

## BadDayz.com

### ENIGMA

BadDayz.com

Copyright © Enigma 2012

Enigma has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

Cover design by Charl Ritter at The Rocket Scientists

ISBN 9781301498871

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

1

Cambridge, England

20h00 GMT, 11 October 2009

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

He swung into his chair after returning home from work, switched on the computer, checked his e-mails then logged in and waited quietly in the receding light of a brisk Cambridgeshire autumnal evening. The anticipation infused a sense of fragrance in his nostrils. The perfume of iron trapped in haemoglobin. He licked his lips. Conrad, on the other side of the world, saw that Gabriel had logged in and immediately started typing.

Cdesign02: OK, I'm ready.

Gabriel: Nervous?

Cdesign02: A little.

Gabriel: Have you chosen a finger yet?

Cdesign02: Not yet.

Gabriel: And the hammer?

A protracted pause

Gabriel: Did you find the hammer?

Cdesign02: Yes.

Gabriel: Is he right-handed?

Cdesign02: I don't know.

Gabriel: Go ask him, I'll wait.

The room he waited in was a back bedroom in a modest house on an ordinary street. The ceiling light was switched off. The hue from the computer screen coloured his skin an unnatural, Pictish blue in the gloom. To his right was an open door and behind him the gloom of a cloudy evening peered in through the closed window. The reflection in the glass distorted his broad shoulders, sandy hair and the simple lines of the wooden campaign table and chair.

_And so it begins,_ he thought to himself, stretching back comfortably against the chair. He picked at the small bloodstain on his trousers then studied his fingertips gently tapping the opening movement of _Carmina Burana_ playing in his mind. His eyes closed as he surrendered to the swell of the music rising inside him. The tempo built slowly at first but it came on inexorably, mercilessly, harder and faster until he was swept away by it, buoyed by the release of dopamine and endorphin in his brain. 'O Fortuna' always played in his mind when he started the process with a new patient and always produced a maelstrom of excitement that he could never explain. He revelled in it now, riding the pleasure coursing through his veins. His head lolled against the knot of his tie until, finally, the tenor crescendo crashed over him and released him. He opened his eyes, sated and dissociated, breathless, until his mind stilled and a contented sigh rippled through the calm in the room.

A clash of protesting crockery and cutlery rang out from the next room, breaking the spell. The smell of food wafted in, reminding him how hungry he was.

'Dinner's ready,' a woman's voice called from the kitchen.

'I'll be there in a minute.'

'Yours is on the counter, I've got the knives and forks,' she said as she walked past the open door with a plate of food.

'I'm almost done,' he said without looking up. 'I've just got to finish this thought.'

'It'll get cold,' her voice trailed behind her as she moved down the passage.

'Just two more minutes.'

He looked down at the screen and saw the answer:

Cdesign02: He's right-handed.

Reading the words, he imagined Conrad's exhilaration. The thought of him hurrying back from the penitent was pleasing. Enthusiasm and passion were essential ingredients.

Gabriel: Did you get the extra cable ties?

Cdesign02: Yes.

Gabriel: I would suggest the forefinger of his right hand. Stretch it out and tie it to the armrest.

Cdesign02: OK, back in a minute.

He tapped idly on the space bar, drained by the intensity of Carl Orff's opening cantata, waiting patiently as he had done many times before. His thoughts drifted as he watched the tendons of his fingers gliding beneath the skin.

Cdesign02: Done it.

Gabriel: Have you told him yet?

No response.

Gabriel: Always tell him first.

Still no response.

Gabriel: We spoke about this.

Cdesign02: I know.

Gabriel: Knowing what's going to happen is the mind-fuck part for him. Let it sink in, don't rush it.

Cdesign02: I know.

Gabriel: Make him squirm, he needs to squirm.

Cdesign02: Ok.

Gabriel: Do the tip or the whole finger, it's up to you, but only do one.

Cdesign02: I know.

Gabriel: It gets messy so don't freak out if you get blood and gunk on your face. Remember to be safe. He's probably got AIDS so keep your mouth tightly shut.

Cdesign02: OK.

Gabriel: When the blood and the noise start, you'll feel the adrenalin kick in so be ready for it. Stay in control and stick to the plan. Remember this is all about you. Don't get carried away and accidently kill him.

Cdesign02: OK.

Gabriel: Don't stop until it's done. If you hesitate, he'll see weakness. You both need to know that you have the power now and you mean what you say.

Cdesign02: I know.

Gabriel: Keep going until the bone disintegrates then clamp the arteries. The screaming may put you off in the beginning but I guarantee it will stop. They all stop squealing pretty quickly and start the begging. He'll offer you anything and everything to let him go. Ignore what he says. They all make promises they can't keep and they all cry puerile tears. Ignore the tears. He's not crying for her, he's crying for himself. Penitence takes more time.

Cdesign02: I'm ready.

Gabriel: Go ahead, Carpe diem my friend.

He leant further back in his chair and stared at the screen. His eyes drifted back to the first joint of his index finger gently draped over the mouse. He ran his fingers through his hair, nodded in approval and closed his eyes to imagine Conrad at work on the other side of the world.

Conrad rose from his computer. It was nine o'clock on a chilly spring evening in Johannesburg, and goose pimples prickled his tanned skin. Walking across the mezzanine and descending the stairs into the living room, he gathered his keys from the kitchen worktop, taking care not to mark the polished surface. He unlocked the front door and followed the shingled driveway to the garage's side entrance. Remus, an old lemon and white pointer dog, loped across the lawn to meet him. Conrad stroked his head as they stepped into the garage. The fluorescent bulbs hummed into life and he collected the hammer from the workbench. The old wooden handle had a warm patina, polished by hours of work in skilled hands.

'Come on, boy,' Conrad called to Remus as he flicked the light switch off.

He locked the garage door and returned to the house.

'Wait here,' he said and left the dog outside.

Conrad walked through the living room to the open-plan kitchen. He returned the keys to the granite worktop then retrieved a single key hanging beside a Saint Christopher pendant on a gold chain around his neck. The chain and the pendant were a gift from his mother; the key was a gift to himself. His hand trembled slightly as he ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. A forced sigh and an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders steadied his nerve. Clenching the key he crossed the room and stepped through the sliding doors at the rear onto the wooden patio. The night air was crisp and still beneath the branches of the oak tree growing from the centre of the entertainment area. A few long strides carried him across the decking to the storeroom at the far corner of the back garden. He paused, cricked his head from side to side to release the tension, then unlocked the door and stepped inside.

A stocky young black man sat alone in a chair in the centre of the brightly lit room. Conrad had tied him to the chair with a web of white plastic cable ties and pushed a golf ball into his mouth before gagging him with brown tape. Beads of perspiration glistened on the black skin and the wet stains on his shirt testified to his efforts to free himself. A close-cropped peppercorn hairstyle, full cheeks and Levi jeans spoke of easy living. Bloodshot eyes hinted at solvent abuse.

'Jabulani, my friend,' Conrad spoke softly as he locked the door. 'Tonight's the night.'

The black youth spewed incoherent rage beneath the tape gagging his mouth.

'Good. Good,' Conrad acknowledged Jabulani's anger. 'Hang on to that, you're going to need it.'

Jabulani's belligerence changed to fear when he saw the large claw hammer clenched in his captor's hand. A flicker of confusion creased the skin between his eyebrows as he watched him place the hammer carefully on the chest of drawers. Conrad's back obscured the drawers as he rummaged through them, looking for the small cable ties.

Conrad sniffed as he straightened his tall tri-athlete frame, pushed the drawers closed and turned to face Jabulani. He walked up to him and held the plastic ties in his teeth as he adjusted Jabulani's extended right index finger. He added two more ties to bind it tightly to the metal arm of the chair then stood back to review his work.

He stepped to his right, rolled up the sleeves of a blue plaid shirt, casually tucked the shirt tails into the waistband of his khaki chinos then picked up the hammer.

'You see this hammer?' he asked the young man furiously straining against the cable ties.

'Focus, Jabulani!' he said sternly. 'Focus on what we're doing.'

Jabulani sat still with rigid vitriol. He sucked air through his flaring nostrils and flicked his head sideways to discard the beads of sweat running down his face.

'This was my father's hammer, Jabulani. It was her father's hammer. This hammer is going to help you pay what you owe.'

Jabulani fell silent. Something about the lean man's chiselled face looked vaguely familiar. Latin-Caucasian, green eyes, elegant nose, angular cheekbones, high brow, dark hair.

'Every day I'm going to come to you with this hammer, Jabulani,' he said softly as he advanced on his captive. 'Every day I'm going to use it to smash one of your fingers. This will go on and on and on until you have none left.'

Jabulani remonstrated unintelligibly beneath his gag.

'When you have no fingers left, Jabulani, I'll start on your toes, then your knees, then your elbows, then your ankles, then your wrists and on and on and on. We're going to spend a lot of time together from now on, my friend. You will live the pain you caused everyone.'

Jabulani cocked his head and glared back defiantly.

Conrad gently stroked the knuckle restrained between the two tightly strung cable ties. He smiled and raised Jabulani's chin to look deep into his dark eyes.

'Do you remember my sister?' he asked, drawing a photograph out of his pocket and thrusting it in front of Jabulani's face. He waited for an answer.

Jabulani stared at the photo, his eyes blank.

'You don't remember her, do you?' Holding the hammer clenched in his elegant fingers, he pushed a lock of hair off his forehead with the back of his hand.

Jabulani grunted.

'Well, I remember her and I remember what you did to her.'

He raised the hammer in front of Jabulani's eyes and said, 'Let me help you remember.'

Conrad grimaced and narrowed his eyes as he smashed the hammer down onto Jabulani's finger, to avoid the blood that sprayed like water from a lump of wet clay.

Jabulani bayed with pain. His eyes bulged with nausea as he instinctively craned his head down to look at his broken finger.

Conrad jerked Jabulani's head back up and glared at him.

'Do you remember her now?' he asked and then smashed the hammer against the finger again.

He pressed the hammer against the joint and rocked it backwards and forwards to intensify the agony.

Pain emptied Jabulani's bladder and stained the front of his jeans dark blue.

'Don't piss on me, you bastard,' Conrad growled at him, 'and don't even think of passing out.'

Jabulani moaned.

'Here it comes again.' Conrad exaggerated the upstroke of the hammer before pounding the smashed finger.

He smiled at Jabulani's bulging eyes and asked, 'You like to have fun with people, don't you? Are you having fun now?'

Jabulani suddenly realised who Conrad was as he recalled the woman in the photograph. Her facial features and willowy frame were the feminine version of his tormentor.

Jabulani and his friends had gang-raped Conrad's twin sister, Elizabeth, eighteen months ago. They broke into her flat, kept her tied up over the weekend and took turns, raping her repeatedly. It was a completely indiscriminate event, she was a random victim. There was no motive, just something to do, something to amuse themselves for the weekend. Before leaving that Sunday night they beat her, tortured her, then stabbed her to death with a screwdriver.

Conrad stared into Jabulani's eyes, imagining what it must have been like for her, staring into the same black eyes as she was being raped. The image tore at him with tooth and claw until he cried out like a wounded animal. Tears flooded down his cheeks.

'Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!' Conrad shouted out, trying to decant his pain.

Sobbing and bellowed profanities echoed around the white walls as he rained blow after blow onto Jabulani's hands and wrists. Self control was relinquished and rational thought abandoned. He smashed down again and again and again, hypnotised by the sight and sound of the bones and skin disintegrating. Blood splashed his face and spurted across his arms and chest. Blasphemy issued from his mouth in a torrent of hate and fury. He flung the hammer across the room and flailed at Jabulani's face with nails and fists until exhaustion finally ended the assault. His arms hung like lead weights as he buckled under the effort to breathe, clinging to Jabulani's shirtsleeve to steady himself. His breath rasped in Jabulani's face and he swayed drunkenly, fighting to stay on his feet.

The smell of iron permeated the room, tinctured with something sickly sweet.

Conrad sunk to his knees and retched violently. He placed a hand on the cold floor to steady himself and retched over and over until he vomited up a pool of yellow, stinging bile. Several more dry heaves racked his body until the nausea ebbed. He cleared his throat and spat a mouthful of yellow-tinged sticky saliva onto the floor. A soft groan issued from deep within as he kept his eyes closed, waiting for the moment to pass. Rationality slowly restored itself and he breathed deliberately, slowly and deeply, to calm his mind. Minutes passed. The intense exertion and terrible violence had worked. It had released some of his pain and anger. He felt the burden lift from his shoulders. Catharsis washed over him just as Gabriel had promised it would. For the first time in eighteen long months, he felt at peace.

Jabulani's gag had contained his agonised shrieks and screams. Snot streamed from his nose and tears poured from his eyes. The hopeless reality dawned on him that no one knew where he was, that no one would come to help him.

Conrad opened his eyes slowly. He stood up and stooped over Jabulani. He leaned in closer and hissed the words of the Old Testament, his lips millimetres from his penitent's face.

'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,' he whispered and then spat into Jabulani's eyes.

Conrad lurched from the room, pausing to lock the padlock on the outside of the door. He swayed as he made his way back into the house and up the stairs to the mezzanine. He fell into the chair and banged out the words, 'It's done,' then hit the send key. He stared blankly at the screen for several moments before bursting into tears and beating his fists against his head. 'What have I done?' he implored the ceiling. 'God help me, what have I done?' He fled, sobbing as he ran to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him and flinging himself onto his bed.

Smiling to himself twelve thousand kilometres away, Gabriel tried to imagine the events in his mind, as he had done with every new student. He would only get the full details in a few days time. They all took a while to chew over what they had done, where they were, where they were going, and to fully commit to the programme.

Gabriel: Record everything in your journal and his log then send them to me.

He waited a few moments but there was no response. This was not unusual at this point.

Gabriel: You're going to feel a bit freaked out for a while. That's normal, it's part of the process.

He paused to choose his next words carefully.

Gabriel: Starting is always the hardest part but we've taken the first step together. One day soon all the pain will be gone. Together we are going to get your life back.

Your friend,

Gabriel.

Gabriel's index finger clicked the mouse several times as his hand fanned it across the table top. He clicked 'save' then logged out and closed the windows on his computer one by one until the monitor was a lifeless black eye. He cleared his throat and rose from his chair.

While walking to the kitchen he tucked his tie between the buttons of his white cotton shirt, collected his plate of food, and headed for the living room. They smiled at each other as he entered the room and she pressed the mute button on the remote control. He sat down next to her and kissed her firmly on the lips.

"Busy day?" she nodded at the fine spray of blood specks on his rolled up sleeve.

'Same old same old,' he said, taking a hungry bite from the grilled sausage skewered on his fork.

She smiled back at him.

He chewed hungrily and swallowed before asking, 'So how was your day?'

2

London, England

11h00 GMT, 13 November 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Mr John McConnell,' Sally said as she held out her hand to what looked like a tramp. He was wearing worn-out Nike trainers, stained navy-blue Kappa tracksuit bottoms and an old white T-shirt. His ruddy complexion and unkempt greasy hair contrasted a clean-shaved jawline.

'Chief Inspector Sally Emmet,' John said as he shook her right hand. His hands were large, chapped and callused and his handshake was unnecessarily firm. She gripped the doorknob tightly with her left hand to avoid losing her balance.

'Come in, please.' She waved him into the room with her right hand.

The metropolitan police CID offices were crowded, cramped and untidy. Regulation grey office furniture was barely visible under piles of files and papers. Sally Emmet was an immaculately groomed large woman, just over six feet tall, who had captained the Oxford University coxless eight rowing team for three consecutive years. Bouffant hair, rosy cheeks and kind facial features hinted at Yorkshire origins but impeccable elocution suggested relocation to the southern counties in early childhood. Her athletic frame had disappeared under a matronly layer of excess weight, the consequence of too many hours at high-level meetings and too little time in the gym. Her feminine bulk strained against the fine tweed of her bespoke blazer and skirt but she still looked more than a match for most men in a straight fight.

'Please, take a seat.' Chief Inspector Emmet motioned with an open hand to the chair facing her desk. Her practised smile revealed perfect white teeth and the faint creases at the corners of her mouth betrayed her age. The authority of her coiffed silver hair contrasted beautifully against the youthful fullness of her face and radiant skin.

He stared at her until she smiled, blinked and lowered her eyes to the refuge of her desk.

'Please,' she repeated, gesturing again. The knuckles of her left hand clenched white over the burnished brass of the door handle.

John had the taut physique of a boxer and the menacing air of a backstreet thug. The muscles in his hairless forearms bulged beneath his pale Scottish skin as he jammed his fists into his pockets. He stood recalcitrant in the doorway with a predatory posture, lowered head and stooped shoulders. John rocked gently from side to side and surveyed the room, refusing to be hurried. His eyes scanned across the furniture from the mountains of meticulously ordered files to the photo frames on her desk. The smallest one was of Sally laughing with a younger version of herself, possibly a daughter or a younger sister, in a rickshaw in India. Beside it were several other family pictures and the largest frame held a photograph of a Jack Russell terrier. John's eyes circled across to the filing cabinets and finally came to bear on her white knuckles, still clenching the door handle.

She looked down at her hand and immediately relaxed her grip, straightening her back in an attempt to regain the assured posture of authority. They were of equal height but in his presence she looked small, delicate and vulnerable. The tension between them made the office suffocating and claustrophobic.

'OK,' he relented and stepped into the room.

John sat down heavily in the plastic chair facing the desk and watched her move around to her upholstered chair on the other side. He was surprised that a woman of her size could move with such grace and poise. The buttons of her blazer strained against her ample bosom as she sat down. She smiled again, refusing to rise to the condescension in the curl of his lips or the dangerous glint in his cerulean eyes. He ran a hand through his messy dark brown hair, wrinkled his nose and sniffed to adjust his black plastic-rimmed glasses.

'I'll get straight to the point,' Sally said as she smoothed the lapels of her jacket.

In a deliberate movement, John picked a piece of dirt off his T-shirt to mirror her behaviour. He examined it closely before flicking it away.

Sally pretended not to notice. 'As you know, we monitor the internet here as part of the ongoing international counterterrorism programme, all the usual things. Amongst the trillions of international internet gigabytes we've vetted since 1990, we found a website called BadDayz.com. That was about a year ago. My team dismissed it as a crackpot site but something about it bothers me. Although we can track all the mainstream traffic going into and out of the site, there is clear evidence that there's a chat room we can't access. None of our IT guys can get in to it. That rings loud alarm bells in my head. No government in the world, irrespective of how much time, money and resources they have, can guarantee the security of their internet presence. This website can do what no one else can. They're either very smart or very well funded; either way, it can't be a good thing.'

John fixated on her hands. No wedding ring. Even her fingers were fat. He disapproved of fat. Fat people were a testament to ill-discipline and poor impulse control. Sally tracked his eye movements as she spoke.

'Seemingly, it has no political agenda, no affiliates or associations with any other organisations and no pecuniary incentives.' She moved her hands onto her lap, out of view.

'And?' John grunted and took to studying the ceiling lights.

'It's a bit like Facebook or Twitter for a niche market. On the surface it's a chat room and support group for people to talk about things that piss them off, nothing special and probably a good idea, but we dug a little deeper,' Sally explained. 'Some of the punters rant about revenge and what they want to do to get back at the people who pissed them off – most likely just bluster. A small minority even describe some pretty sick, graphic fantasies about maiming or killing them. That's the bit we know; it's what we don't know that bothers me. It's the info or intel going in and out of that room on some sort of sub-system database that we can't find that's the problem. I know we're on to something here but I don't know what it is. It might be some sort of terrorist recruitment site but I don't know for whom, by whom or for what. That's why you're here.'

John shrugged his eyebrows and twisted his mouth in displeasure before saying, 'I don't see how I can help you.'

'What?'

'You talk to me like I'm some sort of fucking idiot!' John exploded. 'You're obsessed with Jihadists and extremists and the end of the world! It sounds more like a bunch of pimply-faced screw-ups bitching and moaning about their pathetic little lives. So what if some of them have sick fantasies? The only surprise here is that you're too stupid to find them.'

'What?' Sally asked incredulously.

'What? What? What?' John mocked her. 'What, what, what, yourself. If that's all you've got, I'm out of here! Thanks for wasting my time!'

John stood up and turned to leave.

'John, wait a minute!' Sally snapped irritably. 'People are dying and you don't care?'

'No one cared when I was dying.'

'John, come on, there's something going on here and we have to figure it out. We'll pay you very well for your time. If it turns out to be nothing, then just take the money and that's the end of it. If it turns into something big, I'll give you all the credit. Come on, John, it can only boost your reputation.'

'I don't need money and I don't care what people think about me.'

'Then do it for yourself. Just to prove you can when we can't.'

'You don't really think you can manipulate me with that crap? Save your high school psychology bollocks for someone else. Watch my lips: I don't give a shit.'

John turned his back and stepped up to the door. He wrenched the handle and stalked out of the office without looking back.

'John!' Sally shouted after him. 'John, listen to me! No more bullshit. He's got hands everywhere, all over the world, and no one can catch him. The FBI, the CIA, MI5 – everyone's tried. All we know for sure is he's killing hundreds of people over the internet, all over the world, and he's getting away with it.'

'He?' John asked without turning to face her. 'How do you know it's a he?'

'We're pretty sure it's just one guy controlling everything.'

'Get one of your ICO geeks to find him.'

'I am ICO,' Sally exclaimed. 'I run the bloody Information Commissioner's Office and none of us can find him!'

'Try the NSA, I hear they're good,' John suggested sarcastically.

'We've tried them, and the IAO, and we got nothing.'

'Well, that proves you don't know a fucking thing. The NSA is the IAO!'

'John, come in and close the door.' Sally beckoned with her hand as she spoke. 'Please, just give me one more minute of your time and then you can leave and I'll never bother you again.'

John nodded and stepped back into her office.

'Please close the door – it's classified.'

John pushed the door closed.

'Look, I know the IAO was never disbanded, despite what the Americans say. The NSA is a smokescreen to hide it. I also know that you wrote a lot of the software for them. I can only assume that you've pissed them off and they've cut you out of the loop, otherwise they would have caught this guy by now.'

'You're guessing,' John said impatiently, 'and you're wasting my time again.'

'We've profiled this guy. We know a lot about him but we've hit a wall. The NSA, the IAO, CIA, FBI, Interpol, the Russians, the Israelis – no one can track him.'

'So?'

'MI6 and the FBI will guarantee your safety and the safety of your family. This will be the biggest computer hack in the world, John. Hacking the Pentagon is a piece of piss compared to this.'

John stared impassively at Sally and wrinkled his nose to adjust his glasses. His hands lay idly in his lap.

'What do you say?'

'You fucking amateurs.' John's face flushed red as his temper flared. 'It's not enough to monitor bloody emails. You've got to get off your fat arses and do some work.'

He sneered as he dropped his eyes and stared at Sally's ample thighs with a judgemental shake of his head.

'Everyone leaves tracks, every day,' John enunciated slowly and meticulously. 'You can find anyone and anything if you're prepared to sift enough shit. You need to filter professional agencies, websites, blogs, firewalls, cookie-killer software, supermarket tills, garage bills, magazine subscriptions, porn sites, everything and anything. You need event probability algorithms to figure out what he'll do next based on what he's already done. A basic schoolboy Bayesian network analysis would connect the facts, if you bothered to do one. Even a simple bloody Markov model would join the dots. If you could be arsed to connect enough of this guy's footprints to build even the simplest neural algorithm, you could drive straight to his house and pick him up. It's not rocket science.'

'Are you saying you'll help us?'

John stepped around his chair and sat down. 'Maybe I will, and maybe I won't. Anyway, how do you know it's a man, not a woman?'

'Here's his file,' Sally said as she lifted a heavy file off the desk and handed it to him.

John leant back in his chair and made no attempt to take it.

'And my file too,' John demanded.

Sally sighed and opened the drawer on the right side of her desk. She drew out a far thinner folder and placed both files on the desk in front of him.

'I'm disappointed,' John remarked as he held the file marked 'John McConnell' and tested the weight of it.

'It's all summarised in the final report from our personal profile experts recommending you for the job. You won't like what it says.'

'Probably won't believe it,' John grunted. 'Most of it's probably psychobabble bullshit guessing at the truth.'

'It's yours to read,' Sally said as she walked past him towards the door. 'I'll get some coffee, it's going to be a long day.'

John picked up the file with his name on it and flipped past the detailed psychometric report and the reams of tedious field investigations into his past and current business interests. The very last pages of the folder caught his attention. They were handwritten and the handwriting looked familiar. He flipped to the end and recognised the signature and the name beneath it.

'Bastard!' John muttered.

The pages were written by his neighbour, Simon Dawes. Simon was a pretentious young pasty-faced London banker. He was also the only person able to maintain any sort of friendship with John.

John's abrasive personality and frequent drunkenness had ostracised him from the local community. He was barred from all the local pubs for aggressive and offensive behaviour and was reduced to drinking at home. Simon was the only person who tolerated his cruel taunts and rants and, in exchange, John provided a dysfunctional friendship lubricated with as much brandy as the two of them could stand. Simon's bloated self-importance soared to new heights when the local police asked him to compile this clandestine 'report' on his so-called best friend. He cobbled together fragments of their drunken conversations with his own opinions into what he called 'The Dossier', and presented it to the local constabulary with fatuous solemnity.

'Wanker!' John hissed as he started reading the report.

Report/personal profile on John McConnell

by

Simon Dawes

John McConnell claims to be the founder of the internet. He claims to have beaten Bill Joy, Bill Gates and Tim Berners-Lee to the punch. His software, he says, created the internet as we know it.

John was one of six children born to Michele McConnell by various different fathers. They lived in a council house in the slums of Glasgow. John turned to crime at an early age as the leader of a gang of delinquents. The police could do nothing because no one on the estate was prepared to file a charge or complaint against him. By the age of sixteen most of his friends were in detention centres for young offenders. His alcoholic mother eventually disowned him and he lived rough on the street for a few years.

John had the sense to realise he had become a target on the estates. He knew he was headed for prison or a violent death or both and the only way out was to leave Glasgow and try to get a grip on his life. He joined the RAF hoping to learn a trade but within a week he was in a military prison for assaulting his corporal. In prison he was involved in a string of prison brawls and riots. He spent the first year in their prison cells until he learned to control his anger. John despised the military and hated the thought that anyone considered him one of them. They posted him to Cape Wrath to keep him as far as possible from civilisation and any sort of trouble.

