'Hey,' Fenwick instinctively bent down and wrapped an awkward arm about her shoulders. 'Good grief, you're freezing. You'll catch your death of cold. Here,' he took the jumper he had slung around his shoulders and eased it over her head. He guided her arms into the sleeves and she hugged the wool to her. 'Why don't I give you a lift home?'

'No.' He could hardly hear her. 'I have my car. Please,' she wouldn't look him in the eye but he could feel the intensity of her appeal, 'it would be best if you left me alone.'

'At least let me walk you to your car. Where is it?'

'Near the end of the Devil's Run.'

'That's miles away. Is that how far you've come?' He tried not to let it sound like an accusation. 'You must be exhausted. My car's over in the National Trust car park. We'll drive you round.'

'No, I...'

'Does that mean our walk's over already?' Chris made no attempt to hide his disappointment.

'Chris.'

'See, it will only be a problem. I can find my own way back.'

'No you won't. Christopher, if we go now we'll be in time for an ice-cream from the shop on the way home.'

Chris's face brightened at once. Nightingale gave a huge sigh and shrugged her shoulders. Fenwick was too adept at recognising and capitalising on defeat to let the moment pa.s.s and helped her to her feet. As the children ran on ahead, Fenwick slowed his pace until he could match his stride to hers.

'Would it help to talk?'

She shook her head.

'Sometimes it does you know, however hard starting might seem.'

'I'd rather not.'

They walked on in silence, their strides synchronised, the rustle from their feet through the leaves matched in rhythm. Fenwick glanced at her face whilst she stared at the ground just ahead of her feet. She appeared bruised and exhausted. Her vulnerability moved him and he felt his throat harden into an ache. He'd never witnessed this aspect of her before. At work she was tough and dependable, so logical and cool. The depth of her emotion surprised him.

He started to talk about the forest through which they walked, just as he would have done to Chris and Bess. His words were careful and measured, sentences peppered with curiosities and legends as he wove mystery into the fabric of his narrative.

They reached a stream in which the children had stopped to play.

'...And this is where an eminent Victorian gentleman swore on the Bible that he had photographed fairies.'

'Do you believe in fairies?' No respecter of silences, Bess asked Nightingale the same question that she asked every adult she accompanied to this spot.

Nightingale stared at her, confused. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

'Do you?'

'I asked first.'

'Perhaps I do. They might exist. Who can say?'

Bess appeared to like this answer.

'That's what I think too. Do you believe in ghosts then?'

Nightingale slipped on the mossy stones at the edge of the stream and Fenwick caught her arm to prevent her from falling. When they reached the other side he waited for her to take it away but she didn't and he let it lie there.

'I don't think we want to talk about ghosts right now, Bess. It's not a good subject when someone's a little upset.'

'Why are you upset?'

Fenwick glared at Bess but she ignored him and to his surprise Nightingale answered.

'I'm sad because some people I knew have gone away and I miss them.'

'Gone away forever?' Bess's voice had dropped to a hush. Chris was listening attentively.

'Yes forever.'

'Did you love them?'

Nightingale took a huge breath and Fenwick stared at her with renewed concern but she seemed to be in control.

'Yes, I did.'

'That is sad then.' Bess trotted over to the other side of Nightingale and took hold of her free hand. Chris grabbed his father's and the four of them walked along in silence, linked together, until they reached Fenwick's car.

'In the back, you two. Wellies off. Now Chris...no, don't go in that puddle... Oh, I don't know.' He lifted his son up away from further temptation and pulled his boots off.

'Can she come home with us?' It was a strange remark from his distant and reserved son.

'She's the cat's mother, Chris. This lady's name is Sergeant Nightingale and she has her own home to go to.'

'Nightingale.' They all stared at her. 'Just call me Nightingale.'

'Can Nightingale come home? Just for tea, Daddy?' Bess was as insistent as her brother.

Fenwick retreated into an elaborate show of wrapping their boots and putting them away. It would be completely wrong. There was a clear boundary in his mind between work and his personal life, particularly where the children were concerned. Yet the idea of sending Nightingale home on her own when she was so vulnerable made him uncomfortable. She saved him the problem of a reply.

'It's very kind of you both but I need to get home. Perhaps another day when I'll be better company.'

'You promise, another day?' Chris was looking serious and Fenwick wanted to warn her that a promise to his children was never a light undertaking.

'Yes, whenever your daddy says it's all right to come.'

He drove her around the forest to her car and watched as she unlocked the door.

'Are you all right to drive?'

'Yes thanks. Oh, here...' She started to take off his jumper.

'No, keep it on. You can return it any time.'

'Thank you. Goodbye then.'

'Goodbye, Nightingale. Look after yourself.'

He watched her reverse her car carefully and drive away into the dusk.

