Twenty-four.

It was very late. Judith sat in the Deerbons' friendly kitchen and thought about the day her husband had died.

She had been making notes for a case conference about a child they thought they would have to take into care. There had been a cat then too, huge and grey with scarred ears. Gasper, named by David. Fifteen years before. A scrap of pathetic fluff found in a puddle by her daily help and brought to them in a duffel bag. Now David was in the Congo saving lives, Vivien in Edinburgh doing her vet training and Gasper was spreadeagled in a patch of late sunshine on the kitchen table beside her, one paw occasionally reaching out to scratch half-heartedly at her file. Don had gone fishing, leaving at dawn. He never woke her. She had come downstairs just after seven but he had been long gone to his favourite stretch of the Test.

The Deerbon cat, Mephisto, was on the chair opposite her, a tight, neat ball, paws tucked away.

She remembered making a pot of tea and looking at the clock to work out when to put the casserole in, thinking about her case, worrying about it as she always did. Taking a child from its parents was never easy, she never felt other than anxious about it, that was why she had been reading the case notes again.

She remembered the child's name. Campbell Wild.

Don should have been home by eight. There had been the sound of the car a little after seven. Good, she had thought, I can go for an early bath and Don can peel the potatoes after he's sorted out his fish. Assuming there are fish.

And then there had been the sound not of his key in the door but of the bell. Ringing, ringing.

He had managed to struggle to the bank before falling onto it, face down, as the pain of the coronary hit him, and had lain there half the day before a couple had come by, walking their Labradors.

It had been her husband's registrar, who had turned up one Sunday morning a month later and simply told her that he was going to drive her there and that perhaps she might want to pick some flowers to take with her. He had been the week before, he said, on a recce. Knew where to go, found the spot. He had been gentle and firm, a nice boy with a strangely domed forehead, rimless spectacles. When they reached the exact place on the riverbank, he had gone away and left her alone for about twenty minutes. Afterwards, they had gone to eat a steak in a nearby pub. He had sussed that out in advance too.

Mephisto stirred and yawned and burrowed more deeply back into sleep and then there were the lights of the car swinging into the drive.

But it was Simon who came into the kitchen, and then stood looking at her, glancing around then back at her again, and she saw that his initial surprise and disapproval had been quickly shuttered. His expression blanked to nothing.

"What happened?"

Seeing him, tall and pushing his white-blond hair off his face in a gesture she recognised even in this short time, she felt intensely sorry for him. She saw not a man of nearly forty and a senior police officer but a boy.

"Simon, I'm sorry-first you find me in the kitchen at Hallam House and now here. I know what it looks like."

"Oh. What does it look like?"

Children react like this, Judith thought, remembering how David had been the same. The best way was to carry on as normal and let them come round. Or not. She filled him in.

"The children have been fine. They're all asleep now. Can I make you tea or something?"

"I'll do it. I'll make coffee. You?"

"Thanks. Yes, I would like some."

He opened cupboards, took out the cafetiere, set the kettle to boil, all with his back to her. She stayed on the sofa, stroking the cat. Waiting. There was no point in saying more and making things worse. He minded. She had been in his mother's place, and now she was here.

"Are you on duty?" It seemed all right to ask.

"Yes. Everyone is on alert at the moment."

"The shooting, yes. Has there been another?"

"Yes. One girl shot dead, another hurt. And a false alarm. The town's wired up with it. Every time someone coughs in a quiet street we get an emergency call."

"All women. All young. And shot. For what? Dear God."

She watched him pour the boiling water on the coffee grounds. There was something about the way he bent over, the set of his head, that made her feel for him even more. Richard had every right to be seeing her. She had every right to see him. But that would not be the way it seemed to Simon. He set the coffee down. "Budge," he said, shifting Mephisto. The cat turned, rearranged himself into the small space between Simon's leg and the chair arm and closed his eyes again.

I shouldn't be here, Judith thought. I am an unwelcome intruder. She felt, as she had often felt as a widow, ill at ease and out of place in the midst of someone else's family, another person's home. It was the loneliest and the bleakest of feelings.

Twenty-five.

There were six of them round the table. The Chief Constable, Chief Superintendent Gilligan, Armed Response Gold Command, a DCS from Bevham and Serrailler with one of the DIs from the Lafferton force. Simon had already done a briefing that morning. The wounded girl had died during the night without regaining consciousness. The team was out on house-to-house, questioning everyone who had been in and around the Seven Aces club, visiting the workplaces of the murdered young women. It was the usual routine, painstaking police work which might lead somewhere.

The Chief was grim-faced.

"Simon, are you a hundred per cent sure there is no connection between these young women killed outside the nightclub and the one ..." she glanced at her papers "... Melanie Drew, murdered at her flat?"

