Peck sat back in his chair and regarded the girl silently for a few moments, his thumb scratching an itch at the end of his nose. She looked pale and worried, on the surface the type who would crack when things got too rough. But Peck knew better; he had dealt with too many people for too many years to be deceived by appearances. The girl was stronger than she seemed.

'But you still have no idea what this is all about,' he said.

Jessica shook her head. 'I told you Pryszlak came to my father to enlist his help a long time ago, and that my father refused.'

'You think this could be some kind of perverted revenge, then? Instructions carried out by Pryszlak's followers after his death?'

'No, it's not revenge. Why should they try to kill Chris? Why did they kill Miss Kirkhope?'

'And her housekeeper.'

'The housekeeper probably got in their way. Pryszlak's sect has no regard for human life, not even their own. This man, Ferrier, killed himself without hesitation when he saw he was trapped. The motive wasn't revenge. I think the idea was to kill anyone who had any knowledge at all of their organization.'

'There's been no attempt on your life?'

'Not yet, Inspector,' Bishop said. 'Maybe Ferrier would have turned on Jessica once he'd disposed of Jacob Kulek.'

Peck frowned and turned to Bishop. 'I still don't understand why I haven't booked you for the murder of Braverman and his wife.'

'I came to you, remember? I could easily have left that house without anyone ever knowing I'd been there. I could have wiped away any fingerprints. It would have been easy for the police to have believed that Braverman fought with his wife, shot her, then shot himself. It makes no sense for me to have murdered them and reported the crime myself.'

Peck still looked sceptical.

'And the others,' Bishop went on. 'The attempt on Jacob Kulek's life. The murder of Agnes Kirkhope and her maid. All connected with the Pryszlak business. Kulek, because he was investigating Pryszlak's activities. Agnes Kirkhope, because we had been to see her and told her of our suspicions. And, of course, her brother, Dominic, had been a sect member. It's logical, Inspector, that I should have been a victim too.'

'Nothing's logical about this business, Mr Bishop.'

'I agree. Even more illogical are the events in Willow Road. How do you explain them?'

'At the moment, I wouldn't even try. We've got people locked up and they're like zombies. Even the one man who didn't seem to be as bad as the others has deteriorated he's now like the rest of them. A man named Brewer he'd tied his family up and locked them in a wardrobe. But he gave himself up before he could do any harm.'

Bishop noticed the puzzled look on Jessica's face. He was concerned for her: the near-death of her father had left her in a brittle state. He had rung the Research Institute from the house in Robertsbridge, resisting the urge to flee from the blood-stained corpses lying there on the kitchen floor, worried that if an attempt had been made on his life, then the same could happen to Jacob Kulek. He had seen for himself how the madwoman in Beechwood had tried to get at Kulek. And he knew there was a connection: the portrait he had seen in the round room at Robertsbridge was of Dominic Kirkhope; he had remembered Agnes Kirkhope's photograph of her brother and although there was an age difference between the portrait and photograph, the resemblance was distinct. He had been surprised to find that Detective Chief Inspector Peck, the man who was apparently in charge of the investigation into Willow Road and its mishappenings, was at the Institute. It came as no surprise that an attempt on Jacob Kulek's life had already been made.

'Now all I've got,' Peck was saying, 'are murders, suicides, attempted rape homosexual and otherwise mutilation, arson and cells full of people who don't know what time of day it is. To help me with my report to the Commissioner and which you seem to think explains everything I've got your information on a nutcase named Boris Pryszlak and his crackpot organization who believed in evil as a powerful, physical force. How do you think he's going to take it, Miss Kulek? He'd order me to be locked up with the other nutters.'

'I've given you no explanations, just what I know. Your job is to do something about it.'

'Any ideas exactly what?'

'I'd start by trying to find the names of all Pryszlak's associates.'

'You mean the members of his sect?'

'Yes.'

'And then?'

Jessica shrugged. 'I don't know. Keep a watch on them?'