'Come on then, you two. Do you still want those ice-creams?'

's.h.i.t!'

The man walked out from behind a tree and kicked a stone across the parking lot so hard that it chipped paintwork off the only other car in sight.

It had been easy to follow her and when he saw her take off into the forest he'd thought that his luck was in, but in the time it had taken him to park and remove his helmet he lost her. The b.i.t.c.h could run, he'd give her that. So he'd decided to wait for her return. Except that some do-gooding Sir Galahad had c.o.c.ked it up and he was back to square one. Abducting a policewoman wasn't easy, particularly one who had zero social life.

Normally he could rely on his charm to captivate them but this one was different and he could understand why Griffiths had found it hard to leave her alone. She represented the ultimate challenge. The woman hardly ever went out except to work and when he'd tried to talk to her as she shopped for an anorexic's food she had looked straight through him.

Patience wasn't his strongest suit. In other circ.u.mstances he would have given up and moved on to someone else, but she was not a random victim. Sergeant Louise Nightingale needed to pay for her temerity. She had outsmarted Griffiths, persuaded a jury of his guilt and in so doing destroyed a perfect partnership. For that she would die but he'd decided that he wanted her terrified first. It was an unusual twist and would be a test of his creativity as well as his self-discipline, but the thought of destroying her confidence and of filling her life with fear was sufficient compensation, so far.

It was very important to him that she became dead scared before she was dead. His game had been subtle to match her style but he thought now that he was being too delicate. She showed no signs of being concerned and hadn't even bothered to report his stalking of her at least no police had arrived at her flat or impounded her PC. Matters would have to escalate but first he needed to make poor Wayne's life a little easier. Another trip north to prison-town was called for then he could concentrate all his attention on her without further distraction.

CHAPTER SIX.

Wednesday evenings at the Bird in Hand were normally enlivened by the appearance of an exotic dancer. Sasha was Saunders' favourite. He excused the wobble on her thighs because of her pendulous t.i.ts and the fact that she had once let him grope them when they had both of them been worse for wear. The idea that such a delight might happen again and lead on to more, kept him returning to the pub-c.u.m-club when he wasn't on nights at the prison.

Unfortunately for Saunders, on his first visit in June he found the tiny stage unlit with no sign of a dancer.

'What's up?'

'We were raided.' The landlord disliked Saunders but his money was good and he could be relied upon to spend until he was so p.i.s.sed that he needed help to find the door; even better he had no sense that his drinks were costing him more as the night wore on.

'Where you been anyway?'

'Shift work. Needed the money and they're short handed. But I was hoping to see some action tonight.'

He looked around as if contemplating leaving. A beer and whisky chaser appeared on the bar in a flash.

'A round on me. Don't worry, next week we'll be back to normal.'

The landlord looked over his shoulder and spotted the new 'hostess' he had hired to pull pints and keep the customers happy until the stripper could return. He didn't advertise for barmaids anymore. It was better that the girls knew what was expected of them.

'Milly! Get your pert little a.r.s.e over here and meet Mr Saunders, one of our most valued customers.' He turned to the guard suggestively. 'She's new you never know your luck.'

After four pints and as many whiskies, Saunders knew that his luck was out, although there was a hint of promise in Milly's eyes that meant he would be back the following day. He had chain-smoked fifteen cigarettes whilst he had verbally abused her in the mistaken idea that he was chatting her up, and that his lewd innuendo was a certain turn on. He wet his shoes by mistake in the Gents and was 'helped to the door' when he decided that Milly should provide the striptease the evening was lacking. As he left the bar with some velocity, the landlord murmured, 'f.u.c.king pig' under his breath and patted Milly's b.u.m in thanks for keeping Saunders amused. She had expected something more rewarding and flounced off to the end of the bar and a more likely looking customer.

There was an Indian takeaway en-route from The Bird to Saunders' house. He threw up in the gutter outside, felt better and went in and bought a beef vindaloo, rice, onion bhajees, spicy poppadums and two lamb Samosas.

He peeled the lids off in the kitchen at home and took the containers into the sitting room. Saunders subscribed to The Adult Channel for evenings such as this, and watched the screen fantasising about what he would do with the snooty barmaid next time, as he troughed through each of his cartons. By midnight the combined effects of the alcohol and heavy food had their traditional effect and he was fast asleep on the couch, head back snoring while the TV played on.

Outside, a tall, slim figure climbed over the wall in the yard, landed silently and moved to the back door unseen. It was unlocked, a laughable lack of security for a prison officer, and led into a small kitchen that stank of curry, a week's rubbish and unwashed dishes.

