Oh hello Sandra, I didn't recognise your voice for a second there.'
   'Yeah I suppose so.'
   Morris laughing at some half joke made at the other end of the line, looked up into Grey's disapproving countenance.
   'Look I can't speak now. I'm in the office with Inspector Grey. Could you just run that check for me.'
   'Thanks'.
   Morris looked up again, this time with a quizzical look on his face. Grey had anticipated his query and pointed to the registration number he had already scribbled down on the pad before him, then turned the pad round so that Morris could read it more easily.
   Morris nodded his gratitude, wrongly thinking that he and Grey were beginning to develop some form of accord between them.
   'Yes, the number is H683AYG.'
   'That's right.'
   'Okay, I'll hang on.'
   Grey tapped on his desk to attract Morris's attention. Morris looked up, instinctively cupping his hand over the phone mouthpiece to muffle whatever comment Grey might make.
   'Make sure you check the model and colour of the car.'
   'Good thinking. Okay.'
   Once again Morris misread the relationship between Grey and himself, wrongly thinking that Grey valued his opinion enough to be flattered by his praise.
   'Hello Sandra. Could you make sure we get the model and colour on that licence number.'
   'Thanks.'
   Grey and Morris waited for the registration check in silence. In an attempt to break the building anticipatory tension Morris looked at Grey and lifted his eyebrows and blew out his cheeks, in what he considered to be an expression of solidarity. Grey gazed impassively back at him. Morris looked quickly back down at the desk in front of him and started to strum on the desk with the fingers of his free left hand, to give his gaze something to focus on.
   'Hello.. yes we're still here.'
   'Good.. Great, go ahead then.'
   Morris started to scribble rapidly on Grey's pad.
   Grey strained to read the upside down script, but Morris's handwriting was terrible - so typical of the younger generation - he could make out what might be a name and address, but had trouble deciphering exactly what was being written.. Michael something, Michael Watts, or something like that.
   'Well thanks Sandra, you've been a great help. You just might have helped us catch the Dark Angel!'
   Morris replaced the phone receiver, smiling broadly.
   'The registration checks out. It's a blue Ford Fiesta, belongs to a Michael Willis of Wandsworth Common.'
   Morris flicked the notepad round to show Grey the suspect's full address.
   'We've bloody got him!'
   Grey smiled despite himself.

+ + + + + +

Chris burst into the office at a half trot, holding a couple of A4 sized sheets of paper aloft triumphantly out in front of him like a trophy.
   'I've got it.'
   Chris sat down at his desk beside Elaine.
   'Well let's hope it's not catching.'
   They had been waiting for the Fax from London Transport for almost two hours. Two hours for them to process the tube death information that Elaine required. She had been pleasantly surprised at the efficiency which her request had been dealt with.
   It was not difficult to see, indeed it would have been difficult not to notice, that Chris was excited by the information contained within the facsimile. Beneath the more reserved exterior which Elaine chose to present to the world, her sense of anticipation was just as keen as her partner's. This was the first strong lead that they'd had to go on in months. She was anxious to explore the avenues of possibility that it might offer as rapidly as possible, to see where it might lead them.
   'Go on then.'
   'How many tube deaths do you reckon there were in the two years before the first killing?'
   'I don't know, fifty, sixty?'
   She wished Chris would get to the point. It wasn't like him to beat about the bush, but she was prepared to humour him, for a short while at least.
   'Three hundred and eighty four.'
   'Sheesh.'
   'And how many were named Susan or Sally.'
   Here it was.
   Elaine shrugged her shoulders in answer to Chris's rhetorical question.
   'One. A Susan Howells. She went under a tube at Tottenham Court Road just two weeks before the first killing. It's perfect. We've fucking cracked it'
   Elaine did not share Chris's enthusiasm. As soon as Chris had revealed the woman's first name her hopes had sank. In the two hours they had spent waiting for the London Transport Fax she had already thought this eventuality (amongst many others) through. Still she was careful not to communicate her own disappointment to Chris. To let him down gently.
   'Maybe, but we should already have checked out this woman's death when we looked through the list of Susans before'.
   Elaine watched Chris's face drop, as despite her best efforts to mask her reactions, he grasped the relevance of her comment and was infected by a similar sense of disappointed anti-climax to her own.
   'Perhaps something was missed the first time. There was a lot to get through at the time'.
   'It's possible.'
   'I'll go and get the file.'
   The file would be held in the part of the building where the main investigation team was situated, Chris got out of his chair and walked out into the corridor, his ebullient gait of mere minutes before now reduced to the more familiar apathetic trudge.

+ + + + + +

'Off to Wandsworth then.'
   Grey almost laughed aloud at Morris's remark. He was almost growing to enjoy the young detective's company. It wasn't that he was warming to his wholehearted enthusiasm in any way. Such characteristics were almost obligatory in the younger breed of policeman that Morris so epitomised, and Grey so despised. He saw such characteristics as indicative of the 'act first - think later' methods that were the antithesis of his own. Such prejudices ran too deep to ever be overlooked. Not even in the warm glow of what promised to be his greatest ever triumph.
   What Grey was beginning to appreciate about Morris's companionship was nothing directly to do with liking the man himself, but rather it was the way he seemed to invariably make suggestions that were characteristic of his ilk. His contributions to date had been just so typical of the thought processes that Grey found utterly objectionable, so as to be almost caricature like. Of course, this alone would normally only have stood to prejudice Grey against the man.
   What made the crucial difference in Morris's case was that so many of his contributions - delivered no doubt with hearty gusto, at the top of his voice, with a toothy grin on his large featured face - were so demonstrably wrong. He had missed the opportunity to ask for a check on the manufacturer and colour of the suspect's car, and now he wanted to rush off to Wandsworth without spending so much as a moment to consider their next move.
   Morris was like a control experiment, designed to illustrate just how good Grey was at his job, how valuable his talents were. It might almost have been worth putting up with his wholesome personality, and establishing himself as his regular subordinate, to act straight man to contrast against his own incisive judgement. A Watson to Grey's Holmes.
   'Not yet. Could you contact the Yard again and run a check into our suspect. See if he's got any previous.'
   'Oh. Oh yes. Good thinking sir.'
   Elementary my dear Morris.
   Morris reached for the phone, but before he could pick up the receiver it started to ring as it received an incoming call. Morris continued his movement and snatched up the phone before it had completed a single ring.
   'Hello, DI Grey's office. DC Morris speaking. How can I help you?'
   'Hello sir. Yes he's sitting just opposite me. I'll put him on.'
   Morris covered the mouthpiece and handed the receiver across the desk.
   Grey was slightly puzzled. He wasn't expecting a call from Jones.
   'Hello, Grey here.'
   'Bob what's happening? Have you got a suspect?'
   'What, how did you find out?'
   Grey was shocked.
   'Never mind that. Everyone here's talking about you running a VR check on a blue Fiesta. Have you got something?'
   Of course. It must have been Morris shooting his mouth off trying to impress the telephone operator. All at once the contrast provided by Morris's blunderings lost their attraction.
   Grey's deduction helped him collect his thoughts.
   'Well it's really too early to say. We're still in the preliminary stages of investigation..'
   At Scotland Yard Jones was under pressure. He had to give a news conference in fifty minutes and desperately wanted the merest scrap of favourable news to report. He knew Grey liked to play things close to his chest. That he didn't like to show any of his cards until the hand was won, his victory assured. Today, Jones didn't have the time or the patience to indulge Grey in his anally retentive little games. He needed results, and quickly.
   'Look Bob. Cut the crap and tell me what you've got.'
   Grey was not used to being spoken to like that. Especially not by Jones who normally treated him with the kid gloves of respect. Grey looked on his superior officer as one of his (very) small circle of friends. Certainly his closest friend within those people he had met through work.
   'Okay. We've had a witness give us the suspect's car registration. It seems to check out. We've got a name and address.'
   'Fucking brilliant.'
   'It's still early days yet. We don't know anything about the suspect. There's lots of checks we have to do.'
   'You do what you're good at Bob. You've done tremendously well so far. I'll leave you to it. Let me know the moment you find anything else. Speak to you soon.'
   The phone went dead as Jones hung up. Grey felt deflated. Like he had been robbed of something precious. Jones' praise did not even go a fraction of the way towards compensating him for having his secret wrested from him. He looked up to meet Morris's expectant gaze, urging him to recount what Morris no doubt assumed to have been the fulsome praise of their superior.
   'Didn't I tell you to run a check on that suspect.'
   Something in Grey's tone jolted Morris back into his usual high-octane approach to fulfilling his instructions.

+ + + + + +

Elaine was re-reading the killer's note when she noticed Chris in her peripheral vision as he took his seat at his desk behind her own. Her first reaction to the earlier news that their new lead had led them in a circle - back to old and seemingly barren ground, to something they had already checked out - had been one of disappointment. For Chris's sake she had denied herself the self-indulgent opportunity to wallow in her negative impulses, and had striven to act positively, to make the most of what they had.
   Chris had been out of the office for almost twenty minutes. By the time he returned, Elaine was again feeling much more optimistic about the case. The sustained effort of thinking positively eventually dragging her mood into line.
   Elaine looked across at Chris. She could read him like a book. He never took the slightest effort to mask his own feelings. His emotional state had apparently shifted in his absence by a similar degree to her own. Unfortunately, his emotional journey seemed to have been in an opposite direction to her own. He was a picture of despondency. Elaine immediately took Chris's depressed emotional state to be indicative of a failure on her own part, and sought to remedy the situation by re-infecting him with her own new found sense of optimism.
   'Did you get the report?'
   Elaine smiled warmly, pretending not to have noticed Chris's mood.
   'Yeah.'
   Chris tossed a buff folder limply onto her desk.
   'For what it's worth.'
   Elaine decided to try and tackle Chris's malady head on.
   'Anything wrong?'
   'Haven't you heard. It's all over the office. Everyone's talking about it. Grey's got a suspect. They've cracked it.'
   The optimism that Elaine had worked so hard to build left her in an instant. Her attempts to invigorate Chris forgotten as she succumbed to his melancholy, recognising it as the appropriate response in the circumstances.
   A long moment passed before she could summon the strength to speak.
   'When did this happen?'
   'Not long ago. Maybe half an hour. They reckon Jones is going to make an announcement to the press later today.'
   'Damn. They must be pretty certain then. Where's Grey now, with the suspect I suppose?'
   'I don't think they've arrested anyone yet, but apparently it's imminent.'
   'Any idea how they got him.'
   'Nobody knows for sure. It must have been something they found at the scene of the latest, the lay by.'
   'Bastard. It must have dropped in his lap.'
   'Yeah. Well the devil looks after his own I suppose.'
   'Bastards.'
   Again Elaine pulled herself back from the brink. With a conscious exertion of will she pulled away from her indulgent self pity. This time there was no possibility of simply pretending that everything was fine, that nothing untoward had happened. A more extreme cause of action was required. Anger was her only recourse.
   'Well what the hell are we going to do about it then? Just sit around here all day feeling sorry for ourselves?'
   Elaine almost spat the words out.
   Chris hesitated, unsure of how he should react to Elaine's sudden and unfamiliar shift of mood.
   'Are we going to take this lying down or what?', Elaine demanded.
   'Didn't you say that they haven't even arrested anyone yet. Not a body, not an arrest, just a bloody suspect. And only a rumour of a suspect at that.'
   She was warming to her theme.
   'Well everyone's talking about it over there. Nobody's doing any work', Chris ventured weakly.
   'And even if it isn't just a rumour. Would you trust Grey to find the right man. If we couldn't come up with a single strong suspect, what chance has he got?'
   'I wouldn't trust Grey to find his own arse.'
   Chris relented to the pull of Elaine's rage.
   'Quite. And anyway, even if they do eventually bring someone in. They could always do with some more evidence.'
   'Whatever happens we can still prove that we were on the right tracks. Prove those bastards wrong.'
   'Let's have a look at that report then.'

+ + + + + +

'Yeah thanks. Thanks a lot.'
   Morris replaced the phone receiver.
   'No previous on Michael Willis. Clean as a whistle.'
   Grey's next command had been prepared for several minutes. He barked it out in his expressionless monotone.
   'Find out which patch this Michael Willis lives in, and get me the station's commanding office on the phone.'
   Morris's first instinct was to flatter Grey. To complement him on his quick thinking (by which he was genuinely impressed). But he suppressed the impulse.
   'Okay.'
   He turned back to the phone and busied himself with his allotted chore.
   'Hello again Sandra. Yeah it's me. Could you find out what the nearest station to Wandsworth Common is, and the name of the commanding officer. Yeah I'll hold.'
   Whilst he waited Morris gazed blankly into the middle distance, careful not to look round to meet Grey's harsh gaze.
   'Course I'm still here. That was quick.'
   Morris reached for his pencil.
   'Okay go ahead.'
   'Should have guessed really. Thanks Sandra. speak to you soon.'
   Morris read from his pad as he dialled another telephone number.
   'Hello, is that Wandsworth police station. I've got DI Grey from Scotland Yard murder squad on the line. He'd like to speak to Superintendent Beresford.'
   'No he's not expecting the call. Tell him it's urgent. Tell him that it's in connection with the Dark Angel killings.'
   Another pause spent staring at nothing in particular.
   'Hello sir, I'll just pass you over to DI Grey now.'
   Morris passed the phone across to Grey, smiling at his self-judged efficiency in fulfilling his task. Grey ignored him and took the phone impassively from him.
   'Grey here'.
   'Yes we have a suspect in your area. We'd like to set up a temporary HQ in your station.'
   'Very good. No I'm sorry but I'd rather not divulge his name at the moment.'
   'Okay, expect us there in the next hour.'
   'Thank you. Goodbye.'

+ + + + + +

Jones entered the chatter filled room of reporters and was gratified by the expectant hush that greeted his arrival. Word must have leaked out already. He wasn't surprised. It was impossible to keep a secret in this place. Jones reached the rostrum and paused for a second, looking out at the upturned intent faces of his audience, relishing the power of the moment, with every eye in the house fixed on him.
   'I'll keep this short.'
   'Obviously I can't say too much at the moment, but I don't think I'm giving too much away to say that we have made a significant breakthrough in the investigation, resulting in the identification of a very strong suspect.'
   Sporadic flurries of flashlights punctuated Jones's announcement. Truly the eyes of the world were on him at that moment. He felt that he was at the centre of everything. Totally alive, completely in control.
   'I confidently expect that an arrest will be made sometime over the next four days.'
   'Of course I'll let you know any news as soon as I get it.'
   And with that he was gone. Jones turned on his heel and marched quickly from the room. Escaping before he was overwhelmed by the eruption of insistent questions behind him.

