Ross felt a grim satisfaction at shocking his superior. By the end of his report, Peck would be even more shocked.

'Skeates was the name of the man. He lives in the road a young exec type. Apparently he was just returning home late from the pub.'

'He'll get a cab next time. What about your officers? How badly were they hurt?'

'Hicks has a broken jaw. Not too many teeth left, either. By the time the backup got there, those three bastards had broken both Posgate's arms and were trying to do the same with his legs.'

Smoke escaped between Peck's clenched teeth in a thin, forceful stream. 'Spiteful bitches,' he commented.

Ross failed to appreciate the senior officer's sarcasm. 'There was nothing effeminate about those three. I know, I interviewed them when they were brought in.'

'Was there anything left of them?'

'They'd had a going over. They resisted arrest.'

'I'll bet.' Peck grinned at the inspector's rising indignation. 'All right, Ross, I'm not having a go. I don't blame your lads dealing out some punishment of their own. Did you get anything out of the bastards?'

'No. Like zombies, all three. Haven't spoken a word all night.'

'The victim?'

'My men found him crawling down the street trying to get home. He claims the three youths were just sitting on the pavement as if they were waiting for someone to come along. They don't live in this road, apparently. At least, he's never seen them before.'

'All right, Inspector, I'm already impressed. What else happened here last night?' Peck nodded towards the still smouldering house. 'Apart from the obvious, that is.'

'About half-past one this morning we received a report of an intruder on the premises of number . . .' Ross produced a notebook from his breast pocket and flicked it open '. . . thirty-three. The call came from a Mrs Jack Kimble. By the time my lads got there, her husband had dealt with the trouble himself.'

'Don't keep me guessing.'

'The Kimbles have a fifteen-year-old daughter. She sleeps in a room that looks on to the road itself. A man had forced himself into her bedroom.'

'Not another rape,' Peck said in disgust.

'Yes, sir. The intruder lived opposite the Kimbles. Eric Channing was his name.'

'Was?'

'Was. He no longer is.'

'This . . . what's his name Kimble? . . . took the law into his own hands?'

'Channing had used a ladder to reach the girl's bedroom window. He didn't even bother to open it, just jumped head first through the glass and attacked the girl. While Mrs Kimble was phoning us, Mr Kimble was busy throwing the would-be rapist back out the way he had come. The fall broke Channing's neck.'

'Love thy neighbour, eh? Is there anything dodgy about this Kimble? Is he known?'

'No record. He just over-reacted, that's all.'

'Let's hope the judge doesn't. What else have you got?'

'Well, as if these two incidents weren't enough, all hell broke loose around three o'clock. That's when the fires started.'

'Cause?'

'It started in one semi and took the adjoining house with it. We think flying sparks probably started the fire in the nearest house to them.'

'Yes, but how did it start?'

Ross took a deep breath and consulted his notebook again to check on the correct name. 'A Mr Ronald Clarkson, a retired businessman, raised the alarm. He'd been woken up by the smell of burning. It was his wife sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor. She'd used paraffin from one of those oil burners and doused herself with it. He was lucky: she'd doused the bed too. He only just got out in time.'

Peck's eyes were wide now, all complacency gone.

Ross continued, taking some enjoyment from the sight. 'By the time the fire engines got here, the whole house had gone up and there was no saving the one next door. The house opposite was well under way, but they managed to bring it under control before it destroyed the place completely. Eight engines they had here last night; it was like the blitz all over again.'

'Anyone else killed apart from Clarkson's wife?'

'No. Fortunately, they got out in time thanks to Clarkson giving the warning.'

'Did he give any indication why she'd done it? Burnt herself?'

'He said she'd been depressed lately.'

Peck snorted his disgust. 'Depressed! Jesus Christ!'

'One other thing.'

'Oh, you're kidding.'

'No. This one's not so bad, though. Just as daybreak came, when the firemen were still fighting the blaze and I was running around like a lunatic trying to find out what the hell was going on, a man approached one of my officers and asked to be arrested.'

'It must have made a nice change. Who was it another nutter?'

'He doesn't seem to be. His name is Brewer. He lives at number nine.'

'And?'

'He was afraid of what he might do to his family. The officer went back to the house with him and found Brewer's wife and three kids all tied up and locked inside a wardrobe.'

