"It was the 'young' bit I was referring to."

"Well, it's all relative, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is," said Annie, an image of the naked Eric flashing across her mind's eye. "So there's more?"

"There certainly is. I told you that Jack Grimley was just the first in a series of odd incidents that September. Odd enough to stick in my mind all these years as if they were yesterday. The second occurred a few days later when a young Australian lad called Keith McLaren was found with a serious head wound in some woods near Dalehouse, up the coast a ways, inland from Staithes."

"I know it," said Annie. "Isolated spot."

"Very. Anyway, the head wound showed remarkable similarities to Jack Grimley's. A smooth, rounded object. It was touch-and-go with young McLaren for a while, but he pulled through. Problem was, he'd no memory of what happened to him. The doctors said it might come back in time, in bits and piecesit wasn't due to any physical brain damagebut that was no use to us. Now, the interesting thing is that a couple of people said they saw him down by the harbour in Staithes, probably the day it happened, walking with a young woman with short brown hair, wearing jeans, a grey windcheater and a checked shirt. It was better than the description we got from the witness who saw Jack Grimley with a woman by the Cook statue because it was dark then, but we'd no way of proving it was even the same person, let alone of knowing who she was."

"Anyone get a good look at her?"

"No, that's the problem. We couldn't even come up with a decent identikit from what we got."

"Any idea of her age?"

"Young, they said. As in twentyish."

"And you worked on the assumption it was the same woman in both cases?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Probably, given the pathologist's assessment of the wounds. What happened to McLaren?"

"He recovered and went back to Australia."

"Do you have an address?"

"God knows where he is now. He was from Sydney. I seem to remember he was set on becoming a lawyer, if that's any help."

"Okay," said Annie, making a note. "So this mystery woman shows up in two separate accounts involving two serious attacks in the area, linked by the similarity in head wounds, possibly made by a smooth, rounded object, one resulting in death. And this is an area where you get very few violent incidents. Am I to take it that you're making a connection here between this woman and the one who showed up at Mapston Hall to take Karen Drewor Lucy Paynefor a walk on Sunday morning?"

"That's right."

"But that was eighteen years ago, Les," said Annie. "What could it possibly have to do with what happened the other day?"

Ferris grinned and shook his empty glass. "But there's more. Buy us another Sneck Lifter and I'll tell you the whole story."

"Hello, Mr. Randall," said Banks, when the officers brought Joseph Randall into the interview room. "Nice to see you again."

"You can spare me the pleasantries," said Randall. "What do you mean by sending a police car to drag me out of my home? You couldn't possibly have sent a more obvious signal to my neighbours if you'd tried."

"Signal of what?" Banks asked.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about."

"Well, we wouldn't want you to have to walk all this way, would we?"

"Stop playing silly buggers. They wouldn't even give me any reason why they were bringing me here."

"They probably didn't know, themselves," said Banks. "You know how it is. Lowly PCs. Need-to-know basis. We don't tell them everything."

Randall folded his arms. "This time I've called my solicitor. He'll be meeting me here momentarily."

"Good idea," said Banks. "We like to make sure everything's above board when we get to this stage of an investigation."

Randall paused in his display of indignation and gave Banks a worried glance. "What do you mean, 'this stage'?"

"Endgame," said Banks, casually shuffling the papers in front of him. "We find it works best for us in court if everyone knows his or her rights, so there are no possibilities of infringement. So, if you like, we'll just wait here quietly until your solicitor arrives. It's not the most salubrious of places." Banks glanced around at the flaking institutional green paint, the high, barred window and the bare light bulb covered by a flyblown grille. "Still...Cup of tea while we wait?"

Randall grunted. "No, I don't want a bloody cup of tea. I want this over with so I can get out of here and go home."

"Mind if I have one?"

"I don't care what you do."

Banks asked the constable on guard to send for tea, and before it arrived, Randall's solicitor popped his head around the door, appearing lost. As Banks had expected, he wasn't used to having criminal clients. Most Eastvale solicitors weren't. This one looked as if it was his first time inside a police interview room.

"Come in," said Banks. He didn't recognize the young man in the ill-fitting suit, untidy hair and large spectacles. "You are?"

The solicitor shook Randall's hand and sat down in the spare chair. "Crawford. Sebastian Crawford. Solicitor."

"Sebastian takes care of all my affairs," said Randall.

"Good," said Banks. "I'll just call my colleague and we'll be ready to start." If Sebastian Crawford took care of all Randall's interests, Banks thought, then he wasn't likely to be very much of a criminal lawyer. With any luck, he would soon be way out of his depth.

The tea arrived, along with DS Stefan Nowak, and they settled down in the interview room. When he was ready, Banks turned on the video and tape machines and stated the details of date, time, place and those present. He could see how this made Randall nervous, while Crawford just sat there, fascinated by the whole routine.

"Now then, Mr. Randall," Banks began. "There've been a few interesting developments since we last talked, but before we get to them, I'd just like to recap briefly what you told us on the previous two times we talked to you, make sure it's accurate."

