'I'm sorry about the poor light,' she said as if reading his mind. 'We always keep the lighting subdued after eight o'clock. We find it's restful for our patients.'

She was taller than the woman who had let him in and Bishop realized he had seen neither of them before. Perhaps they were new, the tall one certainly, for patients were never referred to as such in Fairfield they were always 'residents'.

'What's happened to Lynn?' he asked. 'Dr Crouchley wouldn't tell me over the phone.'

The two women eyed each other and a pleased look passed between them. 'I think you'll find a marked improvement, Mr Bishop,' the taller one said. 'Would you like to follow me?'

They walked towards the broad staircase that led to the first floor of the home, the smaller woman falling in behind Bishop, hands thrust into her white medical coat. The taller woman kept up a flow of conversation as they climbed the stairs, but he hardly listened; his mind was on Lynn. The corridor on the first floor was also lit only by a small lamp on a table at the far end and he found the dimness disconcerting. He hadn't realized they kept the lights to a minimum after visiting hours; it was more depressing than subduing. A door opened as they passed, the room beyond in total darkness; the smaller woman hurried over and stretched out an arm as if to gently push someone back towards their bed. The taller woman smiled sweetly at him as though nothing had happened.

Bishop had always found the mental home slightly unnerving, which was natural enough; but at this time of night, without the usual bustle of visitors and staff, it was more than that. His mouth felt dry and he wondered if the tension was because of Lynn or because he had become a little afraid of the place. They passed more doors and he wondered what lay behind them, what was going on inside those damaged minds.

'Here we are.' The tall woman had stopped outside a room he knew Lynn shared with three other residents. The wards were kept small at Fairfield, the doctors reluctant to separate their charges from each other, although they believed in keeping the numbers to a minimum.

'Won't we disturb the others?' Bishop asked.

'They're sleeping soundly I checked just before you arrived. Please go in, your wife is waiting for you.'

'Is Dr Crouchley with her?'

'He'll be along shortly. He wants you two to be alone for a few moments.'

Bishop's face lit up, the tension beginning to leave him. 'She's . . .?'

The white-coated woman put a finger to her lips, then smiled pleasantly, her eyes sparkling at his anticipation. She pushed open the door and motioned him to enter. He said a quiet 'Thank you' and went into the room. The door closed behind him.

Lynn's bed was in a corner by the window and a small night-light had been placed on her bedside cabinet. She was propped up on pillows, her head turned to one side as if she had dozed off while waiting for him. He tiptoed towards her, conscious of the grey, sleeping forms in the shadows around him, his eyes moist, throat still dry.

'Lynn?' he said gently when he reached her side. 'Lynn, are you awake?'

He touched her hand lying on top of the bedsheets and softly shook it. Her head slowly came round towards him and in the poor light he saw the grin on her face. His body went rigid and all the openings in his body seemed to curl inwards.

'Lynn?'

Her eyes still bore the look of insanity. Her grin reflected the madness. She began to sit up and he was aware that the others in the shadowy beds around the ward were rising also. Someone snickered.

Lynn's lips were glistening wet as she pushed back the bedclothes and began to reach for him. He had to stop himself from backing away.

'Don't get out of bed, Lynn.'

Her grin widened.

One leg slipped from the covers.

Her hand touched his shoulder.

'Lynn!' he screeched as her other hand whipped up and clawed at his face.

She was laughing and it wasn't Lynn at all: the features were the same same mouth, same nose, same eyes but they were distorted, twisted into an ugly grimace, someone else, something else, behind those wild eyes.

He grabbed her wrists and held her away from him, her body exploding into violent motion. Screams were mixed with her laughter as she kicked out at him, snapping her teeth like a rabid dog. He pushed her back towards the bed, unnerved by her strength, frightened by her condition. The bloody fools! Why had they dragged him here to see this? Had she fooled them, made them believe she was changing for the better? Or had just the sight of him broken down what good had been done?

She was on the bed now, her head thrashing around on the pillows, her flimsy nightdress kicked high over her thighs. She hissed and spat at him, the bubbled saliva smearing his face. He was dimly aware that other shapes were moving towards him from out of the darkness, but he was afraid to let go of his wife's wrists, afraid of those claw-like nails.