He was barely literate when he got to the Cape Wrath base but he used the time there to teach himself to read. He was soon reading complex technical engineering manuals because they were the only thing he had. He disassembled and reassembled the primitive computers controlling the missile launch systems to learn how they worked and taught himself basic computer programming. When he stumbled across an internal memo discussing the American military's plans to develop an early prototype of the internet he saw his chance. The military wanted the technology to transmit information only amongst themselves but John wanted to turn the idea into money. Fledgling American firms started producing computer hardware and software for the private market and the phrase 'cyberspace' was born. Their knowledge was rudimentary at best and many of the technical obstacles were still being subcontracted to the big brains at Harvard, MIT and Texas A&M.

John watched the IT industry grow and realised he had to get involved before the level of expertise grew beyond what he could reach from the base. Computers had very small RAM is those days so only simple programs could be run and only one at a time. He read an article in an engineering journal discussing the need to develop new technology to run two or more programs simultaneously on a single computer. A new computer sub-system similar to MS-DOS or Java was needed but no one had the technical know-how.

John tracked down the software firm featured in the article and sent a fax telling them that he was already developing the software they needed and offered to sell it to them. They obviously immediately requested a meeting. John stalled for time and arranged a demonstration of his software in one month at a meeting in Glasgow.

He tried and failed to write the software himself but went to the meeting anyway. He was convinced he could do it so he planned to blag his way through the meeting and buy more time. He paid someone from the RAF base to help him with the scam. They positioned a computer screen and a keyboard with a defunct hard drive on a table set against a wall. John drilled small holes through the wall below the tabletop, out of view. He redirected the screen cable from the visible hard drive through the wall, where it could be attached to either of two separate hard drives hidden in the room on the other side.

His plan was elegantly simple. His accomplice hid in the second room as the Americans were shown a demonstration of his 'software'. They watched John switching between two different programs at the push of a button on the keyboard, and they saw on the screen what appeared to be a rudimentary form of today's 'Windows' technology. The reality was that every time John pushed the button, he announced it loudly enough for his hidden accomplice to hear. His co-conspirator then simply unplugged the screen cable from one hard drive and plugged it into the other hard drive running a different program at each of John's commands. It was all hidden in the next room so no one could see what was really going on. They created the false impression that the hard drive on the table was switching between programs. The Americans fell for it and agreed to buy the software on an exclusive basis. John negotiated a substantial cash advance and a percentage of future revenues generated. They agreed simply because no one could have predicted then that the internet would become what it is today and they were in a hurry to secure the technology. He also insisted on a further three months to 'fine-tune' the software development before selling it.

John used the enormous cash advance to find and recruit the brightest minds from Oxford and Cambridge University to create the software. Once the software was fully functional he sold it as promised. Even today, almost half the computers in the world still use elements of his software to access the internet and, every time they do, John gets a royalty payment.

John claims he was head-hunted by the IAO (Information Awareness Office of the USA Department of Defense) in the late nineties. The IAO was created to use data mining to identify terror suspects but was officially dissolved in 2003 because of a public outcry about rights to privacy. The NSA (National Security Agency) replaced it as the new data mining agency of the US government tasked with achieving so-called 'Total Information Awareness'.

John claims the IAO was never disbanded – he claims it was continued within the CIA and NSA as a covert agency and he was their chief technical advisor. All I know for certain is that he spends most of his time at his very expensive home with his wife and sons. He seems to work only very occasionally as a one-man computer consultancy, troubleshooting computing problems for large corporations.

The gauche syntax and awkward writing style of his now ex-friend offended John even more than the content.

'Tosser!' John hissed and closed the file.

3

Cambridge, England

09h30 GMT, 11 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

The old cat lay on the consulting table, wrapped in a bundled blanket. She was dying.

'I think it's time,' Ben said to Mrs Brown.

'But what's causing it?' she pleaded.

'It's the cancer,' Ben said softly as he moved around the consulting table and put his arm around the frail old lady.

'But why?'

'There's no reason,' Ben said softly. 'Sometimes bad things happen to good people and it's just not fair. She's done very well to get this far and no one could have done more for her than you have. You've put more time and effort into helping her than most people would. You've always given her what she's needed and cost was never an issue.'

Ben stroked the side of the old lady's shoulder and stepped away to pick up an open box of tissues. He put the box down on the table beside the fading feline. Geraldine was a nineteen-year-old tortoiseshell. She had lived with Mrs Brown since she was six weeks old. She now lay prone, too weak to stand or raise her head. The only signs of life from her thin, frail body were the sound of loud purring and her swishing tail.

'But she's purring,' Mrs Brown said after blowing her nose. 'She can't be that bad.'

'Cats purr when they're very sick or in a lot of pain, to comfort themselves,' Ben explained. 'She's given up. I think it would be a kindness to let her go.'

'You really don't think there's anything else you can do?'

'We've done everything we can,' Ben soothed the old lady. 'She's put up a tremendous fight against this thing, but it was always going to be a fight she would lose. We knew this would happen.'

'I know.'

'She's responded well to the medicine and she's always wanted to fight but look at her now. This is the first time I've seen her with that look on her face. She's had enough. This thing has eaten her up from the inside and I don't think she wants to go on any more. She's trapped in a body that's worn out but we can set her free.'

'But I feel like a murderer.'

'You're not the murderer, you're the liberator. You can release her from a body that's just no good to her any more. You can set her free.'

'OK.'

'Do you want to stay with her when we do it?'

'May I?'

'Of course you can. I think it's a kindness to stay with her. She won't be afraid because you'll be with her and she's not afraid of me because she's seen me so many times. I'm going to give her a general anaesthetic, just like we did when she broke her tooth, and it will feel just the same as then. The difference is that this time I'm going to give her too much. The needle is the only horrible part of this but she's used to me giving her injections. It works very quickly and all you'll see is she'll relax and go to sleep and then she'll be gone. She won't feel anything. The only pain here is to us, because we have to say goodbye. It's so gentle for her that she won't even know she's gone. It's the kindest thing and, if I was in her position, I would choose this option for myself on the condition that it wouldn't hurt and that I wouldn't know when it was about to happen We can offer her both these things.'

'OK, let's do it now,' she sobbed.

'Just give me a moment to get what I need,' Ben said to her and slipped silently out of the room.

Mrs Brown took another tissue from the box and blew her nose.

Outside the consulting room Miranda, the theatre nurse, asked, 'Do you need a hand?' She was slightly shorter than him with a broad Welsh face and a crowning glory of pitch black long hair naturally twisting into a cascade of shiny ringlets. She had fair skin, an aversion to exercise and kindly dark brown eyes.

'No, I'll be all right,' Ben replied as he drew five millilitres of pentobarbitone into a syringe.

'Poor Mrs Brown,' the nurse commiserated.

'I know,' Ben said, 'but it's the right thing to do and the right time.'

Ben stepped back into the room and replaced the needle on the syringe with the smallest needle he could find in the drawer. He stepped up to Mrs Brown and lightly draped his arm across her shoulders again. She disintegrated into sobs and Ben hugged her gently.

'We're doing the right thing for her,' Ben whispered and waited in silence for the old lady to regain her composure.

Mrs Brown sighed out loudly and said, 'OK, I'm ready.'

'Do you want to hold her?' Ben asked.

'Yes, please.'

Ben lifted the bundle of blankets in the lady's arms and touched the side of her arm before asking, 'Ready?'

'Yes,' she said in a soft, steady voice.

Ben took the needle cap off and slid his left hand under the old cat's painfully thin waist.

'She wont feel a thing,' he reassured her as he gently eased the needle through the cat's flank and into the left kidney. He injected a tiny amount of the fluid and then held the needle very still. He waited for a few moments until the cat relaxed and the purring stopped.

'Oh, Gerry,' Mrs Brown keened softly.

Ben injected the rest of the contents of the syringe and then recapped the needle and placed the syringe in his pocket. He felt for a heartbeat then confirmed, 'She's gone.'

He ran his fingers gently over the cat's open eyelids and explained, 'Her eyes will stay open, even if we try to close them. Cats have a different eyelid design to ours.'

'You're sure she's gone?' Mrs. Brown asked.

'Yes, she's gone,' Ben confirmed. 'You've been very brave.'

Mrs Brown sobbed as she gazed at her beloved cat and Ben stood beside her in silence. He knew the waiting room would be overflowing by now because Mrs Brown had arrived without an appointment but he had felt it would be unfair to have made her wait or to have rushed such a painful moment. He knew his reception staff would have explained to the people waiting with their pets why there was a delay; no one would begrudge the old lady the time she needed.

'You're very kind,' Mrs Brown said to Ben.

She gently placed the cat and the blanket on the table and turned to Ben. She leant forward and hugged him tightly. He hugged her back and felt her pain. He knew this old cat was her last link with her husband who had died three years ago. They had no children and she would now return, alone, to an empty house tonight and every other night from here on.

'I'm too old to get another cat,' she said as she let Ben go. 'It wouldn't be fair to get another cat now, I'm too old.'

'Never say never,' Ben said, holding her hand. 'You've got a lot of love to give another cat and a safe home. One day you might wake up and decide to go and get an elderly cat from a rescue centre or something.'

'I don't know.'

'You don't have to decide anything now. Just take things one day at a time.'

'Shall I pay you now?' she asked, pointing to the door.

'No, no,' Ben answered softly. 'Go straight home and rest, we'll send it to you in the post.'

'Thank you very much, Ben,' she said. 'You've always been so kind to me.'

'Please take care of yourself,' Ben said earnestly as he opened the door for her.

The noise of the waiting room burst into the room and jarred them back to reality.

'I'll make all the arrangements,' Ben said softly and then added, 'if you need to talk about anything, call me any time. If you want to come back down for a chat and a cup of tea, please do.'

'Thank you,' Mrs Brown said through her streaked mascara and fled through the packed waiting room and out of the front door.

Ben went back into his consulting room and carefully scooped up the cat in the bundle of blankets. He opened the door at the rear and stepped into the prep room.

Miranda appeared again and asked, 'Private or routine?'

'Routine cremation,' Ben answered and handed the cat to her.

'Poor Mrs Brown,' Miranda said again as she turned away.

'I know,' Ben said as he turned and stepped back into his consulting room. Gerry was her reason for getting up every morning. Her whole life revolved around her.

He cleaned the consulting table with disinfectant and wiped it dry with paper towel.

'Shit,' he whispered to himself as tears welled up in his eyes.

He pinched his eyes shut. The close relationship he had with his clients came at a price. He shared their highs and lows and the lows had chipped away at him over the years. 'Don't get so involved,' Julie had warned him many times, 'it's not your tragedy. Let them deal with it and just move on.' It was good advice but it was not in his character to be detached.

'This job's going to kill me,' he muttered to himself but the cruel irony was he didn't trust anyone else to take care of his clients and their pets. He knew what was happening to him, it was called 'Carer Stress Syndrome', but he couldn't do what he did and feel nothing. The cost of this career was the emotional pain of saying goodbye to someone's pet almost every day.

Ben took a deep breath to compose himself before checking the computer screen to see who the next appointment was. He dried his eyes and cleared his throat. It was a puppy he had delivered by caesarean section at two in the morning almost a year ago. Seeing her name reminded him why he chose this career.

'Right,' he said to himself and sighed to release the tension.

He crossed the room and opened the door to the waiting room. The atmosphere in the room was slightly muted. Ben always felt the sense of unease in the waiting room when people had witnessed someone leaving empty-handed and in tears. Some of them had been there before and it reminded them of their own sadness. Fortunately, none of the clients dwelled on the sadness for more than a few moments.

Ben spotted his next patient, Molly, a large, fat yellow Labrador.

'Molly!' Ben exclaimed and slapped his hands on his thighs.

Molly loved coming to the vet and so did her owner. The lady let go of her lead as Molly leapt up from the floor. She careered into the consulting room and launched herself at Ben with glee. Mrs Owen, her owner, followed at a more dignified pace and admonished the dog half-heartedly.

'Molly, don't jump,' she said, looking at the dirty streaks her paws had left on Ben's trousers.'

'I don't mind,' Ben said as he sunk to his haunches to rub Molly's head and chest vigorously.

Molly jumped up and placed her paws on his shoulders to try to lick his face. Ben buried his head so she could lick only the back of his head and his ears. The licking gave him goose pimples down his arms and legs.

'Thank you, Molly,' Ben laughed as he pushed her off. He stood up and closed the door.

'It must be hard for you,' Mrs Owen said, alluding to Mrs Brown.

'It is,' Ben answered, 'and as I get older it gets worse, but it's got to be me when the time comes. They know me and trust me and I wouldn't want it to be someone they didn't know. I've known that lady and her cat for twelve years.'

Ben gave Molly a biscuit which she gulped down without chewing at all.

'What are we doing for Molly today?' Ben asked, changing the subject.

4

London, England

14h30 GMT, 13 November 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Let's break it down then,' Sally said to her staff assembled around the table.

Sally had called a meeting after John McConnell had stomped out of her office.

'What did he say?' Ray asked.

'God knows,' Sally replied and rolled her eyes. 'He's the most arrogant tosser I've ever met. He refused to read the file here. He wants us to email everything we've got to him and he'll get back to us if he decides to get involved.'

'Sod him, then, we'll find someone else,' Margaret harrumphed.

'That's just it – there's no one else left. We need him.'

Sally tapped her finger on the enormous wipe board on the wall. She wiped the board clean and spoke to the group with her back turned.

'What do we know?' she asked as she picked up the red marker pen.

'Three victims so far,' Ray volunteered. Ray had been a civil engineer before being recruited to MI6. He was slighter taller than Sally, a little bit overweight and very out of shape. He had mousy brown hair untidily maintained in an inverted soup bowl style and half heartedly combed into a side parting. Spectacled brown eyes, full cheeks, a hint of a double chin and a jolly smile gave him a fatherly, scholarly quality. His colleagues nicknamed him _" Professor Hawkins"_ because his checked shirts, corduroy jackets and trousers with ill-matching Rotary ties completed the impression of an eccentric prep-school English master. 'The first one was in St Petersburg in Russia, then one at Igls in Austria and a third at Worthing, right here at home.'

'In that order?'

'No, that's the order they died in. They found Igls first, then Worthing, then St Petersburg.'

'Anything to connect the victims?' Sally asked.

'Nada,' Ray replied. 'Different profiles, different ages, genders, social groups, religion – nothing to tie them together other than the fingers.'

'Cause of death?'

'They all died of infection, gangrene spreading up their arms from the injuries to their hands,' Ray answered, picking up and opening the file on the desk in front of him. He frowned as he read a pathology report out loud: 'Septicaemia-induced cardiovascular collapse secondary to progressive clostridial gangrene extending sixty millimetres proximal to both elbows. Multiple crushing injuries of the inter-phalangeal joints of all digits of both hands. Injuries commensurate with repeated blunt-force trauma applied over an extended period of time. Radiographic studies suggest a twenty-three-millimetre diameter hammer face as most probable instrument of trauma. Circumferential superficial linear bruising over the limbs and torso. Bruising patterns commensurate with corrugated plastic cable ties applied as restraints.'

Ray flipped through the papers and photographs in the file. 'The other reports say much the same things. All we've got is they were tied up with cable ties and some bastard smashed their fingers, one at a time, over a period of a few weeks. The injuries got infected and, when the victims died, their bodies were moved and dumped. That's all we've got, a consistent MO.'

'So, no crime scene analysis, no geographical profile, no victimology profile and no suspects,' Sally groaned.

She raised the pen and wrote on the board: 'MO – cable ties and smashed fingers'.

'And your theory about the website,' Sean added.

'Yeah,' Sally agreed but did not write anything further on the board.

'So we think we might have a mass murderer running his operation from a website,' Sean proposed.

'Margaret?' Sally asked as she turned to face them and sat in her chair.

Margaret was the mother figure of the team, constantly tending the needs of the others and the group as a whole. Tall, toned, elegant, with a shock of thick auburn hair severely styled into short, no-nonsense business-woman chic. She was always lightly tanned with minimal makeup and wore designer spectacles, fitted trouser suits and expensive shoes. Her face was delicate with an upturned button nose, thin lips, green eyes and smooth eyelids, courtesy of an accomplished occuloplastic Harley Street surgeon.

'Technically he's not a mass murderer, even if there are still more bodies we haven't found yet. A mass murder implies more than four people are killed at one location, and it happens as a single event or a single emotional experience for the killer. This guy is a serial murderer, he's killing multiple victims but he kills them on separate occasions and probably has cooling off periods in-between the murders. Each murder is a separate emotional event,' Margaret explained.

'What the hell difference does it make whether we call him a mass murderer or a serial murderer?' Sean demanded with characteristic Celtic fervour. Sean was Northern Irish through and through. His father and grandfather were prominent figures in the Orange Order and his wife's father had died in the Bloody Sunday shootings in Belfast. Sean was a head shorter than Ray, ice blue piercing eyes, pallid skin scarred by severe adolescent acne, prematurely greying fair hair cropped in a military haircut and a stiletto jaw line. He had a strong sinewy build and many at MI6 had withered under his fixed stare and tenacious dedication to duty. 'It's the same bloody thing, he's killing lots of people and he's killing them the same way.'

'It's important to be accurate to understand who he is,' Margaret explained patiently. 'Most mass murderers walk around with their problems until they explode and attack whoever is in their immediate vicinity. Serial killers are far more complicated. They plan the murders to satisfy a highly personalised fantasy and they choose their victims very carefully to fit in with their fantasy.'

'Well, then, what makes an ordinary person flip out one day and decide to become a serial killer?' Sean persisted.

'They don't just suddenly change from normal behaviour into murderers. Serial killers start developing abnormal behaviour patterns in childhood. Serial killers are made, not born.'

'So what's his motivation?' Sally asked, trying to steer the conversation back onto a productive track.

'There are four subtypes.' Margaret turned to answer Sally. 'Type one are the psychotic ones, they claim voices or visions command them to kill. Their actions are almost beyond their control, hence they usually get more lenient sentences because of "diminished responsibility".'

'You mean they're nutters,' Sean interjected.

'The other three types are not psychotic,' Margaret continued. 'They know exactly what they're doing and they know it's wrong. The hedonistic ones are the simplest, they kill simply because they enjoy the thrill of killing. The power-orientated ones do it because they enjoy the feeling of ultimate control over another human being. Their pleasure comes from capturing their victims and forcing them to obey commands. The mission-orientated serial killer is the most complex. Their friends and neighbours invariably describe them as model citizens until they learn the truth. They select and kill their victims to punish them for something they did. They're convinced the victims deserved their punishment and they genuinely believe they're doing society a favour.'

'So which type do you think our guy is?' Sally asked.

'I don't know,' Margaret replied.

'Can you draw up a rough profile that fits what we know?'

'Well, the standard rules apply. Most serial killers are Caucasian men between twenty-five and thirty-four years old. They usually have above average intelligence but I suspect this one is way beyond that. I think this guy is very, very intelligent, probably borderline genius.'

'Because he's managed to completely cover his tracks on the internet?' Sally asked rhetorically.

'If he's using the internet,' Ray chipped in.

'Fair point, but even if he's not using the internet, he's still left us nothing to go on,' Sally said.

'Almost all serial killers report emotional abuse as children,' Margaret continued, 'and most of them have a familial history of alcohol abuse.'

'Oh, Jesus,' Sean groaned. 'We're not going to blame everything on the parents again? Nobody takes responsibility anymore, it's always their parents' fault.'

'I'm only giving you the numbers, Sean,' Margaret defended her position and continued. 'Importantly, not all killers come from poor families. I'll bet this one is very well educated and raised in a prosperous family in an affluent area. Both parents are probably professional people.'

'So it is the parents, then.' Sean smirked.

'Not necessarily.' Margaret turned to answer him directly. 'The usual scenario is that the serial killer's mother was distant and unloving but sometimes even that rule isn't true. Sometimes it's the father who was the problem and even the most nurturing mothers can't compensate for the father's destructive behaviour. If both parents work long, unsociable hours and the child is left alone with no limits on their behaviour, they can become locked in their feelings of loneliness. This makes them egocentric and isolated but not all of them become shy and introverted; some of them will develop charming, gregarious personalities to mask their inner sense of isolation; think Ted Bundy.'

'I think this fits our suspect,' Sally declared. 'Intelligent, white, male, middle-aged, wealthy parents, professional family and good social skills.'

'Well, that narrows it down,' Ray commented facetiously.

'It's a start,' Sally said and wrote the points on the board. 'Let's get to work.'

'Good,' Ray said and patted the table before rising, scraping his chair loudly across the floor.

The others followed suit and headed for the door.

'Sean,' Sally said, still facing the board, 'one other thing.'

Sean stepped away from the door to let Margaret pass. He waited until Sally recapped the marker pen and turned to face him.

'Come in, Sean.' Sally sat down at the table. 'And close the door.'

'How is Kieran?' she asked.

'He's fine.'

'No, really, how is he?'

'The chemo's not really working and there's not a lot of choices after that.' He looked at the ground and shifted his weight uncomfortably.

'I know you like to keep work and home very separate but I just wanted to say, if there's anything I can do, anything at all, just let me know, anytime of the day or night. OK?'

'Yeah, thanks.'

'Do you need any time off?'

'No, I'll be fine.'

'Does Mary need any help at home?'

'No, she's fine.'

'Leukaemia can be beaten, Sean. He's young but he's strong and they're coming up with new cures all the time.'

'Yeah,' he grunted and squirmed.

'I know you don't like this sort of thing but just know we're all here for you. If you need anything, just ask.'

'Yeah.'

'That's it.'

'OK,' he grunted and turned to leave. He stepped through the door, then as he started to close it behind him he paused and stuck his head back into the room. 'Thanks for asking,' he said, absentmindedly twisting his wedding ring, 'it means a lot.'

'All for one.' She nodded as she watched the door close.

5

Florence, Italy

08h10 local time, 9 December 2009

2006—2007—2004—2009—2010—2011—2012

'It's not all about brutalism anymore,' Claudia announced, speaking English with a strong provincial Italian accent as she turned away from the man in the chair. She wore a designer blue floral dress with a large red belt at the waist and tasteful exposure of her décolletage. Expensive blue shoes with medium height heels, crimson lipstick, a mane of gently wavy pitch-black hair and no wedding ring marked her out as a woman of independent means in the affluent suburbs of Florence.

His name was Martin, an Italian-American from Idaho. He was a small man, only five and a half feet tall with a slight, wiry physique and used to have thinning blonde hair. He was seated in an antique hospital wheelchair, tightly bound with cable ties, and a bucket was strategically positioned beneath the chair. In the distance he could hear church bells. He recognised them as the bells of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore.

The Italian sunshine warmed the polished mahogany floorboards and rough plastered walls of the room. The purple flowers of a magnificent, ancient bougainvillea peered in through the slats of the opened window shutters. They were in the spare bedroom of a first floor apartment. A bronze crucifix hung above the headboard of a tightly made-up single bed pushed against the far wall. A small black and white TV on a round marquetry table with barley twist legs was positioned in the far corner of the room. The smell of fresh bread and salami perfumed the air. Martin, in his wheelchair, was in the middle of the room.

'They will find me, you fat bitch,' he seethed, 'and when they do, I'm going to do all of this shit back to you. All the pain, the shitting and pissing in the bucket, the little trips down memory lane and the endless, fucking shit foreign TV all day, every day.'

'Now Martin, we've spoken about the swearing before. I don't mind the attitude and I don't mind the anger, but I cannot tolerate profanity and I will not abide blasphemy in this house.' She pushed a lock of black hair away behind her ear.

'Fuck you! Fuck Jesus! Where the fuck is God, anyway? I'm the one who needs Him here but is He fucking helping me? Fucking no! Fucking nobody's helping me, but you wait and see! I'll fucking help myself in the end and then we'll see who comes down from heaven to help you when I'm fucking you in the arse.'

'No, Martin, no!' she chastised as her voice slipped off her perfect pitch, betraying her tenuous grip on the façade of composure she was clinging to. The skin over her aristocratic cheekbones flushed red through the bronzed complexion of her Latin skin.

She snatched the roll of brown packing tape off the handle of the wheelchair.

'Fuck you, bitch! I hope you–'

His protestations were cut short as she bound the adhesive tape tightly over his mouth and around his head. He worked his jaw frantically to displace the tape, but her practised hand wound several throws around his mouth and jaw before he could do so. He knew further attempts were futile but continued working his skin against the tape. Pinpoints of blood coalesced on the surface of the bright red broken skin around his lips.

'Now, Martin,' she spoke laconically like an indulgent mother to an errant child, smoothing her fitted dress over her plump belly and thighs, 'it's Sunday and as you know I must be calm to sing in the choir for communion at the basilica. Sunday is the Lord's day so your blasphemy is even more wrong than usual. I know you're just trying to provoke me, but when you use His name in vain you upset more than just me, you upset God himself.' She blotted away the minute beads of perspiration from her top lip with a silk handkerchief.

Martin howled two syllables from beneath his bandage, vaguely discernable as 'Fuck you' and then deliberately snorted out the contents of his nose at her. Thick ropes of shining mucous streaked diagonally across the bust of her dress.

'Look what you've done,' she said, looking fixedly at the mucous seeping into the fabric of her dress and the bra beneath. 'You're making me angry again, Martin, and you know we can't do our work properly if you make me angry.' The silk handkerchief wiped away most of the mucous, leaving only a damp spot as evidence.

Martin rocked violently against his restraints but to no avail. He clenched his fists and bayed with anger.

Claudia nodded at his clenched fists as she spoke. 'Don't try to clench your fists at me, Martin. You don't have fists any more, do you? Only thumbs. Tell me, Martin, without your fists, can you still be a man?'

