'There's still a chance. We should keep going until we get to emergency.'

Steve continued relentlessly as the ambulance careered through deserted streets towards the hospital. On the opposite stretcher the girl had sunk into a semi-comatose state of shock but at least her vital signs were stable and the knife wound to her shoulder was superficial. Which was more than could be said for the poor b.u.g.g.e.r they'd found with her.

Steve was still ma.s.saging dead muscle as they wheeled Geoffrey Minny, fifty-two, married father of one into A&E where he was p.r.o.nounced DOA. His mate pulled him away from the stretcher.

'You need to change.'

Steve looked down at the bright arterial blood that was stiffening on his uniform.

'Yeah. Right.'

'You OK?'

'Sure.' Steve waved a casual hand. 'It's just that we were so close. You know how sometimes you can feel them still there? He was almost ours, that's all.'

'You win some, you lose some. Happens every week, you know it does.'

'Right.'

Steve found his locker, a change of clothes and an empty shower cubicle. Under the camouflage of running water he wept for a man he had never known.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Griffiths folded the newspaper precisely and placed it square on the library table. Normally he enjoyed the Sunday editions but today was different. Wearing the poker face he was so proud of he waited, seemingly patient, until it was time to return to his cell. Once there, he had exactly forty-five minutes in which to work on his next letter. The simple but effective code system had become second nature to him. As he wrote his anger forced its way onto the page.

Hidden beneath layers of nonsense words he chastised his sometime partner for his pathetic failure.

You used to be so superior, so smart, but you can't perform like me, can you? Get it right! I've had my solicitor in, told him that I was the wrong man, that the real one was still outside. He didn't believe me!

The light went out. He threw himself onto the bed in a flounce that made the bedsprings rattle. The police still weren't making a connection between the attacks outside and his previous crimes. Taking the fingers had always been part of the grand plan but it hadn't even been mentioned in court. He had reasoned that if the pattern continued the police would have to conclude that they had the wrong man. At the very least it would create substantive grounds for appeal. He'd had high hopes of the master and now he felt badly let down, to say the f.u.c.king least.

His letter would create a powerful negative reaction. He had dared to criticise. Unthinkable. Despite his anger he felt scared. Without Dave's help he would never be released. He'd have to change it in the morning and beg for help. That night he dreamed of Wendy, a sweet satisfying fantasy that made him long for freedom.

Police in Wales found a knife two miles from the scene of Tasmin's abduction, at seven in the evening on Thursday. They'd been able to lift partial prints and had found a match against a set from the underside of a stool at the Frog and Nightgown. Fenwick almost ran to the incident room in London to see the only tangible evidence they had so far on Killer B. It was crowded but MacIntyre beckoned him round to look at the weapon. He had expected a serious blade. Instead he was staring at a large penknife.

'This is it?'

'Look at it, the tip has been honed to a fine point.'

'Does it match any of Lucinda's wounds?'

'We don't know. He used Sabatier knives from the kitchen to torture her, then washed them clean in the dishwasher but the pm suggested the wound that killed her, the one to her heart, had been made by a finer blade, perhaps this one.'

'Why would a killer of this viciousness resort to killing with a penknife? It's almost a child's toy, which makes me even more convinced that whatever bound Killer B and Griffiths together had its roots in childhood.'

MacIntyre shook his head sceptically but held his peace. He'd given Fenwick responsibility for investigating a potential link between Griffiths and Killer B and wasn't about to undermine him in public.

Fenwick paused, aware he was about to ask a favour.

'Is your relationship with the Governor good enough to ask for Griffiths to be interviewed by another psychologist? There's someone I've worked with before. She's good and I'd trust her a.s.sessment more than I do Batchelor's.'

'I'll try, if you really think it's worth it.'

'I do.'

An hour later MacIntyre told him they had approval. That left Fenwick with the problem of how he was going to persuade Claire to help him. He hadn't spoken to her since their break up and he knew that she had been avoiding him on her visits to Harlden.

He dialled her number, hoping for the answering machine but she was there.

'Claire, how are you?'

'Fine.'

'Um, Claire, I wonder if I could ask you a favour.'

She listened to his request in silence.

'What do you think?'

'I need a fuller briefing before I can decide. What is the name of the psychiatrist seeing him now?'

'Doctor Batchelor'.

'Maurice Batchelor?'

'Yes. D'you know him?'

'We've met. Look I may be able to help you but I think we need to meet. How urgent is this?'

