There were things they could usefully do, though. Liz had Queen's Street phone a description to the local garages and ask them to delay serving anyone answering it until a car could get there. Two filling stations reported having already served customers who could have been Robin Taylor; or perhaps they were just careless drivers who didn't check their petrol gauges often enough.

Beat officers were instructed to detain anyone carrying a fuel can: even if they didn't find Robin they might establish that both purchasers were bona ride so he was still without the means to attack Castle Mall. But whoever bought the petrol had vanished from the streets: by design, or because their cars were no distance from the garages, or because someone took pity and gave them a lift.

The other thing Liz did was explain the situation to the Fire Brigade. Station Officer Silcott agreed to despatch 212.

one appliance immediately and have another on standby. He couldn't guarantee the Mall priority if an incident occurred elsewhere, but if the worst happened it would save vital minutes.

As time marched resolutely on, what had at first seemed a simple task -finding a sick young man who'd given his keepers the slip, who had a head start of just a few minutes, and who was known by sight to several of the Castlemere police force -began to appear more problematical. The trouble with Robin Taylor was how normal he looked. A policeman's lot would be easier if madmen followed the rules of Gothick fiction and had humps, squinted and were p.r.o.ne to peals of falsetto laughter.

Liz arrived as the sun slid down behind the mock crenellation that formed the roofline of the Castle Mall, decked for the opening in red and yellow pennants. She left Donovan to deploy their forces, went in search of the management. She expected remonstrations at this rude interruption to their expensive festivities from angry men convinced she was wrong. Instead she met a shocked silence. Then one of them asked quietly, 'What do you want us to do?'

It was a relief not having to fight them. 'I can't get these people outside without a panic. Maybe you can. Could you bring the fireworks forward, for instance? If they're out in the open, even if the worst happens at least they'll be able to get away.'

The promotions director was a young man called Peter Voss who'd worked as a disc jockey on local radio. The entertainment was his responsibility, he knew the schedule intimately. 'We can make the announcement, but we can't start for another half-hour. They haven't finished the wiring yet. We didn't think it would be dark enough till after seven.'

'Never mind the G.o.d-d.a.m.ned show, Peter,' his colleague said savagely, 'let's just avoid a disaster, yes?'

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But the DJ knew what he was talking about. Two thousand people aren't going to stand around in a car park for half an hour while we put the finishing touches to a firework display. They'll wait ten minutes, shuffle a bit, then they'll start drifting back inside. By the time we can give them something to look at the Mall will be fuller than it is now.'

Liz had the answer to that. 'In ten minutes I'll have enough people here to close the doors. You get them out and I'll keep them out.'

'Will you send them home?'

Liz chewed her lip. 'I don't know. A thousand cars all leaving at once will snarl up the ring-road for two miles in both directions: if we need that other fire engine, or ambulances, they won't be able to get here.' She thought a moment longer. 'I'll get an a.s.sessment from a crowd control expert. In the mean time, is there anything you can do about entertaining them in the car park until the fireworks are ready?'

Voss took a deep breath. 'What the h.e.l.l, barnstorming's my business. I'll wire a hi-fi into the PA system. If I can get them dancing they'll keep warm while they're waiting for the fireworks and maybe they won't get so ratty. And - prizes. I want a dozen personal stereos, I'll ask them daft questions and give spot prizes. OK?'

Disconcerted at being organized by a twenty-six-year-old DJ, the general manager could only nod.

Liz nodded too, satisfied that it was the best they could do. 'I'll be around. If you need me, call me over the PA - just ask for Liz, no need to alarm the punters. As soon as we find this joker I'll let you know, maybe you can finish the evening with no one any the wiser. And I'll come back to you if we decide to clear the site. I am sorry about this, I know it should have been a big night for you, but--' She gave an apologetic shrug. 'Can you start moving them outside?'

It was never going to be a five-minute job. Mall staff 214.

went round the shops telling the proprietors to close, but it had to be done discreetly to avoid a stampede. The story was that the shops would be closed during the outdoor entertainment and open again afterwards. There were complaints from people who'd come here to do some serious shopping at first-day prices, but most went along amiably enough and began wandering towards the exits.

