Bishop leaned against the wall and sighed. 'Okay. But I don't think I'll change my mind. Have you got my address?'

'Yes, I have. I'll be there in twenty minutes.'

He replaced the receiver and stared down at it, his hand still resting on the black surface. Snapping himself out of his brooding thoughts, he walked to the front door and pulled the newspaper from the letterbox. The headline sent the remaining nightmare fragments scurrying away.

He was washed, shaved, dressed and drinking coffee by the time he heard her car pull up outside.

'I'm sorry, it took a little longer than I thought,' she apologized when he opened the door. 'The traffic across the bridge was terrible.'

'That's the trouble with being south of the river. You wait till you try to get back.'

He showed her into the small sitting-room. 'Join me in breakfast coffee?' he said.

'Black, one sugar.' She took off her fawn-coloured topcoat and draped it over the back of an armchair. The slim-legged jeans and loose crew-neck sweater she wore combined with her short hair and small breasts to make her look boyish.

'Take a seat. Be with you in a minute,' Bishop told her.

He went back into the kitchen and poured her a coffee, topping up his own. Her voice made him jump, for she had followed him out.

'You live here alone?'

He turned to see her in the doorway. 'Yes,' he answered.

'You're not married?' She seemed surprised.

'Yes, I'm married.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry.'

'Lynn is . . . away. Hospital.'

She seemed genuinely concerned. 'I hope she isn't . . .'

'She's in a mental institution. Has been for three years. Shall we go through into the sitting-room?' He picked up the two cups of coffee and waited for her to move from the door. She turned and led the way.

'I didn't know, Mr Bishop,' she said, seating herself and taking the coffee from him.

'It's all right, no reason why you should. And my name is Chris, by the way.'

She sipped her coffee and once again he was bemused by her. One minute she seemed tough, almost brittle, the next, young and timid. An unsettling mixture.

'Did you get a chance to see today's newspaper?' she asked.

'I read the headline, glanced at the story. "More Madness in Horror Road". I'm surprised the Residents Association doesn't take it up.'

'Please, Mr Bishop . . .'

'Chris.'

'Please, the situation is more serious than you think.'

'Okay, I shouldn't be flippant. I agree, a man cutting his sleeping wife's throat with an electric hedge-trimmer, then cutting the legs off his dog isn't a joke. Running out of cable before he could attack two policemen outside is mildly funny, though.'

'I'm glad you think so. You read he turned the machine on himself, didn't you? He severed the main artery in his thigh and died from loss of blood before they could get him to a hospital.'

Bishop nodded. 'Maybe that was his intention from the start, kill his wife, pet dog, then kill himself. He wanted to share his death wish with them.' Bishop held a hand up to ward off her protests. 'I'm not joking now. It's common enough for a suicide to take his loved ones with him.'

'Suicide or not, it was still an act of madness. And why did the other two kill themselves?'

'The other two?'

'The woman who killed her lover and the man who shot the two boys and their father.'

'But he didn't die.'

'He did, last night. My father and I went to the police station where he was being held we hoped to be allowed to question him. He was dead when we arrived. He was left alone in a cell and he cracked his skull open against the wall. He ran at it, Mr Bishop. From one end to the other, a matter of only eight feet, but enough to split open his head. They said he must have run at the wall twice to cause such damage.'

Bishop winced at the thought. 'The girl. The little girl . . .?'

'They're keeping a very close watch on her. The police are now wondering about the cause of the fire; they seemed to think it may have been deliberately started.'

'Surely they don't imagine the kid set fire to her own home?'

'She has been under psychiatric care for some time.'

'You think that's the link? Everyone in Willow Road is going mad?'

'No, not at all. We've done some checking since we saw you last and discovered that the three people involved in last week's slayings . . .'

'There's no evidence against the child,' Bishop was quick to point out.

'I said the police think the fire may have been deliberately started. There were no electrical appliances switched on, no gas leaks, no fireplace in the kitchen, and they haven't as yet discovered any faulty wiring. What they are reasonably sure of is that the kitchen curtains went up first. A burned-out box of matches was found on the sill. They're now wondering just how the girl got out when the couple in the room next to hers couldn't. Maybe they're wrong in their suspicions, Mr Bishop . . . Chris . . . but the fact that she has needed psychiatric help in the past, that the fire was no accident, and that she got out completely unscathed and unmarked by smoke well, it all seems to point in her direction.'

Bishop sighed. 'Okay, so maybe she did cause the fire. What was your point?'

'The woman and the girl were mentally unstable. The woman tried to commit suicide six months ago. The man with the shotgun had been convicted for child molesting. He'd lost his job, had become a social outcast, and the neighbours say the two boys he shot had derided him. It could have been enough to tip him over the edge.'

'You're saying all three were mad?'

'Most people who kill have reached a point of madness. I'm saying something in Willow Road acted as a catalyst.'

'To make them insane?'

She shook her head. 'To direct their instability.'

'Towards murder.'

'Towards an evil act. I don't think it necessarily has to be murder.'

'And you think this is all tied up with the mass suicide last year?'

Jessica nodded. 'We believe there was a reason for the suicides. Pryszlak, Kirkhope and all those others had a motive.'

Bishop placed the coffee at his feet and stood up. Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he walked thoughtfully towards the fireplace. He gazed down at the empty grate for a few moments before turning to her again.

