No reply. He approached the stairs. Movement up there.

He placed a foot on the first step.

Jessica descended the stairs leading to the Institute's reception area.

'Mr Ferrier?' she said to the small bespectacled man waiting there. 'I'm Jessica Kulek.'

The man sprang to his feet and nervously turned the brim of the hat he was holding round in his hands like a steering-wheel. A smile briefly quivered on his face, then was gone. His raincoat was dotted with dark specks as if it had just started to rain before he'd entered the building.

'I'm afraid my father hasn't much time to spare today,' Jessica told him, not unused to nervousness in those visiting the Institute for the first time. 'We've been rather . . . busy, lately, and have a backlog of work to catch up on. You said you were from the Metaphysical Research Group?'

Ferrier nodded. 'Yes, it's rather important that I see Jacob Kulek.' His voice was thin and reedy, like the man himself. 'If I could just have ten minutes of his time? No longer.'

'Can you tell me the nature of your business?'

'I'm afraid not,' the little man snapped. Then, realizing his brusqueness, he added apologetically, 'It's confidential.'

He saw a firmness stiffen her features and stepped quickly towards her, casting a nervous glance at the receptionist as he did so. The girl was speaking to someone on the phone, but still he kept his voice low.

'It concerns Boris Pryszlak,' he whispered.

Jessica was startled. 'What do you know of Pryszlak?'

'It's confidential,' Ferrier repeated. 'I can only speak to your father, Miss Kulek.'

She hesitated, uneasy. But it might be important.

'Very well. Ten minutes then, Mr Ferrier.'

Jessica led the little man up the staircase and along to her father's private study. They heard the muffled tones of Jacob Kulek's voice before they entered the room. The blind man switched off the dictating machine and looked up at them.

'Yes, Jessica?' Kulek said, knowing her knock, knowing her footsteps, knowing her presence.

'Mr Ferrier to see you. I mentioned his visit earlier.'

'Ah yes, from the Metaphysical Research Group, wasn't it?'

The little man was strangely silent and Jessica had to answer for him. 'Yes, Father. I've explained you're very busy, but Mr Ferrier says it's a matter concerning Boris Pryszlak. I thought it might be important.'

'Pryszlak? You have some information?'

Ferrier cleared his throat. 'Yes, as I explained to Miss Kulek, it's confidential.'

'My daughter is also my personal assistant, Mr Ferrier. As well as being my eyes.'

'All the same, I'd rather . . .'

'Jessica, perhaps Mr Ferrier would like some coffee. Would you mind?'

'Father, I think . . .'

'Black coffee would be fine, Miss Kulek.' Ferrier smiled anxiously at Jessica, his eyes suddenly hidden by the light reflecting off his spectacles. Her unease persisted.

'I'll take coffee, too, Jessica.' Her father's voice was quietly firm and she knew it would be pointless to argue. She left the study and hurried along the corridor, not wanting to leave Jacob alone with the nervous little man for a minute longer than necessary. She paused when she drew level with her own office, then changed direction and went in. She picked up the telephone.

Anna opened the door and beamed at the two women standing there, her smile as warm for strangers as it was for those she knew.

'Yes, please?' she asked, giving a little bow of her head.

'We'd like to see Miss Kirkhope,' the taller of the two said, returning Anna's smile.

A regretful frown creased the housekeeper's broad face. 'Oh, I don't tink . . .'

'Please tell her it's about her brother Dominic,' the other woman said, face unsmiling, her tone abrupt.

Anna was too polite to close the door fully on the two women and when she returned moments later she found them waiting in the hallway itself. If she was surprised, she did not show it.

'Miss Kirkhope will see you much soon. You will wait in here, please.' She beckoned them to follow and showed them into the visitors' room. They seated themselves on the Chesterfield, the taller one smiling sweetly at Anna, the shorter one studying her surroundings, her face impassive.

'One moment please. Miss Kirkhope will arrive shortly.' Anna bowed her way from the room.

It was a full five minutes before Agnes Kirkhope entered, insisting that she and Anna finish that particular round of rummy in the kitchen before she received her unexpected guests. The Filipino housekeeper had an uncanny knack of finding black deuces to bolster otherwise unpromising hands and Miss Kirkhope was determined to win back the five pounds she had already lost that afternoon. One card away from victory, she had groaned aloud when Anna had rapped the table and splayed her hand before her mistress, the inevitable black deuce substituting for the Queen of Hearts that Miss Kirkhope held. Why hadn't she plucked a couple of useful cards from the deck when Anna had been answering the door?

Miss Kirkhope looked down at the two women, her irritation plain on her face and in her voice.

'You had something to say about Dominic,' she said without preamble.