His head was jerked back as a hand grabbed his hair from behind; he twisted his neck, trying to pull himself free. But the hand grasped him tightly and another reached around and across his throat. Bishop was forced to let go of Lynn and clutch at the arm that was squeezing his neck. She was off the bed immediately, coming at him, hands flailing, her mouth snapping at him once more. They went down in a heap, the woman behind losing her grip on his throat, but still gripping his hair at the roots. He blinked away the blur in his eyes and rolled over, taking Lynn with him, the other woman scrabbling at him with her free arm.

He managed to get a foot up and kicked out at Lynn, her cry of pain a terrible sound, but knowing he had no choice. She scudded away from him and he turned on the woman still clinging. A fierce backslap of his hand stunned her and she shrieked with the shock. Even in the darkness he could see she was an old woman, her hair white and frizzed out as though filled with static.

A bare foot kicked him, striking his cheek and knocking him sideways. Two other nightgowned women were standing over him, their faces masks of grinning hate. They ran forward, kicking out, crying their triumph. A body landed on him and teeth sank into his neck. In the nightmarish confusion he knew it was Lynn. He broke her grip, but felt skin tear away and a spurt of blood run into his collar. He grabbed a foot that was pushing at his chest and twisted it forcefully, the woman above him falling back with a scream. He got a knee beneath him and pushed himself upwards, taking Lynn with him, a figure in front pounding his face with clenched fists. He struck out, hitting the woman on the forehead, sending her hurtling backwards into the shadows. He held Lynn to him, pinning her close to his body, trapping her arms. The white-haired woman was slowly creeping towards him like a ghost from the mists, arms stretched out before her holding what looked like a rolled-up bedsheet, a twisted shroud he knew was to go around his neck. He almost collapsed with relief when he saw the door behind her begin to open, the dim light from the hallway casting dark shadows into the room.

The silhouettes of the two women who had shown him in, the tall one and the short one, stood there.

'Thank God,' Bishop said, the moans, the giggles, the screams Lynn's squirming suddenly coming to a stop. Even the old woman bearing the twisted bedsheet paused and looked back over her shoulder.

The tall woman stepped into the room and the other one followed. The two women moved to the side, opening the door wide, and he heard the tall one say: 'Bring him along.'

They poured into the room, demented, arm-waving creatures from hell, the women dressed in plain, shapeless smocks that served as nightgowns, the men in similar garments. Bishop backed away, almost believing he had walked into a terrible dream.

Lynn broke free and suddenly the twisted bedsheet was thrown around his shoulders, then jerked tight. He was pulled forward and a screaming mass of bodies enveloped him, hands tearing at his clothes, darkened manic faces appearing before him, disappearing as others brushed them aside to see their victim. Bishop blindly hit out, their screams deafening him, his fists sinking into fleshy parts of bodies and sometimes striking hard bone. Those that fell back were immediately replaced by others and he began to go down, clutching at their robes to stop himself. A knee came up into his face and for a second he felt only white-hot shock, the numbing pain reaching him split seconds later. He went down on to his knees and a hard slap rocked his head backwards. His hands spread themselves on the floor before him and he felt the sheet around his neck tightening. Bruising feet toppled him over.

They used the sheet to drag him towards the door.

The tall woman looked down at him, the gloomy light from the hallway throwing her face into half-shadow; the pleasant smile was still there. He lay on his back staring up at her and she and her short companion took delight in his horror. She held up a hand and for a moment the clamour died, just a sigh, a moan, a giggle, coming occasionally from the shadows.

All she said was: 'It's too late, Mr Bishop. It's already begun.'

Then they were on him again and he was half-carried, half-dragged into the hall. He thought he heard Lynn laughing with them.

He managed to get his feet beneath him and forced himself erect, digging his heels into the tough cord carpet, pressing himself back against the mob, unwilling to go wherever it was they wanted to take him. He groaned aloud when he saw what lay ahead of him in the corridor.

The bodies of the mental home's staff had been tumbled out from the rooms on either side of the long corridor. Very little white showed through their bloodstained uniforms. With revulsion, he saw they had not just been murdered; mutilation had taken place. Whether or not they had been dead before . . . He shook the thoughts from his mind.

He was shoved forward and the fury inside him broke. He did not know what had happened to them all, why or how their unbalanced minds had turned to such appalling violence, but he hated them for it. Events of the past weeks told him they were not responsible their enfeebled minds had been taken over by a greater madness. It was that madness he felt hate for, but they were its hosts, they were its perpetrators. They had allowed themselves to be used. They were no longer human.

The short woman stepped in front of him, her face pinched and malicious, ready to taunt. His foot came up and caught her just below her plump belly, and her ducking face met his swiftly lifted knee, choking off her piercing shriek.