She addressed the question rhetorically and watched the cable ties cut into his wrists as he fought against them. Thin rivulets of blood traced a path beside the old scars before turning to crimson drops splashing on the floor. She watched his hands clench and unclench, reaching for purchase against the arms of the wheelchair, to no effect. There were only stumps of bone moving beneath the gristly gnarls of scar tissue over his knuckles. There had not been fingers extending from his hands for almost a year now. The hammer she had bought, brand new from the local supermarket, had been as effective as Gabriel had promised. They had deliberated about the thumbs for a long time and ultimately Gabriel agreed with her decision to leave them untouched. Having functional thumbs and no fingers magnified the absence of the fingers both visually and in terms of frustration at the loss of function.

'Prehensile thumbs,' Claudia spoke out loud, breaking her trance. 'Prehensile thumbs,' she repeated, presenting her open palms to his face. 'That's the difference between a man and a wild animal. You thought you were a man when you used your fists on Enza, didn't you? Beating your wife with your fists made you a man. But now you have no fists, so how can you be a man? Were you ever really a man, Martin?'

Claudia forgot herself for a moment and spat into his face.

'Enza made me this dress just after you came to live here from America, do you remember?' she asked as she pulled the top hem and underlying bra forward to see where the mucous had seeped through the fabric to produce a damp mark on the skin above her nipple. 'You're well hydrated,' she commented, 'the snot is mostly water. Gabriel taught me this.'

Martin slumped back in the wheelchair, exhausted by his efforts and exasperated by her disjointed stream of consciousness.

'Thank you,' she remarked on his silence. 'I've spoken to Gabriel about my plans and he agrees it's time to change. The fingers and toes were necessary to get me started and the brutality of it seemed appropriate after what you did to Enza. But I'm not a brutal person. I've decided to be more delicate. I will show you a lighter touch from now on, with more artistic flair. It will be more "me", more Italian.'

Martin stared at her from beneath his shaved brow and pinched his eyes as trickles of sweat rolled into them. She shaved off his eyebrows every time she shaved his head.

'Paper is a most beautiful thing. My family has made gift cards and boxes for generations and we know it well. For me, the most beautiful paper is mass-produced paper. It has a mysterious anonymity. It tries to be nothing more than a medium to transport thoughts and ideas. Ornate paper tries to be too much. It can also be beautiful, but I love it less. What do you think?'

Martin growled muffled words, unintelligible to anyone but Claudia. Like only a mother understands her child's first months of speech, she had come to understand the muffled words spoken beneath his gags.

'Crazy bitch? You call me a crazy bitch after I have cared for you all this time? I am like a mother to you. I feed you, I wash you, I make you well when you are sick. You should call me mamma.'

Martin's chin jutted out defiantly. He strained his head forwards against the sinews in his neck as he tried to hurl abuse at her.

'Now, Martin.' She ignored his bluster. 'I must take your gag off now. You know you cannot breathe well enough with it on and you pass out too easily.'

Claudia retrieved a flask of udder cream from a drawer.

'Do you understand?'

Martin furiously flexed the muscles in his jaw as he fought against the inevitable submission.

'If you say anything more to offend me, I will use the electricity. You know you don't like it, but if you are bad you leave me no choice.'

Martin breathed heavily and forcefully to resist, but ultimately he relented. He sagged back in the chair and his shoulders drooped.

'Do you understand, Martin? Nod your head.'

He nodded with a downcast face.

'Look at me when you agree.'

He looked up with the eyes of a drowning man and shut them in despair after nodding his head at her.

'Better,' she said and gently teased the packing tape away from his skin. Her movements were sensitive and caring. 'I know this hurts you,' she said as she peeled the tape off. 'I'm sorry.'

The skin beneath the tape glowed with inflammation and she applied the udder cream liberally to soothe it.

'Now, Martin, we were talking about paper. Do you agree with me?'

He nodded without opening his eyes.

'The other thing I love about mass-produced paper is the quality of the envelopes. The sticky edge of the envelope never cuts your tongue but it easily cuts the fingers. Why is this?'

Martin shrugged and rolled his wrists beneath the cable ties to confirm he had no answer.

'I do not know either. Maybe that is why I am drawn to it. This is what I spoke about with Gabriel and he loved my idea. I think we should use it in our work.'

Martin stifled tears, but some of them filtered through the tear ducts and filled his nose. A bubble of water briefly ballooned from one nostril and then was gone. He sniffed strongly and swallowed to alleviate his burning throat.

'Dirty boy,' she shouted and slapped the side of his head. 'If you need to blow your nose, just ask me. I hate sniffing!'

Martin nodded, staring at his lap.

'Now, you must help me,' she instructed as she undid the clasp of his belt and the button beneath it. 'Lift,' she instructed as she unzipped his trousers and slid them down his thighs. She neatly folded the trousers and carefully placed them on top of the sideboard.

'We mustn't crease them,' she spoke to herself, 'it is Sunday and you will wear them later.'

She kept all his clothes washed and ironed, dressing him daily according to the occasion. She had amassed a comprehensive wardrobe for him since acquiring him.

'We'll leave the shirt and tie and the jacket on,' she said, fastening a jacket button which had worked loose. 'But these must come off,' she said as she pulled his boxer shorts down his legs and folded them beside the trousers.

She stood back and admired how clean he was, like a mother changing a baby. Nodding her head in approval, she turned and slid open the top right drawer of the sideboard. She reached in and pulled out a stiff, crisp standard envelope.

'See what I mean?' she asked. 'It's beautiful, and with it we will do great things.'

She grasped the handles of the wheelchair and turned him to face the back of the room. On the wall were photographs of a familiar face.

'Now, this filthy thing,' she said, kneeling down in front of him and placing the envelope on his naked thigh. 'This filthy thing,' she repeated and stretched his flaccid penis to its extreme length. 'What did you do to my beautiful sister with this filthy thing?'

Martin's shoulders shuddered and a whimper escaped his pursed lips. He stared at his shrivelled penis in her delicate hand and tried to empty his mind, refusing to consider what lay ahead.

'Look at her,' Claudia instructed.

He stared resolutely downwards.

'Look at her or I get the electricity!'

He turned his head slowly upwards and exhaled heavily.

On the wall was a photograph of a beautiful young woman, dressed as well as her modest budget allowed. A smiled beamed from her picture down at him. She leant casually against a rough wooden fence. The rustic scene behind her was blurred, but discernable was woodland at the edge of a grassy field. Sunlight danced on her dark hair and her skin spoke of youth and vitality.

'She was always the most beautiful,' Claudia sighed.

'She was,' he croaked from his parched mouth. Fear had driven the moisture from his mouth.

'Then why did you do this?' Claudia gestured to the photograph beside it.

The second photograph was taken by the police photographer at the hospital. It was a portrait study of a slim woman's severely battered face. The eyes were swollen closed with black bruises and the nose was broken in a sickening gnarl of blood-caked skin. The lips were split and hideously inflamed beneath dry blood and two upper incisors were missing. The only thing that marked her out as the same youthful woman was her hair.

'That is the work of your hands. Within two years of marriage, this is what you achieved. This was the final beating that destroyed her mind.'

Enza had moved away from Florence to live with Martin in Verona. For two years he refused to let her leave the house and the neighbours, their friends and her family were forbidden to visit. On the telephone she insisted that they were both well and in love, and that she was too busy to receive visitors. It was only after the phone call from the carabinieri that Claudia saw her sister again. She saw her for the first time in two years in the intensive care unit of Verona Hospital.

'This is the work of your fists.' Claudia wiped the moisture from the corner of her eye. 'Now this is all I have left.' She produced a smaller photograph from an inside pocket. 'Look at what you left me with.' She shoved the photograph against his face.

It showed a haggard woman, aged far beyond her years. She smiled a strained, jagged smile of broken teeth beneath a distorted nose. The left upper eyelid drooped and the eye was noticeably lower than the right.

'Her body has healed and the doctors can find no permanent damage to her brain, but now she has the emotional capacity of a child. She cannot work or live or love again. She fears all men, even her papa, who loves her with a passion you could never know. She lives with me again but she lives a life halfway between a child and the dead. You took my beautiful innocent _"Fiore rosso"_ and gave me back a broken child in a woman's body. I cannot think what you did to her with this!' She tugged violently at his penis.

His knees jerked up instinctively but the cable ties around his ankles snagged the movement. He tried to tilt his pelvis away from her but the cloth of the wheelchair resisted him.

An involuntary yelp of pain pierced his lips.

'But now it is no longer about brutality,' she spoke softly again, 'now it is time for art.'

She eased back the foreskin and grasped his penis firmly between her left thumb and forefinger. She lifted the envelope from where it had fallen on the floor beneath the chair with her other hand, and opened the flap with her thumb. Agile fingers adjusted the free edge of the flap to hold it firmly between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. The tacky glue on the inner edge stuck to her thumb. Gently, she pressed the sharp edge of the paper into the opening at the tip of the penis.

'No,' Martin groaned. 'No, no, no. Please. No.'

'Yes, Martin, yes,' she reproached him and slowly slid the length of the razor-sharp edge of paper along the opening.

Martin groaned and strained against his restraints to try to buck her hand away. Mucous drizzled from his nose as he fought to stifle the pain. Claudia slid the envelope backwards and forwards in slow, solemn violin strokes. Blood smeared against the glue on the envelope flap, diluting it into a sticky gel.

'I would cut this off, but then I could only do it once. With paper I can cut this a thousand times and every time will undo a little of what you did to her.' She spoke slowly and deliberately, keeping pace with the measured strokes of the paper.

'Please stop! Please stop!' Martin relinquished endurance. 'Please kill me! Please kill me! You're right about everything! I deserve to die! Please kill me!'

'Why would I do that when this is so much more valuable for both of us?' She stared deep into his eyes.

'For the love of God!' he pleaded.

'Do not use His name in vain, unbeliever!' she shouted in Italian.

Looking down, she pressed the free edge of the bloody paper deeper into the tip of the bleeding penis and made one last, deliciously slow, deep cut, and then stopped.

'Oh, thank God!' he blurted.

'God left you a long time ago. It is by his grace that I have you now.' Claudia made the four points of the cross against her chest. 'I am grateful for his grace.'

'Look again, Martin.' She pointed at the two photographs of her sister on the wall. 'Look again and now tell me what you see.'

'I'm sorry,' Martin begged, 'I'm so sorry for everything.'

'You are not sorry, you only want me to stop. The purpose of our work is for you to feel penitence. If you cannot see what I am trying to show you, perhaps you do not deserve your eyes.'

Claudia stood up abruptly and moved to the sideboard. She yanked the drawer over and retrieved another envelope. Standing behind him, she wrapped her left arm around his head and forced his right eye open with her thumb and forefinger.

'Look at her and tell me what you see.' She tilted his head back against her chest.

'I don't know what you want me to say!' Martin wailed. 'I am penitent! I am penitent!'

'Tell me what you see!' she shrieked.

'I don't know! I don't know!' he shouted between sobs.

'Then you do not need this!' she shouted and slowly slid the razor-sharp edge of the envelope flap across the surface of his eyeball. Thick, gelatinous mucous spurted out.

Martin shrieked and forced his head forward, out of her grip. He clenched his eyes tightly together and shouted, 'Please, Claudia! Please! Please!'

Claudia moved around the chair to face him and stooped to see his face, twisted downwards towards the floor. A long, thick glob of clear fluid hung like a macabre teardrop from his closed right eye.

'If you cannot see, then you must feel. The pain in your eye is the same pain I feel in my eyes, every day, when I look at my sister.'

6

Cambridge, England

09h10 GMT, 15 December 2006

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Ben sat alone in the doctor's waiting room. Doctors and hospitals gave him the creeps. He forced himself to take only shallow breaths through his nose to avoid contagion from other patients in the waiting area. The room emanated quiet trepidation, like a funeral home or a morgue.

_These places really are morose,_ Ben ranted on the inside. _Would it kill the receptionists to spread a little sunshine? It's ridiculous that people in a "caring profession" should be so dissociated and indifferent. They can't even be bothered to–_

Ben's muted soliloquy stopped when his name appeared on the LED display on the wall. He rose and hurried down the corridor to Dr Warrington's office. He ignored the two chairs outside the closed door and knocked.

'Come,' Dr Warrington's voiced commanded.

Ben pushed the door open just wide enough to enter and closed it behind him. He stepped up to the chair beside the desk and waited for the doctor to finish typing notes on the computer.

'Hello, Ben,' Dr Warrington said as he finished typing and looked up. 'Please, sit down.'

_He doesn't even recognise me,_ Ben sighed to himself.

'Thank you.'

'How are you?'

'Well, I'm not sure, that's why I'm here.'

Dr Warrington nodded sagely.

'I think I'm having a nervous breakdown or I've got clinical depression or something.'

Dr Warrington nodded again and seemed suddenly interested, or concerned or both.

'It's a long story, so I'll try to be brief. After Frank and I split up our partnership I moved to Cambridge and started a new practice there. That's as far away as I could go and still be within reasonable distance to be on call. I discussed my plans with Frank first and he didn't mind, probably because I reassured him I wouldn't poach any clients. I took six months off being a vet and literally built my own practice with my own two hands and all my savings. At the last minute I got freaked out by the idea of being on call every night and every weekend, forever, so I asked an old friend of mine to join me and become a full partner. I had a romanticised view of business partnerships in the sense that I thought two heads would be better than one and I liked the idea of two people working together, supporting each other, towards a common goal. I thought if we both worked our socks off we'd get the business off the ground and live happily ever after.'

Dr Warrington smiled a stifled half-smile that seemed to be a blend of cynicism, empathy and sympathy. He was a veteran of two failed marriages and two failed business partnerships.

'The person I asked to join me was in my class at university. We'd known each other for almost twenty years and even dated for a while as students. I stupidly gave her half the partnership for free because I really believed we would work well together. The long and the short of it is that we've fallen out because I do all the work and she refuses to pull her weight. I discussed it with her and said the only way we could go forward would be to work out some sort of profit share system where income taken was determined by the amount of work done. She said she would consider it and then came back to me a week later with an aggressive letter from her solicitor saying that she had dissolved the partnership and wanted to be paid out a ridiculous amount of money. I've been fighting this for two months now and I'm at the stage that I'm losing weight. I wake up nauseous in the early hours of the morning. I feel physically sick most of the time. I can't concentrate and my heart beats so fast I feel as if I'm having anxiety attacks.'

'Hmm,' Dr Warrington responded as he reached for the blood pressure cuff on his table. He applied the cuff to Ben's arm in silence and measured the pressure with his stethoscope pressed firmly against the crook of the elbow. He shifted his chair away from the desk and scooted it close enough to lean forward and hold the stethoscope against Ben's chest.

He listened at several sites then commanded, 'Breathe in.'

Ben did so and Dr Warrington repeated the process twice more before removing the stethoscope and placing it back on his desk. He leant forwards again and palpated the lymph nodes under Ben's jaw.

'Well, it's probably both,' Dr Warrington said dryly.

Ben frowned back at him.

'The whole thing's making you hyper-anxious and that's triggering all the other things. I'm going to give you a short course of beta blockers to slow your heart. Take one tablet when you feel your heart racing and if that works try half a tablet next time. I can give you antidepressants or anything else you want but the only way to fix this is to fix your life. You need to figure out how to solve the problem and then solve it. I want to see you in two weeks and you can tell me then how things are going.'

Ben stared blankly back at the doctor, as if disappointed that he hadn't cured him with the wave of a magic wand.

'Do you think some time off would help?'

'Um, yes, probably.'

'Here's two weeks off,' Dr Warrington said, scribbling on a pad of paper. 'This is for the tablets,' he added as he struck the keypad and startled the printer behind him into life.

Dr Warrington rattled the keys on his keyboard as he entered his notes then looked up. 'In two weeks I'm on holiday but I'm just staying at home. You know where I live,' he said as he scribbled on his notepad again. 'I'll see you at my house at nine o' clock in two weeks and we'll take Inca for a walk. You can tell me then how things are.'

Ben took the paper, overwhelmed by the gesture.

Dr Warrington stood up from his desk and opened the door. 'She's doing much better on the tablets you gave her. You'll see the difference on the walk.'

Ben stood and stepped out of the door. 'Thank you,' he said.

'Good luck,' Dr Warrington said and smiled as he closed the door.

Ben was completely overwhelmed by Dr Warrington's altruism. He had a reputation as a very good doctor but a particularly grumpy one. He was notoriously intolerant of patients wasting his time. Ben had been embarrassed by the thought of coming here and whining about his inability to cope. Dr Warrington had surprised him by the show of compassion and the lucid, simple truth of his advice.

_He's absolutely right,_ Ben thought to himself as he strode down the corridor. _I'll just pay her the money and then I can carry on with my life. I'll resent it like hell but it's the only way forward._

Dr Warrington's wife, the practice head nurse, had often described him as the doctor with the worst bedside manner she had ever encountered. It seemed to Ben, though, that when you really needed him, Dr Warrington stepped up to the plate.

Ben felt a new sense of hope as he drove home and felt the burden lift from his shoulders. On arriving home he switched the kettle on and telephoned his solicitor to sack him. The solicitor had achieved nothing in his paper war against her but his bill had efficiently soared to four thousand pounds.

'Tell him I'll sort it out myself,' Ben told the legal secretary and thanked her for her time before replacing the handset.

He brewed a cup of tea and telephoned Agnes to tell her what he planned to do. Agnes, his senior nurse, had worked with him at the old clinic and had volunteered to move with him to the new one. She was approaching retirement but still attractive and energetic. She was fiercely loyal and they had forged a very close friendship over the years. She felt like his big sister and acted like it too. She stalwartly defended him against anyone or anything that threatened him or her sense of fairness.

Ben openly discussed all his problems with Agnes and her level-headedness and clear thinking had guided him through many turbulent times. She was appalled when Ben told her that Julie had dissolved the partnership and was demanding a ludicrous payout and she had tried to help by trying to mediate and broker a fairer deal.

Ben replayed a previous conversation with Agnes as he brewed a mug of tea.

'That's ridiculous,' Agnes had announced when she found out how much money was at stake. 'How did she come to that figure?'

'She had someone value it and that's the number,' Ben had replied meekly. 'What pisses me off is that most of that is for goodwill.'

'Goodwill?'

'Yes, goodwill is a thumb-suck figure based on the number of clients the business has. The idea is that they have a value because they represent future income.'

'But they're all people who tracked you down and followed you from the old WellPets Clinic,' Agnes said incredulously. 'They're your clients! How can she expect you to pay her for clients you had before you started the partnership?'

'That's the way the law stands. My idiot solicitor said we could fight her claim but when he took me to see a barrister yesterday, to discuss how to fight this in court, the barrister told me a completely different story. Apparently, a partnership is like a marriage; it doesn't matter what each person brings into it or how much they contribute during the marriage. If they get divorced, they're each entitled to half of everything. Partnership is the same: each partner is entitled to half of everything, irrespective of input or effort.'

'That's terrible, she's no right to do that. Deep down she must know it's really your clinic. You built it, you paid for it and you do all the work.'

'I know, but that's the law.'

'Well, just because the law says it's right, doesn't make it right. When my ex-husband and I were divorced, my solicitor wanted me to take half his business but I told him it was his business and I had no right to it. All I wanted was enough to help raise our children and to help me restart my career. Just because your solicitor says you're entitled to do something doesn't mean you have to listen to him.'

'I know, Agnes. I spoke to her about this last week. I told her that what she was doing was morally wrong. She told me she realised it was but, in the eyes of the law, she could, so she would. She said she wanted the money to buy a house and have a long holiday.'

'With your money,' Agnes interrupted.

'I know, so much for her high Christian values.'

Ben's thoughts returned to the present and he dialled Agnes' number. He sipped his tea as he carried the phone to the table in the centre of the room and sat down on the hard wooden chair.

'Hello,' a cheery voice rung out of the handset.

'Hi Agnes, it's Ben.'

'Hello, Ben.'

'Listen, Agnes, I've just come back from the doctor and he's signed me off work for two weeks to sort things out with Julie. I don't have the energy to fight with her anymore. I can't risk losing everything and starting again. I'm going to pay her what she wants and be done with it.'

'All of it?'

'I've got no choice. This whole thing's made me ill now and–'

'It just makes me sick,' Agnes blurted. 'I've spoken to her about this many times in private. She breaks down into tears and admits that she's wrong to do this to you and to us, but then she keeps doing it anyway. I told her she's hurting the staff just as much as she's hurting you. She keeps saying she's sorry but then keeps going for the money. I'd refuse to pay her just on principle. I'd rather lose everything in legal costs than give her a penny.'

'Well, that's just what it will come to if I don't pay her, Agnes. If we can't agree on how much money is due to her, she can force me to sell the clinic and then we split whatever someone is prepared to pay for it. Market forces will decide the value.'

'Surely she can't force you to sell.'

'Oh yes she can, and she's said she will.'

'But what about all of us? What will happen to all the staff if you sell?'

'That will be up to whoever buys the place.'

'Who would give me a job if they didn't want me?'

'You're a great asset, Agnes, you'll get another job anywhere.'

'I don't think so. I'm fifty-nine.'

'You don't look it or act it, Agnes, you'd be fine. Anyway, I'm not going to let any of that happen. I'm going to take the financial hit and then we'll dig our way out of it.'

'If I was you, I'd see her in hell before I gave her any money.'

'I've decided, Agnes. I'm going to take out a loan and pay her and that's that. It'll take me about four years to earn back the money but at least I can carry on with my life. Phone her and tell her I'm off work for two weeks. I'll post the doctor's note to prove I'm not lying. Tell her I'll send her a copy of the partner dissolution agreement Frank and I signed. It's a standard agreement so we don't need to waste more money on solicitors. Once she's signed it she can have the money and we can all get on with our lives. Christmas is in ten days. I want to get this all done so she leaves on the last day of the month and we can carry on as normal from the New Year.'

7

Heathrow, England

08h50 GMT, 6 March 2007

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

The flight from Mombasa was on time but Ben was late. The new approach road to Heathrow Terminal 5, intended to make life easier, had been a bastard of biblical proportions.

'Fuck sakes!' Ben cursed under his breath as he navigated through the passengers and visitors milling about the airport concourse. Beads of perspiration tugged at the hairs on his forehead. His tie was worn loose and his shirtsleeves rolled up but the heat of rushing was unabated.

'Fuck sakes!' he reiterated as he pushed through a lounging swarm of foreign students wearing identical shirts with bizarre nicknames emblazoned in red embroidery on their backs. The arrivals hall had very few seats so they loitered in groups, standing and sitting on their suitcases, buzzing with the anticipation of new destinations.

'Fucking tourists!' he complained, as he often did when navigating the pavements of London, missing the irony completely.

The parking coupon wilted in the moisture of his clenched hand as he touched his breast pocket to check that his wallet and phone were still there. He stuffed the crumpled paper into the pocket and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The passengers moving through the arrival gate had slowed to an incontinent trickle as Ben scanned the faces in the immediate vicinity. No sign of Christopher. He manoeuvred to peer up the arrivals corridor, looking past the customs tables lining the 'nothing to declare' exit, but still no familiar face. Chris would not mind but Ben hated being late. He sighed and turned to face the doors exiting the hall at the opposite end of the building. The exits were magnets for smokers so Ben headed for the nearest one. The doors slid apart and he stepped through to face the queue of waiting taxis. There were no cigarette butts on the pavement so he turned to his right to look back at the door.

Chris was leaning against the glass wall beside an abandoned trolley, gazing vacantly into the distance as he inhaled from a cigarette.

Ben smiled and chuckled softly to himself. Chris seemed thinner and taller, with a higher forehead and a longer ponytail, but no different at all really.

'Oi!' Ben shouted at Chris to jolt him back to reality.

'Hello _boet_.' Chris smiled before twisting his lips and head to exhale the smoke over his shoulder. 'How the hell are you?'

Ben held out his hand in greeting but Chris waved it away.

'What the hell?' Chris chastised and stepped forward to hug him tightly.

Ben stood on his toes as they embraced. He was pinned immobile for a few moments until Chris slapped him on the back several times then shoved him away and rough-housed him for good measure.

'Are you shorter or am I taller?'

'I see you're with team nicotine,' Ben parried.

'Ja, ja, just don't start preaching, it's my life.'

'I'm with you, man,' Ben colluded. 'I only gave up because Marion hates it. Oh, and I didn't want to die an agonising premature death.'

'Ja, ja, ja.' Chris deflected the sarcasm and hoisted the shoulder strap of his bag.

Ben picked up the second satchel at Chris's feet and they set off towards the stairs of the car park.

'So this is where you live,' Chris remarked as he looked up at the grey sky.

'Yeah, but it's great. Everyone bitches about the weather here but I love it.'

'Are you trying to convince me or yourself?'

'Oh, Jesus, you've been spending time with Greg again. That's his kind of smart-ass BA psychology comment.'

'Ja, as it happens he stayed with me for a few days before coming over.'

'Is he still in Zims?'

'No, he's in Botswana now, trying to start up a hiking safari tourism company or something.'

'And how's he doing?'

'Who knows? He's still the same as we were at school. I don't know if he's ever going to sort his life out.'

'And Ma?'

'Ja, she's fine. She's getting older and she bitches all the time but that's just the way she is. The old man's still the same old, same old, but at least now she argues back.'

Ben stopped to pay for the parking and received the ticket issued by the machine. 'Over there.' He pointed at a black TVR.

'Nice,' Chris commented as he dumped his bags in the tiny boot. 'Very nice.'

Once on the motorway Ben asked, 'How often do you see Ma and Dad?'

'Every weekend I go round for lunch on Sundays and help them with odd jobs around the house. I'm all they've got so I try to help as much as I can, but I've got my own life to run too.'

'And how's that going?'

'Ja, man, life's good. Boo's great and the kids are growing up fine. I know you and Ma and Dad didn't think it would work but it's actually excellent.'

'How 'bout you?'

'What about me?'

'Are you still seeing Iona?'

'No, that ended a while ago.'

'So you're single?'

'No.'

'Of course not, you've moved on to this Marion person who doesn't let you smoke?'

'Yeah.'

'I don't get you. You're always playing house.'

'What? Why?'

'You've never tried being single. Ever. You move from one long-term thing to another but never get married. What's that shit all about? Have you got, like, commitment issues or a fear of being alone, or fear of rejection, or fear of failure, or everything all at once?'

'There's a lot of Doctor Freud going on here!' Ben snorted. 'Why the hell are we psychoanalysing me, anyway?'

'Afraid of what you'll find?'