+ + + + + +

'She wasn't married.'
   Elaine finished reading the short report on Susan Howell's death and handed it back to Chris.
   'They interviewed her parents, but ruled her out because she wasn't married. Didn't even have a steady boyfriend.'
   Chris started to read the report himself.
   'Under a train eh? Did she jump?'
   'No she just fell, the platform was packed, it all came out at the inquest, death by misadventure. But that's not important, read this bit where her parents say she was unattached.'
   Elaine moved to Chris's side and impatiently pointed out the relevant paragraph to him.
   'Oh yeah.'
   'That was when we still thought it was definitely his wife that had been killed'
   'But Sa.. Dr Smith said it wasn't necessarily his wife - he could be getting his facts mixed up - so she shouldn't have been ruled out. This could be the woman he keeps going on about.'
   Any thoughts of their collective despair at the news of Grey's success were all but forgotten as once again they lost themselves in the thrill of the case.
   'Could be. But if she didn't even have a steady boyfriend who is he? How did he know her?'
   'We could interview her parents again , see if they could come up with someone that she was close to.'
   'Good idea. I'm just wondering though, whether she did just fall under that tube train.'
   'But I thought you said that's what the inquest said.'
   'That's what they said, but that's what they always say if they can help it.'
   'Why?'
   'I'm not sure, but I think it's almost traditional. Like saying someone's committed suicide isn't very nice for the relatives, so if they can they try and say it's accidental.'
   'Oh.'
   'It seems to me, more likely that our boy would blame society for Susan's death if it was suicide, rather than if it was just an accident.'
   'Yeah I suppose so.'
   'But I'm not sure how that helps us, or how this bloke would know if it wasn't an accident?'
   'We could always check the video.'
   'Sorry.'
   'They have video camera's on all of the main tube stations. This Susan Howell's death would probably have been taped.'
   'But would they still have the tape?'
   'The coroner's office might have kept a copy.'
   'Well, let's give them a ring and find out shall we.'

+ + + + + +

Grey pulled open the heavy wooden door and entered the reception area of Wandsworth police station followed by the train of his entourage of the half dozen detectives that he had brought with him. Barely glancing at his unremarkable, uniform grey surroundings - identical to so many such places that he had found himself in the past - he approached the front desk and the constable stood behind it.
   'Detective Chief Inspector Grey. Superintendent Beresford is expecting us.'
   The constable smiled back in answer to Grey's curt self-introduction, just as his recent public relations course had taught him to.
   'Yes sir. Your tactical fire arms squad have already arrived.'
   'Good.'
   'They're in the canteen now. I'll just give the Superintendent a ring to see if he's free to see you.'
   The constable busied himself with his phone.
   'Hello, Cooper here at the front desk. DCI Grey has arrived.'
    'Okay I'll let him know.'
   'The Superintendent is ready to see you now. He's sending someone to collect you. Your men can wait in the canteen with the firearms boys.'
   'Fine.'
   'Right it's through those double doors, first left, then ..'
   'It's okay,', DS Johnson, one of Grey's men, cut the uniformed constable short.
   'I've been here before.'
   'Oh, okay.'
   The door to the station interior swung open and a small tidy middle aged woman entered the room. The Desk officer made the introductions.
   'Mrs Williams. This is DCI Grey from Scotland Yard. Mrs Williams is Superintendent Beresford's secretary. She'll take you to his office.'
   Without a word of confirmation or (even more unlikely) thanks Grey moved towards the door and held it open for Mrs Williams, before following her through, leaving his men to their own devices in the reception room.
   'Doesn't say much.'
   The uniformed constable passed comment.
   The detectives shuffled uncomfortably and looked at their feet.
   'No,' agreed Johnson, elected as their spokesperson by virtue of his earlier contribution. Careful not to risk tapping the well of their collective lack of respect for their commanding officer.

+ + + + + +

'You've got it. Excellent.'
   The coroner's court had rung Elaine back with news of the security camera video of Susan Howell's death.
   'When can we see it?'
   Elaine glanced at her wristwatch. It was almost five already.
   'What time does your office open in the morning?'
   'Okay we'll call in then. Thanks for your help.'
   Elaine put the phone down.
   Chris looked at her expectantly.
   'They've got it. I told them we'd pick it up in the morning. They open at nine thirty, you can pick it up on your way in'.
   Chris opened his mouth to complain at this slight on his timekeeping, but Elaine saw his reaction and appeased him before he could come up with a form of words.
   'You might as well have a lie in. There's not much we can do until we see that tape.'
   'Okay thanks. What now?'
   'We might as well get off home. As I say, there's not much that we can do without the tape.'

+ + + + + +

Everything was in position. The house was surrounded. Every door and window covered by a gunsight. The time had come. Grey stepped out from his car flanked by two plain clothed armed officers. With his heart in his mouth, he walked along the sleepy middle class suburban street to a smart yet otherwise unremarkable semi-detached house with a well kept front garden. The suspect's house; his lair.
   Grey carefully - so as not to make any more than the minimum of noise - swung open the wrought iron gate. The three men stepped through and he closed the gate behind them. They were in.
   Grey led the way down the drive to the house's front door. As he walked, he fought to keep to what he considered to be a leisurely pace, desperately resisting the temptation to speed up - to hasten the end of his quest, to hasten his moment of triumph - at the risk of drawing attention to his small exposed group.
   The more he concentrated on keeping to a 'normal' pace, the more strained his walking action appeared - at least to himself - to be, so that it seemed to be an almost impossible effort just to push one foot confidently in front of the other. And then all his concerns over his gait were forgotten. They were at the front door.
   Grey motioned to his armed associates, who immediately drew their revolvers held high by their shoulders and stepped slightly to opposite sides of the door, out of the direct eye line of anyone coming to answer it. Grey waited an instant whilst they settled into their positions, then stepped forward to ring the doorbell.
   The bell rang once, slightly muffled at the other side of the door. Nothing elaborate, just a simple two note chime, and then silence. Long heart thumping moments passed, as Grey strained his eyes to look for movement through the refracting glass panel in the front door.
   Grey judged that he had waited long enough and pressed the bell again, his thoughts momentarily turning to the sledgehammers which his men had in the boots of their cars. A further couple of painstaking seconds eked out, and then .. movement, at the far end of the hall. Grey tried to make out the feature in more detail, and there it was again, unmistakable now, someone was coming to answer the door. Grey waved to his men to move even further out of sight to the sides and steeled himself.
   The door swung open to reveal a grey haired broad shouldered powerful man in his early to mid fifties, dressed in a shapeless battered cardigan and grey slacks.
   'Yes?'
   The man looked at Grey, unaware of his two armed colleagues.
   'Mr Michael Willis?'
   'Yes, speaking.'
   The man's voice was laced with impatient suspicion of this unwanted interruption to his evening.
   Grey stepped back sharply and as one the armed men sprang into view, guns at the ready, trained menacingly at Willis's head.
   'Freeze!'
   'Hold it right there!'
   Willis stood motionless, rooted to the spot, his whole demeanour a study in shocked incomprehension. The detective to his right snapped him out of it with a barked command.
   'Get your fucking hands up!'
   'Above your head', his colleague elucidated.
   Willis obeyed meekly.
   'What is this?'
   'Shut the fuck up!'
   'Get out here.'
   Grey watched Willis step out onto the front porch, letting his men get on with the business of securing their man.
   'Legs spread, hands behind your head.'
   Willis had already learnt to do as he was told and responded at once.
   'Hello?'
   Time stood still, frozen by an unfamiliar voice. The three policemen looked up to see a woman, about the same age as Willis, stood in the doorway.
   Two guns moved in unison.
   'Freeze!'
   'Police, stay where you are.'
   'Hold your fire.' Grey barked into his radio.
   The armed officer on the left realised Willis had been left unguarded and moved his gun back down to remedy the oversight.
   Unbidden, the woman raised her hands above her head. She clearly watched more television than their suspect.
   The detective covering Willis, rapidly searched him for weapons with an efficient zeal.
   'He's clean.'
   Grey decided it was time to explain himself. He knelt down so that he could present Willis with his police identification.
   'Do you own a blue Ford Fiesta registration H683AYG?'
   'Yes, but I've got lots of cars. What's this about?'
   'Where were you during the afternoon of the twentieth of March.'
   'Last Tuesday, in the office I suppose.'
   Grey had suspected something wrong as soon as he had set eyes on Willis, because of his unexpected age. Now he was almost sure this was not the man they were looking for.
   'In the office?'
   'Yes, I run a car-rental business.'
   'Have you any witnesses to your whereabouts.'
   'About a dozen, I've got the names and addresses in the office,'
   Grey turned to his men.
   'Let him up, put your guns away.'
   He barked into his radio.
   'Operation aborted, hold your fire. Repeat operation aborted.'
   Utterly disappointed and more than a little embarrassed he bent down to help Willis to his feet.
   'I'm very sorry for the treatment, sir.'
   'You scared the life out of me.'
   Willis got to his feet. The woman moved to his side and started to sob slightly. Willis put his arm round her shoulders and gently reassured her.
   Robbed of their function, the two detectives stood around awkwardly. Again Grey offered his apologies.
   'Once again, I must apologise for any distress we might have caused you or your wife.'
   Grey guessed (correctly) at the relationship between Willis and the woman.
   'The man we are looking for, the Dark Angel, is extremely dangerous. We can't afford to take any chances.'
   'The Dark Angel? That bloke in the papers. Terrible business.'
   Willis seemed to be taking it all remarkably well.
   'Terrible business,', Willis's wife agreed.
   In the street outside Willis's house, detectives started to gather as they broke their cover.
   'Do you keep records of all your customers.'
   'Yeah, pretty much.'
   'What about the blue Fiesta. Do you remember if anyone had that car last Tuesday.'
   'Not off the top of my head. But we could check.'
   'That would be extremely useful.'
   Grey's disappointment at Willis's innocence was already starting to dissipate at the promise of this new lead. As one door closed, another opened.

+ + + + + +

Bryan 'Benbow' Horton was in a foul mood. He had had a terrible day at work. Nothing had gone right during his hours in the car showroom. He hadn't sold anything, but there was nothing particularly unusual in that. He liked it to be quiet now and again, but today he hadn't even enjoyed that luxury. There had been people in the office all day. He'd been rushed off his feet. It was just that none of them had really seemed interested in buying anything, no matter how hard he had tried - and god knows he had tried. Timewasters, Bryan hated them. You always got the odd one, but today had been an endless stream, one after the other.
   Just before dinner Linda had rung him up to tell him that she didn't want to see him anymore. One of her friends had seen him in a night-club up West with another girl. That had really knocked him back. Linda was (had been) special. Not like all the others. He'd tried to explain it to her, but she had been having none of it. She hadn't even given him a chance.
   Then, to cap it all his boss, Jobson had told him off. It was only something petty about some paperwork that he hadn't got round to filling in, but it had really rounded off his shitty day.
   Now he was in the pub - his spiritual home - and his sour mood had barely mellowed. He just wanted to get drunk and forget all about it. One thing he did know though was that he wasn't going to take any shit. Especially not from Chris. He was always so full of himself, with his stories about his big exciting job and how his boss fancied him. He might take the others in, but Benbow recognised it for the bullshit it was. He normally let it go, but tonight he just couldn't be bothered. If Chris was going to start, then he would put him right, once and for all.
   As if on cue Chris entered the pub to hearty greetings from their number, Benbow included.
   'Christ, what a day I've had,', Chris started.
   'I probably shouldn't tell you this but we might have got the lead today to nail the Dark Angel once and for all.'
   There he went. There he bloody went. Talking bollocks, and everyone else just sat there lapping it up - Oh how interesting Chris. You're so bloody great Chris. Tell us more Chris.
   'Sorry it's classified, I've probably said too much already.'
   Christ, what a load of absolute crap. He must think we're stupid.
   'You'll just have to wait and read about it in the papers.'
   Well he wasn't just going to sit there and take it. It was high time that someone brought him down to size.
   'Right, who wants a drink then?'
   'Okay.'
   'The usual?'
   Benbow placed his order along with the others. His grievance immediately eased by Chris's generosity. Chris wasn't all bad after all. It had just been one of those days.

+ + + + + +

Grey stood in the office of Willis Cars flanked by Morris. The rest of his men waited in their cars and vans in the street outside. Grey had gone straight to the car-hire office, without ringing Jones to report the episode at Willis's house, but he wasn't too worried as he was reasonably confident that the previous false dawn would soon be forgotten after their impending triumph. He was so sure that Willis was about to supply them with the real name of their suspect that he had done nothing to resist Morris's efforts to accompany him. To be there at the death.
   'What sort of identification do you need from your customers?'
   Willis looked up from his search through his filing system.
   'Just the usual, Driver's licence. We take a copy for our files. It's in here somewhere.'
   'And do you ask for a deposit?'
   'Yeah, we normally take an imprint of a credit card.'
   Willis's procedures were as Grey had anticipated (and hoped). They were about to be told the suspect's name.
   'Ah here it is.'
   This was it. A rare smile graced Grey's countenance.
   'There you go. Nineteenth of March, the blue Fiesta. He took the car out at four thirty, brought it back first thing on the twenty first.'
   Willis placed the open file on the desk in front of the two detectives.
   'There's your boy.'
   He pointed to the drivers name.
   'We've got him. We've fucking got him.'
   Morris celebrated for the second time that day.
   'Is there a reward for this?', Willis enquired.
   Grey did not share their enthusiasm.
   'Frank Clarke isn't the Dark Angel. He's the advertiser. The second victim.'
   Morris spoke for them all.
   'Fuck.'

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 14.

KNOTTED THREADS

'So let me get this fucking straight. Your suspect car turned out to belong to a middle aged owner of some penny ha'penny car hire company. He gives you the name of the bloke who hired the car out, and it turns out to be Frank Clarke, the second victim. How the fucking hell did this happen?'
   Bob Grey sat shamefacedly gazing floorwards in front of Jones's desk, unable (or at the very least unwilling) to meet the force of his gaze. He had never seen Jones so angry before. He had no idea how to deal with this most uncomfortable of situations.
   'The killer must have used Clarke's driving licence and credit card..'
   The volume of Grey's response was only a fraction of that of the question which had precipitated it. His tentative explanation was prematurely quashed by a further eruption from the active volcano that was Jones's rage.
   'I worked that one out for myself! Why wasn't the credit card company alerted when they realised the card was missing?'
   Grey knew he was on a hiding to nothing, but could see no way (indeed there was no possible way) to extricate himself from his uncomfortable situation. Facing his feet, he merely answered Jones's questions to the best of his ability, resigned to the dressing down he would receive, hoping for a swift end to his misery.
   'I don't know that they weren't. I doubt Willis, the suspect, checked out the card. He probably just took an imprint.'
   'You doubt.. Haven't you checked?'
   'No.'
   'Fucking brilliant.'
   Jones was desperate. He too was in a totally unfamiliar situation. He was trapped, cornered; the game was up. His reputation was now irreparably damaged by his failure in this case, an indelible black mark on his previously impeccable record.
   'What about this Willis. How come the car was registered in his name, rather than his company's?'
   'I think it's some sort of petty tax dodge. I'm not quite sure how it works.'
   'You seem peculiarly unsure about quite a few things today. Couldn't we charge him with something.'
   'I wouldn't advise it. He could probably sue us for wrongful arrest if he wanted. I think it'd be better if we just let it drop.'
   'Brilliant.'
   It was a damage limitation exercise for Jones now. He wasn't going to take the rap for this one on his own. If he could find anyone on whom he could deflect the blame on to then he would do.
   'Why didn't the local plods tell you that your suspect ran a car hire firm?'
   'I didn't tell them the suspect's name. I didn't want to risk any leaks to the press.'
   'No leaks to the press. No fucking leaks to the press. I'd already bloody announced that we had a suspect and arrests were imminent, on the basis of what you had told me.'
   'I didn't mean that to happen.'
   'So why did you tell me that you had it in the bag?'
   Jones knew where the blame really lay. Grey had been useful in the past, but that usefulness had dramatically ended. It was either Grey or himself, and it wasn't going to be him. He would have to distance himself as far as possible from Grey. Set him up as a sacrificial lamb.
   'I didn't think I did. You forced it out of me.'
   'I forced it out of you? So it was my fault was it?'
   'No,' Grey replied meekly.
   'So it was me that cocked up this whole fucking investigation?'
   'No.'
   Grey's reply was quieter still.
   'So who was it then?'
   No answer.
   'Who's fucking fault was it?'
   'Mine,' Grey half whispered.
   Jones could see that he had pushed Grey about as far as he could. Grey's bottom lip had started to tremble slightly, and he didn't want him breaking down in tears in his office. Now that he had got him to admit his culpability, and had an opportunity to vent his rage on him, he just wanted him out of his sight. Get him as far away as possible, whilst he ensured everyone knew just who was to blame for this fiasco.
   'Okay, well we're not getting anywhere sat here getting depressed about it. Where do we go from here?'
   'Sorry?' Grey did not immediately register Jones's conciliatory tone.
   'What do we do now? How do we proceed with the investigation?'
   'I think we just need more time. I don't think we're far away from the man we're looking for.'
   'Okay, well get out there and do your stuff. I'll make sure you get all the time you need.'
   'Thanks.'
   'Just make sure that you catch him.'
   'Don't worry we will.'
   Jones stood up to indicate that the conversation was ended. Grey took his cue and shuffled out of the room.
   'Arsehole', Jones muttered under his breath as the door to his office closed behind Grey.