Peck snorted.

'At least you'd find out if Braverman and Ferrier were members,' Bishop said. 'It might even lead you to the murderers of Miss Kirkhope and her housekeeper.'

Peck wished he could make up his mind about Bishop, one way or the other. He had ordered him to stay at the house in Robertsbridge until the local police arrived, and then arranged to have him escorted back to London, to Peck's office in New Scotland Yard. He had questioned the ghost-hunter what kind of profession was that? for a solid hour before Kulek's daughter, again under escort, had arrived from her father's hospital bedside. It was getting on for ten now and still he wasn't any nearer to the truth. It would have been easier if he could believe Bishop was either lying or totally innocent.

Peck leaned forward on his desk. 'Okay, we're not going to find out much more tonight. I'm letting you go, Bishop. I'm not convinced, but your story might just be feasible. This Pryszlak may have had friends who didn't like you and Jacob Kulek snooping around Beechwood. It could be that they regarded it as some kind of holy shrine after the mass suicide. The fact that poor old Miss Kirkhope ordered it to be demolished may have been her undoing. We'll put it down to a lunatic fringe for the moment. It still doesn't explain all the disasters in Willow Road, of course, but I can hardly blame you for that. Anyway, we'll be keeping a close eye on you.'

'Don't worry,' Bishop said wryly, 'I won't be running away.'

Peck stabbed a finger against the desktop. 'We'll be keeping an eye on you not just because I'm suspicious and I bloody am but for your own protection. That goes for your father, too, Miss Kulek. For protection, I mean. If his assailant was part of Pryszlak's mob, they might have another try.'

Alarm showed in Jessica's eyes.

'Sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you,' Peck said soothingly. 'It's better to be safe than sorry, that's all.' He turned to one of his officers, who had been leaning against the wall, arms folded, bemused by the whole exchange. 'Frank, get someone to show them down, will you?'

As Bishop and Jessica rose to leave, Peck looked up at them, his scowl still in evidence. 'Keep us informed of any more little trips, Mr Bishop. I'll probably want to speak to you again tomorrow. I hope your father recovers, Miss Kulek.'

Jessica nodded her thanks and they left the detective's office.

The officer returned a few seconds later, amusement on his face.

'What are you bloody grinning at?' Peck growled.

'You don't believe in all this bollocks about the power of evil, do you, guv?'

'That's not the point, Frank. They believe it, that's what matters. At least, the girl does. I think Bishop hasn't made his mind up yet. To tell you the truth, I don't think I've made my mind up, either.'

They drove away from the tall building, silent for a few moments as if Peck could still hear their conversation from his office high above them. The rain had finally stopped, leaving a dampness in the night air. Jessica pulled her coat collar tight around her neck.

'Will you take me back to the hospital, Chris?'

'I'm already headed in that direction,' he told her. 'How was he when you left?'

'Shocked, weak. He was still finding it difficult to breathe.'

'How much damage?'

'Physically, just bruising, as before. The doctor said his difficulty in breathing was more to do with the emotional shock than constriction of his windpipe. Oh God, if I'd have gone back to his study a few seconds later . . .' She left the sentence unfinished.

He wanted to reach out to her, to pat her hand, to touch her; but he felt awkward, a stranger.

'He'll be all right, Jessica. He's a strong-minded man.'

She tried to smile at him, but failed. His attention was on the road ahead, anyway. She studied his profile, noticing the lines of tension around his eyes. 'And you've been through so much, too,' she said eventually. 'It must have been a nightmare.'

'It was even more of a nightmare for Agnes Kirkhope and her housekeeper; one they didn't come out of. What manner of creature could do such a thing?' He shook his head in regret, disgust. 'I think Peck still believes I murdered Braverman and his wife.'

'He can't, Chris. It doesn't make any sense.'

'None of this does. You and I, in our different ways, deal with matters that defy logic all the time. Peck's a policeman: they like some kind of order to things. We can't blame him for his suspicion.'