'Oh, for fuck's sake.' Ben laughed out loud.

'No, I'm serious.'

'No, no, _boet_. Let me tell you how it works. Today you're the big happy family man and I'm the guy with the emotional baggage and commitment hang-ups, but tomorrow when everything turns upside down, what then?'

'I know exactly what you mean. People suck. When things go wrong, and I know it's not if they go wrong it's when they go wrong, they'll fuck you over and take everything, even if they don't really want what they're taking.'

'That's a bit hard-core. What I meant was the only constant is change. Nothing stays the same, especially in relationships.'

'That's what I mean. I know most people are shits but I accept that, so when they do fuck up, I'm not surprised. You expect everyone to be as perfect as you are and when they fall short, you're disappointed. We both know how the world works and how people are but I accept it and you fight it.'

'Thanks for clearing that up, Dr Seuss.'

'No problem.' Chris reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a strip of twisted paper. He put it to his lips, lit it, inhaled deeply then sighed, exhaling the sweet perfume of marijuana.

'Jesus Christ, Chris! You didn't come through customs with that?'

'Absolutely not, I'm not brain dead... yet. My connection sorted me out at the airport.'

'I don't want to know.'

'Want a drag?' Chris offered the joint in clear view of the other motorists.

'What do you think?' Ben pushed it away, the smoke stung his eyes.

'Suit yourself, it's good gear.' Chris inhaled again and closed his eyes for a long time before exhaling. Blue smoke filled the car.

'Jesus Christ.' Ben shook his head and stabbed at the console button to open all the windows. 'I don't fucking believe you.'

'It is what it is, _boet_. Now, where were we?' Chris inhaled again and leant back, eyes closed, oblivious to the maelstrom of wind and road noise in the car. 'Oh ja, most people are shits.' He pinched off the burning end of the spliff and flicked it out of the window, the remaining half held carefully in his palm. 'Maybe you never got married because you don't trust anyone. You want what ever it is you get from long-term relationships, but you don't want to be vulnerable.' Chris's eyes were closed and content.

'It's not some heavy psychological thing, it's a reality thing.' Ben sighed, reluctant to be drawn into the conversation again but realising it would take more energy to avoid it. He closed the windows.

'Exactly what we were just saying.' Chris dropped the spliff into his breast pocket and patted it against his heart. 'I work on the principle that most human relationships, however good they seem at the moment, are in the pre-fuck-up stage. I'm not happy about it, but sooner or later they all go wrong.'

'Or we make them go wrong?'

'No. It's human nature, it's inevitable. It's probably normal that eventually everything goes to shit in the end. I just accept it.'

'So even you and me will go wrong eventually?'

'It might.'

'And what if it does?'

'We'll be fine because we've got honour.' Chris picked his nose and examined the yield on his finger.

'Honour?'

'Honour is everything. People with honour also do shitty things, but they do it in a different way.' He opened his window and flicked the dry mucous into the wind then eased back into his chair.

'Exactly, so when there's no honour, there have to be consequences.' Ben pushed the centre console button to close Chris's window, cutting out the road noise.

'Consequences?' Chris opened his eyes again. 'That's creepy, man.'

'What do you mean?'

'The word "consequence" slipped in there and it sounded really fucked up.'

'Why?'

'You know why. Dad used to get like that, the whole Old Testament "eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth" thing.'

'It's just a word.'

'No, it's more than that. You sounded just like him, that's why it's so creepy. Dad got really fucked up about that kind of thing. The "evil begets evil" thing,' Chris said, making air quotes with his fingers. 'And anyway, who decides what's OK and what's not OK? Who decides who should be punished and when and where and why and how? You? Dad? God?'

'No, anyone and everyone.'

'Like the police? Lawyers? The government?'

'No, like anyone with a sense of honour and dignity.'

'OK, so define "honour and dignity".'

'Anyone who has to ask that question wouldn't understand the answer. You know exactly what I mean. I mean exactly what you meant when you said it two minutes ago.'

Chris relented. 'Ja, I know what you mean.'

Ben nodded and smiled to himself. 'Why are you getting so worked up about all this anyway? We're just talking.'

'It's totally fucked up, man, Dad's whole punishment thing, without even going into his _"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes"_ issues.'

'Just forget it, man, it makes sense to me and you know what I mean, that's what matters.'

'I think life should be about "turn the other cheek" or better still, "just let it slide".'

'Well that's cool too.'

'Fuck me, this is a bit intense, I need a cigarette.'

'Well then, you're in luck, we're here,' Ben said as he turned the wheel into the driveway.

Ben parked the car and Chris wrestled his bag from the boot. He immediately lit a cigarette and they loitered at the rear of the car in silence as he pulled deeply on the filter.

Chris's eyes were watery and very bloodshot. He looked shaken by the conversation about their father. Ben recognised the look from their childhood.

'Chill out, man.' Ben tried to lighten the mood. 'It just came out all wrong. Just forget it. Let's get inside and get some beers going. You're meant to be on holiday.'

Chris nodded, the colour returning to his face. 'Ja, excellent, beers and a _braai_.'

They each shouldered a bag and strolled across the lawn. Before they got to the front door it swung open to reveal a smiling face.

'Marion, this is Chris.' Ben gestured to his brother.

'Hi, Chris.' Marion beamed at them.

'Howzit!' Chris smiled back at her then at his brother.

Marion turned and led the way into the small house. Chris flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the flower bed and followed her in. As he stepped over the threshold he turned his head to Ben. He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and nodded his approval to his brother as he made the shape of an hourglass with his hands. Ben shoved him forwards and smiled as Chris lurched through the doorway. Ben really liked Marion and was delighted Chris agreed.

8

Ipswich, England

20h17 GMT, 23 June 2007

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Ben took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. He clenched and unclenched his fingers to dissipate the tension. A figure appeared, blurred behind the opaque glass, but he knew it was Julie.

The door opened and Ben's mouth felt too dry to speak as he looked at her for the first time in almost seven months.

'Hello, Ben,' Julie said uncomfortably.

Ben had expected her tone to be condescending. He had hoped it would be, to stoke his anger, but now that the moment was here it was not playing out the way he had planned it in his head. There was possibly even a hint of remorse in her demeanour.

'Thanks for seeing me, Jules,' Ben said in exactly the meek tone he had rehearsed.

He fidgeted his fingers and shifted his weight uneasily to complete the impression that he was a beaten and broken man.

'Can I come in, just for a minute? I won't take a lot of your time. We never spoke after everything that happened. I think we need to try to end on a positive note so we can both carry on with our lives.'

Julie frowned and moved to the side of the open doorway. 'OK,' she said.

Ben stepped over the threshold with his head low and his shoulders drooped. He walked down the short corridor then stopped for further directions.

'The lounge's on your left.'

Ben looked around the front room. Julie had impeccable taste in furniture and the small room was dominated by a beautiful and substantial Victorian arts and crafts revival armoire. The rest of the room was classically but cheaply furnished with furniture bought on a limited budget.

'Nice armoire,' Ben commented, sincerely admiring it.

'Thank you.' Julie smiled at the back of his head. She knew she had good taste and it had pleased her every time Ben had commented on it in the past. Ben had created the impression amongst his friends that he knew a lot more about furniture than he really did.

'Do you want something to drink?' Julie asked, adhering to the generic doctrine of modern hospitality to steer her though the awkwardness.

'Coffee, please,' Ben replied as he turned to face her. 'If you've got any.'

_What a stupid thing to say,_ Ben thought to himself, _of course she would have coffee. I'm trying to be polite,_ he consoled himself. He had always been a left-footed dancer at the ball of social graces.

'White and one sugar?' Julie asked rhetorically as she headed for the kitchen at the back.

Ben followed her, just as he had done for many years. The only new thing was this house.

Julie lifted the kettle and turned her back to step across the galley kitchen to the sink. As she leaned forward to fill the kettle, Ben seized the moment.

'Ouch!' she cried in pain and surprise.

A searing shock of pain scorched her left buttock. She dropped the kettle and instinctively turned to face him, flailing both arms to defend herself.

'Fuck off!' she screamed. 'Get off me!'

Ben ducked his head back to avoid her fists as she fought to get away from him.

'It wasn't me! It wasn't me!' Ben shouted and held his open palms defensively in front of his face and chest. 'There's a wasp,' he said, pointing at the back door.

Julie failed to notice the empty needle and syringe lying at her feet as she looked to see what he was pointing at.

Ben leapt on her as she looked away and used his weight to push her to the ground.

'Help!' she cried out under the strain of resisting his weight. 'Somebody help me!'

Ben forced her down with all the strength he could muster and they collapsed onto the floor. She screamed and clawed at him as they fell. He pulled his knees forward to sit on her back as she writhed to turn around and break free. She was a head shorter than him and considerably lighter but aerobic classes four nights a week had made her far stronger than she looked. Ben had a home gym and worked out regularly with heavy weights but he was finding it difficult to keep her down. Her manicured fingernails raked at his arms, legs and flanks.

'Shut up!' he growled as he sat astride her back and tried to pin her arms under his knees.

He dug his right knee into her left shoulder and grabbed a handful of hair with his left hand. His right hand slapped against the side of her face as he tried to clamp her mouth shut. She fought like a feral cat, bucking and writhing violently to unseat him. Her head shook aggressively beneath the mass of hair obscuring her face.

'Shut up!' he repeated through teeth clenched with the exertion of resisting her efforts.

'Fuck off!' she shrieked.

'Fuck!' he shouted as she bit into the side of his right hand and forefinger.

'Fuck!' he exclaimed again as he realised that she had no intention of releasing her grip.

He pulled her head back by the hair with his left hand and pounded her head against the floor again and again and again to make her let go. The ricochet of her skull on the tiles echoed sickeningly. He wrenched his hand free as her mouth opened and gasped for air.

'Stop it for fuck sakes!' he said and mashed her face against the ground twice more for good measure.

'I don't want to hurt you! Just wait for the medetomidine to work!' he commanded.

'You bastard!' she railed against him.

She knew what medetomidine was. Vets used it to subdue violent and aggressive animals. It stung like fury as it was injected and moments later the animal would collapse. She knew she could not fight it as the first wave of nausea struck. She wrenched herself onto her left side and Ben relaxed his grip on her hair and shifted his weight to let her roll onto her back, then pinned her wrists to the floor. She shook her face to see through her hair and seethed at him as the next wave of nausea surged up her throat.

Ben looked at the blood flowing from his right hand and said, 'Just give it a minute!'

Julie was about to shout back when her body convulsed. The force of the spasms incapacitated her so Ben slowly rose and rolled her onto her left side, into the recovery position.

'Don't fight it,' he said as she vomited her dinner onto the floor. She groaned and her head lolled forward.

She tried to raise herself onto her left elbow but then she contorted and vomited again. Ben stood back and picked up a tea towel to staunch the blood flow from his throbbing finger.

Julie moaned as she struggled against the waves of nausea and the wash of sedative coursing through her body. She mumbled incoherently at him before her body relaxed and her head lay still, face down in the solid pile of vomited food.

Ben stepped forward and pulled her away from the vomit to be sure she could breathe.

'Good,' he said to himself and sighed as he unwrapped the towel to examine the injury to his hand.

9

Cambridge, England

22h04 GMT, 24 June 2007

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Julie raised her head and looked out from beneath drooping eyelids. She was alone, seated in a hard white plastic garden chair. She was disorientated, confused and unable to move. Her instinct was to get up and run but she could not. Looking down she saw that her ankles, knees, wrists and elbows were tightly bound to the chair.

A frown crept across her face as she tried to rationalise her situation. She squinted around to see that she was in the centre of a rectangular space, brightly lit by fluorescent bulbs overhead. The floor, the walls and the ceiling were shining with the glare of light bouncing off the white gloss enamel paint. There were no doors or windows. The room was very clean, as if it had recently been painted.

The bright light made her blink as she forced her mind to concentrate.

_This has to be a dream, or is it a nightmare?_ she asked herself.

She looked down at her arms and legs again as she struggled to free herself. She was restrained by yellow cable ties, very similar to the ones she used at work to seal plastic bags. To her left was a large empty table and beneath it was an empty blue bucket. She shifted her weight and felt a large hole cut into the seat of the chair beneath her. The only way out of here was an ascending staircase at the far end of the room, directly ahead of her. A mop and another blue bucket were neatly stowed beneath the stairs.

_Must be a cellar,_ she concluded.

There were dirty footprints and drag marks leading from the stairs to her chair in the centre of the room.

_Ben!_ she realised. _The bastard drugged me and dragged me down here._ _Where is here?_ Her thoughts raced.

'Help!' she shouted plaintively. 'Somebody, help me!'

She struggled violently against the cable ties before it occurred to her. Her shouting didn't resonate or echo at all.

'Help!' she shouted again and once again the room swallowed her voice. 'Please!'

_Some sort of soundproofing,_ she assumed. _Like a recording studio?_

Julie remembered hearing or reading somewhere that no one responded to cries for help anymore. The best advice was to shout 'Fire!' to attract attention to yourself. She opened her mouth to shout but then closed it again. She felt foolish shouting 'Fire!' and it seemed pretty pointless anyway if the room had been soundproofed.

Perplexed, Julie sat quiet and still, waiting for everything, or at the very least something, to make sense. She pondered her situation for what seemed like a very, very long time. The only explanation she could muster was that Ben had done all this. But why?

_He's going to rape me,_ she thought with a chilling wave of fear. _He's going to rape me,_ she thought again, as if to confront her instinct to deny it.

_Maybe he already has._ She squirmed in the chair to feel for moisture in her crotch.

It felt dry.

_He could have used a condom,_ she rationalised _, but even so, I'm going to the police._

The police! The thought implied salvation. _The police will find me and they'll press charges._ _He's going to jail for this_. She felt consoled by the thought of retribution.

The privacy of Julie's thoughts was breached abruptly by the sound of a door opening. She looked to the staircase and saw shoes and trousers on the treads.

Ben briskly descended the stairs. He was carrying a toolbox and a bottle of water.

Julie glared angrily at him as he approached but neither of them spoke. Ben avoided eye contact. He went over to the table and put down what he was carrying.

'What do you think you're doing, Ben?' Julie asked reproachfully.

It was precisely that attitude that has always annoyed him. She projected a haughty superiority during their legal battle and her spurious efforts to conceal it only made it that much more offensive. It had always irritated him immensely and now it bolstered his vitriol.

'The answer, Jules,' he replied calmly as he stood directly in front of her, 'is, whatever I want.'

Her defiance wilted imperceptibly when she saw the hate in his eyes.

'From now on, Jules,' Ben continued, 'we're going to have a completely different relationship.'

'Ben, you're in so much trouble already,' Julie said. 'Don't make it any worse.'

'Jules,' Ben said as he sat on his haunches between her parted thighs, 'the days of you getting one over on me are over.' He glared at her with seething contempt. 'You've pissed me off so much. You can't even begin to imagine what I'm going to do to you.'

Aggression and reason had failed, so Julie tried helplessness. 'Please, Ben, you're scaring me. I'm sorry about the way things worked out but I only did what my solicitor told me to do. I took less than I could have–'

'You were entitled to nothing!' Ben snapped back at her. 'Goodwill? What the fuck was that all about? It was my fucking goodwill and I have to pay you for it? You should pay me for the fucking privilege of working with me!'

Julie was about to rekindle the old argument between them but the scarlet flush in Ben's cheeks and the tone of his voice silenced her. He was on his haunches, clutching the armrests of her chair, seething up at her from between her legs. Her parted thighs made her feel even more vulnerable. She had never seen him like this before. He had always seemed so calm and reasonable, almost too reasonable, verging on weak. Yes, she had probably mistaken his accommodating manner for weakness. She realised now that she had made a big mistake.

'Ben, I only did what the solicitor told me to do,' she said, by way of an excuse.

'Fucking lawyers can't force you to do anything. They do what you tell them to do. They tell you how much you can go for then it's up to you to do the right thing. Just because you're legally entitled to something doesn't mean you're morally entitled.'

Ben glared at her for a moment before continuing, 'You prance around telling people you're a Christian. Well, where the fuck were your Christian values then? You grabbed as much money as you could and fucked everyone else. You took my money, you took my health, you crippled my business and you fucked up my marriage. I had nothing in the end! Nothing!'

Julie averted her eyes as he glowered at her.

'I ended up renting a shitty little room in someone else's house for months! All I had was a bag of clothes! Anne kept everything! The house, the furniture, the dogs – everything! She even moved some pisshead from the pub into my fucking bed with her the day after she threw me out!'

He stood up and stepped back to measure the response on Julie's face. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he wiped the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Ben, you can't blame me for what Anne did.' Julie defended her position.

'I fucking can and I fucking do!' he screamed at her.

Ben realised he was about to lose it. He had always been angry about this but he had always reined in any outward display of emotion. This was the first time in his life he had screamed like a fishwife and he felt suddenly embarrassed by his loss of control. His cheeks stung with crimson heat.

Cold-blooded anger was the only emotion strong enough to displace his embarrassment and it slid easily back into the breach.

Ben paused for a moment to compose himself before firing the next salvo.

'Julie,' he said in a calm and measured tone, 'let me tell you why you're here. I'm not going to kill you, Jules. I'm going to hurt you. I'm going to hurt you every day for the rest of your life. I'm going to hurt you on every level I can think of. I'm going to hurt you physically and I'm going to screw with your mind. I'm going to hurt you as much as I can without making you go completely mad because then hurting you won't be fun anymore.

'The game plan is simple, Jules. You're going to spend the rest of your life in this room. I will come to you once every day. Every day I'll do something exquisitely painful to you. The fun, for you, is not just feeling the pain but also knowing that tomorrow we're going to do it again. I'm not going to let you escape any of this by dying, either. I'll feed you and water you to keep you alive. If you refuse to eat, I'll force-feed you with a stomach tube like a Christmas turkey. The bucket under your chair will collect it all at the other end. I've cut a big hole in the chair so you don't even need to get up to go. You're going to get the best medical treatment money can buy. I'll keep you going with antibiotics and drips if your wounds get infected and whatever else you need to keep you alive. Every day for the rest of your life you're going to feel the pain you caused me.'

Ben's flushed cheeks burned less as he calmed.

'Now, I'll be honest with you, Jules. I haven't planned it all. I know how I'm going to start but then we'll just let things evolve themselves from there.'

'I'm going to start with your fingers, Jules.' Ben's voice was calm and steady again. 'Scream all you like when I'm not here. I've completely soundproofed the whole place so no one can hear you.'

Ben stepped back and admired his work thus far.

'So what do you think?' he asked.

Julie was dumbfounded. The whole situation was so surreal that her mind couldn't keep hold of it. It was like he was living out some sort of badly choreographed horror movie fantasy, she thought to herself.

Daily images of violence and suffering on television have desensitised modern society to the concept of suffering. By bringing it into our homes it has become dissociated from reality. It has become impossible to see physical suffering as anything more than something that happens to other people. Julie's mind could not grasp that she could be the horror story on the news. Even the idea that his mind could have constructed this scenario was difficult to comprehend.

'I can't believe what you're saying, Ben,' she said calmly. 'Listen to yourself. This isn't some sort of role play game, this is real life.'

Julie's confidence returned as she spoke and they both sensed the irritation rising in her voice.

'Go on,' Ben prompted.

'I'm telling you to stop it, Ben,' she chastised him. 'Untie these things and let me go, or else.'

'Or else what?'

'Or else you're going to prison and then you'll be struck off and then you really will lose everything.'

'So you don't believe me?'

'Of course I don't believe you!' Julie raised her voice as her indignation broke to the surface. 'Get over yourself!'

Ben stepped up to the table and pushed some things out of the way. He grasped the rubber handle of a claw hammer and moved to face her from a few feet away. His hands hung at his sides and he gently tapped the head of the hammer against the side of his leg.

'Do you believe me now?'

'Ben, just stop it.'

He took one step forwards.

'Do you believe me now?'

'Stop it, Ben, just stop it!'

He stepped forwards and pressed his knees hard against hers. She winced with pain.

'Do you believe me now?'

She looked up at him with an expression of growing annoyance and frustration.

He raised the hammer and thrust it in front of her face, too close for her eyes to focus.

'Do you believe me now?'

Silence.

'Do you?'

He swung the hammer down violently and hit her left hand with the cold metal face. The steel head bounced back slightly off the flesh and bone and the sensation of it distracted him for a moment. It intrigued him. He had done a lot of DIY and was used to the feedback from a hammer blow but this was a new feeling. The texture of the impact felt very different to what he had imagined.

'Shit! Ow!' she wailed and balled her hand into a protective fist. 'You bastard!'

'Do you believe me now?' he asked sarcastically.

'Piss off,' she retorted defiantly and fought back the tears.

Ben stepped back to the table and put the hammer down. He picked up several small cable ties and stooped to grab her left fist. She resisted his attempts to prise her fingers open but he was too strong. They grappled in silence, punctuated by the grunts and groans of their exertions. She dug her nails into him, enough to make him bleed, but he persisted. He forced her fingers down against the metal frame of the armrest. It took two cable ties pulled tightly around her wrist and three more around the forefinger to immobilise it.

'There,' he said and stood back to assess his work.

Her forefinger was fully straightened and tightly bound to the metal frame. The cable ties were so tight that the skin between them blanched into a pale puce colour.

'Do you believe me know?' He panted slightly from the effort.

She glared at him hatefully.

'You better fucking believe me!' he spat at her as he hit the tip of her finger violently.

Ben knew Julie had a magnificent pain threshold. He had seen her cope with the pain after being badly bitten by a Rottweiler at work. She clenched her jaw shut and smothered her screams as pain erupted in her finger. The agony was exquisite but the only sounds she made were short panting gasps of air through her nose, as if she were in labour. She fixed her mouth shut in obstinate resolve. She refused to give him the satisfaction of her pain.

He hit her fingertip again.

'Do you believe me now?' he shouted at her before hitting it again.

Thud!

'Do you believe me now?'

Thud!

Her resolve was overwhelmed and she cried out involuntarily. She screamed like a fox set upon by a pack of dogs.

'Do you believe me now?'

Thud!

'Do you believe me now?'

Thud!

'Please stop! Please stop, Ben!' she shrieked.

Ben smiled. 'Where's your haughty superiority now?' he growled.

'I believe you,' she shouted between sobs of unbearable anguish. 'I believe you! Please stop!'

Pain and sobbing wracked her body as her mind fought against the realisation that this was really happening.

Ben looked back at her sobbing in the chair and frowned. She looked small and vulnerable, like a fragile child.

'Too late,' he said softly and started beating the fingertip again.

He rained blow after blow onto the fingertip as the sound of metal striking metal mingled with her shrieks and screams. She cried and begged and kicked her feet to no avail. She called for help and bucked and reared against the ties but nothing changed. She called to God and Jesus to save her but no one came. The clash of metal and flesh continued relentlessly and she howled like a beast as the pain threatened to implode her mind.

The hammer blows finally stopped. Ben bent forward to examine the damage. The fingertip had finally disintegrated; there was only blood spatter where it had once been. Two arteries spurted blood enthusiastically from the mashed stump jutting from her hand. The twin jets of blood pulsed rhythmically and squirted several feet across the room.

'Shit!' Ben exclaimed.

He hurried up the staircase and Julie saw him step off the top tread. She heard the crash of the trapdoor as it closed.

She couldn't move. She was all alone. The pain was unbearable.

Moments later the trapdoor was wrenched open and Ben stormed back down the stairs. He twisted an elastic band tightly around the bleeding stump to stop the bleeding.

'I'll have to get the electro-cautery unit from work,' he said, 'and some catgut.'

He turned and left the room again. The trapdoor slammed shut and a key turned in a lock. Julie heard the click of a switch and the room was plunged into darkness.

Julie tried to absorb the enormity of what had happened. It was impossible to comprehend. It was impossible to accept. She lowered her head and sobbed into her chest, her mind numbed by shock.

10

M25, West of London, England

10h50 GMT, 6 July 2007

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Ben had been driving in silence for the last 30 minutes. Chris sat in the passenger seat with a fixed, expectant grin and Marion gazed absently at the scenery from the rear passenger window.

'I'm still not sure about this,' Ben broke the silence.

'Oh, stop bitching about it,' Chris interrupted, 'it's your birthday and this is what I'm giving you so just relax and enjoy it.'

'I'm not a big fan of surprises,' Ben persisted.

'Well, you're going to love this one.' Chris rubbed his hands and nodded.

'Humph!' Ben registered his contention.

A sign indicating the slip road off the M25 to Heathrow loomed into view.

'It's one of these,' Chris mumbled and consulted his map.

Ben caught Marion's eye in the rear-view mirror. 'Did you bring our passports?'

'No.' Marion smiled back at him.

'Would you tell me the truth if you did?'

'Not if it would ruin the surprise, but he hasn't told me anything either.'

'Take this off-ramp?' Ben asked.

'No, no,' Chris answered cheerily.

'Humph!' Ben moved his eyes back to the road as they drove past the turn-off for the airport.

'I think it's the next one, or the next one.' Chris frowned at his map. 'Junction eleven, or thirteen or twelve.'

Ben sighed and drove on in silence as Chris adjusted the radio and tittered in delicious anticipation. Several moments later the sign for junction thirteen appeared after a bend in the road. Beside the large green motorway sign a smaller brown sign declared: 'Thorpe Park'.

'No, no, no, no, no!' Ben exclaimed.

'Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!' Chris countered with uncontained glee.

*****

After Ben had parked the car, Chris produced three pre-booked tickets at the turnstiles and led the way into Thorpe Park. The skyline ahead was a tangle of looped metal twisting in the sky.

'I hate roller coasters,' Ben opined.

'But it's a belated birthday present,' Chris insisted, 'and Marion loves them.'

'You mean you love them,' Ben sniped.

'No, I mean Marion and I love them.' Chris laughed. 'And after today, so will you. I honestly thought you'd love this.'

'How did you figure that?' Ben stared at the arms flailing from the seats in the inverted roller coaster directly ahead of them.

Marion moved beside him and interlaced her fingers with his, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

'Well, you like skiing.' Chris smiled approvingly at the cacophony of screams in the air.

'That's different.' Ben swallowed the first tinge of nausea.