+ + + + + +

Chris entered the office, and seeing Elaine with her back to him intently keying something into her wordprocessor, crept up quietly behind her.
   'Psst.. Wanna see a dirty video?'
   Chris adopted a 'dirty old man' voice and tapped Elaine on the shoulder.
   Elaine had not sensed him behind her and jumped slightly at the shock of his unexpected touch. She looked round, smiling broadly as she saw who it was.
   'Chris, you got it, brilliant.'
   'Very tasteful. Boy on Girl, Girl on Girl, Donkey on Girl, Hamster on Boy on Donkey on Girl. All good stuff, you'll have never seen anything like this.'
   Elaine laughed to show her appreciation of Chris's joke, then rallied with a soft put down.
   'No, but by the sound of it you're a bit of an expert yourself.'
   Chris shrugged and changed the subject.
   'Well no announcement yet that Grey has got his man.'
   'Christ, you wouldn't have heard. Grey crapped out. He arrested some middle aged garage owner in Wandsworth. A full tacticals squad, the works, and it wasn't their man, he had a cast iron alibi.'
   'Christ.'
   Chris endorsed Elaine's choice of expletive as he smiled broadly at her news.
   'Word is, they're screwed. Jones announced to the press that arrests were imminent. Heads are going to roll.'
   'Disaster.'
   Chris' countenance belied his disappointed sentiments.
   Chris' and Elaine's smiles beamed at each other silently for a moment as they maintained the delicious irony of their shared 'disappointment', before they could stand it no longer and they simultaneously erupted into gleeful laughter.
   'Fucking brilliant.'
   'C'mon, I've set up a video in interview room 2B. Give that tape here, go and make us both a coffee and we'll have a look.'

+ + + + + +

Jon sat bent over his pad of paper, absentmindedly chewing the end of his pencil as he tried to plan out the details of his next killing.
   His crusade filled his entire being, it was without doubt by far the most important thing in his life; nothing else mattered. It deserved his full attention and that was exactly what he intended to give it. Every available thought was dedicated to his task. Nothing else merited consideration.
   His planning had not got far. He had yet to decide which group of people to target next. In the scheme of things he should have reverted to his plan to kill an aristocrat, but he had mentioned this in his last note, alerted the police to his intention. It was too risky, an unnecessary risk at that. It wouldn't take much for the police to alert members of the aristocracy, especially those around the scene of his last killing, they might even have such likely targets under watch.
   Much better to defer his targeting of the aristocracy to later. He had a good plan and it would be difficult to identify an aristocrat who was so convenient. He would put the plan on ice. The order of his killings were unimportant, just as long as he got round to everyone in the end.
   He had two alternatives to the aristocrat; either a policeman or a politician. There were plenty of good reasons for punishing either group, it was just a matter of choosing between them.
   The police were the instrument by which society's current status quo was maintained and as such were the main opposing force to Jon's crusade. They protected the interests of those who were favoured by society's inequities, the people that Jon was in the main seeking to punish, and for that they were well rewarded for what was basically a manual task; glorified security guards.
   In some ways they were a necessary evil; Jon was no anarchist, and wanted his person and property to be protected from crime as much as the next man. What Jon found so abhorrent about the police was the self-serving sub-culture of corruption that they had built up around them in their necessary task of maintaining law and order.
   An institution such as the police, who seek to control the behaviour of the populace, should be beyond reproach in their own behaviour; whiter than white in all they say and do, so that they are universally perceived as inhabiting the moral high ground from which they are qualified to pass judgement on others. Any members of their number who transgress the laws that they supposed to uphold should be weeded out without mercy. Set up as an example, both to others of their number as to the penalties for such an offence, and to the wider populace to demonstrate the police's commitment to maintaining their own integrity. Only in such circumstances would the police force ever truly have the respect of the populace, and be able to attract individuals whose motivation is selfless interest in improving the society of which they are a part.
   The regulation of the police in this country was widely perceived as ineffectual. The police were extremely resistant to any scrutiny of their methods. There was an internal code which prohibited any testimony against a fellow officer. There was even a masons lodge in some large police stations. Everyone knew these things, they were accepted truths. In such circumstances corruption could only flourish. People did not respect the police, and the selfless individuals who Jon felt would be qualified to police the behaviour of others, were discouraged from joining their number.
   In their place, the corrupt sub-culture within the police force attracted an entirely different type of recruit. In Jon's experience the sort of people who wanted to join the police were small minded bullies; people who got their kicks from the petty power of pushing other people about. The police performed a valid function, but the people in the police force were those least suited to fulfilling that function.
   Jon's grievances against politicians were fundamentally similar to those he held against the police. Again he thought they fulfilled a worthwhile function, though he disagreed strongly with the polarised two party system which the first passed the post electoral system engendered, he did think that whatever political system was put in place, there was a need for professional politicians to facilitate such a system.
   Like the police, it was the people that were invariably employed in that (otherwise worthwhile) occupation with which Jon held his grievance. Politicians were necessary, but he despised those people that presently seemed to gravitate towards that role. Corrupting their occupation in their own image.
   The incumbents of political office (of whatever political creed) had an invaluable opportunity to improve the fabric of the society of which they were a part. They could genuinely change things for the better. They could make a difference; something Jon would gladly die - and had already killed - for. This opportunity was wasted on politicians. Rather than serve society, they served only themselves.
   Attracted by the power of their positions, rather than any sense of the public good in which that power could be (should be) employed, their overriding concern was holding on to that power for as long as possible. Policy decisions were short sighted, chasing populist sentiment within the constraints of political dogma. Everything geared to ensuring the continuation of public office rather than any considered attempt to use that public office to improve things.
   Jon made his choice. He would have died for the opportunities that politicians enjoyed. One of them would die for wilfully wasting such opportunities. The choice of party was automatic. Any party whose central ethos was personal greed was more than worthy of his contempt, and the Tories as the ruling party for most of Jon's adult life, had more to answer for than most.
   Within this group, it would not be difficult to find someone tainted by corruption - indeed, under Jon's definition of corruption whereby he deemed it unacceptable for such highly paid public servants to enjoy lucrative executive positions with private companies whose interests they were expected to protect within the political arena, it would be difficult to find someone who he judged beyond reproach within his favoured political party. Nobody high-profile, he'd never be able to get close enough to anyone really important, just some back-bencher from in the home counties. That would do nicely.
   Time was short. He didn't know exactly how long he had left, but he couldn't go on forever. He'd been careful, but sooner or later the police would catch up with him. He still had a lot to do before then. He'd wasted far too much time already with his self-inquistion. He wouldn't make that mistake again. That way lay madness. His next target was decided, but there were a myriad of details for him to work out in order to make it possible.

+ + + + + +

Chris struggled with the front of the small meeting room's video recorder, trying to insert a tape. He was not surprised by his difficulties in this respect. He had always displayed incompetence in the operation of any such mundane example of man's household electronic ingenuity. Fortunately, this - rare for himself (recognised) - weakness did not dent his all pervading sense of general superiority. It was not a trait that he chose to place any value in.
   'Stop fiddling about, and get the thing in there.'
   Elaine urged him on, in a manner she considered helpful.
   'Christ, you're keen. Normally, you girls expect a bit of a kiss and a cuddle first.'
   'With you, most women would need a general anaesthetic first.'
   Unable to top that, Chris merely laughed. Elaine laughed at him, with him.
   The machine finally yielded to Chris's inexpert fumblings and sucked in the tape. Chris moved away from the machine, sat down and initiated another bout of banter.
   'What about Grey last night? What a fiasco.'
   'Yeah. Rather him than us. What have you heard?'
   Elaine recognised that Chris was much closer to the office grapevine than herself, and so could be relied upon for the latest tit-bits.
   'Not a lot. Just that he and half of the country's tacticals laid siege to Wandsworth last night. Managed to arrest a used car dealer. A real hard case apparently. He'd been fiddling his mileages and everything.'
   They laughed again. Chris continued.
   'Word is, Grey's for the chop, some are even saying Jones could go too.'
   'Grey maybe, but not Jones. He's too slippery for that. He'll probably be the one that sticks the knife into Grey though.'
   Elaine didn't air her suspicions that Jones' safety was reinforced by his (assumed) Masonic links. She was none too sure of Chris's position on this issue. If he wasn't one already, it was surely only a question of time and opportunity.
   'Yeah.'
   Chris agreed.
   'Shit doesn't stick to a shit like Jones. He just absorbs it and gets bigger.'
   'Quite.'
   Elaine gestured towards the twin remote controls of the television and video, on the desk in front of them, between their seats and the large television.
   'Now let's see what we've got here.'
   'Okay'
   Despite his earlier demonstration of incompetence with such technology, Chris leant forward to secure his male inheritance, picking up both controls, switching the television on to the video channel and thumbing the right facing arrow on the video handset.
   They sat side by side in the darkened meeting room, as the black and white London Underground security film started to play out on the screen before them. The film was shot from above the platform, high over the heads of the commuters. The camera pointed along the platform, parallel to the straight lines of the tunnel wall, the platform edge and the tracks.
   These lines exaggerated the perspective of the monochrome picture, as the images of passengers already foreshortened by the overhead camera position quickly shrank away into the distance, past the point on the platform where another camera was monitoring its own stretch in turn.
   Elaine and Chris watched the silent screen intently, the light from the screen flickering on their faces, waiting for the drama to unfold before them. Steadily growing hordes of anonymous commuters milled about the platform. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to attract the attention.
   'S'busy.'
   Chris's thirty second attention span was exhausted. Only the promise of the horrors to come fixed his gaze limpet like to the screen and prevented him stabbing the double arrow of the fast forward.
   'There'd been trouble with the trains that day. It was mentioned at the inquest.'
   Movement at the head of the platform. Neck's turning to stare down the platform, down past the camera, and a general gravitation towards a line roughly two foot from the edge of the platform, amid some minor jostling for position.
   Elaine and Chris watched with baited breath.
   Then it happened. The crowd gave up one of its number. About half way down the visible stretch of platform, the image true, her features clear, a young woman pitched out onto the track.
   'Susan Howells.'
   The crowd around the point on the platform's edge from where she had emerged, no longer so assured in the security of their positions, stepped back slightly as the crowds behind them pushed forward against them, eager to see the source of the commotion.
   Into the picture, from behind the camera, a dark shape glided into view.
   'Here comes the train.'
   More movement on the platform, people fighting to move both away from and towards the disturbance depending on their disposition.
   The train moved quickly along the platform towards the woman, Susan Howells, caught like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car, unable to make the decisive movements that she would need to have any chance of surviving. She raised a single arm in a pathetic gesture of defence and the train was on her. She was gone, dragged unseen by the train as it continued it's progress along the platform, filling the visible stretch of track.
   Pandemonium on the platform.
   The episode was frozen in time, as Chris pushed the two vertical bars on his control.
   'Christ.'
   'Yeah. Right, can you take it back to the point where she falls out onto the track.'
   Chris did as he was told.
   The platform throng jerked about at double quick pace. The train charged backwards along the platform, producing a young woman out of nowhere in the middle of the screen before disappearing altogether. For a moment, Susan Howells lay sprawled on the track, before suddenly springing remarkably up on to the platform, to be swallowed up by the crowd.
   'There she goes.'
   Chris paused the film again, before advancing it a frame at the time, scrutinising the spot on the platform from where he knew Susan Howells would emerge.
   He paused the tape once more.
   'There she is. At the front of the platform. Can you see her?'
   Chris leaned forward to point Susan Howells out on the television screen.
   'Yes. I see her. Can you take it forward, slowly.'
   'Okay.'
   Frame by frame, the platform masses jostled, Susan retaining her position at their fore, then jerking forward, over balancing on the edge of the platform, and falling into space and the waiting tracks below.
   'Hold it there. Can you take it back the last seven or so frames?'
   'Sure.'
   Back she moved again, defying gravity, out of the void, onto the platform, and into her position at the front of the scrum.
   'That's it. Can you show those last few frames, forward and back, three or four times.'
   'Okay. What are we looking for?'
   'I'm trying to see if she jumped.'
   Forward, Susan was thrown out into the space above the tracks, and back she paused in mid air and retraced her flight back onto the platform.
   Forward and back a frame at a time.
   Back and forward, Elaine scrutinised the image, trying to be certain one way or the other, a Chris gazed at the screen, attempting to emulate her concentration, battling to contain any outward signs of boredom.
   'It's difficult to say, but by the look on her face, she looks surprised rather than resolved.'
   'Yeah, shocked even.'
   Forward and back.
   'If she did jump, she decided to do it on the spur of the moment, without any time to compose herself. One moment she is standing normally on the platform. The next she's sailing through the air.'
   'Yeah.'
   Back and forward.
   'She fell.'
   Elaine wasn't entirely satisfied, but resigned to the fact that there was nothing much further to glean from the tape, that might support her preferred theory.
   'But look at the way the bloke behind her seems to move, like he half tries to grab her and stop her. Like he must of seen her getting ready to do it.'
   'Are you sure?'
   'Yeah look.'
   Susan moved back onto the platform.
   'Watch this bloke behind her.'
   Chris pointed to an undistinguished male face on the screen and moved the film slowly forward.
   Susan started to pitch forward, behind her they watched the man move his arm slightly towards her as she fell.
   'There.'
   Chris paused the tape and froze the moment in time.
   The potential value of the film re-established, Elaine's eager urgency returned.
   'Yeah, you're right. I wonder if we could interview him. I wonder if he knew her.'
   'I wonder if he was shagging her.'
   'Quite.'
   'Let's have another look at it. Take it back just before she starts to move.'
   Chris brought Susan back into the platform crowd.
   'And forward slowly'.
   Susan started to move, the man behind her moved with her, tracing the first couple of feet of her journey, but not quite catching her, her movement quicker than his arm could react.
   'And again.'
   Elaine's attention was fixed on the man behind Susan now, searching for she didn't know what.
   'I wonder if we could get a blow up of this bloke's face?'
   'I should think so.'
   Elaine answered absent mindedly, her focus still fixed to the movements on the screen.
   'Can you show it again, a frame at a time.'
   'Yeah, okay. It's amazing what they can do nowadays, with computers and that.'
   The two of them stood pressed against each other, victim and possible saviour.
   Three frames passed. No change.
   And then it happened. An infinitesimal movement, the man moved his right shoulder. Minute, but unmistakable. The man flinched, and Susan still stood unmoved, solid on the platform edge.
   'There, look, he moved before she does.'
   It was Elaine's turn to lean forward and point at the screen.
   'Yeah. So he did know she was going to go. She jumped.'
   'Maybe. Show me again.'
   Three frames. They both stand together. He flinches. She moves. His arm moves with her.
   'Again.'
   Standing together, he flinches, she moves.
   'Again.'
   He moves, she moves.
   'He fucking pushed her.'