'Did you know he was a paraphiliac?' the shorter of the two replied with even less preamble.

'A what?' Miss Kirkhope was taken aback by the coldness in the woman's tone.

'A paraphiliac,' the taller one said, smiling sweetly. 'It's someone who indulges in abnormal sexual practices.'

Miss Kirkhope's hand went involuntarily to her throat. Recovering quickly, she strode stiffly to the centre of the room and glared down at them. 'I suppose this has something to do with blackmail.' She spat the words out.

The taller woman reached into her handbag and said pleasantly, 'Oh no, Miss Kirkhope. Much worse than that.'

13.

Bishop paused on the top step and looked around. To his right were doors leading off to rooms in the square-shaped section of the house; to his left was the balcony rail overlooking the hall below and another staircase leading upwards.

'Mr Braverman?' Bishop called again. He swore under his breath. Was the house empty? Had the noises he had heard just been the house settling? Or the wandering ghosts the owner alleged inhabited the house? One more try, then forget it. Braverman should have been here to meet him.

Light rain began to patter against the windows.

'Is there anybody home?'

Bump. Bump. Bump, bump, bump. The red rubber ball bounced down the stairs, gathering speed, then struck the facing wall. It bounced back against the stairway and lost its impetus, skipping low then rolling towards the wall again where it trickled to a stop.

Bishop craned his neck to see the floor above. It had to be kids playing a prank. 'I've come to see Mr Braverman. Can you tell me where he is?'

Nothing, except a movement. A scuffle of feet?

Bishop had had enough. He mounted the stairs two at a time, annoyance reflected in his forceful stride.

Had they attempted to kill him right away they would have succeeded; but they wanted to enjoy his dying, to relish it. So the blow to his head was too light.

The man appeared in the doorway, the double-barrel held shoulder high and pointed at Bishop's face. The man had enjoyed the game so far and grinned in anticipation at what was to follow. Bishop had stopped dead on the landing, his mouth open and alarm in his eyes; the woman stepped from another doorway, her raised arm which held the hammer already beginning its descent. Stun him, her husband had told her. Hit him just behind the ear, just hard enough to stun him. Then we can have some fun with him before he dies.

The blow knocked Bishop sideways, but he had turned to see the woman coming at him and had instinctively ducked when he saw the falling hammer, so the weapon had glanced across his scalp rather than striking solidly. He fell against the wall and felt himself spinning backwards down the stairs. The woman was too close: her legs became entangled with his and she went with him, the hammer clattering down the wooden steps ahead of them. She screamed as they tumbled and finally slid on to the landing below.

Stupid bitch! the man with the shotgun cursed silently. Trust her to do it wrong! He raised the gun again and aimed it at the struggling figures below. 'Get away from him, you silly cow! Let me get a clear shot!' he bellowed. Bishop would have to be killed outright.

The woman tried to free herself from the tangle of arms and legs and, though he was dazed, Bishop saw the twin-barrels pointing down at him. He pulled at the squirming woman just as one of the black holes exploded with light. Her chest took the full blast, tiny fragments of scattered lead tearing past her body and tugging at Bishop's clothes. She would not stop screaming as he tried to roll clear of her.

The man at the top of the stairs seemed hardly shocked, merely angry, as he lowered the shotgun then raised it again. His aim was more careful this time. Bishop saw the hammer lying propped against the bottom stair and, now on his knees, scooped it up and hurled it towards the man above. It was a wild throw and missed completely, but the man automatically ducked, giving Bishop the chance to gain his feet and run. The second blast powdered the floor behind him. He ran through a doorway leading off from the balcony, sure he could not make it to the front door below before the man had reloaded, praying there would be another staircase leading down at the back of the house. At least this way there would be some cover. He found himself in a room that contained a small bed and ran across to a facing door. The next room also had a bed and little else. Another door, then he was in a dark, narrow corridor. Stairs led down to a closed door.

He could hear footsteps close behind, the man screaming abuse at him. He ran down the stairs, slipping near the bottom, crashing into the door. He scrabbled around in the gloom searching for the handle, found it, jerked downwards. It was locked. A shadow above blocked out what little light there was.

Bishop sat on the second step and kicked out with both feet. The door sprang open, slivers of wood bursting away from the frame. He staggered through, slamming it behind him to stop any gunshot blasted from above. He was in a kitchen and there was a back door.

Footsteps were pounding down the stairs. He ran across to the back door, almost crying out in frustration when he found this, too, was locked. He hurled himself back across the room just as the door leading from the stairs into the kitchen opened. The man was halfway in when the door slammed back on him, trapping the shotgun across his chest, his head jolted back against the door frame. Bishop grabbed the exposed section of gun barrel, pushing against the door with all his strength. The man tried to free himself, but he was in an awkward position, his head turned sideways, his chest crushed by the pressure of the door against the weapon.