'It's exactly the same thing,' Chris said as he skipped beside him, 'throwing yourself through time and space, twists and turns and speed, speed, speed.'

'No, no, no.' Ben squeezed Marion's hand. 'With skiing, I'm in control; this shit's completely out of control.'

'It's the heights. Heights freak him out,' Marion explained and planted a kiss on Ben's cheek. 'You know, vertigo.'

'Heights freak you out but you go skiing every year?' Chris furrowed his brow. 'In the Alps? High in the mountains? On chairlifts? Down cliffs?'

'And it's painful,' Marion put in.

'Painful?' Chris quizzed.

'Boot pain, thigh burn, exhaustion, dehydration, high altitude,' she explained.

'But you guys go twice a year, every year? Why?'

'And he spends most of the time frustrated with himself,' Marion said, adding fuel to the fire.

'Why?'

'Because he's an A-type personality. Wants to be the best at everything, every time. When he's not skiing as well as he likes, he gets frustrated with himself and whinges about it.'

She squeezed Ben's hand and wheeled him around to hug him by way of apology for telling the truth.

'And you guys go twice a year, every year? Why?' Chris repeated.

'For the adrenalin,' Marion replied.

'Guys,' Ben interrupted, 'I'm standing right here.'

'So why do it if heights aren't your thing?' Chris asked directly.

'For the adrenalin,' Ben begrudgingly admitted.

'But you can get that right here.' Chris gestured to the multitude of roller coasters. 'Without all the time, money, expense, pain and frustration.'

Chris widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows, 'Come on, it's great. Happy birthday, man!'

'I'm really not sure I'm up for this.' Ben's face greyed. 'Heights really freak me out.'

Chris looked perplexed.

'When we go skiing, some days are better than others, but he often gets freaked out on high chairlifts or on very steep blacks,' Marion explained.

'So why do it?' Chris puzzled.

'I don't know.' Ben attempted an explanation, 'I get freaked out a lot but the whole experience is greater than the sum of the parts.'

'Meaning?'

'Well, yes, sometimes I get freaked, but mostly I enjoy it. Even when I'm freaked, it's still good.'

'A-type personality,' Marion reiterated.

'Like a sort of a "conquer your fears" thing?' Chris said, shrugging.

'Yes and no,' Ben explained, 'it's not a conscious "conquer your fears" thing. It's like life, really. The big experience is what we're all after, but most of the time we've got to deal with the shit that gets in the way.'

'That's a bit Zen!' Chris teased.

'It's a shit explanation but it's the best I can do. The vertigo fear thing gets in the way and I've got to get past it to get to the good stuff.'

'That's what I mean – it's a bit Zen.'

'Zen?' Marion shook her head quizzically.

'He means it's a Buddhist sort of thing,' Ben explained.

Marion shrugged, still nonplussed.

'He says Zen but he means Buddhist,' Ben continued.

'Bloody hell, _boet_ ,' Chris exclaimed, 'I'm surprised you know about this, but when I say Zen I specifically mean Zen. Zen Buddhists are different to all other types of Buddhists in one particular way.'

'I'm surprised you knew that,' Ben countered.

'I'm surprised either of you know anything about Zen or Buddhism,' Marion said disbelievingly, 'considering you're good God-fearing Church of England boys and your dad's the vicar.'

'Man's search for meaning,' Chris explained cryptically.

'Bloody hell,' Ben blurted again. 'Victor E. Frankl.'

Chris nodded.

'What about "The power of now" and "Flow"?' Ben asked.

Chris shook his head. ' The "Power of now" thing, obviously yes, but "Flow"? Don't know it.'

'By that Russian guy, Mihaly something?' Ben offered.

'Nope.' Chris shrugged. 'Never read it.'

'I'm lost.' Marion threw her hands in the air.

The two brothers looked at each other as if meeting for the first time.

'Explain?' Marion requested.

'It seems Chris and I have been looking for the same thing,' Ben started, then paused to look at Chris to finish the sentence.

'Don't look at me.' Chris playfully refused the invitation and folded his arms.

'Well, speaking for myself, then.' Ben turned back to Marion. 'I've read a lot of stuff looking for something other than religion. I've read a lot about the psychology of happiness and the meaning of life and that sort of thing.'

'What about the whole Christianity thing?' Marion ventured.

'Been there, done that,' Ben explained, 'and it didn't work for me. I've been looking at what else is out there and apparently, so has Chris.' He winked at his brother.

'So, like, philosophy or other religions like Buddhism?'

'Technically, Buddhism is a philosophy,' Chris interrupted. 'It's not a religion.'

'It's similar to most religions,' Ben took over, 'except that there is no supreme being that you have to suck up to and there are no penalty clauses if you get it wrong – you know, like hell and damnation and eternal suffering. Most religions are really just a rule book about social codes and how to get along with your fellow man. To make them stick, each religion has added the incentive that "if you're good you go to heaven and if you're bad you go to hell". The principle of Buddhism is "Just try to do the right thing; if you fail, it's still OK because at least you tried".'

'That's the same conclusion I've reached.' Chris smiled at Ben.

'So that's what I mean,' Ben concluded. 'We've both been looking for something more, or at least something different.'

'To find happiness?' Marion asked.

'Something like that,' Ben muttered, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious and exposed.

'Well, that's the other thing about skiing holidays,' Marion changed the subject to rescue Ben. She turned to Chris. 'Although it's a social holiday you spend with other people, a lot of the time you're on your own.'

'How can you be on your own when you're skiing with other people?' Chris batted back.

'When you're actually skiing down the mountain, everyone takes a different path down, chooses their own turns, and in that concentration you're on your own, in your own sort of "zone".'

'So you're focused on your own route down the mountain, your own body and your own mind?' Chris asked.

'Yes.'

'I completely get that part, that's the fundamental principle of meditation. It sounds as simple and effective as staring at a candle flame and trying to blot out everything else. Meditation is the cornerstone of achieving awareness.'

'So it's not just about the adrenalin and the great outdoors,' Marion said to Ben. 'You like skiing holidays because, although we're together, you're also spending time on your own, thinking and scheming, like meditating?'

'Something like that,' Ben mumbled.

'So when I said it's very Zen,' Chris continued, 'I deliberately meant Zen, as in Zen Buddhism, not just ordinary Buddhism.'

'Why?' Marion asked.

'Because Zen Buddhism is the only type of Buddhism that uses pain and punishment to achieve enlightenment and awareness.' Chris turned to Ben and winked. 'Isn't that right, Ben?'

'Something like that,' Ben repeated.

11

Chicago, USA

13h00 local Time, 9 March 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Gabriel: You must catheterise him before you start.

Dsingh: Yes.

Gabriel: Have you got the book?

Dsingh: Yes.

Gabriel: Go to page 267.

There followed a long pause.

Dsingh: Sorry, Gabriel. A friend from work arrived unexpectedly. She's left now. Please continue.

Gabriel: Why?

Dsingh: I'm really sorry. I knew you'd be annoyed. I got rid of her as quickly as I could without looking suspicious. Please don't log off.

Gabriel: What did she want?

Dsingh: She came to check on me, to see if I was all right because I took the day off sick to get the scorpion.

Gabriel: We've been through this.

Dsingh: I know.

Gabriel: Listen to me. Never change your normal routine or behaviour. If you start doing things out of character, you'll attract attention and that's the best way to get caught. If you get caught, you compromise me. Don't deviate from the plan ever again.

Dsingh: It won't happen again. I promise.

Gabriel: Read the page.

Dsingh: I have.

Gabriel: Have you got everything?

Dsingh: Yes.

Gabriel: Any questions?

Dsingh: No.

Gabriel: Proceed.

Deborah was a petite, precise, impeccably groomed, high caste Sikh young woman. Five feet tall and weighing only forty seven kilograms she sometimes looked more like a flat chested Delhi schoolgirl than an eminently respected, thirty-something executive with a highly paid job at a multinational corporation. She had her father's dark complexion and her mother's slender fingers and effortless poise. Jet black hair styled into a bob framed the flawless skin of her delicate face above the rigid collar of her bespoke maroon business suit. She had large eyes, dark brown and vulnerable, like a startled deer.

Deborah had followed his instructions to the letter and bought _Practical Tips for Junior Doctors_ off the internet. It was opened at page 267 with detailed instructions on how to insert a urinary catheter into the bladder of a male patient. Beside it she had a tube of lubricating jelly, topical anaesthetic gel and a veterinary dog catheter. She forged a veterinary prescription using the simplest tools on her PC word processor and sent it to one of the hundreds of veterinary internet pharmacies. To avoid suspicion she had also ordered a bottle of liquid dewormer. Anyone checking the order would assume her vet had given her the prescription to deworm pet birds or reptiles. None of the internet pharmacies ever checked prescriptions, but Gabriel had told her to do it that way and she had done as she was told.

'Hello, Billy,' Deborah said as she descended the doors into her basement.

Like many American basements, it was enormous. It was the full size of the footprint of the house and well insulated against the cold. It looked like it had been decorated in an Arabian theme with heavy linens draped over the walls and suspended from the ceiling. Pillows and cushions were stacked into columns and a television blared loudly. But the features of the room were not decorative, they were functional. Their purpose was sound insulation and the reason for it was on a chair in the centre of the room, facing the television. Beside him was an old Formica camping table.

Billy was bound to the chair by a multitude of cable ties around his arms, legs, torso and neck. The bruises beneath the plastic ties were less colourful than they were a week ago since he had given up struggling to free himself.

Billy was, irredeemably, cheap white trash, one of eleven children born to a heroin addict mother living in a trailer park. None of the children had ever met any of their fathers. If Billy had been an animal he would have been a ferret with greasy, stringy, long brown hair. He had a pointed nose and jutting chin, darting blue eyes and the anaemic skin beneath his receding hairline was festooned with blackheads and pimples. His frame was lanky and flabby, the product of lifelong malnutrition, alcohol abuse and aversion to work. A heavy blanket was draped around him and the chair he was attached to. The blanket was stained and dirty but it kept him warm.

He watched Deborah approach then closed his eyes and lowered his face in dreadful anticipation of what today would bring.

'I've brought you a pet,' Deborah said ominously and emptied her armful of stuff onto the table.

Billy craned his neck to see what she had brought. He clenched the fingers of his right hand around the armrest of his chair as he strained against the cable ties holding him in place. He took care not to flex the grotesquely purple fingers of his left hand. The constant pain from the broken fingers and the severe swelling meant he could barely move them at all. He could see only the long plastic sleeve of the catheter and a square plastic container.

Deborah reached past Billy and switched off the TV. She took the plastic container from the table and held it in front of Billy's face. His eyes bulged when he saw what it contained.

A 7-inch long black scorpion scuttled around inside. It was agitated and held its tail over its head, poised to strike.

Billy's anguished screams were muffled by the two padlocks clamping his lips together. Deborah had come up with the idea of using the small padlocks from her suitcase to keep Billy quiet. She had pierced his top and bottom lips with a sharp nail and the holes were almost completely healed, like a large piercing. She was pleased with her ingenuity and even Gabriel had commented on it. The keys to the padlocks were on the TV in front of him. Tantalisingly close and impossibly out of reach.

'Hang on,' Deborah said and put the scorpion back down on the table.

She gathered up the keys and unlocked the padlocks. Billy held very still as she removed them from his lips.

'Please don't,' he pleaded with her in a soft trembling voice.

'You don't even know what we're going to do today,' Deborah said as she reached over to get the large flask on the table.

It was the jug from her blender in the kitchen. A pale brown liquid slopped around inside, punctuated by pieces of orange and green vegetables trying to float to the surface.

'I don't have time to feed you today, so you'll have to drink it again.'

'Deborah,' Billy pleaded as he tried to make eye contact, 'Deborah, please don't do this anymore.'

'Shut up, or you know what will happen.'

'Deborah, please.'

'Are you going to cooperate or do we use the tube again?' she asked as she raised the flask to his lips.

'Deborah,' Billy tried again but then the rim was against his lips and she started pouring.

The thick liquid was still warm so the fat had not yet congealed. Billy was relieved. On the occasions that she had left the liquidised food to cool, the fat and grease congealed into greasy lumps that made him gag and retch and that made her angry. Billy drank the warm slurry obediently and Deborah stopped pouring intermittently to let him swallow and breathe. Halfway through the jug, Billy tried to pull his mouth away but Deborah firmly corrected him.

'Drink it!' she snapped and slapped the side of his head.

He drank as much as he could and tried to pull away again. The jug was almost empty so she stopped.

'You've got to eat,' she scolded. 'I don't want you dying on me.' She briefly considered Gabriel's reaction if Billy was to die and then quickly expelled the thought from her mind.

'Today is extra special for you,' she said as she placed the empty flask back on the table. 'You're going to have sex today.'

'Deborah, please talk to me,' Billy pleaded again. 'I can get you as much money as you want. I'll just walk–'

'Shut up!' Deborah shouted and slapped his face viciously with her open hand.

She grabbed the padlocks and roughly inserted them through his pierced lips and snapped them shut. Billy knew he couldn't make himself understood with them in but he tried anyway.

He started to mumble something but instantly her hand slapped his face again.

'Shut up!'

Silence.

'Good. Now, as I said before, you're going to have sex today.'

She pulled the blanket off and dumped it on the ground beside them. He was completely naked. He had lost weight since being captured and she noticed for the first time that she could just make out the contour of his hip bones.

Deborah opened a pack of sterile latex gloves and snapped them on her hands. She cut the end of the white plastic packaging and carefully fed the tip of the catheter out by pushing the sleeve. Gabriel had stressed that the tip of the catheter was not to touch anything or it may introduce an infection into the bladder. Once the tip extended twenty centimetres from the sleeve she opened the tubes of lubricating jelly and anaesthetic gel and tried to squeeze blobs of their contents onto the exposed catheter. She took great care not to touch the catheter but the blobs kept slipping off and she soon became agitated.

'That's the best I can do,' she muttered and placed it back on the table with the exposed catheter projecting off the side of the table, touching nothing.

She knelt down, grasped the tip of his penis and pulled it as long as it could stretch. Holding the penis in her left hand she held the catheter sleeve and pushed the point of the catheter into the opening of the urethra. Billy squirmed with pain and whimpered.

'Sit still!' Deborah commanded as she concentrated on the task in hand.

The catheter didn't glide in easily but Gabriel had warned her it would be more difficult without the anaesthetic gel.

Billy yelped loudly when most of it was in place.

Gabriel had warned her that the most painful part would be when the catheter slid past the prostate gland.

Billy's buttocks clenched tightly as she pushed the catheter forcefully past the prostate into his bladder. Urine immediately gushed from the catheter and she quickly slid the waste bucket from beneath his chair to collect it. She stood up and stepped back to evaluate her work.

'Good job,' she congratulated herself and nodded.

She unscrewed the metal top from a large transparent glass jam jar she had cleaned and dried earlier. Her hands carefully prised the red plastic lid off the scorpion's plastic cage. The angry creature immediately leapt into a defensive posture with claws extended and tail raised high. Deborah tipped it into the jar and quickly replaced the lid, shivering with revulsion.

'I learnt something new about scorpions just the other day,' Deborah said as she stepped in front of Billy, holding the jar.

Billy's eyes bulged with fear and tears rolled down his cheeks.

Deborah ignored him and continued explaining, 'Did you know that the bigger a scorpion's claws are, the less toxic their venom is? It makes sense, really, if you think about it. If they have big claws, then they need less potent venom to subdue their prey because the power in the claws does some of the work. If they have small claws, then watch out, because then they rely completely on the venom so it needs to be very potent. This is an emperor scorpion, I got it from the pet shop today. They're the biggest scorpions in the world. They grow up to eight inches long, and they have the biggest, meanest claws. The venom won't kill you but apparently it hurts like a bitch. Sometimes, if it injects enough venom, you'll start slurring words and you'll get the best headache of your life. Occasionally, if you're really lucky, it can cause temporary blindness and vomiting too.'

Billy could do nothing more than close his eyes and pray to a God he had never believed in.

'You like to think of yourself as a man, don't you?' Deborah sneered as she waved the jar in front of his face. 'You felt like a big man that night you raped me, didn't you?'

Billy kept his eyes closed and shook his head. He mumbled something unintelligible through his padlocked lips.

'Look at me when I'm talking to you!' she shouted.

Billy opened his eyes and gazed forlornly at her.

'Well, tonight,' Deborah said with relish, 'you're going to fuck this scorpion for me.'

Billy closed his eyes and shook his head violently to protest but to no avail. Her left hand slapped against his forehead and her thumb prised his eyelid open.

'Three times,' she added with a sardonic smile, 'like you did with me.'

She unscrewed the jar. Then, in one swift movement, Deborah flicked her wrist slightly for the lid to fall off and turned the jar upside down over his groin.

The angry scorpion instantly leapt forward and grabbed the skin of his penis with its claws. It swung its heavy tail into action and violently stabbed the huge hairy barb into the head of Billy's penis. Deborah watched the ripples of contractions in the muscular tail as it pumped venom into the soft pink flesh.

Billy screamed and squirmed as the fireball of venom exploded in his penis and leapt into his thighs and belly. Mucous streamed out of his nostrils and tears splashed off the glass jar pressed against his groin.

'Again,' Deborah said and shook to jar to aggravate the scorpion further.

It clenched the skin more tightly with its pincers and flailed left and right with its tail, searching for a new target. It plunged its the stinger into Billy's left testicle twice in rapid succession and his muffled howls escalated into something primordial and inhuman.

'You bastard!' Deborah sobbed as she remembered the night he broke into her house and raped her in her own bed. 'Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!' At that moment, she didn't care what Gabriel would do or say if she killed the bastard.

Deborah shook the jar violently until the scorpion let go. It scurried to the bottom of the jar. She pulled it away from Billy, placed it back on the table and covered the open top with the textbook. The lid had rolled across the room and she knelt to retrieve it. Her shoulders strained against her sobs as she stepped back with the lid and screwed it on tightly. She turned her face away from him. She had refused to cry throughout the ordeal when he raped her, but the memory had become more vivid and more painful every day.

'Fuck!' she shouted with frustration. She had promised herself he would never see her cry.

Deborah sniffed loudly and fled from the room, unable to assuage her tears. All the pain of that night had come flooding back. She ran upstairs to the violated sanctuary of her bedroom. She needed to be alone, curled up in her new bed, to cry like a child. She had denied herself the release of tears despite Gabriel's advice. The wisdom of his words came to her as she felt the catharsis he had promised they would bring. The tears washed over her cheeks and she wept copiously, hoping they would wash her clean. More than anything else in the world, she wanted to feel clean.

12

London, England

11h36 GMT, 20 October 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

The phone in Sally's handbag vibrated like a honey bee in the jostle of a hive.

'Excuse me a moment, please,' Sally said to Ray and Sean, who were seated in front of her desk.

She fished the phone out and held it to her ear. 'Yes?'

'I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but there's a Detective Inspector Nokes on the line. She says it's urgent and you're expecting her call.'

'Put her through.'

Sally grimaced an apology to her colleagues and muffled the mouthpiece with her hand, 'Sorry about this, I have to take this call.'

Ray gestured his accord with a wave of his hand. Sean seemed not to notice either of them as he pored over the file in his hands.

'Hi Andrea, how are you?' Sally said, turning slightly to face the left rear corner of the room.

'I'm fine, thank you. I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time?'

'Not at all, I said to phone anytime.'

'It's about the case.'

'Yes?'

'We've been trying to find this guy for forever now but nothing pans out and it's all gone stone cold. I've just had my boss in here tearing a strip off me because the local rag's dredged up the story and they're banging on about police incompetence. They must be having a slow news week.'

'Ignore it, just do your job.'

'You know it's not as simple as that,' countered Andrea.

'It can be.'

'I've been thinking about what you said. "When all else fails, go back to basics."'

'Yes?'

'Well, I still fancy the vet for this.'

'Me too.'

'You know she wasn't married and we've gone through her life with a fine-tooth comb, looking at past boyfriends.'

'Good.'

'But none of them fit the profile.'

'Really? She's a strong woman, I'd expect her to have some strong men in her life.'

'That's just it, there was only the one, and the rest have all been wimps with shedloads of emotional baggage,' Andrea explained.

'Start with that one, then.'

'He killed himself.'

'When?'

'Two years ago.'

'Cut and dry?' Sally asked.

'Yeah, no sign of foul play. Turns out he was manic depressive. Brilliant ophthalmic surgeon and apparently outgoing personality but pretty messed up inside.'

'No chance she was involved?'

'No. He did it at home, alone, months after the split. He was the one who called it off. He paid all his bills and utilities weeks in advance, his solicitors had a recent will and he did it cleanly at home with a drip in his arm. He used the same stuff they use to put animals to sleep. It was quick, painless and efficient.'

'And you don't fancy any of the others?'

'No. I tried to talk myself into one of them but they just don't fit. They're all pretty messed up but in a pathetic, self-absorbed way. It's like she's drawn to guys with huge emotional issues. Maybe they fulfil some sort of motherly or saviour instinct, or maybe she just doesn't want competition from the men in her life.'

'No common thread?'

'Plenty. They are, or were, all vets. Most she met through work and the rest she met through friends. Her social circle is almost exclusively vets and doctors.'

'That's just a symptom of long unsociable work hours,' Sally objected. 'A bit like us.'

'I know, I know, don't start on that again. After out last meeting, something you said stuck in my mind. You said it's always the husband.'

'Not always, but almost always.'

'So if we don't fancy any of the boyfriends, what's the next best thing?'

'Her business partner,' Sally guessed.

'Exactly.'

'I thought you questioned him and ruled him out. What was his name?'

'Ben Mitchell. He's the only fit. He's intelligent, ambitious and driven.'

'That will usually do it.'

'Except he's squeaky clean,' countered Andrea.

'Too squeaky clean?'

'It doesn't feel like that.'

'Dig deep enough and you'll usually find something.'

'We subpoenaed his medical records which showed a nervous breakdown when they dissolved the partnership. He let on it wasn't a big deal when I interviewed him but his medical records show his GP had him on beta-blockers. The stress was enough to affect his heart but I also interviewed all the staff there and it turns out she could be a bit of a bitch.'

'Enough to make him do something stupid?' asked Sally.

'Anyone can be driven over the edge but from the GP's notes it seems he was more hurt than angry.'

'But you've got to fancy him for it. What do her friends say?'

'About him?'

'And about them.'

'They all know him well and they say he's a nice enough guy, bit of a tearaway when they were students but now a calm, sensible pillar of the community. They did say she bad-mouthed him quite a bit in the build-up to their bust-up but that was understandable because he dug his heels in a bit.'

'Depends on how much.'

'How much what?'

'If they were just business partners and friends, then she'd only slag him off so much, but if she really slagged him off there must have been more,' Sally clarified.

'None of their friends think they had a romantic relationship but it's not impossible. They had quite a flirtatious friendship and both were sexually aggressive. They've apparently both been known to have holiday flings with people they'd only just met.'

'And never followed up on when they got home.'

'How did you know that?'

'A-type personalities. They like the challenge, take what they want then move on. It's almost like they're proving something to themselves. They feel entitled, like it's their right to take, take, take. They suck the juice out of people and discard the husks of the ones they suck dry.'

'Eeuw, that's a bit gross!' Andrea exclaimed. 'Weird analogy.'

'Blame the Discovery Channel. I watch it at night when I can't sleep.'

'So this Mitchell guy fits the profile better than I thought but I've got nothing. At the first interview he seemed genuinely shocked by her disappearance and cooperated completely with us. No one has seen them together after they split, and his phone records show no calls to any of her numbers. He's also dropped out of their social circle completely.'

'Just like that?'

'Yeah, just like that. She was probably closer friends with their mutual friends than he was before their bust-up. Most of them were friends from their university days and she socialised with them more than he did, especially holidays and weekends. He still occasionally met up with them but he had more friendships outside of the original circle.'

'Have you followed them up?'

'I tried to, but most of them have turned out to be women he shacked up with for a while and by proxy socialised with their friends until the relationship failed and he moved on to the next one. To use your Discovery Channel imagery, he's a bit like a social spider. He goes from one mate to another, living on their web and in their world until he moves on.'

'Very good. Anything useful from the exes?'

'Nothing,' Andrea admitted. 'No history of violence, no anger, no nothing. They all fell for him harder then he was into them. He split with them every time and they all seem to carry a torch for him even though some of them confuse that with still being angry, hurt and resentful that he left them.'

'He's a bit of a Ted Bundy, really,' Sally concluded.

'I suppose he is a bit, except he's never done anything deliberately nasty or cruel to any of them or anyone else, for that matter. His only flaw is that he can't seem to sustain human relationships, especially romantic ones. I've spoken to his clients and the people in his community. He's virtually a saint, everyone loves him. He's got an almost hallowed reputation as the local vet who cares more than anyone else and who can heal anything and everything.'

'If things seem too good to be true, they usually are.'

'That's what I was thinking after our last discussion.'

'You've got to go over him again.'

'I know but we've gone over him twice and found nothing. He's been sweetness and light and completely open and honest in all his answers. I wrote him off months ago. If I get him in again, he might hit me with a harassment charge or something.'

'Why would he if he's got nothing to hide?'

'That's just the way the world is nowadays. They see all this police stuff on TV and take their lead from that.'

'Then take a leaf from their book and use a bit of TV stuff on them,' Sally suggested.

'What do you mean?'

'Do a Columbo on him. Just pitch up at his house and act the fumbling, polite, friendly cop just there to ask some questions to tie up loose ends. Make it sound like your questions have nothing to do with him, that you're just dotting the i's and crossing the t's for your files. Try to get him to invite you in to the house to have a look around.'

'That's entrapment,' Andrea argued.

'No, it's not. Not if he invites you in and you're not searching the place. Just look around get a feel for him. Has he ever said anything incriminating about himself? You can use that as a ruse to visit him. Tell him you just want to clarify what he said to close the file on him as a suspect.'

'Well, there was one thing,' Andrea recalled.

'Yes?'

'It was at the second interview, about a month after she went missing. When I asked him if he knew of anyone who would want her harmed or dead or missing, he said a funny thing that I just took as human honesty at the time. He said no one had any reason to harm her except him. He pointedly said the only person he could think of who should be a suspect in our investigation would be himself. He said that after what she had done to him, he was the only one with a motive. If it wasn't him, he said that the only other explanation would be a random, opportunistic or accidental motiveless crime.'

