"Who looks after it now?" I ask.

"It's administered by the Atomic Energy Authority, which means it's under the jurisdiction of the CNC."

"The CNC?"

"The Civil Nuclear Constabulary: it's a security force that protects nuclear installations. They don't know if they're soldiers or make-believe coppers." Drury motions ahead to a small group of detectives. Among them is a uniformed man, not a police officer, who is trying to look like one of the lads.

"This is Sergeant Moretti," says Drury. "He has the keys."

I glance at the surfeit of broken doors, but don't comment.

Moretti stands to attention, sucking in his stomach. Pale as a plucked chicken, he has the word POLICE st.i.tched into the breast pocket of his waterproof jacket.

"How often is this site patrolled?" asks the DCI.

"It's not on any regular routes."

"What does that mean?"

"The place hasn't been used for thirty years."

Drury blows air from his nose. "Really?"

White surgical gloves are distributed and the DCI follows Moretti through the first door. Lights are triggered. Most of the bulbs are broken, but enough shine unsteadily to reveal a large room littered with torn fittings and collapsed heating ducts.

"Why is the power still connected?" asks Drury.

"Can't tell you, sir," answers Moretti. "Above my pay grade."

A metal trough along one wall has a sign above it that reads: USE GLOVES AND EYE PROTECTION. Nearby, a control panel has a row of red and green b.u.t.tons. The wiring has been ripped out.

A rusting staircase turns back on itself and rises to the upper floor, fifteen feet above. Beneath the stairs an old boiler has been wedged sideways, partially concealing a door. Moretti goes first, pulling aside two drums that slosh with unknown liquids.

The second room is smaller, with a table, two chairs, a double bed, a bath and a wood-fired boiler or stove. Someone has doused every hard surface with bleach or some other chemical cleaner. The caustic stench hooks at the back of my throat and tries to scald my lungs.

It's the same smell I remember from the farmhouse where the Heymans died.

"What's upstairs?" asks Drury.

"More of the same," says Moretti.

"Show me."

The rattling metal staircase pulls more plaster from the walls. I stay behind with DS Casey, walking the room again. The old-fashioned bathtub was lifted into place using a block and tackle. The ropes have left marks on the overhead pipes. A razor rests on the rim of the tub. The nearest shelf holds bottles of toiletries.

The iron-sprung bed has been stripped of bedding and a quarter-inch thick chain is looped around one metal leg. At the opposite end of the chain is a leather cuff, sweat-stained and secured by a padlock. It can be adjusted to fit around a person's wrist or neck.

Beside the bed there is a wooden trunk with a curved lid. Using a fountain pen, I lever it open. The trunk looks empty at first glance, but then I spy a thin piece of black fabric hooked on the corner of a loose hinge; a g-string with a lace edging.

DS Casey opens a plastic evidence bag and I drop the lingerie inside.

The bedding was thrown into the corner and set on fire. Crouching beside the charred mess, I use the pen to lift a tacky section of the fabric. The remnants include a scorched corner of a pizza box and a foil takeaway container. Something else catches my eye-a small molded plastic figure, less than an inch high. A stationmaster dressed in a blue waistcoat holding a flag.

"I need another evidence bag," I say.

"What is that?"

"A collector's piece."

Straightening up, I gaze around again, bothered by something that I can't quite quantify. I look across the room. Anyone coming into the main building could easily have found the door beneath the stairs. And this second chamber isn't particularly secure or soundproof. The bed has only one manacle yet there were two captives. He couldn't watch both girls constantly. How did he control them?

Natasha had pre-mortem scratches on her hips. Dr. Leece speculated that she might have squeezed through a narrow opening like a window. This place has none.

"Did you notice the pipes on the walls outside?" I ask.

Casey shakes his head.

Crossing the room, I push aside several boxes and find an empty metal storage cabinet. There are scratches in the concrete where the cabinet has been dragged across the floor.

"Here, help me lift this."

Casey takes one side and we pull the cabinet away from the wall, exposing a trapdoor with a rope handle. On my knees, I pull it open, levering it backwards on stiff hinges. The room below is a dark pit.

"Lend me your torch."

Crouching over the hole, I direct the beam. Dust motes reflect in the light as the dungeon is revealed piece by piece, like a jigsaw created in h.e.l.l. Two bunks. A table. Chairs. Shelves. A sink. Magazines. A saucepan. A bedpan. Thin gray blankets. Scattered clothes.

The ladder only reaches halfway to the ceiling. The lone window is high on the wall above the sink. Sealed. It doesn't seem big enough for a person to squeeze through.

The torch beam continues moving. I notice a poster of Brighton Pier and a collage, made of cut-up pictures torn from magazines. Cans of food are stacked on the shelves. A jar of teabags is resting near the gas ring burner.

