"Forgive my ignorance, Miss," Bradshaw said, interrupting. "While that certainly helps with the time of death, why the excitement?"

"Don't you see?" Jane enthused. "He tried to hide something from me. He tried to hide it but I beat him, and if I can do it once then I can do it again; he can't hide from me anymore!" she snarled. "That son of a b.i.t.c.h is mine."

Randall drove back to Faircliff with his mind buzzing wildly out of control. His story had quickly grown beyond his wildest dreams and now he had an empty serial killer's grave and DNA evidence at a murder scene. The police had announced to the world that Arthur Durage was the Crucifier and that Durage was dead, but what if he wasn't? What if the police had covered up the previous murders somehow and now their lies were back?

He tried to get his head around all of the complicated scenarios to stare into the dark heart of the twisted shadows.

His main problem, of course, was that while his conjecture and theories box was overflowing, his evidence box was empty.

The long road was draining his energy and he turned into the next service station to rejuvenate his senses. The car park was busy with a myriad of travellers, all with their own stories and destinations ahead of them. For once he didn't feel jealous of their lives, for his own was surely more important than any of them.

He entered the large building, pa.s.sing through a waft of various food smells from the outlets offering artery-clogging quick-stop refills. The lobby was huge with the various stores off shooting in spurs from the atrium. There was a bank of public telephones that he walked past on his way to the toilet area. As he pa.s.sed the first phone on the wall, it suddenly burst into life with a shrill ring.

He paused, puzzled at the coincidence, before moving past it. The first phone immediately stopped, only for the second to start ringing insistently. He walked by a little spooked, but as he moved at an increasingly fast pace, every phone that he pa.s.sed rang at him with screaming high-pitched tones.

He reached the end of the line just as the last phone rang. He was a little shaken but he was also a man with a deep centre to his core. Instinctively, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the handset in defiance. "Yes?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Stop looking for me," a coa.r.s.e voice whispered back down the line.

"Who is this?" Randall demanded.

"You know who I am."

"I really have no idea just what silly games you think you're playing, but I can a.s.sure you that they will not work on me," Randall said, with more a.s.suredness than he felt.

"You're not usually my type, Mr Reporter, but I can always make exceptions. You have seen enough evidence of my work, Randall; did you ever wonder what it would feel like to fall beneath my blade?"

"Durage?" Randall asked incredulously.

"Stop looking for me," the voice reiterated. "Stop before it's too late."

Randall could only stare down at the phone as the connection was brutally severed. There was no one else around him and the whole wall of phones suddenly rang out together in a deafening chorus. Randall stood rooted to the spot, staring in disbelief at the ringing telephones. Eventually, his paralysis broke and he ran for the bathrooms. Once inside he splashed cold water on his face and tried to still his pounding heart rate. The face staring back at him from the mirror looked ancient and pale. His skin was thin like parchment paper and there was an unhealthy hue to his colouring. His hands gripped the edge of the porcelain sink and he desperately tried to find his rational mind, but it wasn't easy. This whole thing was starting to spook him like a ten year old listening to ghost stories around his first campfire.

His brain was trying to work through the facts and while he had to admit that the telephones had been a good trick, it was surely just that. The idea that Arthur Durage was still on the loose was exciting in the abstract and its existence on paper looked tantalizing; the thought that a killer might be stalking him, however, was far from thrilling.

Randall had no illusions as to the content of his character. He was no crusading hero and if the G.o.ds of fate had seen fit to task his shoulder with carrying the weight then they were in for a rude awakening.

The face stared back at him in the mirror and he saw just how ill he must look to other people. His old bones were fading fast and even if he'd wanted to, which he surely didn't, he was the last man capable of saving anyone. He had started this comeback trail with the idea of ending his life with some dignity and a little success, not to mention the prospect of proving to his b.i.t.c.h of an ex-wife that he wasn't quite the long-term loser that she loved to label him as. He had a son who he had been absent from for most of his life and he wanted to prove to the kid that his old man had something about him, even if it was just leaving a cheque behind.

Footsteps startled him as someone approached the toilets. For some reason he panicked and ran for the nearest stall, slamming and locking the door quickly behind him. The cubicle stank to high heaven and he wondered when it had last been cleaned.

The door to the men's toilets swung open on an ominous whisper and shoes clacked across the tiled floor.

Instinctively, Randall stood on the toilet keeping his feet up off the floor and out of sight. He braced his arms against the cubical walls and crouched, sweating profusely as the footsteps grew closer. He held his breath tightly in his chest as the man moved to the far end of the cubicle wall. A door banged loudly as the man thrust it open and proceeded to open every cubicle door one by one.