'And that didn't ring any bells at the time?' Sally probed.

'Not even a little bit. He said it in an obvious, reasoned, logical sort of way. Like even he had to conclude that we had to consider him a suspect, based on the evidence we had, even though it couldn't possibly be him.'

'Ted Bundy all over again.'

'Even though my brain tells me he's our best suspect, my gut and my heart tells me he just doesn't have it in him.'

'Like I said, Ted Bundy all over again,' Sally repeated.

'I'll follow it up. I'll drop by his house today and shake the tree, see what falls out.'

'That's my girl. Let me know.'

'Thanks, Auntie Sally, I'll let you know as soon as I do. Bye.'

'Bye, bye, thanks for the call.' Sally turned back to her desk and slid the mobile phone into her handbag.

'I take it that was your niece, the fledgling DI in the Cambridge Old Bill?' Sean said without looking up from his work.

'Yes, it was.' Sally sat down in her chair and fanned open a pile of reports.

'You know it's been too long, there's no way the victim's still alive. You're never going to find her body and all the leads have gone cold,' Sean stated. We should all be focusing on what we have in front of us today and the bodies that we have in the morgue, not chasing dead ends.'

'Steady on,' Ray interrupted.

'No, that's OK,' Sally said. 'Of course you're absolutely right, Sean, but she is my niece and she's asked for my help. I know it's probably a waste of time but it's worth it for her to have one last punt at it. We both know that sometimes you can get a breakthrough at the last minute from the most unlikely place in the coldest cases and presto, you've got the missing piece of the puzzle.'

'Not bloody likely, though,' Sean muttered as he turned the page.

Sally smiled at his downturned head and then at Ray's bemused face.

_Not likely,_ she thought to herself _, is not the same as never._

13

Port Douglas, Australia

20h00 local time, 21 October 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Wanderlustt: Hello, Gabriel.

Gabriel: Hello.

Wanderlustt: We've got a problem.

Gabriel: With your penitent?

Wanderlustt: Yes.

Gabriel: Well?

Wanderlustt: He's sick.

Gabriel: How sick?

Wanderlustt: Much worse than last time.

Gabriel: Tell me.

Wanderlustt: I know you told me not to, but I did the op two days ago.

Gabriel read the words and closed his eyes in despair. Annoyance and frustration stayed his hand from the keyboard.

'Shit,' Gabriel cursed out loud, knowing what must have happened.

Gary was a good student; he had worked on his penitent for fifteen months and successfully kept him alive and healthy. He had done all the fingers over the first several weeks and cauterised the wounds efficiently. He was inventive, resourceful and dogmatic about meticulous surgical procedure and protocol. He would have made an excellent doctor but his childhood dream to become a surgeon ended after failing the entrance exam for the third time. Performing surgery on his penitent was all he had left of that dream but it fulfilled his academic aspirations and satisfied his lust for revenge. Operating without anaesthesia killed two birds with one stone. Instead of anaesthesia, he used his trusty cable ties to immobilise his patient.

It was Gary's idea to 'mule' the thighs in a modified version of the operation he had seen the vets do on his uncle's sheep farm. He removed strips of skin, two centimetres wide, from the thighs. Each strip extended from the hip to the knee. He removed several strips from each thigh over an extended time, leaving strips of normal skin in-between. The surgery was performed by making two parallel incisions down the thigh. Transverse incisions joined the tops and bottoms of the long incisions to make a long, narrow rectangle. He used a pair of pliers to grab the loosened top of the rectangle and, using brute force, the rectangular strips of skin were torn away from the underlying flesh. The wounds were cleaned and bathed twice daily with iodine and they healed painfully but without complications. He had proudly sent Gabriel the photographs of the work in progress. The finished product made his penitent look like he was wearing the striped leggings of a medieval court jester.

Gary had even progressed to open castration. He preferred to use the correct medical term 'orchidectomy' in his communications with his mentor. He performed the surgery proficiently enough but the scrotal skin became infected. Gabriel told him how to buy the antibiotics he needed from internet veterinary pharmacies by forging prescriptions. Gary had gone on to acquire enough knowledge to treat other complications after subsequent operations without Gabriel's help. He always kept Gabriel informed of what he was doing and frequently boasted about his skills, like a precocious child to an indulgent father. Gabriel had been proud of his progress, until now.

Gary had planned to remove the appendix since he had first acquired his penitent. Gabriel had advised against it until he had more surgical experience.

Wanderlustt: Gabriel?

Gabriel: Describe the symptoms.

Wanderlustt: He's really sick. Temp is 42, mm's pale, pulse thready and weak, hr 165, resp rate 40. There's a purulent foetid discharge from the surgical site. Markedly altered mental status, he seems drunk or delirious. I can't get any sense out of him. I think he's hallucinating.

Gabriel: He's got peritonitis.

Wanderlustt: But how?

Gabriel: You botched the op.

Wanderlustt: I did everything by the book. I fasted him for 24 hours and administered a pre-op enema. I prepped the site with iodine and surgical spirit. I scrubbed my hands, used surgical gloves and sterilised all the equipment twice. I packed off the bowel with swabs and removed the appendix without any spillage. I closed the bowel with a double row of inverting Vicryl sutures. I followed the book to the letter. There was no contamination. The op was perfect. I can't understand what went wrong.

Gabriel: You botched it.

Wanderlustt: I've got him on a Hartmann's drip and I've given him antibiotics and ibuprofen but he's getting worse. What else can I do?

Gabriel: That won't work. The intestinal sutures are leaking gut contents into the peritoneal space. That's why he's got peritonitis. You've got to reopen the abdomen, find the leak at the appendectomy site and repair it. Once you've found the leak, re-suture the bowel with PDS then flush the abdomen with 1:10 diluted povidone iodine in warm sterile saline. He needs intravenous antibiotics – Gentamicin, Metronidazole and potentiated Amoxicillin in the IV line.

Wanderlustt: Can I get IV antibiotics from the internet pharmacy that sent me the tablets?

Gabriel: You can try but it will probably attract a lot of questions. They may phone the vet's clinic to verify the prescription.

Wanderlustt: I made up the vet's clinic name and address, it doesn't exist.

Gabriel: Same chance of getting caught. Which textbook were you working from?

Wanderlustt: Current Techniques in Soft Tissue Surgery by Nadal and Donaldson.

Gabriel: Follow the advice in the chapter on peritonitis.

Wanderlustt: What do you think?

Gabriel: He'll be dead in 24 hours irrespective of what you do. Septic shock or septic inflammatory response syndrome will kill him.

Wanderlustt: What do I do if he dies?

Gabriel: I'll send you instructions.

Gabriel copied a file from the private documents folder on his PC. The files could only be accessed with a twenty-digit case sensitive mixed numerical and alphabetical password. He copied the file called 'Disposal' and attached it to his last message.

'Let me know,' he typed and punched the send key.

Attachment

Disposal

Buy a large chest freezer. Wrap the body in black plastic bags and place it in the freezer. Arrange the arms at the side of the body and extend the legs as straight as possible. Freeze the body until frozen solid – usually two or three days. Buy a tree saw and a wood chipper from a DIY or hardware store in a town or city far away from where you live – buy everything with cash and don't buy any of these things on the internet. Get the biggest petrol-driven wood-chipper you can fit into your car, i.e. it must be able to chip and shred the largest size logs possible.

Once the body is frozen, remove the head, arms and legs with the wood saw. Find a remote place beside a large body of water, i.e. a river, lake or sea where no one will hear the noise of the machine. Aim the wood-chipper so that the frozen chips are shot far into water. The fish will eat everything. Afterwards, clean the wood-chipper and saw meticulously with hydrogen peroxide diluted 50:50 with water then rinse thoroughly at the site. Break the equipment so it's obvious to anyone looking at it that it's unfixable and dispose of it all at a municipal dump site.

Gabriel knew the penitent would die despite all Gary's efforts. Gary would be distraught, not at the death of the penitent, but at accepting his failure. Despair would make him irrational and unpredictable and that would make him a liability. Gabriel accepted he could never speak to Gary again. He would block all incoming communication from him and cut him off forever. A few clicks later and it was done. He logged off the computer and, as he rose to leave the room, the noise in his head stopped.

'Idiot,' Gabriel mumbled to himself as he joined his girlfriend on their sofa in front of the television.

'Just click "play",' she said, handing him the remote control and a bag of caramel popcorn.

'What is it?' he asked.

'It's a girlie movie, so don't complain.' She leant into him and kissed him firmly on the lips to stop him saying anything.

'OK,' he said as she snuggled against him, 'but what is it?'

' _Fried Green Tomatoes_ ,' she said, taking the remote control from him and pushing the play button. 'Don't tell me you've seen it.'

'I've heard about it,' he said, 'I think I'll like it.'

The DVD burst into life as they settled into the cushions of the sofa. She nestled her head into the crook of his neck and sighed contentedly. Khan meowed affectionately as he installed himself on Ben's lap and stared disdainfully at the dogs before closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

'I love you,' she said as the movie started.

'You're not so bad yourself,' Ben said and kissed the top of her head.

14

Starborough, England

10h05 GMT, 29 November 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Yes?' John answered the telephone in the study at his lavish home.

'John, it's Sally.'

'Yes?'

'Have you read the files I sent you?'

'Yes.'

'We've found another one.'

'And?'

'It's given us a lot more to go on.'

'Tempt me,' John invited.

'I'm sending you an email now. Log into the address and we can videoconference this.'

John waited for the inbox icon to flash and connected to the site. There were two others logged on. Sally's face popped up on the screen.

'John, Margaret is on my team. She has full security clearance. She'll fill you in.'

The image switched to Margaret's face.

'Hello, John. We haven't met. I'm a psychological profiler. Sally has asked me to fill you in as far as we know.'

John stared stoically at the screen.

'Can you hear me, John?' Margaret asked.

'Yes,' he snapped back impatiently. 'Carry on.'

'We found a body dumped in the jungle near Port Douglas. It's got our guy's MO all over it.'

She paused to look at John's face. He nodded and frowned impatiently.

'The body has no fingers. The fingers were removed a long time ago and the stumps have healed well. There is mutilation of the thighs, also done a long time ago but done carefully and methodically. There are two keloid scars on the scrotum, caused by castration performed previously. The surface of the right eye has what the coroner describes as "end-stage fibrous keratoconjunctivitis pigmentosa secondary to superior palpebral resection", which means the surface of the eye is covered in thick scar tissue because it dried out, also over a long period of time, after the eyelid was surgically removed. The left leg has been amputated at the knee, likewise done surgically and well healed. Most of the teeth have been snapped off. Both ears and nipples have been surgically removed. He also has deep ulcers in a circular shape around the buttocks, the coroner has described them as "decubital ulcers" which means bed sores or pressure sores.'

Margaret glanced up from the reports she was reading to look at John's expression. He was impassive.

'The cause of death,' Margaret looked down and continued reading, 'was "peritonitis", which means massive infection in the abdomen. It was caused by an operation to remove the appendix which went wrong and lead to a severe infection. The hands have track lines, suggesting the victim had drip lines going into him and toxicology has identified a cocktail of prescription medicines used to try to save him. The thing that ties this to the other victims is the bruises and scars around the arms and legs. The victim was tied down with cable ties. We rechecked the coroner's reports and the other victims had similar large circular bruises around the buttocks. We think this is the same thing as the other victims, just progressed far, far beyond our predictions.'

John gazed back at the screen without a flicker of emotion. He was absorbing the information and collating it with what he had read in the files. There was no doubt, this was the same guy. The difference was he was getting better.

'You've seen the profile we sent you,' Margaret continued. 'This narrows it down a lot. This guy has extensive medical training and experience, most likely a doctor, possibly a surgeon.'

'Or a vet,' John added.

'Yes, possibly,' Margaret concurred.

'Or a dentist,' John extended the list.

'Possibly.' Margaret nodded.

'Or a nurse.'

'Let's keep it broad,' Sally interjected. 'He's had some medical training.'

John and Margaret nodded in agreement.

'Possibly also some IT training?' Sally ventured. 'To set up the website?'

'Not necessarily,' John objected. 'I'm self-taught, he could be too.'

'We don't know how he's doing it,' Sally continued. 'We're checking all travel records to and from these places for the last five years and no one's come up.'

'He could be a ship's doctor,' Margaret mused out loud. 'That way he could travel unchecked and commit the murders on shore leave. Actually, no,' she corrected herself before the others did. 'Whoever did this spent a lot of time with the victims, especially the last one.'

'And Igls is nowhere near the sea,' she added as an afterthought.

'That doesn't mean anything,' Sally said. 'Could be his home town.'

'No, no, no,' John interrupted. 'He's not doing it himself, he's getting other people to do it. He's teaching them how to do it and the victims are lasting longer because he's getting better at teaching them. He's the marionetteer, he pulls the strings and they do the work.'

'But why?' Sally asked. 'What's in it for him?'

'It's too slow and he's too patient for it to be hedonism,' Margaret reflected. 'He's either power orientated or mission orientated.'

Margaret focused her thoughts and then continued. 'Serial killers usually have one of four motives,' she explained to John. 'I don't think he's doing this just for the pleasure of killing and I don't think he's psychotic.'

John nodded in agreement.

'That leaves two options. If he's power motivated, he's doing it because he likes the feeling of power and control. He likes controlling his victims and, in this case, he's also controlling the people doing the killing. If he's mission orientated, he's doing it to punish the victims and to remove them from society because of sins he feels they've committed.'

'So he's either one or the other,' John said acerbically. 'Great, that helps us a lot.'

'A doctor would be accustomed to the feeling of power over his patients, so why would he need to do this to feel powerful?' Sally commented.

The faces around the table remained mute. No one could offer her an answer to her question.

'Serial killers are living out a fantasy, yes?' Sally turned to Margaret.

Margaret nodded.

'I'm suggesting he may be a doctor who already has power over people, but he may be suppressing a part of himself,' Sally suggested. 'The urge to do something you shouldn't. You know the feeling you sometimes get on a cliff edge or a high building? You know the feeling, the impulse to jump?'

John frowned.

'Well, I sometimes get that feeling,' Sally continued. 'Maybe this doctor sometimes has the same impulse to harm rather than help his patients but he has to suppress it. Maybe this is his way of expressing that fantasy.'

'It's possible.' Margaret nodded.

'Anything's possible,' John cut them short. 'We could spend all day on "ifs" and "buts" and "maybes" and any of them could be true.'

'That's what we do, John,' Margaret said. 'We construct profiles and scenarios as a starting point and then set about proving or disproving each theory until we narrow it down and find the suspect.'

'Well, you carry on doing that,' John replied dismissively, 'and I'll find him the logical way by following his tracks.'

'You're the IT guy,' Margaret said, 'you do it your way and I'll do it mine. The truth is, it takes a little bit of everything to catch these guys.'

15

Cambridge, England

08h25 GMT, 6 December 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Ben arrived at work early, as usual. He was always the first to arrive because it gave him some quiet time, before the storm, to open the post and drink three cups of coffee. Miranda arrived moments later, after dropping her son, Thomas, at playschool.

'Morning,' she said as she hung her coat and handbag on the hooks in the staffroom. She retrieved a hairpin from her bag then gathered up her long hair into a bun and secured it with the pin.

'Morning,' Ben echoed.

She walked through the room to the small kitchenette and switched on the kettle. She looked tired and drawn.

'Are you all right?' Ben asked as she busied herself making two cups of coffee.

'Yeah, I'm fine,' she replied.

'No, you're not,' Ben insisted. 'What's wrong?'

'I'm fine, really,' she said before turning away and dissolving into silent tears.

'Is it Thomas?' Ben asked.

'No, he's fine.'

'And Paul?'

'He's fine.'

'Is it money?'

'No,' she said and turned back to face him, 'everything's fine.'

'How much money will it take to fix it?' he asked.

'A lot.'

'Will five thousand do it?'

'That would be a dream.'

Ben walked to his locker and scribbled something with his pen. Miranda heard the unmistakable sound of a cheque being torn from its counterfoil. Ben closed the locker and walked to the kettle.

'Here,' he said and held the cheque out to her.

'No, Ben, really,' she protested. 'You don't need to, we'll be fine.'

'Take it and bank it,' Ben insisted. 'Pay me back when you can. I don't want any interest and take as long as you like.'

He put the cheque down beside her unmade cup of coffee and returned to his desk.

'Don't argue,' he said. 'We'll never mention it to anyone and it doesn't mean you owe me anything. If you could do the same for me, you would.'

There was a long, pregnant pause as she poured water into the mugs and scooped in instant coffee.

'Thank you, Ben,' she said quietly and folded the cheque into her pocket.

'Don't mention it,' he said as she placed a cup of coffee in front of him.

She did this every morning because she knew how much caffeine he needed to wake up before opening time. Ben carried his mug into his consulting room and switched the lights on.

'Ben?' Sue, the morning receptionist, stepped inside and carefully closed the door to the waiting room.

'Yeah?' Ben returned the question without looking up. He booted up his computer hurriedly before calling the first patient.

'There's someone from the police on the phone.'

'Not again! I thought that was all done and dusted?'

'I think it's the same woman as before.'

'Bloody hell, I'll be running late.'

'I know, shall I tell her to phone back later?'

'Yeah, that would be better, or she can come around, again, after morning consults.'

'OK, I'll give her the option.'

'Hello?' They heard a voice call from the front of the building.

Miranda left the prep room to attend whoever had called out. Ben heard a solemn exchange and a few moments later she returned.

'Mrs Sedgewick has got Guinness outside,' Miranda informed him. 'She's very upset, he's been fitting all night. You've got no free appointments until eleven thirty so I told her you'll see her before we start.'

Ben took a deep breath and gulped a mouthful of coffee, scalding his tongue.

'Sorry,' Miranda added as an afterthought.

'No problem,' Ben said.

They both knew that unexpected arrivals would disrupt the rest of the morning surgery and they would be running late for the rest of the day. Running late meant that many of the clients arriving later would be delayed and some of them would complain about it. It also meant that a second unscheduled arrival would be even more difficult to absorb into the morning's list.

'No problem,' Ben repeated to reassure Miranda and himself.

When he opened the door leading into the waiting room, Mrs Sedgewick immediately caught his eye. Her sense of relief was palpable.

'Hi,' Ben said earnestly 'Is he outside?'

'I'm so sorry about this,' Mrs Sedgewick apologised in a broad Welsh accent. 'I know I haven't got an appointment but I couldn't wait. He's a little better just now but I've been up with him all night. I was sure he was going to die.'

'No problem,' Ben reassured her. 'Let's go and look at him.'

He gestured to the open front door of the clinic and followed Mrs Sedgewick into the parking area. She led the way to her car and opened the back door. Ben looked at Guinness lying on the back seat. Guinness was a large male German shepherd. He was thirteen years old and had suffered a stroke three weeks before. Ben had explained to Mrs Sedgewick that, technically, he had not had a stroke. What he had was acute idiopathic vestibular syndrome but Mrs Sedgewick found it easer to call it a stroke.

'He recovered from his stroke just as you predicted,' Mrs Sedgewick explained to Ben. 'He was back to normal after five days just as you said and he finished the tablets last week. He was absolutely fine when David and I went to bed last night but he woke us up at about two in the morning. He sleeps beside the bed so I woke up when he had the first attack. Since then he's been fitting on and off until now.'

Ben had known Guinness since he was a tiny puppy. He was now an enormous dog and a surprising choice for an elderly couple but they loved him like parents do and spoilt him like an only child. Ben looked down at Guinness lying on the back seat of the car. His grey cheeks were soaked in saliva. He raised his head to look at Ben and thick ropes of drool trailed from his chin and neck. He was disorientated and exhausted by the electrical storm in his brain. Breath came to him in frantic gulps as he panted to cool himself. The force of the muscle contractions had driven his body temperature dangerously high.

Another car, bearing Ben's first appointment of the morning, drove into the car park and stopped beside Mrs Sedgewick's car.

'Oh God! Oh God!' Mrs Sedgewick shouted as another seizure started and contorted the old dog's body in violent spasms. 'He's having another one!'

Ben knew full well the risk of climbing into a car with an intact male German shepherd. They were bred to guard their personal space and entering that space was very dangerous. Leaning into the car, he took a calculated risk and firmly grasped the skin at the back of the dog's neck with his left hand before sliding his right hand under his waist. Ben weighed only slightly more than Guinness and grunted with the exertion of pulling him out of the car.

Guinness howled loudly in the delirium of his seizure and tried to bite the hands helping him. Ben locked his left elbow and squeezed his grip on the back of the neck to keep the snapping jaws at arm's length.

'Oh God!' Mrs Sedgewick screamed in anguish as the occupants of the newly arrived car shied away toward the safety of the clinic.

'I've got to do this,' Ben explained firmly as he hoisted the dog off the seat with his right arm wrapped around the dog's waist.

Guinness howled again as Ben struggled to carry him across the parking area and into the clinic. Mrs Sedgewick followed them, weeping openly and unashamedly. They crossed the waiting room floor and went straight through to the prep room. Miranda followed them in and hurriedly opened the largest dog hospital cage.

'Pull the bedding out,' Ben instructed. 'We'll treat him on the floor.'

Miranda deftly slid the vet-bed out of the cage and onto the floor. She moved it into the centre of the room and Ben lowered Guinness onto it. He was still fitting and snapping at anything or anyone within reach. Ben held his head securely against the padding of the blankets.

'Get a number four muzzle, please.'

Miranda opened a drawer and pulled out the largest muzzle they had. Ben sat astride Guinness's body as it convulsed mercilessly against him. He took the muzzle in his right hand and (fortune favours the brave) he flipped it over the dog's jaws at the first attempt. Miranda quickly secured the clips on the muzzle and then helped to restrain the thrashing dog.

'Get a pink IV catheter, tape and a swab,' Ben instructed.

Miranda rose and collected what she needed from the cupboards and drawers in the prep room.

'Straddle him like I am and raise the vein,' Ben instructed as she placed the objects beside the dog's huge right foreleg.

In a swift manoeuvre they had performed many times over the years, they swapped positions. Ben knelt in front of the dog as he thrashed between Miranda's arms and legs.

'She's not sitting on him,' Ben explained to Mrs Sedgewick. 'She's just holding him so that I can get this into his vein.'

Mrs Sedgewick nodded silently as tears of despair rolled down her cheeks.

Ben clipped enough fur from the top of the leg to be able to see the vein. Miranda did all she could to steady the leg but the sheer size and strength of the dog meant that it was impossible to hold it still. She squeezed the leg firmly at the elbow and the large cephalic vein filled with blood. Ben uncapped the intravenous cannula needle and waited for the crest of the next seizure wave. As Guinness's muscles contacted to a point of rigidity he seized the moment to insert the cannula. He withdrew the inner needle and slid the full length of the plastic cannula into the vein. A bleb of blood from the hub of the catheter confirmed that it was in the correct position and Ben inserted the cannula plug before strapping it securely to the flailing leg.

Ben rose and unlocked a white metal security cabinet bolted to the wall. He collected and snapped open five glass vials of diazepam and drew up the clear fluid contents into a single syringe. Miranda valiantly battled against the force of the convulsions as Ben knelt down again and injected the contents of the syringe into the cannula. Seconds later the force of the seizures diminished then resolved. Guinness lay still as the drug calmed his body and brain.

'Is he dead?' Mrs Sedgewick wailed.

'No,' Ben answered calmly. 'He's sleeping. I've given him some Valium to break the seizure.'

Ben removed the muzzle and looked up at her to reassure her. Miranda knelt over the old dog and breathed heavily from the effort of controlling him. Ben rose up again and walked to the cabinet to refill his syringe.

'What are you giving him now?' Mrs Sedgewick asked.

'I don't think one shot is going to be enough for him.'

Ben turned and scrutinised the old dog. Guinness lay still.

'Let's check his temperature,' Ben said to Miranda.

She left the room briefly to return with a thermometer which she slid into the sleeping dog's anus.

'Forty one and a half,' she announced sixty seconds later.

'Right,' Ben responded. 'Let's start one litre of cool saline with a long giving set.'

Ben turned to Mrs Sedgewick as Miranda retrieved a drip bag and a sterile giving set from a cupboard.

'He's got a very high temperature,' Ben explained to the elderly lady. 'The seizures make his muscles spasm and that makes him hot, just like exercising does. His temperature is way too high now and we're going to bring it back down by running a cool drip straight into his veins to cool him down. It's the fastest way to do it.'

Miranda handed him the plastic tubing leading from the drip bag and he connected it to the cannula in the dog's vein. He strapped the line securely to the leg as the dog started twitching again.

'Hand me that syringe, please,' he asked Miranda.

The twitching escalated rapidly and Ben injected the contents of the syringe into the port in the giving set. The seizures returned to wrack Guinness's body despite the second dose of Valium as Miranda hurriedly hung the drip bag onto the drip stand. She straddled Guinness again to hold him as still as possible to stop him from harming himself as he thrashed about on the floor. Ben rose and returned to the drugs cabinet.

'The Valium isn't enough,' he explained, 'so I'm gong to give him some phenobarbitone directly into the vein. It may take several doses over the next hour to get this under control. You're welcome to stay with him while we treat him or you can wait outside.'

'I think I'll wait in the car,' Mrs Sedgewick said softly. 'He's going to die, isn't he?'

'Not if I can help it,' Ben replied as he knelt and administered the dose of phenobarbitone.

The seizure stopped and Guinness eased into a regular breathing pattern. He was fast asleep and completely relaxed. The seizures had stopped.

'That seems to have done it,' Ben said to Mrs Sedgewick. 'He's sleeping now. It may take a few more doses but I think we've got it now.'

'Thank you,' Mrs Sedgewick stammered and dissolved into tears. She mouthed more words but nothing audible emerged. She contorted her mouth to force the words out but her sense of relief debilitated her.

Ben enveloped her in a supportive hug and felt her sag as the weight of angst lifted from her. She hugged him back and clung tightly to him as she sobbed into his shoulder.

'You didn't think we'd let anything bad happen to him, did you?' Ben whispered into her ear. He used a light tone and a broad smile to lift her spirits. 'This is Guinness,' Ben continued. 'I've known him all his life and I'm not about to let him pop his clogs. He's going to outlive all of us.'