+ + + + + +

They were a team, him and the Dark Angel. They were a winning team. The police didn't have a clue. They would never catch them. They couldn't even tell their crimes apart. In a way, William wished the police had been able to distinguish his act from those of the Dark Angel. He would have liked to have his own alter-ego. His own identity. Something suitably foreboding, like the Black Saint or something. That would be cool. Perhaps he would leave something at his next killing, spelling it out, that he wasn't the Dark Angel. That there were two of them now. Doing what they pleased. Getting away with murder. Nobody could push them around.
   The Dark Angel himself obviously saw it that way. He had written the note to justify William's actions. He recognised William's contribution. Endorsed his act. William wished he could meet him. Share their secrets, talk about what they had done, what they were going to do. Things nobody else was able to understand. But William could think of no way to arrange such a meeting. He didn't worry though. He was sure the Dark Angel would come to him eventually. Seek him out to congratulate him personally. The Dark Angel could do anything he put his mind to. He was the brains of the outfit. William was content to follow his lead. Actions rather than deep contemplation had always been his forte. The Dark Angel showed him what to do and he followed as best he could.
   The Dark Angel's latest killing had been the best yet. Murdering a salesman in broad daylight by the side of a busy motorway. He had some front, offing the bloke in front of thousands of potential witnesses. That took bottle. What a great bloke.
   The Dark Angel had shown him what to do and William would dutifully follow. William knew a salesman who needed bringing down a peg or two. Another bloke from school. Someone who had always been so popular with the girls, though William had considered the excessive attention he had devoted to his own appearance hinted broadly at homosexuality.
   Richard Shaw. Always so perfectly turned out. Always so confident, so ready with the oh-so-clever put downs. Everything always seemed to come so easily for Richard Shaw. Everything he scarcely deserved, stolen from more deserving others that William could think of. Himself, for instance. William knew where Shaw worked. He'd seen him around. He'd show him. He'd show them all.

+ + + + + +

Elaine had used all her persuasive armoury on the photographic experts at SOC. It had not been in vain. Barely three hours later she had a reasonably clear picture of the man they were looking for. The man standing behind Susan Howells when she had fallen under the tube train. The man who they thought had pushed her. Clear enough to make out the man's features. Clear enough for anyone who knew him to recognise him. To tell them his name.
   Elaine held the photograph of her suspect protectively behind her in its buff coloured envelope, as if trying not to bring it to Jones' attention.
   'So you'd like my authorisation to set up shop in Tottenham Court Road tube station. Question the commuters.'
   Jones repeated Elaine's words though they were less than ten seconds old. He seemed to barely register their meaning. As if he was conducting the conversation on automatic. His attention elsewhere.
   'Yes. We think we might have found the woman our boy refers to in the notes. A tube death.'
   Jones' lack of scrutiny suited Elaine's purpose.
   'A tube death?'
   'Yeah. The coroner's verdict was accidental death. We think it was suicide. We want to interview her fellow commuters. Find out one way or the other.'
   Elaine's tone was matter of fact.
   'Suicide?'
   Jones looked up and fixed Elaine with his gaze, perhaps sensing something of significance in what he was being told.
   'Is it important?'
   'Not at the moment. It's just part of our work to decipher the notes.'
   Jones looked back down at the papers on his desk.
   'Need any manpower?'
   Extra bodies would be useful, but would need to be justified, and risk bringing her request under Jones' detailed examination which she had so far (remarkably) avoided.
   'No, Chris and I should be enough. We just need to okay it with the locals and transport.'
   'Okay then. Any problems, refer them to me.'
   'Thanks.'
   And that was it. As simple as that.
   Jones showed no sign of wanting to continue the exchange further and Elaine had no wish to give him the opportunity to do so. She turned and left his office. As she closed the door behind her she considered Jones' behaviour. He certainly didn't seem to be himself. Perhaps the case was getting to him.
   Poor lamb
   She smiled broadly and laughed to herself.

+ + + + + +

He moved through the crowds of shoppers - even in the week, the shopping mall was crowded - concentrating on his purpose, fighting not to be intimidated by the dehumanising anonymous hordes. They milled about him. Walking where he wanted to walk, blocking his path, forcing him to give way, always him, never them. Couples wrapped in each other, highlighting his own isolation. Malicious children, so full of energy and blind optimism, showing up his own lack of potential and opportunities. Shambling pensioners, illustrating what life had in store for him. Bumping into him, invading his space, staring at him, uncomfortable eye contact, boring into him, dragging the dreadful secrets from his mind.
   Head down, William hurried on to his destination, shutting out those around him as best he could.

+ + + + + +

Jon left the flat and marched down the road with steely determination. He had it all worked out. Had gone through it in his head, visualising his precise actions a thousand times before. He knew what he wanted to do, and he knew how, where and when he wanted to do it He drew no pleasure from the task ahead, but knew that it was necessary and was committed to its execution. All he had to do was follow the detailed set of actions he had mapped out, and it would soon be all over. Concentrate on the detail and do what had to be done.

+ + + + + +

Sally replaced the telephone hand set without having dialled any number, and sighed.
   She couldn't do it. She wanted to. She wanted to talk to Jon. Christ, she could think of nothing she'd rather do, had thought of little else recently, since she had made her decision to call him. She'd tried not to let her mind run away with things. Not to allow herself to think about a reconciliation. Not yet anyway. She had to exercise control over her thoughts and emotions. Control was very important to her.
   She didn't trust herself to talk to Jon. He'd answer the phone, they'd exchange a few pleasantries and before she knew it she'd spill her guts to him; beg him to take her back, tell him it had all been a mistake, pledge her never-ending undying love. She couldn't trust herself not to. And that wasn't what she wanted. Sure, she wanted him back, but not like that, not with a surrender of so many of those things that she held dear.
   She wanted him back on her terms. It was he that had done wrong. He that had transgressed. So it was only right that it was he that should throw himself at her mercy. He should beg her to take him back. He should tell her it had all been a mistake. He should pledge his never ending undying love to her. And she would take him back, but it would be on her terms and would establish the status quo to her satisfaction, on a basis that she would be happy to carry forward into the rest of her life.
   She had to be careful. Control was paramount. If all went well she could set the tone for the rest of her life; the rest of their lives together. She would write Jon a letter. That way she could ensure that she said exactly the right things. It would take time to write, but it would be well worth it. She would make sure that everything was perfect.
   After the first letter Jon would take over and start to make the running. When they had split up she had asked him not to make it difficult for her by contacting her and he had (somewhat disappointingly) obeyed her request. If she had removed that constraint from him, then she was sure that he would be keen to talk to her, to try and get back together. From there she could play hard to get; allow herself to be gradually worn down by his assurances; not make it too easy for him, and leave him in no doubt as to who had the moral high ground.

+ + + + + +

Elaine and Chris had cast their net. the fly-posters Elaine had knocked up on her PC, from the enhanced still from the video, were posted all over the station's entrance hall and southbound platform. Now they waited in the ticket master's office, for the rush hour tide and the shoals of commuters it would bring.
   They didn't have to wait long.
   A quarter to five, with the tide of humanity still climbing to its peak. A middle aged man, Henry Cowley, was ushered into the office by a guard. Cowley claimed to recognise the man; a Jonathon Cooper. He had worked with him, until February that year when Cooper had been made redundant. When pressed for the exact date of Cooper's redundancy, he could be no more specific than late February. He had no idea where Cooper lived. He had not mixed with him socially.

+ + + + + +

William stood seemingly reading the late-booking holiday offers in the glass fronted travel agent's windows, but in reality watching the reflection of his quarry in the phone shop opposite.
   Richard Shaw stood inside the shop, talking to - attempting to sell one of his phones to - a young couple with a baby in a pushchair. Apart from them the shop was empty. William waited for the couple to leave - gratified that they did not appear to buy anything - and with nobody else having entered, the shop empty apart from Shaw, William went in.
   He moved to the display at the left of the shop. Gazing vacantly at the phones displayed there, letting his eyes rest on the specifications mounted under the phones, details that were of no interest to him. Waiting for Shaw to make his move, as he knew he would, as he had watched him with the last three visitors to the shop over the last half hour.
   Shaw looked up as the man entered the shop, and allowed him two minutes to look around, to make sure he knew what he wanted, that he wasn't wasting his time. The man didn't look like a typical mobile phone user. Dressed in a combat jacket and jeans, he looked more like a new-age traveller than a businessman, but these days you never could tell; everyone wanted a mobile phone. Maybe he wanted one to arrange his hunt sabotage or something. As long as he had the money, Shaw didn't mind.
   Shaw stood up and made his way over to the man, smiling with all the sincerity he could muster.
   'Good afternoon sir. Is there anything I can help you with?'
   William gripped the knife handle hard in his right hand and turned to face his quarry.
   'Yes, I'd like to buy a phone.'
   He had unpicked the lining of his right hand pocket so that he could reach the knife in its chest holster. He had spent hours practising drawing it out with a quick liquid movement. Hours in front of the mirror rehearsing something that he had got right first time, had never once had any problems accomplishing. Revelling in the power of his reflected image.
   He locked eyes with Shaw, looking for the slightest hint of recognition. There was none. Shaw probably didn't remember him from school, had barely noticed him when he had been there. They had mixed in completely different circles (Shaw's much wider than William's own). Their paths had not crossed. There had been nothing to bring him to Shaw's attention. Just a background face in the crowd. Someone at the periphery, a long way from the central position that Shaw himself proudly occupied.
   'Well that's what we're here for.'
   Shaw laughed friendily. William managed a weak smile.
   'Which model did you have in mind?'
   William hesitated for a moment at this unexpected question. He hadn't banked on having to specify a particular model of phone. Most of his preparations had centred on the exact method he would use to despatch Shaw. He had not given much thought to their interactions leading up to that glorious bloody climax. He gripped his knife still tighter.
   Panicking slightly, his brain kicked out of neutral.
   'I'm not sure, what would you suggest?'
   He liked the sound of that, especially the second bit. Pleased with his recovery, at this demonstration of his social skills, he relaxed his grip on his knife.
   Shaw took the man's uncertainty in his stride. He was used to such ignorance and resigned himself to the long drawn out explanation of the basics of mobile phone technology that was usually required in such situations. There was still a reasonable chance of a sale at the end of it. It would just take a bit more effort than the business like customers that Shaw preferred. In, how much, yes or no, sale or no sale. Easy money. Still it was the uneducated, the unsure, where Shaw's charm was of most value. Where his skills could make the difference between a sale or not.
   Anybody could sell to someone who knew what they wanted. It took the gift of the gab to persuade someone who wasn't sure. To first convince them that they need the thing, then sway them into buying the most expensive model that his instinct told them they could afford.
   'Well would you like analogue or digital? Analogue is cheaper but is fast becoming antiquated. Digital is slightly more expensive, but it is the future. The sound quality is much better..'
   William could see where this was going and cut Shaw short. He didn't want to spend half an hour discussing the merits of every phone in the shop. Half an hour when someone else might walk in at any moment and spoil it all.
   'What about this one?'
   Shaw smiled again, which was his staple way of responding to a customer. The cornerstone of his undeniable charm.
   'All the phones on the rack in front of you are digital. The Nokia is one of our most popular models with good battery life, very compact, very light.'
   Again William cut him short.
   'I'll take it.'
   Shaw smiled. He knew a gift horse when he saw one. The phone the man wanted was one of the most expensive in the shop. Considerably more expensive than Shaw would have guessed he could afford.
   'Well , if you'll just come over to the desk, where we can sort through the paperwork.'
   William followed Shaw to his desk towards the back of the shop were they sat down facing each other.
   Shaw smiled and opened the sliding drawer by his legs and drew out a pro-forma which he placed on the desk between them.
   'Well if I can just start with your name.'
   Before William could answer, the phone rang.
   'If you'll just excuse me a second.'
   Shaw picked up the receiver without waiting for his customer's permission.
   'Hello City phones.'
   'Oh Hi.. Tina.'
   Shaw recognised the voice. A girl that he had picked up at a night-club the previous weekend.
   'How are you?'
   Shaw looked up at his customer and rolled his eyes conspiratorially. William met his gaze impassively, but Shaw's eyes had moved back down to his left hand idly drumming his fingers on the desk surface, his attention wrapped in his phone conversation.
   'I was. I was going to give you a call tonight.'
   Shaw lied automatically. He worked on the rule of thumb that if a girl had succumbed to his obvious charms and slept with him on the first night, then she wasn't worth ringing.
   'I know, but I've been very busy. I've been thinking about you though.'
   At the end of the line, Shaw sensed his erstwhile conquest melt. Her grievance evaporating under the sure touch of his reassuring words.
   'All the time. Friday night was special. I keep finding myself staring into space. Daydreaming about it. About you.'
   'Of course. You were unforgettable. You're special.'
   He wasn't doing anything tonight. Perhaps he would break his rule and talk Tina back to his place. She really had been good in bed.
   'No of course not. I keep telling you, I'm not like other men.'
   'Fuck you cunt.'
   Shaw was dragged from his phone conversation by a shout in the world at large, accompanied by a sharp searing pain in his left hand.
   'Fucking Hell.'
   Still holding the telephone receiver to his ear with his right hand, he looked towards the source of the pain, reflexively drawing his left hand back towards his face. The main part of his three middle fingers stayed where they were on his desk. His detached index finger spasmodically twitching slightly where it lay.
   'Fucking Hell.'
   He repeated his favoured expletive.
   The stumps on his left hand sprayed scarlet blood in time with his adrenaline fuelled heart. He looked up to follow its arcing path into the face of his all but forgotten customer in front of him and beyond him into the empty area of the shop beyond.
   The man in front of him was grinning maniacally, blood - his blood - streaming down him. He was holding a large bloodied hunting knife threateningly towards Shaw. In an instant, his awful situation became all too clear.
   'Hello, is everything alright?'
   Tina's voice urged in his right ear. Shaw didn't answer her. His attention was completely focused on his assailant before him.
   'Put the phone down.'
   Shaw obeyed.
   'And take me into the back office.'

+ + + + + +

Elaine rang the bank where Cooper had worked and was put through to the personnel department. After using the weight of the Dark Angel murder investigation to overcome the personnel officer's reticence to divulge confidential information, she extricated the home address of Jonathon Cooper. His last day of work had been the twenty seventh of February. The day Susan Howells had died.