Randall's legs were burning with the unnatural effort of his precarious balancing act. Door after door banged open as the man worked his way along the wall. Randall turned towards the noise and saw that there was a crude hole forced through his cubicle wall. Graffiti was scrawled across the surface, depicting graphic acts of s.e.x, along with several telephone numbers.

Randall leaned closer and placed his eye over the hole to try and see what was happening as the man had suddenly grown silent. The only sound was that of his own heavy breathing as he stared through the hole into darkness beyond. He thought that his chest was going to explode with the strain of remaining so still and quiet. His legs trembled and his hands shook. An eye suddenly appeared on the other side of the hole and Randall screamed in terror at the blinking orb. He thrust a finger through and poked the eye hard enough to make the man on the other side stagger back, screaming in shock and pain.

Randall stumbled off his perch and out of the cubicle. He broke for the door, not turning back and not hearing the man's anguished cries after him.

"Jesus, love," the man shouted, holding his eye and feeling the rush of s.e.xual excitement wane, as his hopes of finding a willing partic.i.p.ant in the stalls were dashed. "You only had to say that you weren't interested! You didn't have to b.l.o.o.d.y blind me."

"Are you sure about him?" Jane asked Danny quietly as Bradshaw returned to the bar to get another round in.

"No, but we'll need him. What about you? Can't you get a read on our American cousin?"

Jane pondered the question for a moment. In truth she couldn't get much of a read on Bradshaw of any kind, at least nothing much below the surface. It wasn't that surprising as he was a law enforcement agent and used to keeping a steely resolve. It was only that she had been so close to Danny's father that she had been able to peek behind Danny's curtain, and even then it wasn't an in-depth a.n.a.lysis. "Not really," she finally responded. "I get a good vibe from him. I think that he's honest enough, and dedicated to his job; that has to count for something."

"Should my ears be burning?" Bradshaw said, appearing back at the table with a silent ease that was fast becoming his trademark.

"Look, as much as I appreciate the help I have to be getting back to the office soon," Danny said. "There's much to be done, especially after..., you know," he trailed off.

"Then I'll make this quick," Jane replied.

She leaned into the centre of the table. The pub was quiet and she had taken a booth at the back. It was a pleasant surrounding, far too pleasant for what lay ahead. The building was old and teemed with life and history from the oak beams and stone walls. She had been formulating a plan of sorts for the past few days and now that she had her success against the killer, it was time to act.

"Look. This guy has been pumping information into my head for days now," she began. "He shows me what he wants when he wants and I can't stop him. I can't get a look at his face, not even a whiff of what he looks like. But here's the thing; earlier, I managed to slip past him. I could see what he wanted to hide from me and I can use that."

"Use it how?" Bradshaw asked interestedly while Danny stayed silent.

"This whole thing isn't a one-way street," she replied eagerly. "If he can show me things then I can show him things as well. I can tap into what he's looking for with these women and we can find where he's going to strike."

"A decoy," Bradshaw said, nodding.

"Hey, wait a minute," Danny started. "Who exactly is going to stand in for one of his victims? I do hope that you're not volunteering, Jane?"

"Me? You must think I'm nuts!" she exclaimed. "We run it through you, Danny - a legitimate police sting all the way."

"And how exactly do I sell this to Chalmers and Barrett?" Danny asked.

"Me," Bradshaw offered with a wide grin. "Chalmers is only likely to authorise any sort of expenditure if it comes from an FBI Agent's lips."

"And you're really sure that you can influence him that much?" Danny asked her sternly.

"No," she answered honestly. "I'm not 100% sure. But this animal has wormed his way into my life, Danny. He's killed innocent people, including your friend, and I don't know about you guys but I'm sick and tired of running."

Randall waited impatiently for the woman to show up. She had been indignant, then reluctant, then angry, before turning submissive and tearful when he'd turned to blackmail. Kim Croft had been hooked by the lure of easy money for whatever reason and now Randall was going to reel her in. He cared little for her sick mother and only for what she could do for him now.

The incident at the service station had shaken him badly at first, but now it was only serving to rea.s.sure him that he was on the right track. Whatever was happening here, there was a serial killer, dead bodies, police corruption and ghost stories; he was going to be able to write his own ticket. He could feel in his bones that he wasn't far from the grave and the threat from a disconnected voice down a telephone line wasn't going to stop him now.

The cafe was bustling with people and it was just how he wanted it. The coffee that he was nursing was palatable enough and his nervous stomach lurched at the aromas circulating the place. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten but even the thought of food made him nauseous.

The bell above the cafe door chimed as Kim Croft entered, clutching an A4 cardboard folder and looking distinctly nervous as her head jerked from side to side looking for spying eyes.