Ben tightened his hug for a moment and then stepped back from Mrs Sedgewick to look into her eyes as she laughed softly.

'He's going to be all right,' Ben said earnestly. 'He's going to be fine.'

'I know, Ben,' she said. 'You've saved him again.'

They smiled at each other as she spoke. Ben knelt down to re-examine the sleeping dog.

Miranda wrapped her arm around the old lady and said, 'Come on, I'll make you a cup of tea.'

'I'm sorry I'm such an emotional old woman,' Mrs Sedgewick apologised. 'Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.'

'Have a cup of tea,' Miranda insisted as she led her to the back door. 'There's a comfy sofa in the staff room. Get some fresh air and I'll bring the tea in a few minutes.'

They disappeared out of the door and Miranda reappeared a few moments later. She helped Ben pick the old dog up on his blankets and lifted him into the large hospital cage. They set the drip rate and draped cold wet towels over his sleeping body to help cool him down.

Sue, the receptionist, poked her head through the door leading to the dispensary. 'I know you're busy with Guinness,' she said, 'but you've got four people waiting in reception and they're getting twitchy.'

Ben glanced at his watch. It was quarter to ten. Consulting started at nine o' clock and he had appointments booked every ten minutes. There were usually two vets at the practice but the other vet was away on holiday so it was all up to him. He felt physically and emotionally drained.

'I'll make you some tea,' Miranda offered, 'with extra sugar.'

'Thank you,' Ben mumbled as he took off his tunic covered with fur and saliva and slid on a clean one.

'You look shattered,' Sue commented.

'I'm fine,' Ben replied. 'Explain to everyone why we're running late. I'll start now.'

Sue's head disappeared as Ben stepped into his consulting room. He switched on his computer and scanned the list of appointments. The list had already been extended for an extra hour for the morning session. He took a deep breath and sighed. He walked to the door and composed himself for a moment before swinging it open and stepping into the full waiting room.

'Good morning,' Ben said cheerily to the people waiting with their dogs, cats and children. 'Sorry about the wait. We've had a bit of an emergency but he's fine now.'

He was greeted with polite smiles from parents and the impatient, bored faces of children.

'Chucky's first, isn't she?' Ben cooed to a small schnauzer puppy straining against her lead to get to him.

Ben knelt down and gathered the wriggling puppy in his arms. The puppy squirmed and licked his face and ears with delight as Ben closed his eyes.

'Come on then,' Ben said to the little boy holding the other end of the dog's lead. 'Let's go and look at Chucky.'

Ben placed the puppy on the consulting table and asked, 'What are we doing with Chucky today?'

'Injections!' the excited boy shouted.

'She's in for her second vaccination and some worming pills,' his mother corrected him.

'Excellent,' Ben said 'Isn't she beautiful? And so naughty,' he sang as he pinched her cheeks.

Morning surgery was full and eventful. Ben had examined and treated nineteen ill and injured cats and dogs by the end of the session. He had checked on Guinness between consultations and it had taken another two doses of phenobarbitone to prevent further seizures. After seeing the last appointment, Ben felt the weight of fatigue settle on him as he re-checked Guinness. The old dog was finally restful and his body temperature was back to normal. The seizures had stopped.

'Right, let's crack on,' Ben said as he stepped into the prep room. 'Who's the first op?'

'You still have one more to see,' Miranda corrected him as she walked from the kennel room into the prep room.

'Do I?'

'Yeah, there's a woman out there, wants to talk to you, a bit of a babe. Doesn't have an animal with her either.'

'What? I'll go look.'

Ben walked down the corridor, past the pharmacy shelves and into the reception area. Sue was working on a computer behind the high reception desk.

'Miranda says I've got one more?' Ben asked.

'Oh yes, sorry.' Sue startled at his voice behind her. 'Inspector Nokes came down as you asked. She's been waiting for fifteen minutes but she's just popped outside to take a call on her mobile.'

Ben peered across the waiting room, through the windows.

'She's in the car park somewhere.'

'I'll go find her,' Ben said and walked through the room, scanning the parking bays.

Outside, he saw Inspector Nokes immediately. She was a petite size zero, barely five feet and four inches tall and less than fifty two kilograms before a marathon. Her lean, honed frame spoke of many hours of aerobic training and a fastidious diet. Her blonde hair was pulled back severely into a short ponytail at the back of her neck. She wore sunglasses and leant casually against the front wing of her car. Her tight jeans, fitted shirt and pert breasts made her look more like a high school cheerleader than an ambitious policewoman approaching her thirtieth birthday.

'I'll phone you back,' she spoke into her phone. 'I've got to go.'

She pocketed the phone and held out a slim hand. Ben shook it, returning her firm grip.

'I'm sorry to spring this on you again after such a long time.' She removed her Oakley sunglasses and squinted her eyes against the sun behind Ben.

'No problem, what can I do for you?'

'I'll get straight to the point,' she said and turned through ninety degrees to position Ben to share the discomfort of the glare. 'I'd like to arrange a time to visit you at home, to go over some things.'

'You're here now.' Ben squinted with his left eye. 'Why don't we do it now?'

'It would be better at your house.'

'I've already told you everything I know. I take it she's still missing?'

'Wouldn't you know that?'

'The truth is, I've lost contact with our mutual friends. We haven't been avoiding each other, it's just that we've all been busy and there just hasn't been the time.'

'OK.' Nokes wrinkled her nose.

'So?' Ben invited.

'So what?' Nokes replied, genuinely confused.

'Why don't you ask me what you need to ask? I don't want to be rude, but I've got a lot on and a lot of ops waiting.'

'I'd really rather meet with you at your home.'

'And I don't understand why. I told you before I have no idea where she went. She bought a nice house with my money and that was the last I heard. The next thing I knew after that was when you came down here to tell me she was missing. I really don't know anything more than that.'

'Except that you suggested you should be our primary suspect?'

'Of course I should be. On paper I would have to be, I was the only one with any motive. She pissed me off, a lot. I've seen enough detective shows on TV to know that makes me the prime suspect, but that only helps you if I did it, which clearly I didn't.'

'Did what?'

'I don't know.' Ben raised and lowered his hands in mock exasperation. 'Kidnapped her? Killed her? Sold her to the gypsies? Cooked her in my oven and served her to the goblins at the bottom of the garden? All I'm saying is, I understand you had to rule me out of being involved and obviously I'm ruled out.'

'Why obviously?'

'Because I'm not involved.' He raised his hands to protest his innocence. 'But to be quite honest, and probably completely convince you that I am an axe-wielding psychopath, I won't shed a tear for her, whatever happens.'

'You really mean that?'

'Yes, I do. I know it sounds callous, but she really, really pissed me off. Whatever happened to her, she deserved it. It's like karma, or "what goes around comes around", or "you reap what you sow" or whatever else you want to call it.'

'I see.'

'I know it sounds cold and heartless, but she really did go all out to shaft me.'

'No doubt.'

'So is that it? Can I get back to work?'

'I'd still really like to come round to the house.'

'To talk to me or to search the house?'

'Would that be a problem?'

'Don't you need a search warrant or a court order or "just cause" or something?'

'Only if you refused. Only if you made us think you had something to hide.'

'Inspector Nokes.' Ben grinned. 'That's really weak reverse psychology. If you want to come around, then come around. If you want to bring search dogs and helicopters and the SWAT team and dig up the whole house and garden, then be my guest.'

'Why would I want to dig up the garden?'

Ben rubbed his forehead and laughed. 'If I talk long enough, I'll convince you I'm Fred West, Myra Hindley and Charlie Manson all rolled into one. All I'm saying is, I'll help in whatever way you want, but I just don't think I've got anything useful. After she left, that was it, we never spoke again. Before that, well, I already told you everything last time, the whole sordid story that led to her leaving.'

'Thank you for cooperating, though,' Nokes said. 'If you didn't, it would look suspicious.'

Ben laughed again. 'Yeah, I suppose it would. When do you want to come around?'

'When would suit you?'

'Anytime you like. I take it you've got the address?'

'Of course.' She held out her hand. 'Thank you for your time, I know how busy you are. I'm clutching at straws, but you know how it is, just going over everything again.'

'Absolutely, and I'm here to help.' Ben shook her hand. 'I know it seems like I'm being obstructive but it's not that, I'm just having a bit of a stressful day.'

'I'm sure you are,' she said as she stepped into her car. 'We'll be in touch.'

'I look forward to it,' Ben said cheerily through the open car window. 'Take care.'

He turned and walked purposefully back to the front door, mindful not to walk too slow or too fast.

Ben made his way though the empty waiting room, headed for the staff room and a strong cup of tea. He had just switched on the kettle when Sue popped her head through the door.

'The cruciate repair has just arrived,' she announced.

'Thank you,' Ben said. 'I need some tea. I'll be there in five minutes.'

Ben preferred not to admit all the surgical cases into the clinic at the start of the day as most vets did. He preferred to phone each case as the day evolved to give them an arrival time for their pet's operation. This meant that the cats and dogs were spared an anxious stay in a foreign place while awaiting their operation. It also meant that the owner of the pet could stay with them while the anaesthetic was induced to calm their fears further. Locums at the clinic had always derided this system as time inefficient and pandering to people but Ben sincerely believed it was better for the people and their animals so he refused to change. The system worked well and the first operation had arrived at the right time but that meant that Ben would not have the opportunity to catch his breath. He flicked the kettle switch off and poured the lukewarm water into the mug. He added more sugar and drank the tepid tea in three long draughts before leaving the room.

The first patient for surgery was a black Labrador bitch called Embla. She had ruptured the cranial cruciate ligament in her left knee two days ago. Ben was an experienced orthopaedic surgeon and would perform the surgery himself. Ben collected the bitch and her owner, Mrs Huntington, from the waiting room and led them to the prep room. Mrs Huntington was the wife of the local MP and she was very anxious about the surgery.

'She'll be fine, Mrs Huntington,' Ben reassured her.

'I know, I know,' she said, 'but I'm worried all the same. Anaesthetics are always dangerous, aren't they?'

'They used to be, but the stuff we use nowadays is so safe I never think twice about giving my own dog an anaesthetic. She's one of the blood donors here but she won't lie still so I give her a full general anaesthetic every time I take blood from her. If you've ever had an anaesthetic, you'll know it's gentle and painless, apart from one quick needle scratch. We do ten anaesthetics a day here and, touch wood, I've never had a problem in twenty years.'

Ben vigorously rubbed the excited bitch's flanks with both hands and smiled at the happy thumping of her tail on the ground.

'She'll be fine,' Ben said, 'I promise you.'

Mrs Huntington smiled back and said, 'I know, but I worry anyway.'

Ben explained the anaesthetic induction procedure to the anxious lady as Embla searched his pockets for biscuits.

'She's had no food or water this morning?' he asked.

'Nothing at all and she's very put out by it.'

'You can feed her straight away when you get home,' Ben said, 'as soon as her tummy's full she'll forgive us.'

He lifted the dog onto the prep table and Miranda steadied her to preventing her falling or jumping off.

'Come and stand next to me where she can see you,' Ben asked Mrs Huntington and gestured to his right.

Miranda sidled up beside the wagging dog and held her right front leg steady as Ben clipped away some fur.

'Talk to her now,' he said and, as she did so, he slid the needle into the vein.

A flash of red in the hub of the needle confirmed he was in and he injected slowly. Mrs Huntington made soothing noises to Embla who suddenly blinked and then slipped into an anaesthetic slumber. Ben and Miranda guided her body onto her left side and she snored loudly.

'It's as fast as that,' Ben confirmed to the lady. 'You've done your bit here, now we'll do ours. We'll phone you to collect her when she's awake.'

'That was so fast.' Mrs Huntington was amazed.

'That's what makes it so gentle,' Ben replied.

He picked up the endotracheal tube and said, 'Check with Sue that we've got your contact number right and we'll call you soon.'

'Thank you, Ben,' she said, 'and Miranda.'

'We'll take good care of your baby,' Miranda said as Mrs Huntington left the room.

It took ninety minutes to repair the ruptured cranial cruciate ligament with a modified De-Angelis technique. Everything had gone smoothly and Ben infused the joint with local anaesthetic before suturing the wound closed. 'Call the next op, please,' Ben asked Miranda, 'to be here in twenty minutes.'

Six operations later the time was four in the afternoon.

'I've made you some more tea,' Agnes said as Ben carried the last patient from the operating table to the recovery cages. 'The first two appointments are already here but I've told them you'll be another few minutes yet. Just enough time to eat your sandwich and drink the tea. You must be shattered.'

'I'm fine,' Ben lied and thanked her for the tea. He headed for the staff room and typed up the notes for all the operations as he hurriedly chewed and swallowed to get his lunch down.

Three hours and eighteen consultations later the last appointment had paid their bills and gone home. The second shift of receptionists were mopping the floors and cashing up as they prepared to close for the day. Kara, the evening receptionist, handed Ben the messages book and he retired to the staff room to return all the calls logged from clients during the day. He telephoned them one by one and patiently discussed all their queries and concerns. Once all the messages were ticked off he returned to the reception desk to prepare to leave but Kara approached him first as she pulled on her coat.

'Here are all the lab reports.' She handed him the wad of fax paper with the results of blood tests they had sent off for analysis. 'I've written all the client phone numbers on the reports and entered the results onto their case notes.'

'Thank you,' Ben said as he flipped through the sheaf of results, scanning for major problems with an analytical eye.

'We're all done,' Kara continued. 'Is it OK if we go?'

'Yep, no problem,' Ben replied without looking up from the lab reports. 'Thanks for all your help.'

'See you tomorrow, then,' Kara and Angela chorused as they walked away from their desks.

'Do you want me to lock you in?' Kara asked.

'Yes, please,' Ben said. 'See you tomorrow.'

It was after eight o'clock in the evening by the time Ben put the telephone down and picked up his keys. He switched all the lights off, activated the burglar alarm, pocketed the on-call telephone and stepped out of the door into the rain. He locked the door and darted across the car park to the only car still parked there.

16

Starborough Manor, England

08h00 GMT, 7 December 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Good morning,' John said as he walked into the kitchen.

'Daddy!' the two boys chorused.

Dana looked up and smiled. 'All night again?' she asked.

'Aye,' John answered as he filled the coffee machine with water.

Dana had grown used to her husband working through the night and being grumpy the next day so she did not pursue the conversation. She was seated with their sons at the far end of the long oak refectory table in their kitchen. John walked over and kissed his sons on their foreheads. Their hands and faces were covered with maple syrup and the debris of French toast for breakfast. John kissed his wife on the lips and hugged her tightly. He only embraced her like that when he was happy or in the mood for sex.

'Good night?' she asked, hoping that his night's work had put him in a better mood.

'Excellent!' John chimed as he headed for the Italian coffee machine recessed into the bespoke cabinetry.

He opened the cupboard above the percolating machine and fished out two large coffee mugs.

'Coffee?' he asked.

'Yes, please,' she answered. 'French toast?'

'No thanks,' John replied as he ladled ground coffee beans into the machine and demerara sugar into the mugs.

'I think I've almost got him,' John added as he poured milk into her mug and returned the jug to the fridge.

'I knew you would,' she answered as she wiped John junior's mouth.

Dana had no idea what her husband was talking about but twelve years of marriage meant that she knew how to respond. John had always been secretive about everything in his life but paradoxically wanted to be drawn on some subjects. She sensed that he wanted to talk about the work he was doing but wanted her to coax it out of him. Moments like this were a knife edge for her because she had no way of knowing which way to go. If she asked about last night and he did not want to be questioned, he would launch into a tirade about his privacy and the confidentiality of his work. If she did not ask and he wanted her to, he would rant about her lack of interest in his work. The very work, he would remind her, which paid for their beautiful house and privileged life.

She took a deep breath and leapt into the abyss. 'How will you get him?'

Ominous silence chastised her as she braced for his answer. John seemed pensive and reticent as he filled their mugs and walked across to her. She watched his jaw twitch as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He seemed to be deliberating over which way his response should go.

These were the moments Dana had always hated. John's anger management issues were exhausting. His bellicose rage had scorched almost everyone who knew him; most recently, Simon Dawes had been on the receiving end. It had eroded his social circle down to the three other people in the room. His relationship with his wife and children was a stark contrast to his relationship with the rest of the world. At home he was a gentle, doting father, infinitely patient with his disabled sons. He was a faithful and loving husband, tender and endearing except for the moments when he felt his wife was prying into his personal affairs.

'There's some weirdo on the internet running a kind of DIY murder club,' John explained as he sat beside his younger son. He ruffled the boy's hair and smiled back at him, sliding the mug of white coffee across to his wife.

Dana took the mug and looked back at him, inviting him to continue.

'M16 know he's out there but they can't find him because he's got some sort of encryption on his system. I'm this close to finding him.' John gestured with his thumb and forefinger pinched tightly together.

'That's pretty good,' Dana said, 'considering that you've had only a short time to work on it and they've probably had a huge team working on it for months.'

John shrugged off the flattery and continued, 'They think he's recruiting people to kill for him but I don't think so. I think he's teaching "torture 101" to people who want to get back at someone who's pissed them off.'

'John!' she chastised him. 'Language!'

Their sons' mental handicaps meant they could not conceptualise the murder and torture being discussed over their heads. John and Dana could discuss almost any topic in their presence without the usual parental concern about what they may pick up from the conversation. Profanity was a far bigger problem. The boys would often latch onto inappropriate words and phrases and repeat them at excruciating public moments.

'Someone who's peed them off,' John corrected himself and smiled a silly dad-smile at the boys. 'He's got a free mainstream website called "BadDayz.com" for people who've literally had a bad day. It gives them somewhere to vent their spleen and discuss the issues in their lives. It's a good idea in principle, like a huge, anonymous self-help group. The site is divided into chat room categories like cheating husbands, sexual abuse, bullying at work, muggings, robberies, that sort of thing. I think he monitors their blogs and recruits the ones he wants. That's where he turns into a ghost. Once he's recruited them, they switch to an encrypted system and that's the code I'm trying to break.'

'So it's not just a matter of tracing him through his website's ISP?'

'He's got a loop of tens of thousands of bogus URL addresses that rotate every fraction of a second. They've traced most of them to people who have no idea the website is registered in their name. It's either one of them or none of them. I think it's none of them. It's a smokescreen but it's a good one – we won't get him that way. The only way to catch him is if I can break the code or trick him into recruiting me.'

'How do you know it's a "him"?'

'The psychology geeks at M16 worked that out with their criminal profiling stuff. They're sure it's a "him" not a "her".'

'So how are you going to do it?'

'I'd rather break the bastard's encryption and catch him that way, mano-a-mano,' John said with customary aggression, 'but if I have to do it the other way, I will. I'll make up some bollocks about something someone has done to me and prattle on about it on his website until he contacts me.'

'Bastard! Bastard!' John junior trilled delightedly.

'Bollocks! Bollocks!' Alistair joined in.

'John!' Dana rebuked him above the noise of the boys shouting and banging their forks on their plates.

'Sorry,' John apologised sincerely and scooped both sticky boys out of their chairs.

They shrieked with glee and kept shouting the profanities which so delighted them and appalled their parents.

'Come on, boys.' John laughed as he carried the boys under his arms. 'Let's go wash those sticky hands.'

Dana smiled at their backs as they left the room. John loved the boys fiercely and they adored him. She listened to their happy voices trail off as they walked to the boys' bathroom on the first floor of their sprawling home.

She stood up and started loading the dishwasher. She had refused John's repeated offers of hiring housekeepers and nannies since John junior's illness was diagnosed. John and Dana were convinced, at the time, that he had suffered shaken baby syndrome, inflicted by his nanny. They had rushed him to hospital after finding him collapsed in his bed, mumbling incoherently. The paediatricians, after extensive tests and the second, third and fourth opinions demanded by John, concluded that he was not a shaken baby and his nanny was proved innocent of any wrongdoing.

John junior lapsed into a coma while the paediatricians fumbled with his symptoms for days. He was ultimately diagnosed with Kasabach-Merritt syndrome. He responded well to treatment with high doses of glucocorticoids but it left him with permanent brain damage. They paid for fifth and sixth expert opinions at great expense but they all agreed that, although they could control the condition, the brain damage was irreversible. Dana finally accepted the diagnosis but a remote corner of her mind still harboured suspicions about the nanny. She had researched shaken baby syndrome extensively and the classic symptoms were virtually identical to what her son had initially experienced. She swore she would never leave her children with anyone ever again.

Alistair was born two years later and his condition revealed itself when he was only two years old. Alistair had Type 2A von Willebrand's disease, a very rare condition which caused a severe bleed in his brain. The stroke had left him with severe and permanent brain damage, and Dana with two severely mentally disabled children. This second crisis had made her even more overprotective of her children.

Alistair used his inhaler every day to successfully prevent any further strokes but Dana worried that some other terrible thing might happen to her children. She refused to leave them in the care of anyone other than John or herself. They had private tutors come to their home every day to school them and she stayed with them during their lessons. Life had dealt them a cruel blow but John and Dana were determined that their boys would have as normal a life as possible. Their enormous wealth could not protect their children from these terrible afflictions but it could provide a safe haven and secure their futures.

17

Cambridge, England

22h04 GMT, 9 December 2010

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Hello, Jules,' Ben sang as he descended the stairs. He carried several parcels wrapped in paper and plastic.

Julie glared back at him and said nothing.

'Bit whiffy,' he said and wafted the air in front of his nose.

The smell came from the large white bucket beneath her chair. He had purchased several of them from the local childcare shop. Each bucket had the smiling face of a baby and the words 'Nappy Steriliser' emblazoned on the side. The sterilising fluid in the bucket only partially suffused the malodour of the human excrement floating in it. He slid the bucket from beneath her and clipped on the lid to seal it. He opened an unused bucket and slid it beneath the chair and balanced the lid against the table leg.

'I see these antibiotics don't upset your stomach as much,' he said. 'Good.'

He placed the parcels on the table beside her and examined her right hand closely. He had broken, healed and rebroken her fingers several times over the years .The recently rebroken fingers were healing well and the bruises had muted from indigo to khaki green. Ben was pleased with her progress and checked her charts. She was due for another long-acting antibiotic injection today. He drew up the thick pale yellow fluid from the rubber-stoppered bottle and flicked the barrel of the syringe to make the air bubbles float to the top. A small squeeze of the syringe plunger expelled the air and a small amount of the fluid squirted into the air. He had always liked the smell of penicillin.

Ben swabbed her shoulder with surgical spirit and said automatically, 'Hold still, just a little scratch,' as he injected into the muscle.

Julie was stoical and did not flinch.

'Good,' Ben said as he flicked the needle into the sharps container and dropped the syringe into the clinical waste bin.

Ben updated the clinical log with the time, date, site and dose of medication and commented on clinical status in the comments column.

'Are you hungry?' he asked as he placed the takeaway bag on her lap.

Julie had done several cordon bleu cookery courses and despised convenience food. She considered herself a nascent gastronome with an educated palate which was why Ben fed her only junk food, with its fanfare of garish packaging. The options were diverse enough to maintain an adequately varied diet to keep her healthy.

'Yummy cheeseburger and chips tonight,' he said facetiously and raised the burger to her lips.

She turned her head away in refusal.

'Don't start that again,' Ben warned. 'If you won't eat, you'll get a PEG tube. You choose.'

Julie held her head away for a moment longer as tears welled in her eyes. Her pursed lips softened and she took a bite of the burger. She chewed methodically, a tear rolling down her cheek. Ben held the straw from the milkshake to her mouth after she swallowed the first mouthful. She hated banana but had no option but to drink it. Another tear rolled from her eye.

'Tears won't work with me,' he said. 'You're only crying because you're angry and frustrated.'

He flicked the tear back into her eye. Her head jerked backwards reflexively and she blinked painfully to recover.

'I want tears of contrition, Jules. One day your sanctimonious pout will be gone and all you'll have left is remorse. Even if you don't regret what you did to me, you'll regret what's happening to you because of what you did. One day you'll admit you're ashamed of what you did. Maybe when you apologise you'll see another side of me.'

Ben felt bile rising in his throat. He caught himself before hot vitriol supplanted cold rationality.

_Steady,_ he told himself. _Control. Control. Control._

'The pain is only a small part of the big picture, Jules,' he explained. 'Knowing that it's going to happen again and again, every day, is the best part. Giving you twenty-three hours of every day to wait for the inevitable, to anticipate the pain and humiliation. That's the beauty of what we're doing.'

_That's fifty per cent of the mind-fuck for her,_ he thought to himself _, knowing that this will never stop. Knowing there's no way out of this because it's calm, rational and methodically controlled._

He calmed himself as he fed her in silence. She alternated between staring back at him in defiance and looking away in disgust. He smiled sardonically at her every time he caught her eye.

'I'll bet you think we're going to carry on with the hammer today, don't you?'

'Please, Ben, please stop.'

'Jules, it's never going to stop. You know that and I know that. Once a day, every day, for the rest of your life, this is going to keep going on and on and on, that's the deal.'

Julie dissolved into tears but Ben remained unmoved.

'I've thought of something new for today,' he said merrily. 'We're going to run out of fingers and toes eventually so I want to keep the last few for later. What do you think?'

Silence.

'I don't like the cable ties,' Ben continued. 'They're too restrictive for you and aesthetically restricted for me. I've been searching for a more elegant option, something with a sense of duality. We have to keep you in the chair and we have to torture you, so why not do both things at once?'

Ben raised his eyebrows quizzically. 'What do you think?'

'Ben, please stop,' Julie pleaded. 'I'll give the money back and I'll tell everyone I was wrong. I'll do whatever you want.'

'Good, good,' Ben said distractedly. 'I see you've been thinking things over, that's good. That's why I give you so much time alone every day.'

'I'm really sorry, Ben,' Julie said and wept, holding his gaze. 'I'll do whatever you want, to make things right.'

She saw him falter as her words struck a cord. A flicker of something flashed across his face; was it compassion or a sense of satisfaction that he had made his point and she had suffered enough? Julie dared to think he might set her free.

Ben's eyes looked distant. He frowned as he mulled over his thoughts.

'Hmmmm,' he said.

Julie hoped against hope that the nightmare would end.