+ + + + + +

The back of the shop was unexpectedly claustrophobic; untidy and disorganised, long corridors of boxes stacked from floor to ceiling.
   'You've cut my fucking fingers off.' Shaw gripped the stumps of his left hand with his right trying to staunch the blood flow.
   'Shut up cunt.'
   William pushed Shaw further into the store-room in front of him.
   'Those three fingers are just the start. Where's the fucking door out of this place?'
   'It's down here.'
   Shaw indicated the direction they were going.
   'But it's locked. The key's in the front desk.'
   'Why didn't you fucking tell me?'
   William grabbed Shaw by the back of his shirt collar and shoved him back the way they had come. Shaw fell heavily on to what remained of his left hand, crying out in pain.
   'Get up.'
   William kicked him between the legs from behind.
   'Now take me to that fucking key.'

+ + + + + +

Eric Button had been considering buying a mobile phone for a long time, more than a year. He wanted it for his wife Clair. She worked as a nurse, and her journey into work took her through some bad areas at some inhospitable times. the sort of area you didn't want to find yourself alone in if your car broke down. Eric had watched the price of phones come down over time, and now had decided that they had enough spare money in their monthly budget to cover the cost. It wasn't the cost of the phone, it was the line rental that you had to worry about, he had been reliably informed.
   Eric and Clair had entered the Citi-phone shop to find it empty. Neither of them noticed the incongruous digits on the desk at the far end of the shop or the reddish brown stains on the wall and carpet in front of it. They hesitated by the door.
   'Where is everybody?'
   'They're probably just in the back, getting some stock. They'll be back in a minute.'
   As if on cue, the door at the back of the shop opened. Through the door came two men. One of them, dressed in a suit, presumably a shop assistant, led out at knife point in front of the other more casually dressed man. The shop assistant was in obvious distress and was holding his hands out in front of him; his right clamped hard over his left. Both men appeared to be heavily bloodstained.
   This was not what Eric and Clair had expected to see. Likewise their appearance seemed to surprise the two men. There was a frozen moment of almost comic double take as both couples stared at each other.
   Eric moved first, snatching Clair's hand and leading her from the shop.
   Back out in the mall, they hunted down the nearest security guard and told him their surprising tale. Stephen Awford, a tall serious man with ambitions to join the police force - though his application had been turned down on two previous occasions - decided to investigate. He thanked the couple, and swiftly made his way over to the phone shop.

+ + + + + +

'Get the fucking key.'
   William pushed Shaw towards the desk. He fell onto his knees in front of it and fumbled with the drawer with his one good hand.
   'C'mon, hurry up.'
   'I'm doing my best. I'd have been alright if you hadn't cut my bloody fingers off.'
   William looked at the digits still laid on the desk top and laughed. He reached over Shaw's shoulder and pulled the drawer completely out, scattering the contents on the floor.
   'Easier now?'
   'Couldn't we pack them in ice or something. So they can sew them back on later.'
   'See this.'
   William snatched up one of the severed fingers. He put it to his mouth and bit a chunk of flesh from the open end and spat it across the shop. Through bloodied teeth he laughed.
   'They ain't ever going to sew those bastards on.'
   Shaw looked at the floor, silent.
   William spotted a bunch of keys amongst the debris and picked it from the floor.
   'These the keys?'
   He waved them under Shaw's nose. Shaw nodded.
   A sudden moment of inspiration.
   'Which one's for the front door?'
   'The silver Chubb.'
   'Okay stay there, don't move.'
   William ran to the front of the shop and locked the entrance door. Shaw stayed immobile on his knees behind the desk. William ran back to him and pulled him roughly to his feet and propelled him towards the store-room door with a kick. Shaw stumbled towards the door, saying and doing nothing to resist.

+ + + + + +

Awford arrived at Citi-Phones to find the entrance locked. Looking through the glass shop front he didn't like the obvious disruption by the desk at the back of the store, and was particularly concerned at some reddish stains he could see on the carpet. He used his radio to call his colleague, Graham Wenson, who he knew was manning the entrance to the delivery bay which all the stores backed on to, and asked him to check the back of Citi-Phones.

+ + + + + +

'So this door leads into the loading bay, and I can get out on to the road from there.'
   'Yes.'
   Shaw confirmed William had got the details straight.
   They faced the store-room exit. Shaw stood between William and the door, with his back to William.
   'Thanks.'
   William moved the knife swiftly up into Shaw's side, under his rib-cage and into his heart, pulling him back onto the knife with his left hand clamped across his mouth. He had learnt the move from one of his magazines. The SAS used it. Quick, efficient, deadly. Shaw died without so much as a sound. William let Shaw's body drop to the floor, pulling his knife from it as it fell.
   He stooped to wipe the blade on Shaw's jacket and replaced the knife in its holster. He would have liked to have had more time. He had planned it all to be much more elaborate. What he'd do to Shaw; the killing, what he was going to do to Shaw's body, the message, but he didn't have the time to hang around.
   All in all, he was pleased with how it had gone. He had shown Shaw once and for all who was best, and the fingers had been a nice touch. All his smarm and pretty boy looks weren't any use to him now.
   William took a last lingering look at the body and unlocked the store-room door.

+ + + + + +

Wensom jogged towards the entrance to Citi-Phones when he saw the door open still some twenty yards in front of him. A stranger exited the shop and Wensom immediately challenged him.
   'Hey you, stay where you are.'
   Wensom slowed his pace to a walk, so as not to spook the man into any sort of reaction.
   The man jumped slightly at the challenge, and whirled to face Wensom.

+ + + + + +

'Stay where you are.'
   The security guard repeated, still walking towards William, his eyes flitting briefly to look at the brown stains on William's clothing.
   William reached inside his jacket and put his hand on the knife. The guard stopped, obvious fear in his eyes. William kept his hand on the knife, prolonging the threat.
   The guard was about medium height, not too muscled. William could take him. No problem.
   'Do you know who I am. I'm the Dark Angel. Nobody tells us what to do.'
   William's desire for a separate identity was forgotten as he strived for maximum effect. He could almost smell the guard's pants filling up.
   Two men who were delivering goods to the back of another shop, took an interest in the commotion and strolled over to see what all the fuss was about. William noticed them for the first time as they came up behind the security guard. Glancing briefly at the men's' faces, William decided that leaving by the front of the shop might be a better idea and returned through the door he had just left.

+ + + + + +

Jones snatched up the phone handset, irritated at having his thought interrupted.
   'Yes.'
   The simple affirmation, spat out like an accusation.
   As he listened to Grey's exited - Grey sounded more excited than Jones could ever remember, than he would have thought Grey capable of - the scowl evaporated from his face.
   'Are they sure?'
   Finally the scowl surrendered to a broad smile.
   'Fucking brilliant.'
   'Well what are we waiting for, let's get down there.'

+ + + + + +

This was it. They had him. they were closing in on their man. After all the months of investigation. All the disappointment, the frustrations, the sheer hard bloody effort, they had the name and address of their man. The man she was convinced was behind the killings. Their line of enquiry. The notes had come good. The theories that had been so derided by others had borne fruit. Vindicated, they stood on the cusp of their greatest triumph. It was all over bar the shouting.
   'What now?'
   Chris was eager to press their advantage.
   'Now we ring in and tell Jones what we know, and let them bring him in.'
   'What?..Let Jones and Grey take all the credit. After what they said about the notes. You must be mad. Let's go and bring him in ourselves.'
   'We can't. We need back up and for that we need Jones' say so, which we're not going to get. Don't worry about the credit. Young will make sure we get what we deserve. We know we were right. Jones and Grey will know we were right. That's what really matters..'
   'I suppose so. I'd rather be there at the death though.'
   Elaine smiled indulgently and picked up the station master's phone.
   'Hello, Can I speak to Detective Chief Inspector Jones please.'
   'Yes, DI Heaton.'
   'Oh.'
   'When will he be back.'
   'Oh.'
   The smile of self-satisfied triumph started to melt from Elaine's face as she was told the details of Jones' engagement, her expression eventually gravitating into a faint scowl of frustration.
   'No, no message. I'll talk to him when I get back.'
   She put the phone down.
   'Well, what is it?'
   Chris didn't like the signs.
   'It's Jones. They've caught the Dark Angel. For definite this time. They've got him holed up in a shop in Croydon.'
   'Are they sure?'
   'Yeah, they've caught him red handed. In the act.'
   'Our boy?'
   'Must be.'
   'Of all the luck.'
   Elaine shrugged her shoulders.
   'Yep.'
   'What now?'
   Elaine had an idea how they could still secure a victory from the situation. Nowhere near as large a victory as she had anticipated moments earlier, but an unmistakable victory none the less.
   'Now we go to Tooting and prove we were right. If we know we're right and Jones and Grey know we're right. That's what matters.'
   Chris matched her enthusiasm.
   'You're right.'

+ + + + + +

Jon entered the supermarket foyer and moved to select his trolley, taking the one at the head of the vast metal snake. The trolley's wheels were not straight and consequently it veered maniacally to the left. Jon discarded it and selected the next one in line. The basket on this trolley was covered in some odious sticky brown liquid, presumably from the trolley's previous user's shopping. He discarded this trolley in favour of the next one in the stack, moving off without testing it so as not to risk inconveniencing the woman who had arrived and was waiting impatiently behind him to select a trolley of her own.
   The trolley seemed to be fine as he pushed it through the automatic barriers into the brightly lit supermarket proper, and the produce section which smelled disconcertingly of fresh bread, but as soon as he attempted to execute the right turn he needed to face down the produce aisle, he encountered a stiff resistance from the trolley to take anything other than a straight course. Typical. Jon let his irritation wash over him, physically swung the trolley round until it faced the required direction and resolved to struggle round the shop with the defective machinery as best he could.
   Though the supermarket's layout was familiar to him from his and Sally's weekly shop, this was the first time Jon had been inside it since his redundancy. He had never enjoyed shopping at the supermarket. He had always found them a strain on his tolerance and equilibrium. In his darker days he had simply not felt up to facing the assault on his sensibilities provided by the harsh lighting, the proximity of more selfish shoppers, the screaming infants, the queues at the checkout, the disapproving faces of his fellow shoppers as he struggled to pack his own shopping, the bored insolent wage-slave staff, the never being able to find exactly what you wanted. Today, finally, he felt ready to face these manifest trials. He had left his weapons, safely hidden, at his flat though, so as not to give himself an all too convenient (and disastrous) outlet, if it all got too much for him.

+ + + + + +

CHAPTER 15.

FINAL TRUTH

Chris drove them along Tooting High Road.
   'So what exactly are we looking for? We don't expect him to be in.'
   'If we're right, he's holed up in some shop in Croydon. We can have a look round, see if anything ties in with what we already know. Talk to the neighbours. Just find something to show Jones and Grey that we worked it out for ourselves.'
   'And if we're wrong. If he's in?'
   'If he's in, then we talk to him. At the very least he seems to have been standing behind Susan Howell's when she went under the tube-train. Perhap's he can shed some light on that.'
   'What if Jones and Grey have got the wrong man? It's been known before.'
   'Unlikely. His secretary said that they'd caught the man red-handed, attacking a mobile-phone salesman.'
   Though she recognised it as unlikely, Elaine secretly hoped that this last scenario would come true; that Grey and Jones had the wrong man; that she and Chris would find Jonathon Cooper and claim all the glory for themselves. She knew Chris shared this best case scenario, but was careful not to encourage his expectation in any way, and merely concentrated on the unlikeliness of the circumstances, as if entertaining the possibility would in some way make it even less likely to occur.
   'Here we are , next right, Castle Row. It's number thirteen B, converted flats I should think.'
   'Right.'
   Chris executed a right turn.
   The street was quiet, unremarkable. Two rows of Victorian terraces stood facing each other. Most of the houses were too large for a modern nuclear family and had been converted into flats. A street like so many others. Built in the days before the necessity of the motor car. Without drives or garages, cars lined both kerbs, parked along both sides of the road, allowing just enough space for two cars travelling in opposite directions to squeeze past each other
   They found number thirteen and pulled into a space in the line of cars directly outside it.
   'Piece of luck.'
   Elaine did not respond. Now was not the time for small talk.
   They left the car and walked towards the entrance of the anonymous house.
   From the street, Elaine could see that there were two buzzers on the front door.
   'B's probably the top floor.'
   Chris nodded. They both scanned the first floor windows. Nothing out of the ordinary. Curtains drawn back, no lights on to indicate occupancy, but at late afternoon this in itself did not indicate much either way.
   Chris opened the iron gate and they walked along the path by the completely paved front garden to the blood-red front door. At the side of the door there was an entry phone system, with a bell for both flats and an intercom where the caller could identify themselves before being let in. The card by the buzzer for thirteen B read Jon and Sally Cooper.
   Chris looked at Elaine, his finger hovering over the bell. Elaine nodded and Chris pressed the button. Silence, any bell must have been at least twenty feet away on the other side of two doors.
   They waited, time passed.
   Nothing happened.
   Chris pushed the button again.
   Still nothing.
   'He's out.'
   'In Croydon.'
   Elaine raised her eyebrows quizically, her mind touching on a similar incident six months ago on a doorstep in Balham.
   Chris rang again, louder and more insistent this time.
   They waited in vain.
   'You were right. I hate Croydon, poxy place.'
   Elaine smiled.
   'Try A.'
   'One last go.'
   Chris pressed the button a final time, for a good two seconds.
   Still nothing.
   Chris started to move his hand towards the button for flat A and a Ms Judy Hargreaves.
   The intercom sprang into life.
   'Yeah?'
   The voice impassive, male, no discernable accent.
   Elaine's heart skipped a beat
   'Hello sir. We're with the police. We're carrying out some routine enquiries. I wonder if you'd let us in so that we can ask you a few questions?'
   A metallic click rang out, as the occupant of thirteen B released the catch on the door. Chris pushed it open and turned to look at Elaine, now taking his turn to raise his eyebrows.
   'You were wrong.'
   'We'll see.'
   Elaine followed Chris inside.

+ + + + + +

Jon was putting away his groceries when he heard the buzzer for the front door.
   He stopped for a moment, trying to think who it could be. He was not used to callers. When he could think of no-one it might be bar a nuisance caller; Jehovah's witness, salesman, assorted busy body or such like, he decided to ignore them and continue with his unpacking.
   The buzzer sounded again.
   Jon's resolve held firm and he continued with his task.
   The buzzer sounded a third time.
   Whoever was at the door certainly didn't give up easily. The tenacity of the caller pointed towards it not being a nuisance caller. Someone who was probably calling on every house in the street would not invest so much time at one particular house where the occupants appeared to be out. Jon's curiousity was building and with it his resolve to ignore the caller waned.
   The buzzer sounded a fourth time; long, loud and insistent.
   Jon left his groceries and moved into his hall and the intercom by the front door, still wondering who it might be.
   'Yeah?'
   'Hello sir. We're with the police.'
   His stomach lurched. The police, then it was all over.
   'We're carrying out some routine enquiries, I wonder if you can let us in so that we can ask you a few questions?'
   His mind raced. Routine enquiries, perhaps it was something else. Maybe it was a trap, but what could he do. He had to think. In the meantime, he would let them thorough the front door. Give himself ten or so valuable seconds whilst they climbed the stairs. They still had to get through the door to the flat. Best not to raise their suspicions.
   He pushed the door release button.
   If they had tracked him down, escape was impossible. They would have the flat surrounded. He would have to fight it out, try and take a few of them with him. At least add policeman to the list of those he had judged.
   If they hadn't tracked him down, if this was really just a routine enquiry, then he would be alright as long as he remained calm and answered their questions.
   Either way he had to collect himself, not slip into panic.
   He took a deep breath to clear his head, then trotted to the bedroom and retrieved the revolver. He returned to the front door, put his right hand holding the gun deep within the pocket of his jogging pants, and with his left hand attached the security chain to the door.
   He took another deep breath and opened the door as far as the chain would allow.