The dizziness was beginning to clear from Bishop's head and he concentrated on exerting as much pressure on the door as possible, maintaining his advantage, but not knowing where it would get him. They could hardly stay like that all day. The man's face was beginning to go red as he pushed back against the door; his eyes were wide, turned towards Bishop, glaring their hate. His mouth was open and curved downwards in a snarl, the snarl itself a choking sound. Bishop felt the door moving towards him, slowly pushing him back. He redoubled his efforts, digging his feet into the tiled kitchen floor, his shoulder pressed flat against the woodwork.

The quivering hand that grabbed at his hair from behind made him shriek with fright. He whirled around and saw the woman, her face and chest oozing fresh blood, swaying before him. She had come into the kitchen through another door that must open out into the hallway. The door at his back burst open and he was propelled forward into the mutilated woman. She fell to her hands and knees, the blood flowing freely and forming a deep red puddle beneath her.

Bishop swept his arm round without taking time to look at the man rushing through the door. His elbow caught the man square against the bridge of his nose, abruptly stopping his advance. The decision whether to run or stay was made for Bishop as the gun barrels were raised towards him once more. He had no choice: he had to fight, to run would be suicidal.

He pushed the gun upwards and lunged into the man. They fell back through the doorway on to the stairs beyond, their hands locked around the weapon between them. Bishop heaved himself up and the man came with him using the momentum to push Bishop backwards. They staggered into the kitchen once more and Bishop's foot slipped in the spreading pool of blood. He fell to his knees and suddenly his assailant was standing over him, his contorted face only inches away. Bishop's body was arched backwards, his hold on the shotgun now being used against him. He went back on to the floor, his legs forced sideways and out, his shoulders sinking into the sticky redness beneath him. Still he refused to let go of the gun, but he could not prevent the weapon from being turned inwards towards him.

A hand flailed weakly at his face, trying to gouge out his eyes. The woman was still alive, trying to help the man destroy him. He suddenly allowed the gun to turn, bringing it towards him but twisting his body so the twin-barrels struck the floor. The man staggered forward, falling with the gun, and Bishop let go of the warm metal with one hand and struck out, hitting him below the left ear. The man fell sideways and Bishop grabbed at the gun again, but the woman dug painfully into his eyes, forcing him to wrench himself free, to roll his body away from the sharp claws. He realized his mistake when he was halfway across the kitchen floor. The man was free to raise the gun and take a shot at him.

He could only stare as the man grinned in triumph and began to rise to his feet, knowing his quarry was trapped. His fingers had already curled around the two triggers and he was stepping forward when his foot slid in the viscous mess on the kitchen floor. His leg shot out and he staggered to keep erect, but then both feet were in the blood and he fell, going forward, slightly sideways. The gun roared, taking off the top of his head with the double blast. The kitchen ceiling became a shocking canvas of red fluid.

The woman's moan was long and agonized as she stared at the twitching form of her husband and she did not look away nor did the moan die in her throat until his body was still. Then she turned to look at Bishop and held him there sprawled on the floor with her wild-eyed, mesmerizing gaze. It was only after the thick gob of blood oozed from her lips that he realized she was dead and her eyes saw nothing. Released, he rose weakly to his feet and stumbled towards the kitchen sink, his stomach heaving in juddering movements. He was still crouched over the metal sink ten minutes later when the pattering on the window panes increased its intensity as the rain became more fierce and the skies overhead darkened.

Jessica hurried along the corridor, her heart thudding. She had just called the Metaphysical Research Group at their headquarters in Sussex: they had never heard of Ferrier. She reached her father's study and pushed against the door, twisting the handle, prepared to feel foolish if the man and her father were merely engaged in conversation, but somehow knowing that would not be the case. She cried out in alarm when she saw the thin, leather belt around Jacob Kulek's throat, the little man behind him, his hands pulling the belt tight, his body shaking with the effort. Jacob had one hand against his own throat, fingers curled around the improvised garotte as though he had become aware of his assailant's intention just before the little man had struck. His face was a deep red, turning purplish, his tongue emerging from his open mouth, his sightless eyes bulging from their sockets as though a parasite growing inside his head was pushing everything else out. A tight asthmatic wheezing sound came from his throat as he tried to suck in air through his strangulated windpipe.

Jessica ran forward, afraid that she was already too late. The little man seemed almost oblivious of her as she grabbed at his wrists and tried to force them together again to relieve the pressure on the belt. But it was no use; his strength belied his frame. She struck out at his face when she realized that her father's gasps for breath had stopped. Ferrier turned his head away to avoid the worst of her wild blows, but still he maintained the pressure, still he pulled at the leather belt, still his whole body quivered with the effort.