'Nor his aggression.'

'Nor that.'

He pulled up at traffic lights, floodlights turning the square before them into a daylight scene. Tourists, thousands it seemed, watched the silvery fountains and craned their necks to see the sculptured naval man standing aloft on the huge rising column as though it were the crow's nest on one of his ships. As a brilliantly lit backdrop, the impressive structure of the National Gallery dominated the thriving square, while a constantly surging stream of traffic flowed round and out.

'It's so bright,' Jessica remarked. 'So alive. It could be daytime.'

The red light blinked off and the green appeared. Bishop edged the car forward into the metal throng, finding a niche and flowing with the tide. 'I wonder how many of Pryszlak's people stayed alive? And why?'

'Perhaps for a time like this.'

He had to concentrate on avoiding a taxi which was making a claim to a three-foot space just ahead of Bishop's car.

Jessica went on. 'If the police can locate them all, perhaps this can end now, before it's too late.'

He snatched a quick glimpse of her. 'What can end, Jessica? Do you and your father know what's happening?'

She hesitated before she spoke. 'We're not sure. We discussed it with Edith Metlock only yesterday '

They both looked at each other at the same time.

'Christ!' Bishop said quietly. Bishop turned the car into the wide tree-lined avenue, keeping in second gear and peering from left to right at the houses on either side.

'What number is it?' he asked Jessica.

'I'm sure it's sixty-four. I've never been to her home, but I've often contacted her there.'

'Even numbers on the right. Keep your eyes peeled.'

Once they had passed through London's West End they were able to make rapid progress to Edith Metlock's address in Woodford. Both were angry at themselves for having forgotten the medium, for they realized that she, as a part of the group investigating Beechwood, might also be in danger.

'Fifty-eight . . . sixty . . . sixty-two . . . There! Just ahead.' Bishop pointed towards a small bungalow, twenty feet of garden on either side separating it from its neighbours. He waited for an approaching car to pass, then drew over to that side of the road, stopping just in front of the bungalow.

'She's there,' Jessica said. 'All the lights are on.' Suddenly she felt afraid to leave the car.

Bishop slid his glasses into his top pocket and switched off the engine. 'We're probably over-reacting,' he said uncon-vincingly, then sensed Jessica's fear. 'Do you want to stay in the car?'

She shook her head and reached for the door-handle.

The garden gate squealed noisily as Bishop pushed it open. Light from the windows spilled on to the lawn on either side of the narrow path leading to the bungalow's porch, the clipped grass a flat green vignetting into total blackness. The porch itself was lit by an external light.

Bishop rang the doorbell and they waited for movement inside. Jessica bit down on her lower lip; her eyes were wide, almost vacant. He touched her arm, at the elbow, giving it a little shake as if to dispel her anxieties. He tried the doorbell again.

'Maybe she's asleep,' he said.

'With all the lights on?'

'She may have dozed off.'

He rattled the letterbox for added noise, then ducked to look through it.

'All the doors in the hallway are open. She must have heard us. Looks like every light is on, too.' He put his mouth to the opening and called out Edith Metlock's name. There was no reply.

'Chris, let's get the police,' Jessica said, slowly backing away from the front door.

'Not yet.' He caught her arm again and this time held it firmly. 'Let's be a little more sure there's something wrong first.'

'Can't you feel it?' Jessica looked around at the shadows surrounding the house. 'It's . . . I don't know . . . unearthly. As if . . . as if something is waiting.'

'Jessica.' His voice was soft. 'You've been through a bad time today we both have. It's getting to you, eating away at your imagination.' And it was eating away at his, too. 'I'm going to take a look round the back. Why don't you go and sit in the car?'

Her alarm flared to a new level for a brief moment. 'I think I'll stick with you,' she said firmly.