Those holding him were momentarily stunned and a dagger of fear found its way through their insanity. Bishop tore an arm free and twisted himself to strike the madman holding his other arm. He felt a fleeting satisfaction as the man's nose squelched beneath his knuckles. The sheet around his neck loosened and he quickly pulled it over his head, already jumping away from the mob crowding into the corridor. The cries reached a new pitch as he shoved the man who had been holding on to his other arm back into the mob. Hands were clutching at him, trying to drag him back into their midst.

He was backing away, slapping at their hands as though they were naughty children grabbing for sweets. He almost stumbled over the outstretched legs of a male nurse and then he had turned and was running for the stairs, the sight of the dead man looking up at him, deep red holes where his eyes should have been, completely unnerving him. The residents chased after him, stumbling and giggling over the bodies of those they had already slain.

Bishop reached the top of the stairs and fell against the banister. Two figures, clad in the white starched trousers and jackets that were the Fairfield uniform, were mounting the steps, their faces hidden in the shadows. One held a long iron bar that he was rattling along the uprights of the banister and, when their heads and shoulders came into view, Bishop saw the same wild-eyed glee in their eyes that belonged to the mad men and women behind him. He staggered up the staircase leading to the second floor.

A hand curled round his ankle, bringing him down, and he grasped at the banister to stop himself from sliding to the bottom. He twisted and found it was Lynn holding on to him, a chuckling, drooling Lynn, a Lynn he no longer knew, who was enjoying the game, who wanted him dead. He had to close his eyes when he brought his foot down into the upturned face.

The metal bar crashed against the rails his fingers clung to, only inches away, and the grinning face of the male nurse peered up at him from the other side. The mob at the foot of the stairs were tripping over the fallen body of Lynn as Bishop lumbered onwards, taking the stairs three at a time, the terrible fear that his legs would turn to lead fuelling his panic. He used the rail to pivot himself around the bend in the stairs, the mob now trampling over Lynn to reach him. He reached the second floor corridor and it was dark. But not so dark that he couldn't see the white clad figures drifting down the corridor towards him, doors opening on either side and others stepping out, dim spectres in a world of blackness and screams.

He was trapped.

Except for a door on his left that had not yet opened.

He burst through and slammed it behind him, leaning back against it to prevent them from following, sucking in huge swallows of air. Keeping a shoulder against the door, he scrabbled around for a key in the lock. There was no key. Not even a bolt.

He could hear them gathering outside.

And his feet were wet.

He reached for a light switch, found nothing, but felt something brush against the back of his hand. A cord. A light. He pulled. He was in a bathroom, the white tiles stark and blinding. That was why there was no lock on the door: mad people were not allowed to lock themselves in rooms. The floor was covered in puddles and the deep, claw-footed bathtub was filled to overflowing, the water smooth and placid, its highest level reached.

A chair with two carelessly dropped towels draped over its back stood in a corner next to him. He reached for it gratefully and jammed it against the door at an angle, its back beneath the handle. It might hold them for a precious few moments, time enough to reach the high window opposite. He saw the frosted glass was reinforced with metal wire and prayed he would be able to break through, already sure the frame was set in its surround, unable to be opened naturally. He splashed across the bathroom floor, ignoring the shrill laughter from outside. And as he passed by the huge bath, he realized it had all been an evil game for them, that they meant to let him escape to the second floor, that they had directed him to this particular room. They had wanted him to see what lay beneath the unstirring water in the bath.

18.

The house surprised Peck. Not the kind of place he expected Jacob Kulek to live in; somehow he thought the old man would have preferred oak beams, roses running up the outside walls, or maybe something Georgian, tall and elegant. Still, his kind was unpredictable; something a little cranky about most of them. Seemed well-balanced enough until you started listening to what he was saying.

'Some shack, eh, guv?' Frank Roper, his DI said as Peck pressed the doorbell. 'All glass and chrome. I'd hate to be their window cleaner.'

Peck grunted, his thoughts now distracted. He was wondering why Kulek had insisted on seeing him, especially at this time of night. The insanity of the night before had meant an overload and that was an understatement for everybody: how the hell do you deal with mass murders by a mass of murderers? And what was the connection between the incidents at the football ground and Willow Road? Or, to be more specific, the house that had once been there: Beechwood. Because there was a definite link now. If Kulek hadn't asked for the meeting, then Peck, himself, would have wasted no time in interviewing the old man. It seemed he was the only person who could give some clue as to what was going on.