Randall stood slightly and waved her over to the table. She approached and sat down, still clasping the folder tightly to her chest.

He had called her earlier (not from the service station) and informed her what he needed. At first she had flat out refused until he'd told her that he had her on tape agreeing to sell confidential police information to a journalist. Of course he hadn't recorded her, but the threat was more than enough for the guilty woman, whose conscience was already running her ragged.

"Is that it?" he nodded at the folder.

She nodded curtly. "Give me the tape and the money that you owe me," she said, striving for a commanding tone but falling some way short.

"Listen, love, hand that over before I have you arrested and dragged out of Faircliff Police Station in handcuffs in front of all of your friends. Just picture it: imagine having to explain to everyone that you betrayed them; just imagine the looks in their eyes."

Kim went silent as she pictured that very scenario. She was just an honest woman caught in an impossible and alien situation. She had neither the will nor the courage to fight her way out. Eventually, she pushed the folder across the table and sat back, resigned.

Randall took the offering and opened it. The paperwork inside had come from the police system and contained information that he just did not have the time to find, or even the ability to access. He read through the pages quickly but thoroughly, his reporter's mind attuned to the job.

The "Children of Christ Bible Camp" was an offshoot of the local church. They set up a summer campsite a few miles out of town every couple of years and youths from around the country attended. The pamphlet in the folder told a tale of faith and love to combat the ills of modern society. Randall's sceptical mind couldn't help but find the words a little troubling; as far as he was concerned, they ran dangerously around the edges of being a cult.

There was also a list included of the owners and operators and Kim had excelled herself in finding a list of attendees from the year in question, the year that Lana Genovese had attended. He remembered Lana's mother telling him all about the boy from the camp that had been bothering Lana - Martin, she had said, but no surname. Fortunately, there were only two Martins that year: one was a 41 year old lecturer and one had been a Faircliff teenager, Martin Kline. "This one," he said, pointing to the youth's details on the paper. "I want his background, full details and I want an address."

Alfonso Ramsey sat upon his throne and stared down at his subjects. He knew that his carefully cultivated aura of invincibility was only paper thin, but he also knew that true power lay in information and he had gathered as much as humanly possible. His media empire spanned the globe and every juicy valuable nugget sat inside his own personal vault to be used at his own discretion and for his own purposes.

While he liked to encourage his Machiavellian persona, his power wasn't limitless. He had been able to buy some time and influence on the investigation concerning his daughter's murder. He had been able to secure the services of an FBI agent who had been in Europe and although he hadn't met the man, he'd heard only good things.

He checked through his notes and saw that everything to date was in hand. He had not been close to his daughter; her gender had caused him nothing but disappointment and regret. But she had been a Ramsey, and whether he was a small boy fighting for a plastic tractor or a man on his knees being knighted by the Queen, you never let an insult stand.

"Sir?" A timid voice from the doorway disturbed him.

He looked up to see his current secretary standing nervously. The man was handsome and well-groomed but he went through so many a.s.sistants that he never bothered with learning names; he just knew this one as #14. "What is it?" he demanded, staring down at the sheet of paper in his trembling hand.

"I was asked to give you this," the man responded as he slid the note on top of his desk before beating a hasty retreat back out the door.

He read the piece of paper quickly before a slower second time. He had built a wall of silence around Faircliff and every avenue of press intrusion had been closed off. He had d.a.m.n near emptied his private safe of secrets keeping a lid on things, until now.

When dealing with sensitive information, he only ever dealt with hard copies; he didn't trust the computers to hang onto anything important. When he burnt a piece of paper the evidence was gone forever. With an electronic copy, there seemed to be a ghost floating around in cybers.p.a.ce for eternity.

He read the sheet a third time. All of his plans to keep the investigation out of the wider public's domain were now gone. The killer had murdered a police officer and no matter what influence he had over senior officials, they would not allow him to influence their decisions now. He had been in the news business for over 30 years and he knew one thing to be absolute: once news broke you couldn't stop it - you could only control the story.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

OVEREXPOSED.

When the story broke, it broke hard. The whole country's attention was suddenly focused like a giant spotlight onto the small town of Faircliff and its problems. Just where the information emanated from no one seemed to know, nor how there was so much detail involved. The recipe contained so many juicy ingredients that the public's collective mouths couldn't stop watering.

There was a killer running wild - a killer that had reportedly returned from the grave - and the authorities were seemingly powerless to stop him.. Not since a caped figure had danced through the fog and shadows of Victorian London had there been such a star. The Crucifier was back and he was busier than ever.

The London Herald had the exclusive story with careful insinuations of police corruption and claims of negligence. The paper was the single largest one in the UK with a distribution upwards of 8 million copies every week.