+ + + + + +

William was trapped. There was no way out of the shop. Both front and back were blocked by the police, armed police by now, no doubt. There were no hidden exits from the back room. No doors into adjacent stores. No convenient cooling ducts big enough for him to crawl through. He was trapped. The eyes of the world were on him, waiting, watching for his next move. It was like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. The enemy all around him. The righteous hero all set to go out in a blaze of glory. He was centre-stage. He felt alive and all powerful. He was loving it.
   He wasn't thinking about the future. Who knew what would happen. Perhaps he would fashion an escape against all the odds, like Mission Impossible or something, just in the nick of time. Or perhaps the Dark Angel would come and save him. Rescue him from the common enemy. Or maybe it would be a final glorious last stand against overwhelming odds, like the Alamo. Either way, William was having the time of his life and had no intention of bringing it to a premature conclusion. He was quite happy where he was. He would let the police make the next move.
   In the meantime he had been busy. He had used some of Shaw's blood to paint the message. 'Eye for eye. Life for life'. He was glad he had had the time for that. The message was important. The trademark, their trademark; his and the Dark Angel's. It would have been a shame to have left the scene without the message. A waste of a good killing.
   There had been blood to spare. William had spent some time on Shaw's body too. Taking his lead from the killing of the journalist, he had used his knife to remove Shaw's eyes and ears. These he had placed on a shelf above the body, arranged roughly as they had been on Shaw's face. As an afterthought he had used Shaw's blood to paint a simple nose and smiley mouth on the shelf to create a childlike representation of a face.
   With Shaw's body he had severed the penis and scrotum and stuffed them inside the mouth of Shaw's mutilated head. Severing the penis was like his own trademark. His own slant within the guidelines laid down by the Dark Angel. And there it was, his work complete, a warning to Shaw and his like.
   'See no evil, hear no evil, speak no bollocks.'
   He had written this out on the storeroom wall, just below the life for life message, just to spell it out. It was brilliant, even the Dark Angel himself would have been proud of it. He was getting good at this. He was a natural.

+ + + + + +

The front door opened, it's movement halted with an abrupt jolt as it stretched the metal security chain to its limit.
   'Jonathon Cooper?'
   'Yes.'
   In the gap between door and frame that the chain allowed, she saw her suspect in the flesh for the first time.
   Is it him?
   Dressed casually in tee-shirt and jogging pants, he was recognisable from the photo from the tube video, but it didn't really do him justice. With delicate, intelligent features he was an intelligent man - her type, though he looked nothing like her husband (which may or may not have been relevant). He was young, nearer Chris's age than her own. Nothing in his appearance or outwardly relaxed manner (given the circumstances) indicated any possible guilt. Any tendencies towards mass murder.
   'Detective Inspector Elaine Heaton.'
   Elaine showed her ID.
   'This is Detective Constable Christopher Blecher.'
   Chris folowed her lead and showed his ID in turn.
   'We'd like to ask you a few questions.'
   Cooper made no move to remove the chain from the door.
   'What's it about?'
   'It's regarding an incident at Tottenham Court Road tube station in March this year. A woman, Susan Howell's fell under a train. We're trying to ascertain the exact circumstances of her death.'
   'I don't really see how I can be of help.'
   Did she detect a slight tremor in the pitch of his voice.
   The security chain remained resolutely in place.
   'Well there are a couple of questions that we'd like to ask you. If you'd just let us inside.'
   'Have you got a warrant?'
   Cooper's apparent reticence to answer their questions pointed towards his possible guilt. If he refused to let them in without a warrant to discuss an incident he claimed to know nothing about, she felt sure he was their man. Elaine pressed the point.
   'No we haven't, but we would appreciate your co-operation.'
   'Okay, if you think that it will help.'
   Cooper closed the door to. There was a brief rattle as he slid the chain from the door and then the door opened wide.
   Elaine was almost disappointed. She still wasn't sure about him one way or the other.

+ + + + + +

Jon opened the door as far as the security chain would allow and surveyed the two detectives on his doorstep.
   Do they know?
   They confirmed his identity. They knew his name. They had tracked him down and had come here looking specifically for him. He made an effort to remain calm. Remaining calm and lucid was the key. There were only two of them. Neither obviously armed. They couldn't know for sure.
   If they had known what he had done there would have been half the police force in the country on his doorstep, and definitely not a woman. They didn't know. They might well suspect, but he had to make sure that he gave nothing away that might incriminate himself; confirm their suspicions. He must remain calm and play this episode out.
   They introduced themselves. The woman - Elaine, he'd soon forget that, he was useless with names - took the lead, she was the senior ranking officer. She did the talking. she was confident and assured; in control. Older than himself, older than Sally, though she reminded him of his ex-wife. Not unattractive, a definite yes on the instinctive judgement passed against any female of the species.
   Her male companion - Christopher Blecher, almost forgotten already - younger, younger than himself even. A sign of Jon's age. He still felt barely out of adolescence, but already he was encountering policemen younger than himself. Slipping into another familiar cliche, that he had never thought he would.
   Blecher had barely said anything yet, Elaine hadn't given him the chance. He had a youthful aura of well being about him; the set of his shoulders, the width of his jaw. Jon suspected he was good at sports; all sports. As a potential competitor, Jon judged the man less handsome than himself, but probably stronger, almost certainly less cerebral. Strength as a criteria, not something that Jon particularly valued; no contest. He took an instinctive dislike to the man he had already judged his inferior.
   Jon left the security chain in place. He wanted to keep the detectives at arms length; out of the flat. He hadn't had time to clear up the living room. He wasn't sure what details of his plan might be lying around to possibly incriminate him.
   He asked them what they had come about. They told him it was a tube death at Tottenham Court Road.
   Sally.
   Then they mentioned a different name; Susan Howells. The name was strangely familiar, but he couldn't place it. He was confused by their mistake, and alarmed by how close they had got to him. If they were investigating Sally's death - whatever the mix up - then they almost had him. Again he made an effort to steady himself. Play the episode out. If the worst came to the worst they were unarmed and he had a gun.
   He didn't see how he could help them.
   The woman pressed him. They just wanted to ask him a few question. To refuse would almost be an admission of guilt.
   He knew his rights. He asked them if they had a warrant.
   She pressed again, in that all so reasonable tone of hers. They didn't have a warrant, but they would be grateful for his co-operation. Again any refusal would make him look bad. He had no way out. He gripped the gun deep in his pocket.
   He fought to stay calm, to appear reasonable until the last possible moment, until there was no other option.
   He agreed to let them in and opened the door.

+ + + + + +

Chris didn't like him.
   Though a similar age to himself, Chris had no affinity for him. He was taller than Chris, but much less well built, not at all threatening. Chris would back himself in a fight every time. He was undeniably good looking, but in a feminine pretty sort of way, better looking than Chris if you liked that sort of thing. Not a man's man at all. Measured against Chris on the scale of human worth; no contest.
   He did it.
   Cooper ushered them into the flat with his left hand. Chris followed Elaine in. Cooper closed the door behind them and led them into the living room. Chris eyed him suspiciously. All the time Cooper's right hand was deep within his trouser pocket. All his gestures were made with his free left hand.
   Elaine and he stood facing Cooper, their backs to the futon which dominated the small room. His back to the door which he had closed behind them.
   'Would you like to take a seat.'
   Cooper started to bring his right hand out of his trouser pocket. Chris watched intently, sensing danger. Elaine had already sat down beside him. He lowered himself slowly, his weight still on his toes, coiled, watching the movement of Cooper's right hand.
   There it was. Chris's suspicions realised, a glimpse of cold metal emerging from Cooper's pocket.
   Without thinking, Chris launched himself across the ten or so feet that separated them.
   'Chris?'
   Elaine still hadn't gathered what was happening.
   Head down he flew across the room. He hit Cooper in the chest sending them both flying backwards against the wall, at the same time as he heard the deafening roar of the pistol.
   Then all there was was pain. A pain like nothing he had ever experienced before, had ever imagined could be experienced, red hot in his guts, clouding his head, draining him of all energy.
   Cooper pushed Chris to one side and got to his feet.
   'Chris.'
   Elaine rushed urgently to his side.
   Cooper stood impassively, doing nothing to interrupt the drama he had precipitated.
   'Chris, are you alright?'
   'Of course not, I've been shot. It fucking hurts.'
   'Don't worry. I'll get you out of here. You'll be alright.'
   'Elaine. Do something for me.'
   'What?'
   'Kiss me.'
   'Don't be so fucking stupid.'
   Then almost as an afterthought
   'Just hang in there. You'll be okay.'

+ + + + + +

From the store-room William could hear the phone in the shop front ringing.
   A loudhailer underlined the point.
   'You in the shop, answer the phone. We want to talk to you. We don't want anyone else to get hurt.'
   The police wanted to talk to him, to negotiate. This was what he had been waiting for. He wanted to talk to them; at the very least to press home his advantage, the power he held over them. The problem was, to get what he wanted, to get to the phone, he would have to go into the front of the shop. The shop with its glass front, where he would be easy pickings for the police snipers that he was sure would be stationed there. Still he very much wanted to talk to the police.
   In the front of the shop the phone continued to ring.
   Without considering the literally hundereds of alternatives that lay in boxes all around him, William decided on his plan of action.
   With a jerk, he opened the door to the front of the shop, and from a discreet distance scouted round the store room finding angles which allowed him to look through the open door into the shop beyond. Satisfied that the police hadn't entered the shop itself, he moved crouched down to a point about eight foot from the open door, and then all at once charged through the door and into the shop front beyond, down behind the desk on which the phone sat, still ringing, next to Shaw's dismembered finger.
   He reached the cover of the desk without incident, and lay behind it panting, exhilarated with his latest triumph.
   He reached up, found the telephone handset and pulled it down to his prone position.
   'Hello.'
   'Hello, this is Detective Inspector Borland speaking. Who am I speaking to?'
   'Wouldn't you like to know.'
   This is what William had anticipated and relished. The police wanted something that only he could provide. He had the whip hand.
   'You can call me the Dark Angel.'
   'Where is Richard Shaw.'
   'He's tied up in the store-room.'
   'Is he okay?'
   'He's fine, but you'd better give me what I want if you want him to stay that way,'
   'We don't want anyone to get hurt.'
   'Good. Well you'd better do what I say then.'
   As William relaxed into the exchange, he moved himself into a more comfortable position, leaning up against the shop wall, still below the top of the shielding desk.

+ + + + + +

'Get away from him'
   Elaine looked up to face Jon, his gun held menacingly in front of him. She stayed where she was between the gun and Chris.
   'What are you going to do?'
   Chris behind her stayed silent, gritting his teeth against the pain, gripping his hands tightly against his wounded side, his shirt already stained bright red with his blood, watching the life and death - his life or death - drama unfold. Letting Elaine do the talking, careful not to antagonise their captor.
   'Get out of the way.'
   Jon moved the barrel of the gun to underline how he wanted Elaine to move away from Chris. Though he hadn't answered her question, his intention seemed dreadfully clear.
   Still Elaine stood her ground.
   'No. He's hurt, he needs help.'
   'He's a policeman. He deserves everything he got. Now get out of the way and let me finish the job.'
   Elaine looked Jon deep in the eyes, suppressing her fear, doing everything her five day course in dealing with seige situations had taught her, trying to touch a chord in him, establish empathy with him so that he viewed her as a fellow human being rather than a mere disposable object, keeping her voice slow, even-toned and measured.
   'No. He needs our help.'
   'Get out of the fucking way or I'll kill you too.'
   Jon's voice raised in both volume and pitch as this threat to his authority continued.
   'Elaine, move out of the way.'
   Chris mumbled softly behind her.
   Voice flat, gaze open and direct, Elaine stood her ground.
   'No, you need me. I'm going nowhere.'
   Through the pain, Chris smiled at Elaine's demonstration of her feelings towards him. She cared. The contradictory evidence of her recent rejection of his heroic overture already all but forgotten.
   Jon looked deep into the eyes of the policewoman in front of him. He wanted her to move so that he could get to her colleague; the policeman he had shot moments earlier. He did not regret shooting him. He had threatened him. He had it coming. It was self-defence, kill or be killed. It had been fortuitous really. Even if he hadn't threatened him, he would have deserved it.
   He was a policeman and Jon had already identified the police as worthy of his retribution. His justifications had been drawn out and were inescapably sound. The police's crimes were manifest, and he had punished one of their number as he had punished members of those other professions that he had judged similarly culpable for society's ills.
   He acted without emotion, without regret, merely the instrument for the greater good. He took no pleasure in the pain that he inflicted. It was a necessary means to an end. Now he wanted to bring the situation to a rapid conclusion. Finish the policeman cleanly. Put him out of his misery.
   The woman stood between him and his quarry, frustrating his purpose. The woman too was a member of the police. An attractive woman, but a police woman all the same. As guilty as the man who lay behind her with a bullet - his bullet - in his guts.
   He had asked her to move, demanded it, but she had stood her ground. All the time fixing him with her gaze, risking his wrath, standing her ground, refusing to be intimidated by the inequality in their positions. He threatened to kill her, but it was an empty threat. He didn't kill women; an unarticulated rule.
   The weaker sex, violence against them went against his personal grain. Patronising, maybe. He considered women his equals, equal, but different. Positive discrimination, justifiable given the general imbalance between the sexes. His rule remained, he didn't touch women. Besides further killing would be pointless, one policeman was enough.
   Still she thwarted him. Standing before him, showing admirable strength. The sort of strength Sally had possessed.
   She spoke to him.
   'Why do you want to kill him?'
   Asked a direct question, Jon was prompted to justify his actions to this female stranger.
   'He's a policeman. He deserves to die.'
   Elaine sensed Cooper begin to relax slightly as she engaged him in conversation, beginning the crucial process of humanising herself in his eyes. It was a delicate job, she was eager to establish consensus , to somehow bring him round to her own way of thinking, careful not to risk antagonising him by explicitly disagreeing with him.
   'He's just a normal bloke, trying to do a job.'
   'That's what they said at Nuremburg. Just following orders.'

+ + + + + +

In his position high in the gantry in the roof of the shopping centre, Matt Sealey encountered the moment he had trained for over the last four years. The moment he had known he was unlikely to ever face, but had secretly hoped for. His destiny. He moved his rifle to position the suspect in the centre of his cross-hairs.
   'Blue three. I have an angle.'