The intruder was wearing a dark polo neck and black jeans. Both were expensive and in stark contrast to the cheap chain store trainers on his feet. He carried a long hold-all like an old-fashioned doctor's bag that he opened silently. The sounds of soft p.o.r.n and snoring came from the living room at the front of the house and painted a graphic picture of what he would find when he entered. He smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile he reserved for night and darkened rooms. The people who saw it rarely lived to describe it.

He opened the bag and pulled out a black plastic dustbin liner that he unfolded with barely a rustle. The polo neck came off, as did the jeans, eased over the trainers. They went into the plastic bag for later. Underneath he wore a tight fitting rubber suit that stroked his skin when he moved. It too was black, unlike his skin-tone latex gloves but the anomaly was short lived as he pulled a pair in fine black leather over the top of them. Then he put on the mask, enjoying the smell of the leather as it covered his face. He looked around for a mirror. In bedrooms there were always mirrors in which to appreciate the final effect, not so in a kitchen but it was a minor inconvenience. He knew how he would look and the thought filled him with warm energy. He was death personified. He would be the last thing this pathetic specimen ever saw. He was G.o.d.

In the living room the curtains were already drawn, creating a cozy little h.e.l.lhole. Saunders was sprawled like a beached whale on the sofa, his hairy white belly protruding from his open shirt, one foot collapsed sideways into the remains of a dark stinking curry. His belt was undone, his trousers splattered with some sort of brown gravy. A piece of burnt onion had wrapped itself around an upper incisor. The intruder stared at it in fascination as the pig of a man in front of him grunted and spluttered his way through who knew what dreams.

One sharp blow to the temple with a weighted cosh drove Saunders from sleep into unconsciousness and he set about his preparations with an economy of motion that suggested planning and practice. A strip of heavy tape went over Saunders' mouth and he handcuffed his hands behind his back. He stripped Saunders below the waist, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the waft of body odour that emerged as he removed the man's pants. Leaving the socks on was an amusing touch. They made the pig look even more ridiculous. One bare shin was tied to the front leg of the couch with nylon cord that would bite into the skin when he struggled. The other he tied with a long length of flex to a radiator beside the television.

Saunders lay on his back, legs splayed wide apart with his ample b.u.t.tocks on the edge of the cushion. The man ran some more rope beneath his armpits and over the back of the settee so that he was pulled back tight and immobile. He didn't want him to squirm too much, as it would make his work difficult. When he was certain that he was secure, he went into the squalid kitchen, removed the equipment he needed from the bag and set it down carefully next to his clothes, tutting at the layer of dust on the table. He threw a pile of washing up from the bowl to the floor and filled it with cold water.

Watching Saunders splutter and cough as he regained consciousness was a sweet experience. He loved this moment, when terror replaced confusion to be followed by denial, then fear again.

'Ngh?'

Saunders struggled against his bonds, panic on his sweaty face. He pulled and twisted until the ropes bit into his flesh. When he collapsed back against the cushions, his skin was pale and greasy. For a moment the intruder feared that he was going to choke and he didn't want him to die that way, but the moment pa.s.sed and he relaxed a little.

'h.e.l.lo, Mr Saunders.' His voice was conversational, mild even, but he knew that his eyes would betray his true feelings and he enjoyed this moment of play. 'Now, you may not know me, but I know you through a mutual acquaintance who is very displeased with you. That probably leaves you with a long list but let me reduce it for you. This person is still inside.'

A look of confusion crossed Saunders' face.

'Still too many? Oh well, this is dull anyway. Do you know a nice boy called Wayne Griffiths? Yes, that's right, funny little Wayne has friends in high places. I bet you didn't count on that when you began to bully and abuse him.'

Saunders was squirming again now, his eyes bulging above the gag. The man laughed, enjoying the show.

'I've been planning this little scenario ever since he told me about you and I've had plenty of opportunity to refine what I'm going to do. My only problem is that I have so many ideas and we have so little time. Ideally, we should spend a whole day together. I'd like that.'

Saunders tried to scream against the gag. With a superhuman effort the guard lurched upwards, rubbing his shins raw, and the settee jumped an inch in the air.

'Hmm, tricky. You might be more agile than I've given you credit for. I'm going to need a little more help. Don't go away.'

He sprinted out to the kitchen and rummaged in his leather bag, talking to himself.

'My little bag of tricks. Ooh, Saunders, I bet you'd love to know what I've got in here for you. Here we are.' He sounded like a little boy who had found a long lost toy.

He knotted a length of yellow climber's rope into a noose and forced it over Saunders' head. It tightened immediately and by the time he had secured the loose end around the bannister in the hall, Saunders was blue in the face and gasping for air.

He eased some slack through the knot and watched patiently as the cyanosis faded and his victim resumed the more normal pallor a.s.sociated with terror.

'That's better. I don't want you dying prematurely. We may not have a lot of time but what we have I want to enjoy.' He glanced at his new Italian watch.