When I'm sure the bas.e.m.e.nt is empty, I pull away, desperate to be outside, to be away from here.

The rain has started up again and I don't have an umbrella. I walk away from the buildings, climb the embankment and look down from the top of the quarry. Standing there, with my head bowed, arms hanging, I let the rain run over my scalp and into my eyebrows and down my face. I have never adored nature. I can appreciate its beauty, but I'm indifferent to its vagaries. Nature can do some appalling things, but it always endures and remains unmoved by human suffering.

Below me, men and women in blue overalls are moving into the compound, following a path cut through the brambles. They're looking for blood, ballistics, fingerprints and body fluids-the remnants of death, the signs of life.

Piper was here. She ran from him, but he tracked her down. What will he do now? Unless this man has developed a special bond with Piper, unless she's become indispensable to his fantasies, she will be expendable, another loose end to be tied up.

Gazing into the sky, I search forlornly for a star through the thick cloud cover. Two thousand years ago, according to the Bible, three wise men followed a star and found a savior lying in a manger. I don't believe in miracles, but Piper Hadley needs one tonight.

The headlights were blinding me at first.

It was only when the driver's door opened and he moved forward into the light that I knew he had found me. I lost control. The wetness ran down my legs and filled my shoes.

I couldn't run. I couldn't cry out. I had nothing left. He took my hand and led me to the car. He put tape around my hands and feet and made me swallow two small white pills.

Gentle as a lamb, I let him lift me into the boot. He put tape on my mouth and pulled a sack over my head. I coughed into the dust, struggling to breathe. Then I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

I have a vague recollection of the car stopping and George talking to someone, but then the car was moving again and I slept, not expecting to wake up.

And now I'm here, lying in a lovely bed, wearing clean pajamas. It's the same attic room that Tash and I first came to after he took us. The furniture hasn't changed, but he doesn't have the black and white TV any more. Maybe he threw it away.

I don't remember how he got me up the stairs. And I haven't moved since I woke up. Exhaustion keeps me pressed to these white sheets like an insect pinned to a piece of cardboard. I once visited the Natural History Museum in London on a school excursion. We were taken to the Entomology Department where there were 140,000 wooden drawers with 28 million specimens. I didn't know there were that many different insects in the world. I don't like bugs, but I don't squash them anymore.

I'm so tired. I just want to sleep. George can do what he likes. I don't care anymore.

Sometime later, I wake with the memory of having screamed, but the sound has dissipated and the room is full of dark shadows.

"Is anyone there?" I ask.

There's no answer.

"Talk to me, please."

"What would you like me to say?" asks George.

He is sitting on a chair between the wardrobe and the window, leaning back against the wall. I can't see his face.

"What was your nightmare about?"

"I didn't have a nightmare."

"Yes, you did."

"I don't remember."

"Dreams are funny like that," he says. "I don't remember mine."

"Am I a long way from home?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean in miles. Is it a long way?"

"No."

"Could I make it if I walked all day?"

"Perhaps."

"Are you just saying that to make me happy?"

"Yes."

46.

It is past midnight on Christmas morning and the only creatures stirring are being nourished by machine coffee and the chocolate bars with raisins that n.o.body likes. Every available officer has been recalled. Leave cancelled. Festivities put on hold.

The roadblocks have been maintained throughout the night and plans are being prepared for a major ground search at first light using volunteers, dogs, helicopters and heat-sensing radar.

On a whiteboard in the incident room, somebody has written, "Piper Hadley is coming home." Yesterday's message. Premature. Out of date. n.o.body has the energy to scrub it off.

Drury moves down the corridor as though walking in his sleep. At the coffee machine he presses a b.u.t.ton and listens to the machine give an emphysemic cough and hack, spitting out coffee that looks like tar.

He takes a sealed evidence bag from his pocket and studies the tiny manikin of the stationmaster.

"Are you sure it belongs to Martinez?"

"Yes."

He runs his thumb over the model piece.

"It's not much of a smoking gun."

"If you wait for fingerprints or DNA, it could take days. Piper doesn't have that long."

The DCI's face twists. "We've issued an arrest warrant for Martinez and circulated details of his vehicle."

"What about going public?"

"He could have Emily and Piper. It's too big a risk."

Drury sips the coffee and almost spits it out. He pours the dregs into the sink, crushing the plastic cup in his fist.

"Are you sleeping with Victoria Naparstek?" he asks.

"What?"

"You heard the question."

"I don't think that's any-"

"I'll take that as a yes." He rocks back on his heels, flexing his fingers against his thighs. "I think you should leave her alone."

"Why?"

"I'm concerned for her."

"You care for her?"