+ + + + + +

Mrs Maureen Dunn heard the shot as she listened to the afternoon play on the radio. A founder member of the local neighbourhood watch, she knew what to do and she acted without hesitation. The noise seemed to come from upstairs next door; Mr Cooper's flat. She had never really spoken to him, but she knew him by his habits, his comings and goings, as she knew most people in her part of the street; her community.
   Mr Cooper had lived alone since his wife had walked out on him, a good few months ago now. There had been some noisy rows then. A lot of slamming of doors. And then one morning Mrs Cooper - a stern looking young woman - had finally walked out, taking her belongings with her.
   Mrs Dunn had watched them load the taxi through the net curtains. Watched Mr Cooper break down on the doorstep as the taxi had set off down the road. Now the noise, a gunshot she was fairly sure, though she had not heard one since the war. She dreaded to think what Mr Cooper had done to himself. She picked up the phone and dialled the police.

+ + + + + +

The commander of the tactical firearms unit escalated the decision to Peter Jones as the highest ranking officer at the scene. Recognising an opportunity to enhance his popularity, he took it without hesitation.
   'Do it.'
   The unit commander relayed Jones' decision to his man in the roof.

+ + + + + +

Matt Sealey did what he had been trained to do.
   The shot rang out, punching a small hole in the glass front of the phone shop and making a smaller red hole in William's forehead, above the bridge of his nose.
   'Oh.'
   As last words go, it went.
   William slumped forward.

+ + + + + +

'But laws are necessary to bind society together. The police enforce those laws. Without them there would be anarchy, and you're no anarchist.'
   'You're right, I'm not an anarchist, but the police are corrupt. Anyone who accepts that corruption deserves to be condemned, is worthy of punishment.'
   Jon allowed himself to be drawn easily into debate with this woman. It had been a long time since he had been able to enjoy a conversation of such depth with someone who had an understanding of the issues. The sort of discussion, since his college days, he had always relished. The sort of discussion he and Sally had shared.
   He had often regretted not being able to share his motivations since he had begun his crusade. with no one to bounce his ideas off, his diatribes had tended to feel somewhat sterile. Angry shouts in an empty room.
   'It's not like that. You can't tar us all with the same brush. Chris is a good cop. He's a decent man.'
   'You would say that. A decent man wouldn't be able to work in such a corrupt environment.'
   'But that's the only way that things will ever change. If people like me and Chris can change them from the inside.'
   'Or if someone like me makes a stand.'
   'We all do what we can.'
   Jon stepped backwards and sat down on the futon behind him. A more relaxed position to match his mood. to match the situation of civilised debate.
   'Sit down.'
   He waved his gun, idly indicating that Elaine should take the black leather and chrome seat to her left.
   To sit down would take their interaction further in the direction that she was trying to steer it, but it would also take her out of line between Cooper and Chris. She glanced at the gun.
   Jon caught her gaze and placed the gun on the seat beside him, within easy reach, but a lowering of his state of readiness; an expression of trust.
   'Go on, sit down.'
   Elaine sat down.
   'Now where were we.'
   'We all do what we can.'
   'That's right. Chris and I, we're just trying to do our best to improve the society we live in.'
   'No. The police maintain the status-quo. They act to prevent positive change.'
   'Sometimes it seems that way, but the laws of the country are set by the people. We just enforce the laws. We don't make them.'
   'Democracy is an illusion. The old order prevails by pandering to the lowest common denominator.'
   'That's as maybe, but what's the alternative?'
   'Benign dicatatorship.'
   'Benign dicatorship, who by? You? I'm sure Stalin and Hitler considered themselves to be benign dictators.'
   Sat facing each other, eye-contact intense, but non-threatening, the conversation dominated their perceptions, occupying theiir attention and pushing the drama of their immediate circumstances further and further into the periphary.
   'I don't want power. I just want to show people what's wrong with society.'
   'But you ended up killing people. Murder is a crime against society.'
   Their situation gradually drifted from murderer and hostage towards two people - two mutually respecting people - sharing a lively conversation. As she sensed him relax, Elaine felt confident enough to increase the antagonism within her arguments, without fear of retribution from this man who still held the power of life or death over her.
   'The murders were regrettable, but the ends justify the means.. Society is responsible for the deaths of countless innocents. My wife was one of them. If I can change things for the better, the deaths will have been worthwhile.'
   Elaine seized on the reference to his wife and pursued the point.
   'How did she die, your wife.?'
   'She was murdered. Pushed under a tube-train.'
   'Was that Sally or Susan?'
   Unexpectedly, Jon took exception to Elaine's question. The developing rapport between them, thrown close to breaking point in an instant.
   'Sally was my life, and she was taken from me. All my efforts have been for her.'
   A marked increase in the tension in the set of his facial features, a raising in the pitch and volume of his voice. He broke momentarily from the eye-contact and glanced at his gun beside him, his hand moving above it. He looked beyond Elaine, to where she knew Chris lay.
   Elaine didn't know what it was, but something she had said had touched a nerve. She backed away from investigating the Sally/Susan confusion.
   'I'm sure she was a special person, but is this what she would have wanted?'
   'It's exactly what she would have wanted. She hated the way society made us live. She would have agreed that the police are worthy of contempt, that they deserve punishment.'
   Jon's hand continued to hover over his revolver.
   Elaine tried a different tack.
   'The police aren't in it for personal gain. They.. we just try the best we can to do a difficult job, a job we believe to be worthwhile. Sometimes we're forced to do things that we don't agree with, but for most of us, for Chris and me, our motives are sound, even if occasionally our actions are questionable.'
   'I'd call them criminal.'
   'No more criminal than a lot of other occupations. Computer programmers probably want to improve the ways things are done, but at the end of the day all they do is put people out of their jobs.'
   'That's different.'
   'I'd say it was the same.'
   Jon started to relax back on his futon, his hand moving from above his gun back on to his lap. Though their conversation was characterised by disagreement, the heat had gone from their discourse., his voice had returned to a more relaxed pitch.
   'I'm not sure.'
   Elaine, sensing Jon was wavering, pressed her advantage.
   'The police aren't like the other occupations that you've targetted. We don't gain anything by our actions. Our motives are not selfish. Chris is a good bloke, let me do what I can for him.'
   Jon conceded the point.
   'Do what you want. I think he's beyond your help.'
   Elaine twisted round to face where Chris lay behind her, almost forgotten as she and Jon had discussed the relative merits of his profession. Slumped forward, the bright red stains that drenched his clothing and the carpet where he lay were in marked contrast to the lifeless grey of his face. He was still, deathly still.
   Dreadful realisation washed over her.
   'Chris.'

+ + + + + +

Jones exitted the shop with Grey at his shoulder, a confident gait to his stride. Around the front of the shop, the mall still evacuated of shoppers, two dozen police officers milled about, uniformed and plainclothed, tactical firearms, regulars and detectives, bunched together in informal groups, chatting excitedly, dissecting the recent drama that they had been part of. At Jones' arrival, a young detective constable, reflexively sprang into a more formal stance, standing to attention like a soldier on parade.
   Jones put him at his ease.
   'As you were.'
   Overcome by this new found air of informality the young DC went beyond himself.
   'What's it like in there?'
   So far only Jones and his cliques of ranking officers had been allowed into the shop, leaving the scene unmolested, awaiting the arrival of SOC.
   Such was Jones' mood, buoyed by his all pervading sense of triumph, that he indulged the man.
   'Pretty grim.'
   Jones and Grey had seen the mutilated corpse in the shop store-room and had read the message written in blood on the room wall.
   'But it's definitely our boy.'
   Jones turned to Grey.
   'Bob, where are the press?'
   'Out at the front of the shopping centre. The uniforms are keeping them back with the crowds.'
   Jones glanced at his watch.
   6.28.
   'Can you tell them that I'll speak to them at a quarter to seven. We can go out on the Seven O' clock news with a bit of luck.'

+ + + + + +

Elaine was knelt by Chris's side in a single fluid movement. She stooped low, her head tilted to one side by his mouth as she listened for breath, her hand feeling for a pulse at his neck. A sign of life.
   His flesh was clammy, but his pulse was reassuringly regular.
   'He's alive.'
   She looked up at Jon, obvious relief and excitement in her face.
   Jon smiled self-conciously, as if to some degree sharing her relief.
   She returned her attention to Chris, slapping his face gently.
   'Chris, can you hear me? This is Elaine. Try and concentrate.'
   All she illicited was an indecipherable groan.
   Jon watched her tend to her fallen colleague, fascinated by the apparent selfless concern and delicate grace that characterised her ministrations, wishing that he had someone who would show such consideration if he was similarly stricken.
   Elaine looked up again, her initial relief that Chris was still alive, now displaced by an urgency, that she must act quickly if she wished that state of affairs to continue.
   Her voice adopted an insistent, almost demanding tone.
   'He's hurt badly. He needs to get to a doctor.'
   Jon didn't argue. Having earlier conceded the point, he merely shrugged his shoulders. Deferring to her judgement on the best course of action.
   A shrill burst of an approaching police siren introduced a new imperative.
   Jon picked up his revolver and made his way to the window.
   Two police cars screeched to a halt outside the flat. Four policemen jumped out of them and moved to talk to an elderly woman who was standing on the pavement waiting for them.
   Jon turned back to Elaine.
   'Some of your boys.'
   Elaine looked up from Chris.
   'They know we were coming here. The place is probably already surrounded.'
   Killing Chris and herself and then fleeing the scene were Cooper's best chance of escape. Elaine was understandably eager to undermine that course of action. Jon didn't challenge her statement. It made perfect sense to him. He was trapped. He had been trapped from the moment the female detective had entered his flat. Even posing a direct threat to his liberty, his crusade; everything he held dear, he could not kill her. He didn't kill women.
   'There's no escape. You might as well let me speak to them. Let me get Chris some medical attention.'
   She was right, he was trapped. The realisation left him surprisingly cold. Faced with certain capture, he was oddly calm and collected. Something resembling a sense of releif was an unexpected ingredient in his current mix of emotions.
   He moved from the window back to the futon.
   Even at the very brink of defeat, he was strangely disinterested in his predicament. He was much more interested in conversation with this challenging woman his hostage/captor. The first real exchange of views he had had with anyone since his wife had left. The first chance he had had to share his thoughts on his acts since he had begun.
   If it had to end here, as it appeared it did, as it always had to end sooner or later, then better that it should end like this, giving him the opportunity to justify his actions, to explain his motivations, to remove any chance that his actions might be misinterpreted.
   Better that he should be caught by someone that he could respect, when such worthy individuals were at such a premium.
   Better that he be given the opportunity to add the full-stop to his own story.
   'Will you let me?'
   Elaine pressed Jon for an answer to her request.
   'Sorry?'
   'Can I talk to the police and get Chris to a doctor?'
   Jon shrugged his shoulders.
   'Go ahead.'
   The buzz of the door bell rang out, as the police constables reached the front door.
   'Can I use the phone?'
   'Go ahead.'

+ + + + + +

Bob Grey waited and watched whilst Jones took a call on his mobile phone. The call lasted no more than two minutes, Jones barely contributing to the conversation, just absorbing the information that the caller relayed to him. Whatever Jones was being told, he didn't appear to relish the news. By the time Jones pushed back the retractable aerial and returned the phone to his inner jacket pocket, all of the smiles of satisfaction that had dominated his face before he had received the call had been swept away by a scowl of urgent concentration.
   Jones ignored Grey's quizzical look, instead barking out a question of his own.
   'Where's Dixon?'
   Dixon was the tactical firearms unit's commanding officer.
   'He's outside the back of the shop. They've brought the tactical's van into the loading bay.'
   'Good.'
   Grey and Jones were stood in the shopping mall in front of the phone shop. Jones turned on his heel and marched towards the shop. Grey trailed after him.
   'What is it?'
   Again Jones ignored him, moving quickly through the shop doors, not slackening his pace as he walked through the shop to the store-room door.
   'How far from here to Tooting?'
   'Not far. Ten, fifteen minutes with the sirens on.'
   Ignoring the white overalled SOC officers who now busied about the place, Jones hurried through the store-room and out into the loading bay beyond.
   Grey had given up enquiring as to what had precipitated this dramatic change in Jones' mood, merely doing his best to keep up with him, his shorter legs forcing him into a half-jog.
   They exitted the store-room and Jones made straight for the blue minibus of the firearms unit. Jones started to address the navy blue uniformed Dixon whilst he was still twenty five feet away from him, shouting out across the bay, interrupting a conversation he was having with two of his subordinates.
   'Get your team together. We're needed in Tooting.'
   Dixon barked orders first to his two men and then into his radio head set. The two men reacted at once, moving away to perform their pre-drilled tasks, to ready for their departure. Urgency was their forte.
   'How soon can you be ready to go?'
   'Two minutes, maybe less.'
   'Good, I'll come with you.'
   'What's happened?'
   'There's a siege. Two of my officers are being held hostage; Elaine Heaton and her partner.'
   'I know Elaine, good cop.'
   'Yeah. Apparently this is the Dark Angel, I'll fill you in on the way.'
   'And this one?'
   'Probably a copycat.'
   Blue uniformed, flak-jacketted squad members jogged up to the van, stowing their weapons and taking their seats in the back. A sergeant swung himself into the front seat and kicked the loud diesel engine into life in anticipation of the imminent arrival of the last couple of stragglers.
   Dixon shepherded Jones to the front of the van and the two seats beside the driver, opening the door and swinging himself into the middle seat.
   Grey still standing at Jones' shoulder, caught him as he was about to climb into the van.
   'What about me?'
   Jones turned to face Grey, a look of irritation on his face at the distraction he represented.
   'You stay here.'
   'What about the press conference?'
   Jones climbed into the front of the van, closed the door and spoke to Grey through the open window.
   'You speak to them.'
   At the back of the van the door slammed shut. All the squad were now safely on board. The sergeant looked to Jones, and he waved him forward.
   Grey, panicking slightly now, reached out towards the van window as it started to move off, moving himself to continue his conversation with Jones.
   'What should I tell them?'
   'You'll think of something.'
   From the expression on Jones' face as the van accelerated through its turning circle and out towards the bay exit, Grey got the distinct impression that Jones didn't much care what happened to him.

+ + + + + +

Chris was heavy and difficult to carry. Jon, holding his legs, leading the way down the stairs bore most of the weight, but Elaine had the more difficult position, holding his arms leaning precariously forward, doing her best to support Chris, to pull her weight, without overbalancing and falling forwards down the stairs herself.
   A stair at a time they edged downwards. Facing each other across Chris's unconcious body, neither talking, concentrating on the task in hand; getting Chris to the bottom of the stairs where they had arranged with the police outside that they would leave him. Where the police could collect him, once they had returned to the safety of the flat.
   With both his arms fully occupied bearing Chris's weight, Jon carried his gun in his pocket, and it would be difficult for him to bring it to hand in a hurry. If Elaine was quick and luck was on her side, she could drop Chris's hands, perhaps even causing Jon to lose his balance and she could be on him before he had a chance to react. Her physical disadvantages were balanced to a certain extent by her training in basic self-defence techniques. She had a fair chance of success, perhaps the best chance she would get.
   'Shit.'
   Appearing to slip slighly on the stairs carpet Elaine stumbled forward, letting go of Chris's arms almost sub-conciously as she felt herself start to overbalance. Chris's head hit the stairs with a dull thud. The weight he was bearing suddenly increased, Jon stepped quickly backwards, struggling desperately to regain his footing, to prevent himself losing control and falling down the stairs.
   For three steps Jon battled, pitching his strength against Chris's increased momentum. Control versus anarchy. A brief couple of seconds where he was totally vulnerable.
   Control won through. Jon steadied himself. Chris remained oblivious to it all.
   'Sorry'.
   Elaine met his eyes and moved to take up Chris's arms once more, for the few steps that remained.
   'S'Okay, he's heavy.'
   There was no hint of reproachment in Jon's tone or gaze.