Liz watched from the gallery with a heavy sense of foreboding. It was taking too long: should she risk an announcement over the PA? No, if this lot started to run people would fall and be trampled, and the doors would be jammed and then they'd all be at Robin Taylor's mercy. If he was here. If he'd any sense at all he'd still be running.

He was here. She felt his presence the way people who are allergic to cats know when there's one near by: by the p.r.i.c.king of her skin and the way the hairs stirred at the back of her neck. Days ago, on minimal evidence, she'd known he would come here, and now his shade loomed like the unseen horror in a nightmare. Come on, Peter, she thought desperately, get them out. Tell them they're missing something. Make them hurry!

At Superintendent Taylor's suggestion, he and Shapiro found themselves a spot on the terrace from which they could watch both the main entrance, with shoppers now oozing out of it, and the roped-off section of the car park where the fireworks were being prepared. There was a big black van flashed with red and the legend Stella Nova on the side, and men in black jumpsuits hurrying round with boxes. They were working at speed because Liz had explained the situation. She'd also asked them to watch out for someone showing an abnormal interest in their activities.

The Superintendent and his DCI never looked at one another. Their eyes were busy elsewhere. But they continued the conversation begun in Taylor's office.

Shapiro said, 'What did you mean when you said you'd made life difficult for me one way and another?' He'd 215.

been pondering that in the odd moments he could spare since the investigation went into turbo with Liz's call.

Taylor said quietly, 'That's something I have to explain. I owe you an apology. Another one. Oh, G.o.d, Frank, it's such a mess. I thought I could keep the lid on it. I thought I could protect him without damaging anyone else. I always meant to clear you as soon as he was safe.'

'Clear me?' echoed Shapiro, startled.

Circ.u.mstances made it a little easier than it might have been. Talking face to face in the police station would have been immensely difficult. But by now it was almost dark, and they were scanning the floodlit faces for the missing boy, and the illusion of being a two-man island in a sea of strangers created a kind of detached intimacy, almost as if they were talking about two other people.

'I've known about Trevor Foot for nearly a year. I found the photograph and the covering letter in the stationery drawer, as I said, and when I reread the file I understood its significance. I went cold -you can imagine. It was obviously an accident, but it had cost an innocent man seven years in jail. My first instinct, of course, was to call the Chief Constable.

'Then I realized Foot was due for release at any time. I started to wonder if there was anything to be gained by a scandal. A stupid tedious man would get some money he didn't deserve, there'd be a lot of damaging publicity and the investigation would pillory Bob Ca.s.sidy in the last months before his retirement: some thanks to a fine station sergeant who on one occasion was overwhelmed by too much happening at once. I put the envelope in the bottom of my desk while I thought about it.

'The longer it sat there, the easier it was to do nothing. If it had been anyone but Foot!' he exclaimed, his voice rising out of its near-monotone in momentary exasperation. 'But we both know the man, he deserved to be in prison for something! And he'd be out any time: it was his own fault he wasn't free already. I suppose I felt the 216.

reputation of my police station was worth more than a few months of such a man's time.'

'You left an innocent man in jail? To avoid embarra.s.sment?' Shapiro heard his voice climbing and curbed it before it ran out of control.

Taylor met his gaze with a spark of anger in his eye and a thread of steel in his tone. 'Innocent is a relative term when you're talking about people like that. The fact that it was a bad conviction doesn't necessarily mean it was a miscarriage of justice. I could fill a room with people who believe prison is the very best place Foot could have spent the last eight years. Haven't you noticed how pleasant it's been? No wobbly swastikas on the synagogue walls, no chalk pigs on the mosque, no "Britain for the Brits" graffiti at the job market and the housing office. Filing that photograph in the stationery drawer may have been the best thing Sergeant Ca.s.sidy ever did for this town.'

It was the sort of thing that a man might say in the heat of the moment; but no one with any scruples could go on believing it for a year. There had to be more to it than that. Shapiro said quietly, 'You thought you could use it -might need it -sometime? How, why -against whom?' Comprehension jolted him. 'Me?'