Jessica screamed, knowing she was losing. She pulled at the man's hair, scratched at his eyes, but it had no effect: he was like a robot, unfeeling, governed by something outside his own body. She looked around desperately for something to use against him. The silver paperknife lay gleaming on the desktop.

Frantically, Jessica grabbed it, turning on the man, the weapon raised high. She hesitated before sweeping her arm down, the intent abhorrent to her, but knowing she had no choice. The narrow blade sank into the side of Ferrier's neck, just above the shoulder bone.

His body suddenly went rigid and, for a moment, his eyes stared unbelievingly at her. Then they seemed to cloud over and with horror she saw his hands resume their pressure. The knife protruded from his neck, only half of its length sunk into his flesh, and Jessica threw herself at him, screaming with frustrated fury, beating at his exposed face, thrusting down on the knife again to sink it in further, praying the blade would find a vital artery.

The little man's body shuddered, and his knees sagged. Then he straightened as if he had regathered his strength. He let go of one end of the belt to sweep his arm around and knock the girl to one side. Jessica staggered against the bookshelves, her eyes blurring at the pain and tears of helplessness that had formed.

'Stop!' she cried out. And then a moan: 'Please stop.'

But both hands pulled at the belt once more.

She heard the footsteps running along the hall and then suddenly, mercifully, there were figures in the doorway. The two men and the woman who peered over their shoulders were members of the Institute.

'Stop him!' she implored.

They were stunned by what was happening, but one, a tall grey-bearded man, generally timid, and usually slow in action, rushed forward, lifting a chair as he went. Without losing stride, he raised it over the desktop and half-threw, half-pushed it into Ferrier's face. The rungs of the chair caught the little man across the forehead, knocking him back, sending him against the window behind, the glass shattering outwards, his body hanging there, hands outstretched to grasp at the window-frame. He seemed to study them for a moment, their actions temporarily frozen, before his fingers uncurled and he let himself fall backwards, his legs rising upwards then slithering down out of sight over the sill.

Jessica wasn't sure whether or not she really heard the sickening squelch of his head bursting open on the pavement below, for the woman was screaming hysterically and she, herself, was stumbling towards her father, who had now collapsed on to the floor. But her mind had recorded the sound, imaginary or not.

Anna had packed away the playing cards and was on her way back to the visitors' room to see if her mistress would require tea for herself and the guests, when the smile disappeared from her face leaving an expression of total incomprehension. Miss Kirkhope had appeared in the hallway, crawling on hands and knees, something wrong with her face, something distorting her features. Her eyes looked beseechingly at Anna, a thin, heavily veined hand reaching towards her, a weak croaking noise coming from a face that was sizzling, the skin popping and tearing.

For Anna, confusion did not turn to terror until she saw Miss Kirkhope's two women guests stroll from the room behind her crawling mistress, each holding what seemed to be nothing more than small bottles of clear liquid. They could have contained water the fluid looked harmless enough but the old lady's head shook in horror when the taller woman smiled and raised her bottle. Miss Kirkhope tried to scramble away, but the woman jerked the bottle in her direction, the liquid splashing out and landing in heavy splats on the old woman's back and head. Anna's hands went to her mouth as she heard the faint sizzling sound and saw what looked like small trails of curling steam rise from the wetness.

Miss Kirkhope arched her back inwards, her agonized groans spurring the housekeeper onwards a few paces. But Anna's courage failed her when she saw the shorter of the two women step forward and kick the old lady over on to her back. Anna sank to her knees and joined her hands in supplication when she saw the woman stand astride Miss Kirkhope's slumped body and slowly pour the contents of her bottle in a steady stream into the open, upturned mouth.

The gargled screams filled Anna's head before they became a low rasping sound as vocal cords were burnt away. Anna found she could not rise, not even when she felt the trickle run down between her legs and the floor around her became wet with urine. Not even when the taller woman strode towards her, still smiling, sprinkling the contents of the bottle before her like holy water. Not even when the first splattering of acid touched her skin and began to burn.

14.

Peck looked disbelievingly across his desk at Bishop. 'Do you know how incredible all this sounds?'

Bishop nodded without apology. 'I find it hard to believe myself.'

'But why should a total stranger try to murder you?'

'Braverman had to be a part of Pryszlak's sect. They didn't all commit suicide. Some were left to carry on his work'

'Which was killing people?'

'I don't know, Inspector. Maybe we were getting too close.'

'Too close to what?'

Jessica spoke up, and there was repressed anger in her voice. 'The reason for the mass suicide. My father knew there had to be a reason for Pryszlak and his sect to kill themselves.'