+ + + + + +

They left Chris's body at the bottom of the stairs, and returned to the flat and their seats; their established territories, sat facing each other. The gun remained in the pockeyt of Jon's jogging pants. Elaine phoned the police outside and almost immediately they could hear the downstairs door being opened and the sounds of activity beneath them.
   'I hope he's okay.'
   Jon said nothing, uncomfortable in his part in creating Elaine's concern. Elaine sensed his discomfort and quickly moved to qualify herself.
   'Thank's for your help. It was really..'
   She paused momentarily, searching for exactly the right word.
   'Decent.'
   Jon smiled.
   'It was the least I could do.'
   Elaine matched his smile.
   She had successfully developed some rapport with him. He seemed relatively stable and she thought that he was someone that she could reason with. He had had ample opportunity to shoot her if that was what he wanted to do. As long as he wasn't panicked, she judged that he was of little danger to her. With a careful hand, Elaine thought she might be able to end this situation without any further incident. If she could talk him round, convince him of the impossibility of his position, she felt she might be able to get him to give up his gun and surrender himself to her.
   Of course such a resolution would be a major coup for her personally.
   She moved the conversation on.
   'How do you manage to remain detached when you perform your killings?'
   'You just do. I don't even think about it.'
   'Don't you care how they feel? About their friends and families?'
   'Not really. All I know is that they're guilty and the world will be a better place without them.'
   'But the people you've killed have been representative of particular groups rather than being individually guilty of specific crimes. They were just unlucky that you picked them out of whichever group you happened to be targetting.'
   'Yeah. But what's your point?'
   Though still keeping his voice relatively calm, Jon had got to his feet and had started to pace restlessly about the room, as he defended his actions under Elaine's cross-examination.
   'The point is, don't you feel guilty that the people you killed were picked almost at random, that they were not killed because they were particularly guilty but merely because they were unlucky.'
   'All in their groups were guilty. All were, all are worthy of punishment. Just because most of their group escaped punishment does not lessen their guilt.'
   Jon continued his pacing, between two of the few features in the austere front room. The futon and the window.
   'But surely it would have been better, more just, to target leading figures in the groups you sought to punish, rather than minor, relatively unimportant, relatively innocent people.'
   'I did what I could with the resources at my disposal.'
   Futon to window.

+ + + + + +

Stationed in the bedroom across the street Matt Sealey surveyed the living room window of thirteen B. Sealey battled hard to retain his focus, keep his concentration on the cross hairs of his telescopic sight without letting his mind flick to the elation of the crystalising moment of his career. Four long years of training and drill had all been realised in one small precise movement of his right forefinger less than two hours earlier. In the shopping mall he had acted instinctively, as his training had taught him to, without a second thought.
   Now he struggled to recall specific lessons he had been taught, poring over them in his head, forcing his mind to follow their simple edicts, ignoring all other distractions. The scope filled his being. All other thoughts were merely distractions and he fought to keep his mind free of them. He was a machine. a well-oiled killing machine. Calm in mind and body. He took pride in the efficiency of his actions.
   His heart skipped a beat.
   Movement to the left hand side of the window. A male figure, unmistakable, blinked into view and then just as quickly was gone.

+ + + + + +

'I could not get to the leading figures of the guilty.'
   Futon to window.
   'But I tried to set an example to all. To make the world a better place.'
   Window to futon.
   'And if in setting that example you had to commit crimes yourself, become the thing you were trying to fight?'

+ + + + + +

There he was again, back in shot to the left of the window. Sealey called it in, asking for authorisation to terminate the suspect. Twice in one day, this was the stuff locker-room legends were made of.

+ + + + + +

Jon paused by the window.
   'If I let myself worry about things like that, I wouldn't get anywhere. That's the problem with people with a social conscience like me. We spend so long prevaricating, worrying about everybodies' feelings, being careful not to exploit anyone, that we never get anywhere. While we're arguing over the minutiae, the selfish, the corrupt, just march right in there and take what they please. That's what I used to be like before.'
   Elaine had almost forgotten where she was. Almost lost herself to the attractions of the discussion. Suddenly, she noticed how Jon was standing by the unguarded window. A sitting duck for any marksmen outside.
   She reacted instinctively.
   'Get away from the bloody window.'
   Jon looked at her, shocked by the sudden intrusion into his diatribe, the passion in her voice.

+ + + + + +

'Blue three, take your shot.'
   Sealey grinned, but at the same instant his target was gone.
   'Shit.'
   More movement, but now it was a woman, the female DI, he had been briefed. She came to the window and drew the curtains. His chance was lost.
   Shit.'

+ + + + + +

As Elaine drew the curtain and turned on the lights she talked to Jon who had now retaken his seat on the futon.
   'You were a sitting duck. Standing in front of the window. There must be police marksmen all over the place by now.'
   'Do you think so.'
   'I know so.'
   'Thanks.'
   She could see that he meant it. She was glad.
   Helsinki effect. She had learn't about it on a course. How hostages often identified more with their captors than their eventual rescuers, and something she only half remembered about Freudian theory, and how it had something to do with the process by which the child identifies with the oppressive parent.
   Just because she understood something about the theory, made her no less susceptible to its efects. She was genuinely interested in what the man had to say. She trusted him not to hurt her, and did not want to see him unduly hurt in turn. She wanted to see him brought to justice, but she wanted to do it on her own terms.
   Elaine moved back to her seat facing Jon.
   'You were saying, that's what you used to be like.'
   Jon looked puzzled, shocked out of his earlier line of thought.
   'Like what?'
   'Prevaricating. Unable to take decisive action, for fear of undermining one of your principles.'
   'Oh yeah. Well that's the curse of liberalism the world over. The reason the right wing always wins.'
   'Sure, but what changed you.'
   'It was the death of my wife.'
   This was what Elaine was really interested in, getting to the bottom of the Sally/Susan question once and for all. She knew the woman Jon had pushed under the train was called Susan Howells, so why did he persist in thinking that she was his wife.
   She had learned to tread carefully around this issue.
   'What was she called?'
   'Sally.'
   'Was she beautiful?'
   'Very. She was everything to me.'
   'So how did she die?'
   'I killed her.'
   Elaine looked shocked.
   'That doesn't sound like you.'
   'I didn't plan to kill her. It just sort of happened. That's why I started all this. It's a long story.'
   'I've got the time.'
   'Okay. Well me met at University. Married young, when we'd both graduated. We were the perfect couple. Everybody said so. We thought so.'
   'So what happened? Did you drift apart? I know how that can happen.'
   Elaine prostituted her own trauma in a bid to further strengthen the developing empathy between them.
   Her comment did not strike a chord with Jon and he continued.
   'No everything was fine. We were as close as ever, as close as two people could be, and then it happened. I was unfaithful to her and she left me.'
   'Why did you do it?'
   Jon resumed his pacing, as again he struggled to justify himself.
   'I don't know. There's no excuse. It was entirely my fault. I had the opportunity, and without thinking I took it, and in an instant I threw away the best thing that ever happened to me.'
   Elaine attempted to appear sympathetic.
   'You're not the first. You won't be the last.'
   'Maybe not, but the commoness of my actions does not excuse it. I was weak and worthy of contempt. worthy of punishment.'
   'How did she, Sally find out?'
   'I told her. I couldn't live with the guilt.'
   'Wasn't that a bit selfish. Wouldn't she have been better off not knowing?'
   'I was guilty and deserved punishment. I told her and she punished me by leaving. The least she deserved was the truth.'
   Something in Jon's tone indicated that this particular point was not open to further debate. Elaine let it go.
   'So then what happened?'
   'She left and I killed her.'
   'How?'
   'I pushed her under a train.'
   'How did it happen?'
   'I'm not exactly sure, I don't remember the exact details. It was a confusing time in my life.'
   Elaine helped him out, choosing not to press the inconsistencies in his account. Not yet.
   'You've probably blacked the events out in your mind. It's the way we cope with extreme stress.'
   'Yeah maybe. There's a few things that I have difficulty remembering.'
   'So what exactly do you remeber about your wife's death.'
   Elaine shifted him back on track.
   'I don't remember anything leading up to her death. She's been gone several weeks. I was depressed, I lost my job, and there I was behind her on the crowded platform. I'm not exactly sure how I got there, but there I was standing just behind her unprotected, unsuspecting back as the train came into the platform.
   'I remember the anger, a terrible rage. Without thinking about it I reached out and pushed her forward, pushing her off the platform and onto the track in front of the train. She never stood a chance.'
   Tears laced Jon's eyes as he described the event.
   'Why did you do it. I thought you loved her?'
   Elaine judged their rapport could stand another increase in the pressure she subjected Jon's account to.
   'I did love her, absolutely. That's what I've been asking myself ever since. Why did I do it? She was the last person in the world I ever wanted to hurt. But the facts are inescapable; I killed her.
   'The only sense I can make of it, is that I was a victim of circumstance. I didn't want to do it, I got nothing out of it. I'm fundamentally a decent, considerate man, and circumstances - the society in which we live - acted to make me do something completely against my nature. I was guilty, but society was to blame.'
   That was a pretty big leap of logic, but Elaine let it go. She had a firm plan as to how she was going to demonstrate to him the error of his ways and destroy his resistance. She was almost there.
   'And hence your crusade.'
   'Yes, society was sick. It had made me destroy what I held dearest. I decided to make a stand. Do something to improve society, and at the same time atone for my own sins. I did not enjoy killing people, it was the price I had to pay.'
   The man was obviously mentally ill. He needed help. She had his trust. She had listened to his motivations. It was time to bring this to a close.
   'So it was your wife's death that motivated you to carry out your crusade?'
   'Yes. I've already told you that.'
   'And if she hadn't died, none of this would have happened?'
   'Yes. She was worth more than all the people I have killed put together.'
   Here it was the final truth.
   'She's not dead.'
   'What? Of course she's dead. I killed her.'
   Jon was aggravated by Elaine's challenge, but made no overtly aggressive moves. Elaine pressed the point.
   'You think you killed her, but you didn't. A young woman was killed by a tube-train at Tottenham Court Road station, but it wasn't your wife. It was a Susan Howells. You were there on the platform. It was crowded. I've seen the whole thing. You'd just been made redundant and your wife had left you. You were depressed, probably still in shock. You got events confused.'
   Elaine deliberately ommitted to mention his central role in Susan Howell's death.
   'You saw Susan Howells die and somehow thought it was your wife Sally. Your wife is still alive.'
   Jon battled to defend his version of events.
   'That can't be true. You're just saying that to confuse me, to make me give myself up. I can remember pushing her in front of the train.'
   'It's true. If you think about it, you know it. Why can't you remember any funeral. If your wife had died wouldn't there have been a funeral.'
   Jon said nothing. Elaine continued.
   'And think about the day itself. What was she wearing when she fell under the train? Had you ever seen her wearing those clothes before? What about her hairstyle? The same as Sally's? I don't think so. What was your wife doing at Tottenham Court Road anyway? If you think about it properly, you know it wasn't Sally that died. It was Susan Howells, a twenty two year old typist from Billericay. She died, not your wife. I've read the witness and coroner's report a thousand times. I've watched the security video until I can see it with my eyes closed. I'm telling you the truth. I know it, and you know it. Your wife's not dead.'
   Elaine stopped, she had convinced him.
   Before her, Jon hunched forward and started to weep. Great sobs shaking his shoulders.
   She had done it, he was broken, she had won. She allowed him his grief.
   Minutes passed. The silence punctuated only by desperate sobs, the frequency of which slowly subsided and finally stopped.
   Jon looked up, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
   'Sorry.'
   'That's okay, it must be a shock.'
   In an unexpected movement, Jon's hand plunged into his jogging pant bottoms and produced the gun. Elaine instinctively moved backwards in her seat, fearing the worst. Jon moved the barrel of his gun under his chin.
   'I believe you. Sally's not dead. I'm just a murderer, I deserve to die.'
   Elaine did not have time to relax, but switched quickly to trying to talk him out of it.
   'It's not your fault. You're mentally ill. If you give yourself up, you'll get the help you need.'
   'I'll get no help. The establishment will be hungry for revenge. They'll never risk lessening my punishment by admitting I'm mentally ill.'
   'I'm sure that's not true. You'll get a fair trial.'
   'Fair trial. Don't make me laugh. The establishment will hit me with everything they've got; the best lawyers, an unsympathetic judge. Who'll defend me? I've got no money. Who would want to risk a good reputation defending the undefendable? The trial will be a media circus from start to finish. My family and I will get completely crucified.'
   'That will pass. The important thing is that you'll still be alive. You only get one chance at life. You've got to hang on to it for as long as you can.'
   'Life in prison wouldn't be worth living. Look at me, a white collar worker, who's never done a hard day's manual work in his life, never got my hands dirty, haven't had a fight since I was at school. They'll eat me alive in prison. Every con with a reputation will want a go at me. I'll be bottom of the pile, something for the other's to boast about when they got out. How they raped the famous Dark Angel in the showers.'
   Elaine stayed silent. Jon continued.
   'They'll lock me up and throw away the key. There'll be no attempt at rehabilitation. Anyway what chance of rehabilitation would I have? Who could ever trust me again? What people, what society wants is revenge, except they haven't got the bollocks to follow it through. I deserve to die for what I've done, and I'd rather die than face my future.'
   Jon locked his gaze to Elaine's with a look of absolute certainty. She glanced away, unable to find any words to refute his conviction, knowing that he was right in what he was saying.
   The expected retort of the pistol did not follow. Elaine looked back at Jon. The certainty in his eyes now replaced with frightened uncertainty. Again they locked eyes.
   Elaine broke the moment.
   'Do it.'
   Jon did as he was told.

+ + + + + +

The police broke the door down and stormed into the flat at the sound of gunfire. Moments later a tearful Elaine was shepherded into the street. The street had been cordoned off at both ends. Residents and the media hordes were held back behind lines of the local constabulary. Elaine spotted George Young heading towards her from the near right side cordon. His face beaming.
   'Well done Elaine.'
   He hugged Elaine long and hard, which was unlike him because he was usually undemonstrative even for an Englishman.
   'Bloody well done.'
   Elaine held hard onto this man she had known for more than a decade, but whose previous physical contact had been limited to no more than the occasional firm handshake, and cried unashamedly.
   'Chris?', she sniffed.
   'In hospital. He's lost a lot of blood, but he should be okay.'
   Elaine cried some more.
   Behind Elaine someone coughed. She broke from her embrace and looked round. It was Jones, an uncertain crooked smile on his face. He offered his hand in congratulatory manner.
   'Congratulations Elaine. This could work out very well for you.'
   Elaine ignored his hand. 'Go fuck yourself.'
   She turned and allowed Young to lead her away.
   'Well done Elaine.', Young repeated.

This work is the Intellectual Property of Steve Benson