Randall glanced towards Crawford, who nodded. "I can see no harm in that, Joseph," he advised. "Do as they say."

"As I remember it," Banks said, "you were surprised to find that you'd spent eleven minutes in the storeroom with Hayley Daniels's body before reporting it to the police station. Is that correct?"

"It was you who said I spent eleven minutes there. I didn't think it was that long. You say someone saw me, but I thought I entered the building at quarter past eight, not ten past eight, as your witness said."

"It was ten past eight," said Banks. "Don't forget, Joseph, the CCTV cameras run in the daytime as well, and they are accurately timed. Eleven minutes is a long time to spend with a corpse. Unless there were matters to attend to, of course."

"Mr. Banks!" said Crawford. "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing, yet," said Banks, keeping his eyes on Randall. "You also admitted that you were in the Duck and Drake earlier on Saturday evening, when Hayley and her friends were there, and that you were ogling her while she stood at the bar."

Randall looked at Crawford. "That was his word, not mine. I admitted to no such thing, Sebastian. You see? This is what they do. They twist what you say, put words into your mouth."

"But you did see her there," Banks went on. "And you did try to gloss over that fact in our first interview, didn't you?"

"I told you I didn't remember seeing her."

"Well, she certainly hadn't changed her clothes," said Banks. "And the only thing different about her appearance the following morning was that she was dead. But if you expect me to believe you saw an attractive young girl in a very revealing outfit at seven o'clock one evening and then again just after eight o'clock the next morning and didn't know it was the same girl, I suppose I have to believe you."

"It was the shock," said Randall. "For Christ's sake, man, she was dead. It might be par for the course as far as you're concerned, but I'm not used to seeing dead bodies on my property."

"Let's move on to what you did on Saturday night," said Banks. "You told me that you were at home between the hours of twelve and two, that you put the cat out and went to bed about a quarter to one. Do you stand by that?"

"Of course I do. It's what happened."

"It's not very far from where you live to Taylor's Yard, is it?" Banks said. "Though it might make more sense to drive to the car park at the back of the Maze and slip in through one of the passages not covered by CCTV."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Yes, Mr. Banks, what are you talking about?" Crawford chipped in. "My client has told you what he did on Saturday night."

"I'm presenting an alternative version," said Banks.

"But how could I have known the girl would go into the Maze at whatever time she did?" said Randall.

It was a good question, Banks had to admit, and he didn't have a ready answer. The whole element of spontaneity, of Hayley's deciding at the last minute to head into the Maze to relieve herself, bothered him. It was a stumbling block. But, he had to keep telling himself, it didn't preclude the possibility that there was somebody already in there just waiting for an opportunity, as Templeton believed. "You know the layout back there," he said. "What was to stop you from hiding out and waiting for a victim? It was simply a matter of time, after all, before some poor young drunken lass wandered in and got lost in there. Perhaps you'd been in the Fountain on previous occasions and knew that the barmaid there used it as a shortcut to the car park. Maybe you didn't know she was off work that night. No matter. Everything turned out well in the end, didn't it? I'll bet you couldn't believe your luck when you saw it was the girl you'd had your eye on in the Duck and Drake earlier that evening."

"Now, Mr. Banks," said Crawford with a nervous laugh. "Surely this is stretching our credulity a bit far, isn't it? Do you really expect us to believe this...er...coincidence?"

"Until Mr. Randall tells us how it really happened," said Banks, "I'm afraid it's the best we can do."

"I've told you how it happened," said Randall. "After the Duck and Drake I went home and spent the rest of the evening watching television. At about a quarter to one, I put the cat out and went to bed. End of story."

"I'd like to believe you," said Banks, "but I'm afraid what you're saying goes against the evidence."

"What evidence?" asked Crawford. "Are you saying you can produce evidence to corroborate what you're accusing my client of?"

Banks turned to Stefan Nowak. "We have evidence that goes a long way towards proving it," he said. "Stefan?"

Nowak opened a folder in front of him. "According to our independent analysis, the DNA from the sample you freely gave us matches the DNA taken from traces of semen found on Hayley Daniels's body and on two leather remnants close to the body."

"What are you saying?" said Randall, mouth gaping.

"That the chances it was someone else who left those semen traces on Hayley Daniels's body are about five billion to one," said Banks. "Am I right, DS Nowak?"

"About that, yes," said Nowak.

"And that's good enough for any court in the country," said Banks. "Joseph Randall, I'm charging you with the murder of Hayley Daniels. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." Banks stood up and opened the door. Two burly constables walked in. "Take him down to the custody suite," said Banks.

"You can't do this to me!" said Randall. "Sebastian, help me! Stop them. That sample was taken under duress."

"You gave your consent," Banks said. "We have the waiver."

"Under duress. Sebastian! Stop them! Please don't let them do this to me."

Crawford wouldn't look his client in the eye. "There's nothing I can do right now, Joseph," he said. "They're quite within their rights. But believe me, I'll do everything in my power to help you."