Taylor had never been on the uncomfortable side of his DCI's perception before. It was disconcerting. It wasn't important, because he was already committed to a full explanation and he would have got there, but it was disconcerting to find himself beaten to the climax. One of the benefits of being a superintendent is that junior officers don't usually finish your stories.

He let the brief flurry of pa.s.sion, which was in any event mainly rhetoric, run out of him. He sighed. 'In a way. I suppose I was afraid something like this would happen one day -that I could need some way of keeping you out of action. That picture would be powerful ammunition even after Foot left jail. So I pretended I'd never 217.

seen the d.a.m.ned thing; until my present difficulties began.

'You mind, it wasn't till the third fire, at the timber-yard, that I knew Robin was responsible. And you were the investigating officer.' The square shoulders swung as he turned towards Shapiro, trying to pick his face out of the shadows. 'Frank, I was desperate to get you off the case. It's a queer kind of compliment, I know, but that's what it is. I knew you'd work it out. And in spite of everything, he is my son. I thought I could make sure there were no more incidents. All I had to do was keep you out of the way until he went back to Switzerland. Liz Graham's a good detective but she's not in your league. Besides, I could knock all CID sideways by sowing doubts about you. I dug out the photograph, pretended I'd just found it, told HQ and sent you on leave. Then I tipped the Courier off so I could claim public concern as the reason for keeping you out of the way.'

He waited for Shapiro to react. But Shapiro said nothing. When the little two-man silence in the sea of noise began to grate Taylor squared his jaw and went on. 'I thought it would be enough. You'd have a couple of weeks off, Robin would go back to the clinic -which I didn't intend he should leave again -then you'd be exonerated. Any flak would come my way, not yours. I wouldn't have done it if there'd been any risk to your career, Frank.'

'That's good to know,' Shapiro said softly.

A man with none of his own, Taylor found humour difficult to deal with. Shapiro's deadpan irony gave him particular problems. A trace of irritation flickered across his face. 'I made one miscalculation. I didn't expect Mrs Graham to get on top of it as soon as she did. She and Donovan are quite a team, aren't they? I had to pull him off the case to slow them down. Not that it made much difference: I think he works harder when he's grounded. Is there a word for that?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y-minded?'

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'Aye, that's the one,' Taylor nodded lugubriously. 'Well, he's somebody else's problem now.'

'Yes,' agreed Shapiro. After a long moment he said, 'You do realize, James, I can't keep this to myself?'

'Of course not.' Taylor seemed almost to resent the suggestion that he might have expected anything else. 'I knew it could end like this. I hoped not, obviously, but I knew what I was risking. I didn't feel to have any choice -I didn't want my son ending his days in Broadmoor.'

'So you let an innocent man do time instead.' Shapiro shook his head, still finding it hard to believe. 'I'm sorry, James, the rest is semantics -Trevor Foot didn't commit the crime he was imprisoned for, that makes him innocent in every way that matters. And you knew. You didn't wonder about it, you didn't have doubts -you knew. And you did nothing.

'For Robin? You love him, I understand that, I have children too; I can imagine doing unwise things, indiscreet things, even stupid things for them. But James, what you did was criminal. And it was cruel. You're a senior police officer, for G.o.d's sake, you've spent thirty years upholding the law. How could you throw it away like that?'

'I didn't throw it away,' snapped Taylor, stirred to anger by Shapiro's unyielding rect.i.tude. 'I sacrificed it. I sacrificed a bad man to a sick boy. Not even that: one year in the life of a bad man. I couldn't have kept Foot out of jail, I could only have expedited his release. And for that I'd have had to turn my back on my own child. I was the only one who could help him, Frank. Was it so very great a price to pay?'

'Foot's freedom?' mused Shapiro. 'Your career. And this?' His gaze circled the crowds milling round them. 'Any one of them, James. Any one of them was too high a price.'

'I suppose if it'd been your son you'd have let the law take its course?' It was meant as sarcasm; since Shapiro would, it came across as nastier than that. 'Well, that 219.

makes you a grand policeman, Frank; but I don't envy what it says about you as a father.'