"No. Of course I'm not sure. How can I be? But at this stage the only connection we've made is that they were all at the Sir Eric Anderson school. The nightclub girls were best friends. Melanie Drew was older. We're still talking to people and we're still checking everything-churches, sports places, societies they might have joined, even pubs and restaurants they could all have frequented. We've checked out Melanie's husband and Claire Pescod's fiance but found no link at all."

"So it's coincidence?"

"Coincidence happens, doesn't it, ma'am?" The DI spoke. "This is a lunatic with guns. He likes shooting. Doesn't care where or who."

Andy Gilligan shook his head. "That sounds casual and careless, and he's neither."

"Or she."

"Unlikely, but all right if you want to be correct. The murder of Melanie Drew was carefully timed. Not many people about, she was alone in the flat, it may well be that it was being watched. The club shooting was from a carefully prepared spot, probably from the roof of Bladon House, though possibly from the old granary next door. There is absolutely no trace of anything or anyone-forensics are still going over it but there isn't even GSR. Someone who is a good marksman, someone who has prepared a getaway meticulously ... this isn't a lunatic roaming round Lafferton with a pistol; this is a clever, cunning psychopathic killer."

"Who will kill again."

"Almost certainly."

"But if there is no connection between his victims how can we second-guess where he will be next?"

"We can't," Simon said, taking a swig of water. "We can't cover the entire town. We don't have the justification."

"Or the resources," the Chief put in.

"This isn't a terrorist."

"And no warnings? No demands?"

"Not a thing."

The Super leaned back with a groan. "The worst bugger of all."

"Young women," Paula Devenish said. "Let's think of places where young women congregate. Let's try to get one step ahead of him. Schools. The college. Where else?"

"There are two gyms and there's the swimming pool."

"The ice-rink."

"Any more clubs?"

"There's a place called The Widemouth in Monmouth Street ... it's a bar with dancing, though, not really a nightclub, and it's more upmarket than the Seven Aces. It's popular with the twenty-somethings. Stays open till midnight."

"Any place opposite that a marksman could hole up in and get them in his sights?"

Serrailler and the DI said, "The multi-storey," as one voice.

"Right. Let's have some visible patrolling up there and in the streets around, especially when they're spilling out at the end of the evening."

Simon sat bolt upright. "The Jug Fair," he said. "That's coming up-weekend after next."

"Why would he stake out the Jug Fair?"

"Why not? Plenty of young women, crowds, lots of noise to cover the sound of shots."

"Well, it's possible." Andy sounded doubtful.

"There's always a strong police presence there," Simon said. "We've had some yobbishness, drunken louts causing trouble. I wonder if he would take the risk?"

"Better have ARV on high alert, even so."

"We're on it already, ma'am," Andy said.

"Now, as there are two items on the agenda for this meeting, let's move on to the second. As you know, the Lord Lieutenant's daughter is getting married in the cathedral on the tenth of November and there are royals on the guest list. Security is tight, as always of course, but in view of all this, it'll have to be even tighter. Royal protection will come from the Tactical Unit but Clarence House have noted the shootings and want a meeting. Eleven o'clock next Tuesday morning in my office-you too, Simon. Meeting with Sir Hugh Barr-the Lord Lieutenant and father of the bride-his PA, someone from Clarence House, someone from royal protection, the Dean and myself." The Chief got up. "We could do without a high-profile wedding with royal guests."

"At least they'll pay for their own protection."

The Chief looked over her shoulder on the way out. "We should be so lucky."

Twenty-six.

"Dr Deerbon?"

Short. Dark, close-cut hair. Clipped voice. She glanced at Cat. "And you are Dr Deerbon's partner?"

"Wife."

"Please sit down. Just give me a moment, would you?" She flipped open a file. Turned over a couple of sheets. Looked for some minutes at one, then a second. Turned to address Chris. "And you came in last night by ambulance to A & E?"

"No, I brought him-well, my father and-"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why on earth did you bring him by car? He needed an ambulance. With symptoms like that in a car without any paramedics ..." She shook her head.

"I'm a doctor. So is my father."

"GP?"

"I am-Chris and I both are. My father is a retired consultant."

"Neurologist?"

"No."

"Right." She pursed her lips and was silent again, reading the file, turning the sheets over and back.

She was mid-thirties. She had not smiled. Always smile at the patient, Cat thought.

"I have the scan results here. Are you experienced at interpreting an MRI?" She looked at Chris but did not wait for him to answer. "It's the best tool we have. It's pretty watertight. How long have you had symptoms?"

He shrugged.

"He didn't mention anything. We've been in Australia," Cat said.

The doctor ignored her.

"Hard to say." Chris looked at his hands. "I had a headache. All the last week we were in Sydney, but we were packing up, it was hot. I didn't think anything of it."

"Visual disturbance?"

"Slightly. I thought I might need stronger reading glasses."

"You make it sound very vague. It can't have been. Not with a scan like this."

"I suppose I was trying to ignore it."

"Not a good plan."