LITMIR.BIZ

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session, but it slipped my mind. I don’t want you all feeling that I’m the teacher and you’re the class. At the moment, I’m the group leader simply because I’ve been doing this for a while. Before long, we’ll all be working side by side, and there’s no point in having barriers between us. So it’s Tony from now on in, OK?’

      ‘You got it, Tony.’ Shaz searched for the message in his eyes and his words and, satisfied it contained genuine forgiveness, wolfed the rest of her Danish and returned to her screen. She couldn’t do it while he was here, but next time she was in the computer room alone, she intended to use her Internet access to pull up the newspaper archives and check out all the reports of the Bradfield serial killer case. She’d read most of them at the time, but that had been before she’d met Tony Hill and everything had changed. Now, she had a special interest. By the time she was finished, she’d know enough about Tony Hill’s most public profile to write the book that, for reasons she still couldn’t understand, had never been written. After all, she was a detective, wasn’t she?

      Carol Jordan fiddled with the complicated chrome coffee maker, a housewarming present from her brother Michael when she’d moved to Seaford. She’d been luckier than most people caught in the housing market slump. She hadn’t had far to look for a buyer for her half of the warehouse flat she and Michael owned; the barrister he’d recently been sharing his bedroom with had been so eager to buy her out that Carol had begun to wonder if she’d been even more of a gooseberry than she’d imagined.

      Now she had this low stone cottage on the side of the hill that rose above the estuary almost directly opposite Seaford; a place of her own. Well, almost, she corrected herself, reminded by the hard skull head-butting her shin. ‘OK, Nelson,’ she said, stooping to scratch the black cat’s ears. ‘I hear what you’re saying.’ While the coffee brewed, she scooped out a bowl of cat food to a rapture of purring followed by the sloppy sound of Nelson inhaling his breakfast. She walked through to the living room to enjoy the panorama of the estuary and the improbably slender arc of the suspension bridge. Gazing out across the misty river where the bridge appeared to float without connection to the land, she planned her coming encounter with the fire chief. Nelson walked in, tail erect, and jumped without pause straight on to the window sill where he stretched out, arching his head back towards Carol and demanding affection. Carol stroked his dense fur and said, ‘I only get one chance to convince this guy that I know arse from elbow, Nelson. I need him on my side. God knows, I need somebody on my side.’

      Nelson batted her hand with his paw, as if responding directly to her words. Carol swallowed the rest of her coffee and got to her feet in a movement as smooth as the cat’s. One of the advantages she’d soon found with a DCI’s office hours was that she actually managed to use her gym membership more than once a month, and she was already feeling the benefit in firmer muscle tone and better aerobic fitness. It would have been a bonus to have someone to share it with, but that wasn’t why she did it. She did it for herself, because it made her feel good. She took pride in her body, revelling in its strength and mobility.

      An hour later, enduring the tour of the central fire station, she was glad of her fitness as she struggled to keep pace with the long legs of the local chief of operations, Jim Pendlebury. ‘You seem to be better organized here than CID ever manages,’ Carol said, as they finally made it to his office. ‘You’ll have to share the secret of your efficiency.’

      ‘We’ve had so much cost-cutting, we’ve really had to streamline everything we do,’ he told her. ‘We used to have all our stations staffed round the clock with a complement of full-time officers, but it really wasn’t cost effective. I know a lot of the lads grumbled about it, but a couple of years back we shifted to a mix of part-time and full-time officers. It took a few months to shake down, but it’s been a huge advantage to me in management terms.’

      Carol pulled a face. ‘Not a solution that would work for us.’

      Pendlebury shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You could have a core staff who dealt with the routine stuff and a hit squad that you used as and when you needed them.’

      ‘That’s sort of what we have already,’ Carol said drily. ‘The core staff is called the night shift and the hit squad are the day teams. Unfortunately, it never gets quiet enough to stand any of them down.’

      With part of her mind, Carol added to her mental profile of the fire chief as they spoke. In conversation, his straight dark eyebrows crinkled and jutted above his blue-grey eyes. Considering how much time he must spend flying a desk, his skin looked surprisingly weathered, the creases round his eyes showing white when he wasn’t smiling or frowning. Probably a part-time sailor or estuary fisherman, she guessed. As he dipped his head to acknowledge something she’d said, she could see a few silver hairs straggling among his dark curls. So, probably a few years the far side of thirty, Carol thought, revising her initial estimate. She had a habit of analysing new acquaintances in terms of how their description would read on a police bulletin. She’d never actually had to produce a photofit of someone she’d encountered, but she was confident her practice would have made her the best possible witness for the police artist to work with.

      ‘Now you’ve seen the operation, I take it you’re a bit more willing to accept that when we say a fire’s a query arson, we’re not talking absolute rubbish?’ Pendlebury’s tone was light, but his eyes challenged hers.

      ‘I never doubted what you were telling us,’ she said calmly. ‘What I doubted was whether we were taking it as seriously as we should.’ She snapped open the locks on her briefcase and took out her file. ‘I’d like to go through the details on these incidents with you, if you can spare me the time.’

      He cocked his head to one side. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

      ‘Now that I’ve seen the way you run your operation, I can’t believe the idea of a serial arsonist hasn’t already crossed your mind.’

      He tugged at the lobe of one ear, sizing her up. Finally, he said, ‘I was wondering when one of your lot would notice.’

      Carol breathed out hard through her nose. ‘It might have been helpful if we’d been given a nudge in the right direction. You are the experts, after all.’

      ‘Your predecessor didn’t think so,’ Pendlebury said. He might as well have been commenting on the price of fish. All of the enthusiasm he’d shown earlier for his job had vanished behind an impassive mask, leaving Carol to draw her own conclusions. They didn’t make a pretty picture.

      She placed the file on Pendlebury’s desk and flipped it open. ‘That was then. This is now. Are you telling me you’ve got query arsons that predate this one?’

      He glanced down at the top sheet in the file and snorted. ‘How far back would you like to start?’

      Tony Hill sat alone at his desk, ostensibly preparing for the following day’s seminar with the task force officers. But his thoughts were far away from those details. He was thinking about the psychopathic minds out there, already set in the moulds that would generate pain and misery for people they didn’t even know yet.

      There had long been a theory among psychologists that discounted the existence of evil, ascribing the worst excesses of the most sociopathic abductors, torturers and killers to a linked series of circumstances and events in their past that culminated in one final stress-laden event that catapulted them over the edge of what civilized society would tolerate. But that had never entirely satisfied Tony. It begged the question of why some people with almost identical backgrounds of abuse and deprivation went on not to become psychopaths but to lead useful, fruitful lives, integrated into society.

      Now the scientists were talking about a genetic answer, a fracture in the DNA code that might explain this divergence. Somehow, Tony found that answer too pat. It seemed as much of a cop-out as the old-fashioned notion that some men were simply evil and that was that. It evaded responsibility in a way he found repugnant.

      It was an issue that had always held particular resonance for him. He knew the reason he was so good at what he did. It was because for so many of the steps down the road that his prey had taken, he

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