Stung, Shapiro retorted, 'Being a father isn't what I'm paid for. I do that on my own time. If I thought I couldn't do my job and care for my children without a conflict of interest my resignation would be on your desk at close of play.' He added, a cheap barb that he immediately regretted and wouldn't have loosed except that Taylor had got under his skin, 'At least, on somebody's.'

But they were both upset and he didn't have a monopoly on cheap shots. 'You're sure of that?' asked Taylor. 'That you'd have sent your resignation to me? Or would it have gone to David?'

Shapiro recoiled as if he'd been slapped. But he managed not to respond in kind: if they kept this up they'd end up brawling in the car park. He let the anger go in a sigh. 'There's never only one way, James. If there was there'd be no such thing as free will and without that no right and wrong. I believe -dear G.o.d, I thought we all believed -in absolute wrong. What you did was wrong, not because of who Foot is but because of who you are. Not because he spent time in prison that he shouldn't have done, but because you should have got him free and didn't. That's what matters. Not Bob Ca.s.sidy's mistake; not Robin's illness; not even the fact that I couldn't tell the difference between an innocent man and a guilty one. The fact that you abused the power you were entrusted with. I understand your anguish. I don't begin to understand your actions.'

'And if you're very, very lucky,' Taylor said quietly, 'perhaps you never will.'

There was nothing more to say. It wasn't an argument that was capable of resolution. He'd done it for love. Cool, precise, fastidious Superintendent James Taylor had laid down his career, his standing in the community, probably his freedom, for something as intangible as love. It could be neither attacked nor defended on rational 220.

grounds. It was worth it if he thought it was.

They stood on the raised terrace, leaning on the railing, watching the crowd in the car park slowly grow, listening to the heavy beat and mindless prattle coming over the public address system, watching the men in black prepare their pretty, seductive display, watching people stroll out of the main entrance with bulging shopping bags, with fractious children, with pushchairs, with no idea of the danger they might be in.

After a while Taylor gave voice to a thought that had occurred to Shapiro too; also Liz, and Donovan and probably every other police officer there that evening. 'What if he's gone somewhere else?'

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9.Even David Shapiro, who was not a police officer, could see that the more manpower was concentrated here, the less there was patrolling the quiet streets and shining torches at the shuttered windows of shops. 'What if he's gone somewhere else?'

Donovan shrugged. 'Then we'll be out another warehouse by morning. But at least it won't have been packed with people.'

They weren't watching the shoppers, they'd joined them, forging salmon-wise against the stream leaving the Mall until they were bringing up the rear. That way, Donovan reasoned, if something started in the heart of the building he wouldn't have to fight his way through a panic-stricken mob to reach anywhere he could do some good. Also, he wasn't above a little threatening behaviour to encourage tardy customers to move out and shops to close as they'd been asked.

David stayed with him because experience, of which he had some, and instinct, of which he had more, both told him Donovan was the sort of person things happened around. If Robin Taylor was here, and if he started a fire, Donovan would be nearest.

As they shuffled towards the main entrance, leaving empty halls behind, jangly music and Peter Voss's manic chatter washed in at them. 'Here's another question you never thought to ask yourself. What's green and hairy and crosses water at twenty-five knots? How about you, 222.

madam, you look like you could do with a bit of rhythm in your life. For the last word in personal stereos, what's green and hairy and . .. What do you mean, your husband on waterskis? I always thought it was a gooseberry with an outboard engine, but I'm not going to call you a liar. Here, catch . . .'

'He's gone somewhere else,' said David with conviction. 'Or he's making a run for it. He knows you're on to him, why would he hang around when he could be putting miles behind him? He'd have to be--' He stopped.

'Yeah,' grunted Donovan with some irony. 'Crazy.' His eyes roved left and right over the people moving ahead of him, still hoping to glimpse the man they sought. But the more time pa.s.sed the more hope faded. If he was here he'd got in unseen, could leave the same way; and if he wasn't already inside he was too late. Either the scale of the police response had frightened him off or Inspector Graham had been wrong all along. If it turned out Robin Taylor had never been within five miles of the place she'd be going round red faced for days.