'And you say he's not a crackpot?'

'I've spoken with him. He appears to be a nice, ordinary bloke, thoroughly scared of what he did. He can't explain, doesn't know why he did it. But he wanted to be put away so he can't harm them. That's what he's afraid of.'

'I hope you obliged him.'

'Of course we did. He's in a cell now, but later on, when all this is straightened out, we'll get him to a hospital.'

'Do that, but after I've spoken with him. Is that the lot?'

'As far as we know. As I said, we're checking all the houses.'

'Just what kind of crazy road is this, Inspector? Suburbia's crackpot ghetto?'

'Until recently it was just another quiet residential area. We had all that business a year ago, of course.'

'The mass suicide you mean?'

'Yes, sir. The house Beechwood it was called was demolished only yesterday.'

'Why was that?'

'From what I can gather, the owner was fed up with the place. It hadn't been lived in for ages and apparently the agents couldn't sell it.'

'Maybe its ghosts have been taking their revenge for the destruction.'

Ross glanced sharply at Peck. 'Strangely enough, some funny business went on in there the other day. Someone called Kulek informed us he was holding a seance or something in the house. We checked that he'd got permission from the owner.'

'So it really was supposed to be haunted?' Peck shook his head, bemused.

'I don't know about that. But they found a naked woman hiding in the cellar. She was a private nurse who, it turned out, had done in her employer, an old man she'd been nursing for years in his house further down the street.'

'Yes, I heard about that. I didn't know about this seance going on, though.'

'I'm not sure it was a seance exactly. I know there was some kind of ghost expert present.'

'All right, I want to speak to this Kulek and anyone else who was with him at the house.'

'You don't think it's got anything to do with ghosts, do you?' There was a curious expression on Ross's face.

'Do me a favour, Inspector. On the other hand, I don't think it's got anything to do with the drinking water. I just think it's about time we collected all the pieces and started putting them together, don't you? Otherwise, before long there'll be nobody left to talk to; they'll either be dead or in the nuthouse.'

A sharp rap on the window at Peck's side made both men look in that direction. A gnarled old face squinted in at them. The woman knocked again, even though she had the attention of both men.

'Are you in charge here?' she rasped, looking directly at Peck.

'What can I do for you, madam?' Peck asked, winding down the window a little more.

'Where's me bleedin' dog?' the old woman asked, and Peck was relieved to see the sergeant whom Ross had spoken to earlier hastily making his way towards her.

'Sorry, madam, but if . . .' Peck began to say.

'He's bleedin' gone. Been away all night. Why don't you find 'im instead of sittin' there on your arse?'

'Give the details to the sergeant; I'm sure he'll help you find your dog,' Peck said patiently. He gave a sigh of relief when the officer led the grumbling woman away by the arm. 'All this mayhem and she's worried about a bloody dog!'

Inspector Ross shook his head in wonder.

'Excuse me, sir.' The sergeant had returned to the car window.

'What is it, Tom?' Ross asked.

'Just thought you'd like to know. About the dog.'

Peck's eyes looked heavenwards.

'Er, it's probably nothing, but that old lady's complaint was the fifth one we've had this morning. It's the fifth family pet that's been reported missing. Seems like they've all run away.'

Ross could only shrug his shoulders when Peck looked blankly at him.

12.

The drive through the peaceful Weald of Kent helped settle Bishop's troubled mind. A sudden, welcoming spring-like change in the weather had taken the dullness from the countryside and, although there was still a definite bite in the air, it could easily be imagined that the seasons had changed order. He had chosen to keep to the minor roads, avoiding the busy main routes that led more directly to his destination, but which would be crammed with other vehicles. He needed time to think.

The madness in Willow Road had persisted, had increased, in fact. The day before, two CID men had paid him a visit at his house in Barnes and had questioned him for almost two hours on his knowledge of Beechwood and the reasons for his investigation of the property. He had told them all he knew of Jacob Kulek's concerns, of his own determination to prove the house was not haunted, of discovering the naked woman hiding in the cellar. He did not tell them of the hallucination he had had there. When they left they hardly seemed satisfied and gruffly informed him that he would probably be asked for a formal statement within the next day or so; a Detective Chief Inspector Peck would be most interested in his story.