Bishop smiled and moved off, stepping on to the lawn and glancing into a window as he passed. The curtains were drawn wide and lace netting diffused the image inside. He saw it was a small dining-room, the table bare except for a pot containing a leafy plant. There was no one in the room. They moved around the corner of the one-floor building and Bishop felt Jessica draw closer to his back as they found themselves in an area of darkness. The ground became softer beneath their feet as if they were walking through a dormant flower bed. More light shone ahead and they passed a reeded glass window which Bishop assumed would be the bungalow's bathroom. Beyond, the light was more brilliant, throwing back the night with unimpeded force. The blinds to the kitchen were drawn upwards and Bishop blinked against the harsh neon light.

'Empty,' he told Jessica. 'There's a door over there leading out to the back garden. Let's try it.'

More light flooded outwards from the back of the house and he wondered if it was only because of the natural nervousness of a woman living alone. But Edith Metlock had not struck him as the nervous type.

He tried the kitchen door and was not surprised to find it locked. He jiggled with the handle for a few moments, then rapped on the glass. Maybe she was out and had left the lights on to discourage any would-be burglars. But every light? And the curtains open?

'Chris!'

Bishop turned to see Jessica gazing into a window nearby. He hurried over to her.

'Look,' she said. 'Over there, in the armchair.'

He found himself looking into a bedroom, again the curtains drawn wide. Through the lace netting he could see an unoccupied bed, a bedside table, the lamp on it adding more brightness to the already well-lit room, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers. And in an armchair in the far corner sat the figure of a woman. His vision was hazy through the lace, but he was sure it was Edith Metlock.

'Mrs Metlock.' He tapped at the window. 'It's Chris Bishop and Jessica Kulek.' He used his knuckles against the glass.

He thought he saw a movement, a slight turning of the head, but couldn't be sure.

'Why doesn't she answer?' Jessica said. 'Why is she just sitting there, Chris?'

The thought flashed through his mind that Edith Metlock may have had a stroke; but her body sat erect, not slumped. Was she too afraid to answer?

'I'm going to break in,' he told Jessica. He walked back to the kitchen and angled his body to see through the small glass panels that ran the length of the door. He could just see the end of the key poking from the lock on that side. He half-turned away from the door, then brought his elbow swinging back at a pane alongside the lock. The glass fell inwards and clinked to the floor. He pushed his hand through the opening, carefully avoiding any remaining shards, and twisted the key, grunting with satisfaction as the lock clicked. Turning the handle, he pushed inwards. It wouldn't open. There was less resistance when he put pressure on the top, and solid defiance when he tried the bottom. Without hesitation he kicked in one of the bottom panes, then stooped and drew back the bolt inside. The door swung open.

Jessica followed him in, keeping close, trying to see over his shoulder. Edith Metlock's eyes were closed when they entered her bedroom and they remained so even when they called her name. Her back was stiff, her face pointed towards the ceiling light. Her hands clutched at the arms of the chair.

'She's breathing,' Bishop said and, as if his voice had triggered off something in the medium, her breathing became deeper, her breasts beginning to heave with the effort. Her lips parted and air was exhaled, then noisily sucked in. Her breathing became sharper, gasping, and Jessica knelt before her, touching the medium's shoulders, gently calling her name. The panting became frantic and Jessica looked anxiously at Bishop. He felt useless, tempted to slap the medium and bring her out of her trance-like state, but afraid of what the sudden shock might do to her. Then Edith Metlock jerked forward in the seat, her gasps brought to an abrupt halt. She sat that way for long seconds, then slowly sank back into the armchair, her breath released in a long, drawn-out sigh. The medium's eyelids flickered, opened; her pupils were tiny pinpoints. Her jaw was slack, lips moving, tongue lolling within its cavity as though its muscles were limp. A low murmuring came from somewhere at the back of her throat.

'She's trying to say something, Chris. Can you understand her?'

Bishop leaned his head closer to the medium's and listened. Slowly, the words began to take form, began to shape themselves into a meaning.