David's thoughts had been running on different lines. 'People's frigging families,' he said with feeling. 'As if people can't f.u.c.k themselves up without help.'

Donovan glanced at him. 'G.o.d? It wasn't Robin f.u.c.ked him up, it was his own inability to draw the line between private interest and professional duty.'

'So he deserves this?' demanded David. 'His career shattered because his son's a psychopath? I think I'm a callous sod sometimes, Donovan, but next to you I'm an amateur.'

Donovan replied with a wolfish smile. 'Next to me, kid, most people are amateurs. Taylor hit a problem he couldn't hack, and the way he dealt with it put lives in danger. You can sympathize, but you can't say he's a fit person to run a police station. Sooner or later he'd hit another problem he couldn't hack.'

'You think it takes a man incapable of error to be a 223.

police chief? There are going to be a lot of vacancies.' David gave a dark chuckle. 'Maybe my dad could fill one of them. Whatever his failings, he'd never have made Taylor's mistake.'

Donovan looked away and shook his head. 'You can't forgive him that, can you? For making a better policeman than a father.'

'I can live with it,' David said stiffly. 'He was the one with unrealistic expectations. He was disappointed in me from further back than I can remember. You've no idea how hard I tried not to let him down. I sweated blood for him, but it was never enough. There was always something I could have done better, or differently, or not done at all that would have kept that look of weary resignation out of his eyes. He crucified me. And do you know the worst part? I don't think he even knew he was doing it.'

Donovan shrugged. 'I think you've both got unrealistic expectations. Fathers and sons always gut one another: that's how the system works. There's nothing unique about you and the Chief.'

David broke his stride, surprised. 'Then what are you supposed to do?'

'Get through, somehow,' said Donovan. 'This idea that fathers and sons should get along -it's a human fallacy. 'Most everything else on earth takes pains to keep generations of males apart. Loads of fathers draw the line at conception; some hang around just long enough to provide a bit of food. It's only us thinks you can't enjoy a good hump without being responsible for the consequences until one of you dies.'

The woman in front of them turned a startled face in his direction.

David grinned. 'So--?'

'So you don't owe one another. If he gets up your nose, walk away.'

'I don't want to walk away.' David seemed surprised to hear himself say it. 'I admire him. I just wish he was easier to like.'

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'Why?'

'Why?' came the exasperated echo. 'Because it would be ... nice. Because you should like decent people. Don't you like him?'

Donovan thought for a minute, then shook his head. 'I -always respected him.' When he finally learned that he'd been both right and wrong, that someone had concealed the photograph and that it wasn't Frank Shapiro, it would be like a ton weight lifted off his mind. 'I'm not sure I like anybody.'

David started to laugh. 'Why the h.e.l.l am I listening to you? I need the advice of an emotional cripple like a steeplejack needs an aqualung.'

Donovan gave a saturnine grin and didn't deny it.

The woman in front turned to them again. 'What is that?'

'Sorry?' said Donovan blankly.

'I can smell something,' said the woman, a puzzled and slightly anxious frown creasing her forehead. 'I'm sure I can smell smoke.'

Even though she was half expecting it, the fire alarm sent such a jolt through Liz that for a second she froze. She was up on the gallery again, leaning on the parapet, scanning the dawdling crowd; at the sound her hands clutched the rail so fiercely that her knuckles turned white.

The soprano two-tone came from a small boutique just off the main hall. Five avenues radiated out in a star shape, with bigger enterprises towards the far ends and a Village Green of small shops at the heart of the complex. The boutique was called Maid Marion's and there was a lot of green in the window. Behind the window display there was some wispy smoke. A girl came rushing out of the door and stood in the concourse crying, 'Can someone help me ...?'

Donovan was nearest and sprinted past her into the shop. David Shapiro was at his heels, the camera already to his face.

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Heads turned all over the Mall as the shoppers tried to see what was happening and if it was part of the festivities. People called their children to them. Some quickened their steps towards the exit, others hovered where they were and stood on tiptoe, craning.

From the top of the stairs Liz raised her voice over the interrogative hum. 'There's nothing to worry about but it would help if everyone would leave now, in case we need to run a hose through here.'