'It's all a bit fantastic, isn't it?' he said mildly. 'I mean, there can only ever be one basic reason for suicide. Escape. That's what it finally comes down to.'

'Release might be another word.'

'Well, yes, release. It's the same thing.'

'No, not quite. Escape means running away. Release is a freedom, something you can embrace. The thirty-seven people who killed themselves in Beechwood were not being persecuted in any way. Not one note was left from any of them to say why they were committing such an act and no individual reasons could be found. There had to be some point in their self-destruction.'

'And you and your father think the events of last week have something to do with it?'

'We're not certain. But we know of the ideals of Pryszlak and his sect. My father told you they wanted his help.'

'He told me they believed in the power of evil. I wasn't quite sure what he meant by "power".'

'He meant evil as a physical entity, a solid force. Something to be used as a weapon could be used. Pryszlak believed this not only as an occultist, but as a scientist, too. He endeavoured to use his knowledge of both to harness that power.'

'But he killed himself before he met with success.'

'I wish we could be sure of that.'

'Oh, come on. At least the man and his lunatic cronies are out of the way. If there is such a power which I seriously doubt none of them seems to be around to use it.'

'Unless their very deaths played some part in their search.'

Bishop looked at her in dismay. 'You're not being logical. What good would the knowledge be if they weren't around to use it?'

Jessica's face took on the determined look he had come to recognize. She reached down for her bag and drew out cigarettes. Her hand was trembling slightly when she lit one. She blew out a puff of smoke and regarded him coldly through the sudden haze. 'Then why these sudden acts of violence? Why this sudden madness, Mr Bishop?'

'Chris.'

'Why then?'

He shrugged. 'Who the hell knows? I'm not sure I even care.'

'You're a psychic researcher. You're supposed to have an interest in the paranormal.'

'Sure, but I like to keep my feet planted firmly on the ground. You're flying high.'

'When I first came to you, you seemed to express some respect for my father.'

'I respect his work and his opinions in many things.'

'Then why not in this?'

He turned away from her, resting an elbow on the mantelpiece, his other hand still tucked into a pocket. A small, framed face smiled up at him, the photograph taken when she was only four. A year before she died. Christ, he thought, the bitterness still strong enough to tighten the muscles in his chest, she would have been nearly thirteen now. Even then they could tell she would be the image of her mother.

'Chris?'

He shut the thoughts from his mind. 'It's too implausible, Jessica. And it's all speculation.'

'Isn't all investigation into the paranormal speculation to begin with? You said in your lecture the other night it was your belief that man's natural evolution was reaching the point of breakthrough, that science and parapsychology were converging to become one and the same thing. Is it beyond you to accept that a man like Pryszlak had already reached that point, had made the breakthrough? At least keep an open mind to it. Isn't that what you tell your students? Isn't that the whole point of your books open-mindedness, with a little realistic scepticism?'

Jessica was on her feet now, her head jutting forward like her father's. 'Or are you too wrapped up in your own personal cynicism? Psychic research needs clear-minded people, Mr Bishop, not cynics, nor fanatics. People who are willing to accept facts and people who are willing to uncover those facts.'

She stabbed her cigarette towards him. 'You're a paid ghost-hunter. All right, we'll hire you. We'll pay for your services. We'll pay you to finish the job you started nine months ago. We want you to investigate that house in Willow Road. Maybe you can come up with an answer.'

6.

Bishop brought the car to a halt, relishing the satisfying sound of crunching gravel. He looked out at the tall, red-bricked, Queen Anne building and said, 'Looks like she's worth a few bob.'

Jessica followed his gaze. The Kirkhopes are a great tradition in the shipping industry. At least, they were in the thirties and forties when Dominic Kirkhope's father was alive, but his offspring have had problems now that the shipping boom is over.'

'And she's all that's left?' He tucked his glasses into his breast pocket.

'Agnes Kirkhope is the last of the direct descendants. She and her brother took over when their father died, but, from what I can gather, Dominic played little part in the running of the business.'

'Do you think she'll talk about him? Families are generally reticent about their black sheep.'

'I suppose it depends on our questions. She may not like us digging too deep.'

'When the estate agents hired me to investigate Beechwood I asked to see the owners of the property, but they wouldn't let me. They felt it was unnecessary. In a strict sense they were right but I usually like to know a house's history. I let it go then because it was just another routine job to me. This time I want to know as much as possible before I set foot in there again.'

'First we have to get her permission to carry out another investigation.'

'Correction: an investigation. The last one wasn't even started.' He switched off the engine and reached for the doorhandle on his side. Jessica placed a hand on his other arm.

'Chris,' she said. 'You really think this is for the best?'

He paused before opening the door wide. 'If we tell her the whole story she'll run a mile. Do you really think she'd want her brother's bizarre suicide dredged up again and, even worse, linked with these recent deaths? Let's stick to the story I told her over the phone. She was reluctant enough to see me anyway without giving her further cause for alarm.'

They walked across the drive towards the large main door which opened at their approach.

'Mr Bishop?' a plump, dark-skinned woman enquired.

'And Miss Kulek,' he replied. 'Miss Kirkhope is expecting us.'

The maid nodded, grinning in agreement. 'You come in, Miss Kirkhope is expecting you.'