Bishop had later considered contacting Jacob Kulek and Jessica, but something stopped him. He realized he was sick of the whole business, that he wanted to keep away from it. Yet he felt the need to speak to Jessica again and he was confused by that need. The animosity that existed between them had faded with the conclusion of the investigation. The day before, in the park, all his resentment towards her beliefs had dissipated and he was able to look upon her as she really was: an attractive woman. But he resisted the attraction; he had to.

As Bishop kept a watchful eye out for road signs, he felt the pricking of tiny needles in his stomach. Time for something to eat. He glanced at his watch, knowing he wasn't far from his destination. Good, plenty of time to grab a bite. He wasn't due at the house until three-ish. The phone call had come after the two detectives had left, and the man at the other end had identified himself as Richard Braverman. Bishop had been recommended to him by a friend and he wished to engage his services as a psychic investigator to examine his home in Robertsbridge, Sussex. The new client seemed pleased that he was able to proceed with the investigation the following day. Apart from directions to the property itself, Bishop asked for no information concerning the alleged haunting; he preferred to be on the spot when he asked such questions. He was pleased with the job, wanting to be busy again. That night he had visited Lynn in the mental home and, as usual, had come away disappointed, depressed. If anything, she was becoming even more withdrawn. This time she had refused to even look at him. Her hands were still covering her eyes when he left.

The brightness of the following day had eased the pressure a little and anticipation of the work ahead had kept his mind occupied. He pulled in at the welcoming pub that had suddenly appeared on his left.

An hour later he was back on the road, his mood considerably brightened by a full stomach. When he reached the village of Robertsbridge he had to ask directions for the Braverman house and was guided to a small side road that crossed a railway line and led up a steep hill. At the top a discreet weathered sign, almost hidden in a hedge, reluctantly admitted that 'Two Circles' could be found down the small lane leading off from the main road. 'Two Circles' was the name Braverman had given him. He swung the car into the lane, no more than a rutted track, and almost enjoyed the bumpy ride down to the house; it made driving something to be worked at.

The house came into view and he suddenly understood its unusual title, for it was a converted oast-house, or oast-houses to be more accurate. There were two circular buildings joined together by a more conventional shaped structure which must have been at one time an enormous barn. The conversion was modern and solid, its unique shape pleasing to the eye. Beyond it stretched green fields, their lustre muted by winter, their boundaries marked by fringes of darker green. Bishop drove the car into a wide courtyard that ran the length of the square-shaped building, the adjoining oasts themselves seated in an area of lawn that ran downhill from the house towards the open fields, becoming coarse grass about halfway. Bishop already felt confident about exorcising any alleged ghosts as he strode towards the main door, for large-scale structural alterations like this were often prone to strange creaks and rappings, the owners more concerned that they had aroused a resentful spirit than with the effects of joining new materials to old. He rang the large brass doorbell and waited.

No one came. He rang again.

A movement inside? But still no answer. He rang once more.

Bishop rapped on the door with his knuckles, and called out, 'Hello, anybody there?'

Only us spooks, he told himself.

He tried the handle and pushed the door inwards. It swung smoothly open.

'Hello! Mr Braverman? Anyone about?' Bishop stepped into a long balconied hallway and nodded appreciatively at his surroundings. The wood flooring was stained a rich walnut, light from the many windows bouncing off its highly polished surface and reflecting on to the dark, hessian walls. The odd pieces of furniture scattered around the spacious hallway were interesting enough to be of antique value, and a few carefully scattered rugs managed to diffuse any bareness the flooring may have presented. To his right were two double-doors leading to the circular sections of the house. He walked over to the nearest, his footsteps ringing hollowly around the walls, avoiding a rug in case he dirtied its delicate pattern, and knocked once, then pushed the door open. A huge table imitated the round shape of the room, its surface of the darkest oak. A broad beam, recessed into the curved wall, acted as a mantel to the open, log-filled and unlit fireplace. A small portrait hung just above the mantelpiece and the image it represented seemed vaguely familiar. The floor was covered with a dark brown carpet, its pile deep and springy.

'Mr Braverman? Are you home?'

A noise from behind made Bishop turn. He glanced up towards the balcony. 'Mr Braverman?'

No sound, then a bump. Someone was up there.

'Mr Braverman, it's Chris Bishop. You rang me yesterday.'