'Very, I could be in Harlden this afternoon.'

'Not good for me. How about tomorrow?'

'It's Sat.u.r.day.'

'I thought you said it was urgent.'

'Well yes it is, it's just that I'm babysitting while the housekeeper is away.'

'I could come to the house.'

Fenwick hated the idea but he was asking a big favour and needed her cooperation.

'Fine. Tomorrow afternoon then.'

They said their goodbyes, leaving Fenwick concerned about the following day. He did not want to renew their relationship and he hoped that she didn't think his request for help was a come on.

The children were playing in the tent in the garden when Claire arrived. He offered her a gla.s.s of a Pimms. It was a drink he took care to make well and was suitably rewarded by her appreciation.

'Delicious. Exactly what the day needed.'

She smiled at him, sungla.s.ses shading her eyes from the brilliant light on his terrace. He had chosen to sit beneath the parasol but Claire bared her arms to the sun. She was wearing a sleeveless white shirt and khaki pants that stopped mid-calf to reveal slim ankles. He noticed that she had a great tan.

'It was good of you to come round. And I appreciate your time.'

'Andrew, stop sounding like a stuffed shirt. We both know that you're human really. Relax, I'm here to help, not to seduce you.'

Her laugh was light and easy but he smiled uncomfortably. She might be relaxed but seeing her again had brought back a conflicting bundle of emotions that were as unexpected as they were unwelcome. She looked lovely golden, fit and, admit it, desirable, but he told himself that he had no regrets.

'Penny for them?'

'What?'

'Your thoughts, a penny for them.' She smiled into his eyes.

Fenwick looked away, feeling trapped.

'Nothing, just the case, you know.'

'No, I don't. I have no objections to your being distracted, Andrew but I do resent being lied to.'

The sharpness of the word lay between them, made harsher by the sound of the children's laughter from the tent under the apple trees. There was an uncomfortable pause. Eventually, he spoke.

'I'm sorry.' He stood up and paced the terrace, draining his drink. 'Do you want another?'

Claire raised a gla.s.s that was still well over half full, and shook her head.

'I haven't come here to put up with Fenwick the mystic for the infiniteth time, Andrew.'

'Is infiniteth a word?' He tried a lopsided smile.

'Don't try to joke your way out of it.'

'I'm sorry,' he needed her help and was prepared to grovel to get it.

'Sorry is as sorry does.'

'Did I hurt you?'

'Yes, but it's not terminal.'

He stood up, wishing that he hadn't asked the question.

'I'm not escaping but I really would like another drink and yours has gone warm.'

He brought back two large tumblers of Pimms, crammed with ice, mint and cuc.u.mber, together with a plate of Alice's homemade cheese straws.

'So why are you here? Apart from the fact that we're new best friends of course. Are you willing to help with the Griffiths case?'

'I was as soon as I found out whose advice you were relying on.'

'You don't rate Doctor Batchelor?'

Claire snorted and took a drink.

'Not based on my one encounter with him. We attended a seminar together. I found that his ego got in the way of his a.n.a.lysis. He was forever reminding me that he was a psychiatrist whilst I was "only" a psychologist, as if that mattered. What really worried me were his opinions on typology and the motivations for criminal actions. I found them deeply flawed.'

'He seems thorough, though.'

'Oh yes he's that but, to put it bluntly, I thought he was thick.'

'Why don't you say what you mean. I've never heard you be so d.a.m.ning. He must really have upset you.'

'Forget about him. I'm interested in the Griffiths case, I have been since I first heard about it. I was frustrated that Blite never let me in, so this is a chance to indulge my curiosity. I should be able to read the files over the weekend and visit him next week.'

'What excuse will you give for seeing him?'

'I don't know yet but the files will give me ideas. I want to avoid lying if possible. Now, why don't you tell me about what is happening in Andrew Fenwick's life?'

The Pimms had relaxed him but he still squirmed.

'Dull, as usual.'

'Your life is never dull, Andrew. Come on.'

'Why are you interested?'

'Because everyone should be able to talk about what's happening to them, share the day-to-day things as well as the momentous. I believe it keeps us sane.'

'And you doubt my sanity?'

'No, I think you're lonely.'

He felt as if she had punched him in the stomach and tried to scoff her observation away.

'I have no time to be lonely. I work six days out of seven and spend any spare hours I have with the children. Most nights I fall into bed too exhausted even to think.'

'And on the nights you don't?'