"Get me out of this!" yelled Randall, red-faced, twisting his head back towards Crawford as the constables dragged him out of the interview room. "Sebastian! Get me out of this now!"

Crawford was pale and hunched. He managed to summon up only the grimmest of smiles as he edged past Banks into the corridor and followed his client down the stairs.

"Now this is where it gets really interesting," said Ferris after a long swig of Sneck Lifter. He could certainly put it away, Annie thought, checking her watch. She could write off Coronation Street tonight, and maybe The Bill, too, the way things were going. Still, if Ferris's story was as interesting as he obviously thought it was, maybe it would be worthwhile.

"A week or so after we found Jack Grimley's body and the Australian lad got hurt, another local chap by the name of Greg Eastcote was reported missing by a workmate. Apparently, he hadn't turned up at his job for several days. He was a delivery man for a fish wholesaler. We never found him, nor any trace of him."

"Why do I get the feeling there's always more?" said Annie. "This case is starting to resemble a hall of mirrors." There was perhaps a quarter of an inch of beer left in her glass, but she wasn't going to have another one, not this time. Control. Getting it back.

"It is, rather, isn't it?" said Ferris. "Anyway, we went into Eastcote's house to see if we could find any clues to his disappearance. He lived alone. I was there, along with Paddy Cromer. We had no evidence at all that there was any connection with what happened to Grimley and McLaren, but such mysterious disappearances and violent assaults were pretty rare around these parts, as I said. As far as his workmates were concerned, Eastcote was happy with his job and seemed generally uncomplicated and worry-free, if perhaps rather quiet and antisocial. A bit of an 'odd duck,' as one of them put it. To be honest, we didn't know what we'd stumbled into at the time."

"And now?"

Ferris laughed. "I'm not much the wiser." He drank some more beer and resumed his tale. The lights dimmed and the pub started to fill up with evening drinkers. Annie felt somehow cut off from the laughter and gaiety of the crowd, as if she and Ferris were adrift on their own island of reality, or unreality, depending on how you saw it. She couldn't explain why she felt that way, but somehow she knew that what Ferris was telling her was important, and that it had something to do with Lucy Payne's murder, though Lucy would have been only ten in 1989. "It was what we found there, in his home, that puzzled us," Ferris said. "In almost every respect it was a perfectly normal house. Neat and tidy, clean, the usual books, TV and videos. Normal."

"But?"

"This never made the media," Ferris said, "but in one of the sideboard drawers, we found seven locks of hair tied up in pink ribbons." Annie felt her chest constrict. Ferris must have noticed some change in her because he went on quickly, "No, there's nothing normal about that, is there?"

"Did you? I mean..."

"Everyone knew there had been a serial killer operating in the north, and the general feeling was that now we'd found him, or at least found out who he was. We never did find Eastcote himself. As far as our tally was concerned, he had claimed six victims, but there were other young women missing, other unexplained disappearances, and one who survived."

Annie raised an eyebrow.

"Kirsten Farrow. Someone interrupted him before he could finish her off," Ferris went on. "She was in a pretty bad way for a long time, but she recovered."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Yes. She'd been staying in Leeds at the time with a friend called Sarah Bingham. She was vague, Kirsten, but you can expect that when someone suffered the way she did, poor lass. She really couldn't remember much about what happened to her at all. We also consulted with the investigators on the case, Detective Superintendent Elswick and his DS, Dicky Heywood. Greg Eastcote's delivery routes coincided with the disappearances and murders of all six girls and with Kirsten's assault. We also managed to match Kirsten's hair sample with one of the locks, so we know that he took a sample from her, even though she survived, and another lock matched that of his most recent victim. The others were...well, they'd been buried for a while, but we did our best. And you know what hair's like at the best of times; it's hardy and durable enough, but practically damned impossible to make a match that'll stand up in court, and these were early days for DNA. Too early. None of us had really heard much about it, and I doubt you could have got DNA from a hair follicle, even if there'd been one. But the hair had been shorn with sharp scissors, so that was pretty unlikely, anyway. And court was never an issue."

"No?"

"Like I said, we never found Eastcote. A local woman said she thought she'd seen two people struggling on the cliff path just up past the abbey on the way to Robin Hood's Bay, but she was a long way off, and she couldn't tell us any more than that. We searched the area and found one of the fence posts had come out of the ground. It seemed as if someone had gone over the edge. We also found blood and fibres on the barbed wire, but we'd no way of knowing whose they were. We got Eastcote's blood group from medical records, of course, and it matched, but so did 44 per cent of the country's."

"Were there any more killings?"

"Not after that. Not around here."

"You think he went over?"

"We didn't know for certain, but it was a reasonable assumption that his body had been carried out to sea on the tide."

"So what did you do?"

"What could we do? We followed a few minor leads, queried some of the local B & Bs. One woman remembered Keith McLaren staying at her guest house, and that he struck up a conversation with a young woman there. Seems only natural, I suppose, when you're young."

"Did you question him about it?"