The paper claimed that the man known as the original Crucifier, Arthur Durage, had never been shot and killed as the police had told the public 8 years ago. The paper also claimed that the circ.u.mstances of Arthur Durage's capture had not been fully disclosed. According to their source, the police had employed a psychic to track the killer when all else had failed, a woman who had caused the death of a decorated police officer. The Herald made no secret of their mocking for such an endeavour, mocking the police with satirical cartoons and editorials. The paper painted the police as incompetent amateurs, unable to organise an investigation and protect the public, all the while concealing vital information that could have avoided future deaths.

There was a large photograph of Jane Parkes, the woman that The Herald identified as the psychic but depicted as a charlatan. The image was taken through a car window and a little careful Photoshopping had enabled her to look shrewish and guilty.

The paper promised more revelations in the days ahead, teasing the readers with an in-depth insight into the current investigation, along with an a.s.surance that the public would hear about every detail that the police were hiding.

Superintendant Chalmers felt the full force of Commander Barrett as the storm fell and the ground gave way beneath the policeman's feet. There was one thing that Chalmers knew to be true above all others: s.h.i.t rolled downhill and all you could do was try and make sure that you weren't at the bottom.

He'd had a lifetime career of heeding this advice and as yet he'd always had someone to cushion the blow below him, but Barrett wasn't interested in any other sacrificial lambs. If Barrett was this worried then Chalmers could only guess at how high the rains were falling from and he knew that the men who sat on top of the pyramid were not going to settle for anything less than a superintendant.

He stared down at the lurid tabloid paper spread out across his desk. The bold slashing headlines screamed insults at his profession and him personally and there was nothing that he could fire back with. It seemed to matter little that he hadn't even been in Faircliff 8 years ago; the two cases would be forever linked, and he was going to bear the brunt of the blame.

Alfonso Ramsey had apparently been all mouth and no trousers when it had come to his threats and promises. The man had talked big but had been unable to prevent the story from breaking and now there were details from 8 years ago that were being spoon-fed to the public. Chief amongst these was the fact that there had been a psychic working with a senior officer. The paper was painting the police as b.u.mbling amateurs putting a carnival freak on the payroll despite the fact that Karl Meyers had merely consulted with the woman on his own time and without the knowledge of his superiors.

Chalmers' dreams of powerful promotions were surely up in smoke now; he would be hung out to dry as an officer acting alone and in secret. He knew the game and it was exactly how he would have played it, if he'd been on the other side of the fence.

Someone knocked on the door softly and he looked up from his black depression, eager for a little distraction. Unfortunately, it was more of the case. "Detective Inspector Meyers," he greeted Danny as he walked through the door, accompanied by the FBI agent who was supposed to have been the answer. "And what can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"We think there's still time," Danny said firmly, his eyes unflinching.

"Oh, well, then by all means pull up a chair; can I get you anything? Champagne? Caviar? My nuts in a bag? Apparently I'm not using them at the moment."

"Look, we can still finish this; there's still time," Danny said in a stronger voice that bordered on anger. "You're still the man in charge."

"And just how much longer do you think that's going to last?" Chalmers scoffed.

"All the more reason to act fast while we still can," Danny responded.

"You really think that we are just going to solve the case and become heroes? Maybe we'll all get medals. I can see the front page now," Chalmers said bitterly. "They are going to shut me down, shut us down. I'm going to be the one who's hung out to dry. It's my career that's dead and buried here, Meyers. I'm the one that's going to be laughing stock - everything that I've worked for all these years has just been burnt to the ground."

"You G.o.dd.a.m.n coward," Danny snarled. "There are people dying out there and all you care about is your f.u.c.king job! I don't give a s.h.i.t if I end up scrubbing toilets for a living! While I'm still a cop I'm going to try and catch this b.a.s.t.a.r.d before he kills again and you're going to help me."

"But I can't," Chalmers whined.

"Superintendant, we have a way - or at least a chance of catching this guy," Bradshaw interjected. "You bring this killer in and I'm sure that it will go a long way to revaluating your reputation in the eyes of the press. Once the media boys get on your side you'll be able to write your own ticket. A single hero cop who stood against the system and refused to buckle? Think of those headlines."

Chalmers tried to plot a way out of the darkness. The American had a point. He certainly wasn't going to get any help from above, and Barrett had made it perfectly clear that he was going to be the last rat left on the ship when it went down. The only thing that he was going to be left with was a meagre pension on the understanding that he went quietly, but his reputation was going to be in tatters. He searched his soul to try and find a little courage, a little pride, but there was precious little to be found.

"Alright. Enough p.i.s.sing about, Superintendant," Danny said shaking his head. "You're going to do what I want and I'm not asking."