The door opened and Jessica Kulek's white nervous face peered out at him.

'Come in,' she said, opening the door wide.

'Sorry we're a little late,' Peck apologized. 'As you can imagine, we've been pretty busy today.'

'That's why my father wanted to see you, Inspector. It's about what happened last night.'

'You're going to tell me there's a link. And you'd be right.'

Jessica's eyebrows arched in surprise. 'You think there is, too?'

'Let's say it's a strong possibility.'

Kulek was waiting for them in a large L-shaped lounge, the room itself, like the house, of modern design, although the furniture seemed old, possibly antique; surprisingly, the combination worked. Peck noticed everything was set out in straight lines or at right-angles to each other and he realized a blind man wouldn't want odd bits of furniture scattered at random around the room. The vertical blinds were drawn against the night.

'Good of you to come, Inspector,' Kulek said. He was standing by an armchair, one hand resting on its back, whether for support or merely guidance, Peck wasn't sure. He looked older than when the policeman had first met him, but infinitely better than when he had seen him in the hospital two days ago. His skin had taken on a dry, pale yellow cast and his stoop had become more pronounced. A silk scarf peeping over the top of his shirt-collar hid his bruised neck.

'You've met Detective Inspector Roper,' Peck said without looking at his colleague.

'Yes, indeed. And this is Edith Metlock.'

The medium smiled briefly at the two policemen.

'Won't you sit down? Can we offer you something to drink? Something stronger than tea or coffee?'

Peck relaxed his body into a sofa while Roper chose an uncomfortable hardbacked chair. 'Whisky, a little water, for me,' Peck said. 'I believe Inspector Roper will have the same.'

Roper nodded and Jessica made herself busy at the drinks cabinet.

'I thought you said Chris Bishop would be here tonight?' Peck said.

Kulek seated himself in the armchair he had been standing behind. 'My daughter has been trying to contact him for the past half-hour. He must have left his house.'

Jessica came over with the drinks. 'Chris may have decided to come over anyway. I said I would ring him as soon as I fixed the time for the meeting with you. I'm afraid you weren't easy to reach today.'

'Well, we can soon find out where he is. I've had two men watching him all day. Frank, tell Dave to radio through, will you?'

Roper placed his glass on the deep red carpet and left the room.

Kulek spoke. 'Jessica tells me there has been a man in a car parked near this house for the last two days.'

'For your protection, sir. There's been one attempt, no sense in risking another.'

An awkward silence followed Peck's statement before the detective cleared his throat and said: 'I had planned to see you first thing in the morning, Mr Kulek. I think there's a lot we have to discuss.'

'Yes, Inspector, indeed there is. But I gave you all the facts concerning Beechwood and Boris Pryszlak at our first meeting. Tonight I wanted to talk theory with you.'

'I'm always interested in theories. Provided they're sound, that is.'

'I can't promise you that. What may be sound to me might be completely irrational to you.'

'I'm prepared to listen.' Peck turned to Edith Metlock. 'Mrs Metlock, one of my detectives spoke to you the other day, after the madwoman was found in Beechwood. You were there at the seance.'

'It wasn't a seance, Inspector,' the medium said. 'At least, it wasn't planned as such.'

'You said you saw nothing yourself of this, uh, vision or hallucination whatever you might call it that Bishop claims to have seen.'

'No. As a medium, I seldom see or remember such things. My body is used as a receiver by the spirit world. They speak to others through me.'

'And you think this is what happened at Beechwood? The spirits of Pryszlak and his people used you to speak to Chris Bishop? He was the only one who saw them, wasn't he?' Peck shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glad that Roper wasn't in the room to hear his line of questioning.

'They didn't speak to him,' Edith replied. 'He was shown what had happened there.'

'Why not you, Mr Kulek? Or your daughter, Jessica?'

'We don't know,' the old man answered. 'Perhaps it was because Chris Bishop discovered the bodies originally. Perhaps Pryszlak was mocking him with the truth of what had happened.'

'Pryszlak's dead.'

This time there was no reply.

'There could be another, more reasonable, explanation,' Peck said finally. 'Bishop had a mental block on what he stumbled across in Beechwood for nearly a year. It could be that going back into the house shocked him into seeing it all over again.'

'But he only discovered them when they were all dead,' said Jessica. 'The other day he actually saw them killing themselves and each other.'