'We digress.' Ben snapped back to reality. 'Let me tell you what I've decided. We're going to use external fixation instead of cable ties.'

Julie's hope of salvation crashed to the floor.

'I know you've never really been into orthopaedic surgery so this will be like a CPD course for you. It's the perfect solution.'

Ben unpacked the parcels he had laid out on the table. Julie looked to her left and saw the range of surgical instruments he had brought home from work. She recognised the bags they had used to sterilise the equipment in the autoclave. The label on the largest bag read 'Orthopaedic Kit'. He had brought the drill, the drill shroud, chucks, a range of surgical steel pins and the smaller kit labelled 'Kirschner kit'.

Julie's face recoiled in horror. She had seen Ben use this equipment to repair the fractured bones of dogs and cats. Their patients were obviously anaesthetised for the surgery; she knew that whatever he was planning to do to her, anaesthesia would not be part of it.

'Please, please, please,' she keened to Ben and to herself.

'No talking,' Ben admonished as he wrapped brown adhesive packaging tape around her mouth and head to silence her.

'You're a moral failure, Julie, but you're a pretty good surgeon. I don't know why you never do any orthopaedic surgery, it's easier than a lot of the soft-tissue ops you do quite routinely. I'll talk you through it.'

Muffled pleas for mercy went unheeded.

'The first part of any orthopaedic procedure is planning,' Ben continued as he rolled cotton wool into balls and placed them into a kidney bowl.

He poured chlorhexidine skin disinfectant over the cotton wool and half filled the bowl with sterile saline from a drip bag. Each ball of cotton wool, covered with the pink liquid, was used to clean and disinfect her left leg from above the knee to below the ankle. Ben knelt before her and meticulously went over the skin again and again to prepare the leg for the operation.

'Most people are put off using external fixation because they think they look like scaffolding,' Ben said as he prepared the surgical site. 'They can look a bit cumbersome in the beginning but patients soon accept them completely. You'll see what I mean when we're done. I prefer to use the double bar system and, in your case, this is exactly what we're going to do. But let's start with just the top and bottom pins today and do the rest in stages over the next few days.'

He sprayed a mixture of surgical spirit and chlorhexidine over the site and stood up. Each sterile bag was carefully opened and the plastic membrane peeled back. Once all the kits were open Ben drew sterile surgical gloves over his hands.

Julie wept and trembled uncontrollably in anticipation of what was about to happen. Her eyes were glued to the movements of his hands. She watched as he screwed the sterile pin chuck onto the drill and listened to the whirr of the motor as he tested it. The bone pins were made from surgical steel with very sharp trocar points at either end. The middle four centimetres of the pins had a spiral thread to cut into the bone as the pin was drilled through it.

'Seven sixty fourths should do it,' Ben announced and nodded to himself to affirm his choice of pins. He had always used the imperial system for orthopaedic work and DIY and could not convert the thickness of the pins into millimetres for her. 'The standard length of all the pins is about thirty centimetres so we'll trim off the excess with bolt cutters once we've clamped them to the connecting bars.'

Julie watched as he spun the chuck open and slid the first pin in before tightening it with the chuck key. He grunted softly as he worked.

'Now,' he continued, 'everyone obsesses over safe channels of pin placement to avoid critical soft tissue structures like nerves and blood vessels, but it's really quite obvious where they are.'

He knelt down in front of her leg and held the drill in his right hand with the long metal pin directed upwards. The pins were sterilised and he took care not to touch anything that was not prepped for the surgery. Julie had slim legs with shapely calves so her shin bones were easy to see under the skin. Ben pinched the shin bone between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He pinched firmly and ran his forefinger over the inner edge of the bone.

'There it is,' Ben explained. 'If we pinch the skin firmly against the bone, we can be sure that all the important soft tissue structures are displaced safely out of the way.'

He twisted his right wrist and stuck the point of the pin into the taut skin above his thumb and prodded firmly to feel the resistance of the bone under the skin. A large bead of crimson blood appeared and clung to the angle between the steel pin and the skin.

'Can you feel that?' he asked. 'That's the lateral landmark. When you drill the pin through the bone, aim for a medial landmark just above your forefinger. The top and bottom pins should be perpendicular to the shin bones. You should make a stab incision through the skin to stop it twisting but we won't bother in this case.'

Ben's right forefinger squeezed the drill's trigger and the motor spun into life. The sharp point of the pin twisted the skin into a spiral vortex of shrieking pain receptors. He squeezed the drill trigger hard for a brief moment and the increased speed of the pin point sliced through the skin and bored into the hard outer cortex of bone.

Julie's body jolted with pain but the tape over her mouth stifled her pitiful screams.

'Squeeze the trigger gently,' Ben explained as he continued drilling slowly. 'Don't drill too fast or the pin will heat up and burn the bone. Heat necrosis is a major cause of premature pin loosening. Don't push too hard, either, let the drill do the work.'

He ignored the muffled screams, punctuated by sharp gasps for breath from her nostrils. A thick steam of urine spurted noisily from her perineum and poured into the bucket beneath her chair. Mucous streamed copiously from her nose and mixed with the tears flowing over her mouth and chin. She strained against the cable ties to pull away from the pain but they held fast.

'There it is,' Ben announced as the skin above his forefinger lifted off the inner edge of the shin bone like a pointed tent. 'We should cut the skin over the point of the pin to avoid it winding up the skin, but once again we won't bother with that.'

He pushed hard and squeezed the trigger to spin the trocar point through the twisted skin before slowing the speed again.

'Drive it through slowly so that the thread in the middle of the pin is positioned in the bone,' he said as he drove the pin into its final position.

Equal lengths of the pin now jutted out from the inner and outer edges of the shin bone, just below the knee. The skin was so tightly twisted against the shaft of the pin that no blood seeped from the wound.

'There we are,' Ben said as he reached for the chuck key. He twisted the key in the chuck and slid the drill off the pin. 'And now we do the same again, just above the ankle.'

Julie sobbed in pain and abject despair beneath her gag but Ben was impervious. He repeated the process with another pin drilled through the shin bone just above her ankle. The final step was to add the thick connecting bars, like external scaffolding. The heavier connecting bars were attached to the top and bottom pins with small clamps. The connecting bars were then adjusted to be either side of, and exactly parallel to, the shin bone. The skin at the point of entry of the pins was severely twisted around the metal and blanched pale white.

'We'll have to release the skin to prevent ischaemia,' he decided.

He sawed a scalpel blade against the skin wound tightly around the pin until the skin slipped free and settled back against the leg. Thin red rivulets of blood ran from the tiny incisions as he applied a blob of brown iodine ointment to the wounds.

'It's as simple as that,' he said as he removed his gloves and rolled all the instruments together into the large green table drape.

Ben unwound the brown tape from Julie's mouth. He wondered if she might be allergic to the tape glue as he noticed the vivid red skin reaction where the tape had been.

'You fucking bastard!' she howled at him. 'You fucking, fucking bastard!'

Ben gathered up his green bundle of instruments as she dissolved into sobbing.

'Hang onto the anger,' he advised. 'The endorphin surge will wear off in twenty minutes and then the pain will start good and proper. It's going to be a long night.'

'Fuck you!' she shrieked in a piercing scream.

'Good girl,' Ben answered as he ascended the stairs. 'See you tomorrow.'

'Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fu–'

Julie's voice was severed as Ben closed the door and flicked the switch that plunged her into darkness.

18

London, England

10h30 GMT, 30 May 2011

2006—2007—2009—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Good afternoon, John,' Sally said warmly.

'Hello,' John begrudgingly replied as he stepped into the conference room.

The others were seated together at the head of the large oval table. They rose as John entered the room.

'This is my team on this case,' Sally said by way of introduction. 'Ray, Sean, and you've already met Margaret,'

John politely shook hands with each of them. _A whole team of three. Spare no expense,_ he thought sarcastically to himself.

Ray had guessed John would consider a team of three inadequate. The expression on John's face confirmed it. He was about to explain that each of them headed an extensive team committed entirely to this case but then elected not to. _Save it for later,_ he thought to himself.

Margaret sensed the acrimony and spoke first to diffuse it. 'I'm very pleased to meet you face to face, John,' she said as she shook his hand. 'We're not much further along than when you joined us. Have you found anything yet?'

'Yes and no,' John replied.

'Please sit.' Sally gestured and they all took their seats.

All eyes were fixed on John and the air was heavy with expectation. He basked in the moment and slowly unpacked the contents of his briefcase before speaking.

'First off,' John announced, 'I don't think our guy is recruiting murderers.'

Margaret nodded in encouragement.

'I think this guy is some sort of self-appointed moral guardian. His website presents itself as an altruistic self-help group for people who feel they've been wronged by someone or something. Nothing clever there. The clever part is that the site drivers are based on software generated self-sentience.'

'Sentient computer software?' Sean interrupted. 'Like artificial intelligence?'

'Exactly,' John said. 'The sub-system platform analyses the conversations in the chat rooms and the site builds itself to give them what they want and what they need.'

'You mean the site is evolving by itself?' Sean interrupted again.

'That's precisely what it's doing. The first software programming with this capability was Deep Blue, but this site has gone way beyond that. If Deep Blue was the invention of the wheel, this thing is a Formula One supercar. It makes IBM's Watson look like a piece of piss. The site divides itself into categories according to the user's grievances. Within each category it matches users to each other according to subliminal psychometric analysis of word choice, nuance, inference, eloquence and so on. It matches things like anger with anger, guilt with guilt, acceptance with acceptance, blah, blah, blah. It identifies the talkers, the whingers, the doers, the winners, the losers and the watchers. It introduces them to each other according to best mutual advantage and it learns which combinations work and which don't. It gets better and better at playing psychiatrist and it has developed psychoanalyses, psycho-theories and psychotherapies way, way beyond anything in current academia.'

'You mean its thinking and learning better than a human brain?' Sean asked incredulously.

'You keep interrupting me with questions I've already answered,' John snapped at Sean. 'If you need to validate yourself, maybe you shouldn't be here.'

Sean spluttered with rage at the insult. Words failed him. He frantically started rotating his wedding ring around his finger, with his hands concealed beneath the table, to calm himself.

'Leave it there,' Sally commanded and looked at John. 'Go on.'

'BadDayz.com is like a giant sieve,' John announced. 'He uses it to sift out the people he wants.'

'You mean the nutters,' Sean snapped.

'Far from it,' John replied with withering condescension. 'He's looking for the ones he feels have a right to be pissed off. Once he's picked a short list he filters out those with the balls to do something about it. What he's left with, at the end of the process, is a handful of highly motivated, intelligent people committed to retribution at any cost. He's their messiah and they're his disciples.'

'Jesus!' Ray verbalised his incredulity.

'He might think so, but I doubt it.'

The others picked up on his droll wit and the muted humour eased the tension. Even John allowed himself to smile at his own joke.

'Very good,' Margaret said as she composed herself. 'That pretty much ties up with what we think. We know that he's Caucasian, male, intelligent, educated, probably single and unable to maintain long-term relationships, geographically stable, probably a high-profile medical job with a high patient turnover and little or no repeat custom, like a private specialist surgeon. The big inconsistency is that the man you've described would also have to be an IT prodigy. It's unlikely that he can have dual specialties.'

'Why the medical angle?' John asked.

'We've collected evidence on hundreds of previously unconnected murders across the world and the common element is the physical trauma inflicted on the victims before they died. The MO has a consistent starting point and then evolves idiosyncratically.'

'What's the common starting point?'

'They all have smashed fingers, they all have prescription medications in their system and they all show signs of attempted professional emergency treatment immediately prior to death.'

'So he's coaching them on torture and treatments to keep them alive?' John said.

'Asked and answered.' Sean repaid John's spiteful sarcasm.

John ignored Sean's taunt and continued, 'It's more likely that he's self-taught in the medical department than self-taught to this level of IT capability.'

'So that means he's in IT?' Sean asked.

'No.' John smirked.

'John,' Sally interjected, 'please don't play word games. We're on a short line here and we need this guy. If he's not in IT, how could he have created this level of technology?'

'I've thought about that for long time and the standard tenet applies: once you've excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however implausible, must be the truth.'

'Meaning?'

'I don't think this guy knows that this software is driving his site.'

The blast from this verbal bombshell left Sally and her team nonplussed.

'What?' Ray asked.

'Explain?' Sally said with a wave of her hands to demonstrate that she was at a loss.

'Our guy created the original website with standard free downloadable software from the net. I traced the downloads to a legitimate software company. I think one of the visitors to the site created and integrated the sentient software to improve the site at a later date. I can't trace that download because it's been cloaked or encrypted or something. There can only be a handful of people in the world capable of this level of technology. They're either employees of one of the computer software giants, or a First World government. My guess is that they're a pissed-off employee who accessed the site for a good bitch and bleat and moan about their boss. When they came out of the chat room they felt so much better that they wanted to give back something to the wonderful place that helped them so much. A sort of IT philanthropist, stealing from the rich to give to the poor or, in this case, stealing from their employer to give to the anonymous masses.'

'Good theory,' Ray said. 'Now we need to pick it apart to see if it stands up. No offence.'

'None taken.' John shrugged. 'Pick away.'

'The first hole is the "he doesn't even know the high-tech software gift is driving the site" thing.' Ray made a speech marks gesture with his fingers as he said this. He had no way of knowing how much it irritated John when people did this.

'How can he be "unaware" of the software if he's using it to speak to people in secret – so secret that no one in the world can work out how he's doing it?' Ray did the air quotes thing again as he spoke.

'I've thought about that too,' John answered, resisting the impulse to pound Ray into a bloody pulp. 'I think his anonymous benefactor added the encryption facility as an afterthought to give the "webmaster" a gift he could understand.' John added his own air quotes, clearly mocking Ray. 'I think it's a completely different software package to the really clever sentient stuff that he's completely unaware of.'

'I suppose if the mystery patron can produce software with artificial intelligence then impregnable encryption would be a cinch,' Ray returned caustically.

'Exactly,' John said, 'but now you're doing it too,' he added as his eyes darted between Ray and Sean, taunting them both.

'Technically,' Sally cut in, trying to diffuse the confrontation, 'if he gave him the encryption program, then he should be able to monitor our guy's encrypted communications?' She raised her eyebrows at John to ask for an answer.

John said nothing and let her step into the hole of supposition.

'That means that if he can decode the encryption to eavesdrop, then there's no reason we can't do the same.'

'Wrong.' John smiled at her. 'I've tried everything and I don't think anyone or anything can break the code.'

'Why not?'

'Because it uses a new, randomly generated code every time information is transferred. It's like the Nazi Enigma machine amplified to the nth degree. Even the guy who created the program can't retrospectively decode messages because there's no record of the encryption protocol for each encryption.'

'Oh.'

'Yes, "oh",' John said. 'The only way to catch this guy is a "honeytrap".' He threw in some more air quotes, smiling derisively at Ray.

'A honeytrap?' Sally asked.

'Yes, it's the only option and I've already started on it. This guy is looking for sob stories he empathises with so I'll give him one. I've conjured up a bunch of characters with sob stories to cover most of the emotional issues, like child abuse, domestic violence, animal cruelty, bullying, that sort of thing. I log onto the site under false names every day and talk to people with similar experiences. Sooner or later I've got to say something that strikes a chord with El Sicko and he'll contact me. Once he does I'll work out how to reel him in. A good old-fashioned sting operation.'

'I hate to admit it but it's so simple it might just work,' Ray conceded.

'We've tried that already,' Margaret interrupted.

'And?'

'We got nothing.'

'What angles did you try?'

'All of them.'

'Sometimes it's not what you're selling but how you sell it.' John smiled condescendingly. 'I'll spin him a story he can't resist.'

'I think he knew it was us.'

'How could he?'

'I don't know.'

'Watch this space,' John boasted. 'I'll bet I hook him within the next seven days.'

'I hope so,' Sally concluded, 'for all our sakes.'

19

Cambridge, England

19h00 GMT, 17 August 2011

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'What are you doing?' she asked from the bathroom.

'Just checking my emails,' Ben replied from the study as he played solitaire on the computer.

'I hate night shifts,' the voice from the bathroom moaned disconsolately.

'I know,' Ben commiserated, 'but it's only for a week then you'll be back on days.'

'But I miss spending the evenings with you.'

'I miss you too but what can we do?'

'And I feel sick,' she said as she stepped out of the bathroom, naked, and headed for the bedroom to get dressed. 'I only managed to get a few hours' sleep this afternoon because everyone decided to mow their lawns today.'

'You should sleep with ear plugs.'

'I do. By the way, we got an email from your mum. Have you read it yet?'

'Not yet,' Ben said as he closed the solitaire program and logged onto the internet.

Ben flicked through several news sites and a financial commentary site in silence. He was champing at the bit to get going but he had to wait for her to leave. Today was his half-day at work which usually meant he arrived home by five in the afternoon. It was now seven o'clock and the two-hour wait had made him grumpy.

'Time to go,' she said as she walked into the room in her work clothes.

'OK,' he said and stood up to kiss her goodbye.

They kissed and their hug lingered until he tore himself away. She had always loved the needy way he hugged but never said anything for fear that he would become self-conscious about it and change. They walked to the door, hand in hand, and hugged again.

'See you tomorrow,' she said, knowing that he would have left for work by the time she returned from work in twelve hours. 'What are you going to do with yourself all evening?'

'I'm a bit tired,' he answered. 'I think I'll go to bed early.'

'That'll be a first.'

'See you tomorrow,' he said and patted her playfully on the bum.

'See you tomorrow,' she reiterated. She kissed him again before finally stepping out of the door.

Ben locked the door behind her and made a cup of tea in the kitchen before returning to the study. His fingers rattled the keyboard keys and he sipped the tea as he waited for the website to load. The words 'BadDayz.com' appeared on the screen, emblazoned across the homepage.

He selected and eavesdropped on a conversation in the 'Work' chat room. Both his hands clasped the warm mug as he sipped his tea and settled back into the chair. His keen eyes scanned a conversation on the screen.

Ravebabe: U bet

Ckdae5: Wot happnd?

Ravebabe: Im stuck in a job i h8 but i cnt leave

Ckdae5: Y not?

Ravebabe: If i leave i lose my work prmit & cnt get another 1

CKdae5: Where r u?

Ravebabe: London at the mo im from oz

Ckdae5: Do ozzies ned wrk prmits 4 uk?

Ravebabe: Long story, I ned 1

Ckdae5: Do u h8 ur job or ur boss?

Ravebabe: Jobs good boss is the prob

Ckdae5: What do u do?

Ravebabe: Accountant, doing articles

Ckdae5: U think ur boss is wors thn mine?

Ravebabe: 4 sure

Ckdae5: Tell me

Ravebabe: Been here 9 months. Hired with another girl in articles from Canada, get on well. Same boss at work & hes total letch. Divorced his wife last year and married bitch from cleaning company. Some sort of mid-life crisis – married her 4 sex cause shes blonde & she married him for money. They h8 each other & now hes grabbing me and other...

'For God's sake,' Ben muttered as he drained the last of his tea and clicked to another chat room. He hated SMS typescript because he found it inelegant and difficult to understand.

He clicked the 'Animals' box and dropped into the heart of an angry conversation.

'I wish I could kill them all!' he read.

The words leapt from the screen.

The force of the statement and the anger behind it made Ben sit forward and take notice. This was more like it, someone with passion and purpose. He placed the empty mug on a coaster on the table and read on with interest.

'They deserve it,' someone else typed back.

Ben approved of what he read. He scrolled back to see what the conversation was about. The words 'China', 'bears' and 'bile farming' were repeated regularly. He felt anger and revulsion rising within him as he realised what they were talking about. He knew about bile farming and he knew that reading any further would only upset him but he could not turn away from it. The appalling animal cruelty of capturing wild bears and caging them forever to drain bile from their gall bladders disgusted him. Each bear was kept in a small rusty metal cage, too small for them to stand up in and barely big enough for them to roll over. The cages were designed to protect the people draining the bile by severely restricting the bear's movements. The bears were condemned to lives of perpetual physical and mental torture. They lived in these cramped positions all day, every day, forced to lie in their own urine and faeces for the rest of their lives.

Ben kept reading.

Mikegzb: The bastards keep them in metal cages the size of a coffin so they can't fight back. They operate on them without any anaesthetic. They literally cut a hole in their belly and stick a needle in to suck the bile out. Sometimes they even stitch the gall bladder to the skin to make a permanent hole for the bile to drip out. They've all got infections and pus dripping out from their operations. They don't get any painkillers or antibiotics. The only thing they can do is try to die but the scum have learned how to keep them alive for years. They've all gone mad and rock backwards and forwards all day, every day.

Cncambell: That can't be true.

Mikegzb: It damn-well is! I've seen it with my own eyes. They're like living corpses, covered with infected bedsores. Their minds are screwed. The evil bastards that do this to them make the Nazis look like Sunday school teachers.

Cncambell: It's got to be illegal.

Mikegzb: It is but the government turns a blind eye to it. The police know about the farms but everyone here thinks it's normal.

Cncambell: Why?

Mikegzb: It's worth a lot of money, they sell it to dealers who sell it for traditional medicine all over the world.

Cncambell: How can they operate on them if they're not vets?

Mikegzb: They've done it for years and teach each other how to do it, nobody here cares about animal rights. They're covered in weeping sores and flies but no one gives a shit. Their eyes look dead, like the pain and the cages drove them mad a long time ago but no one cares. They all want to die but they can't. When I was there they tried to reach me with their paws but they could barely move in the cages. They cried all the time and I could do nothing to help them. I can't get the sound out of my head. They threw me out when I complained about what they were doing.

Cncambell: Can't you do something like report them to Greenpeace or some other organisation?

Mikegzb: I've been on the phone to them all day but they aren't allowed to enter the country. I spoke to the police and the local government but they denied everything. When I went back to the farm they wouldn't let me in. When I lost my temper four of them came out and beat the living shit out of me.

Cncambell: There must be something you can do, even if it's just putting the bears out of their misery. Shooting them would be kinder than leaving them there.

Mikegzb: I've just been discharged from hospital and the police have already been here. They warned me that I would be thrown into prison if I caused any more trouble. They can't deport me because they've got an extended contract with my company and they need us more than we need them.

Cncambell: Can't you go to your boss?

Mikegzb: I tried that. The contract is worth a lot of money so they've told me to shut up and tow the line.

Cncambell: What are you going to do?

Mikegzb: I wish I could kill the bastards.

Cncambell: Me too.

Mikegzb: I mean it. All anyone can do for the bears now is shoot them to end their suffering. But I don't want to shoot the bastards that have done this, I want them to suffer and suffer and suffer. I want to do to them what they've done to the bears. Shooting them is too good for them.

Cncambell: There's no way that's going to happen.

Mikegzb: I know but I can't get the bears out of my mind. I can't forget the look in their eyes or the terrible sound of them crying. I have to do something but I don't know what. I can't take on everyone here and the police and the government.

Ben felt tears welling in his eyes. The lump in his throat burned as he denied himself the tears to soothe it. The thought of the daily pain and torment of the bears weighed down on his chest like a crushing weight.

'Fucking bastards!' Ben erupted as he snatched at his keyboard to pull it within easy reach. He logged into the chat room, banging on the keys with a furious forefinger to enter his username: G.A.B.R.I.E.L.

Gabriel: I can help you.

Mikegzb: Who are you?

Gabriel: A friend. I'm as pissed off as you are and I know how to fix this.

Mikegzb: Where are you?

Gabriel: I'm right beside you, every step of the way.

Gabriel's last sentence hung on the screen like the hem of the text above it.

Gabriel: Well, what do you want to do?

Mikegzb: I want to kill them.

Gabriel: That's a good start but do you have the stomach for it?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: Will you accept the consequences if you're caught?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: You'd get the death penalty.

Mikegzb: Only if I'm caught.

Gabriel: I've cut the other guy, Cncambell, off from this conversation. Everything we say to each other is confidential. I can help you but I need to know you can do this. We can't start something you can't finish.

Mikegzb: How can you help me?

Gabriel: It's enough for you to know that I've done this many times before. The question is: are you up to it? You'll have to kidnap the owner of the bile farm. Once we have him, I'll teach you how to make him pay and then we'll get the bears out.

Mikegzb: You've got to be joking.

Gabriel: I'm dead serious.

Mikegzb: Who are you?

Gabriel: Just Gabriel.

Mikegzb: How can I trust you? How do I know you're not some weirdo teenager sitting in your bedroom wanking out some kind of sick control-freak urges? How do I know you're not about to dump me into a world of shit?

Gabriel: You don't. You have to take a leap of faith. I'm as pissed off as you are by what they're doing. The difference is I can do something about it. My solution may not be legal but it will work and it will fix the problem permanently. I guarantee I will deliver what I promise. Think it over, I'll contact you for your answer, on this site, in twenty-four hours.

Ben logged out of BadDayz.com and logged into AOL to check his personal emails. He read the long letter from his mother and smiled as she described her delight at the seven puppies Bonnie had given birth to the day before. Everyone else was fine and they were in the process of trading in their old car for a new one. Ben would reply later because it was getting late.

He left the computer and walked to the kitchen. Tins of dog food filled one of the cupboards. He opened two and emptied the contents into a bowl before warming it in the microwave. He called his two Border Collies, Tess and Bet, in from the garden. They leapt around him and streaked his work clothes with their muddy paws. He offered them the food but they ignored it in favour of affection.

'Eat your food,' he directed them with a point of his finger and locked them in the conservatory to do as they were told.

He walked across the garden and opened the door to the garage. Once inside he dragged the heavy work bench away from the wall.

'Shit,' he muttered to himself as he peeled back the old carpet to reveal the trapdoor.

He returned to the house and hurriedly made some sandwiches and collected fruit from a bowl. He placed the food and a half-empty bottle of milk in an old plastic shopping bag as he left the kitchen. He walked past the dogs and into the garden again. Ben locked the garage door from the inside and flicked a light switch on the wall before opening the trapdoor and descending the stairs.

'Hello, Jules,' he said as he stepped off the last rung onto the concrete floor.

Ben loved the way she looked since he had applied the external fixation. She had four pins driven through each of her forearms and five through each shinbone. He had bent the pins in a circular arc below the forearms and behind the shins. The pins curved around the armrests under her forearms and around the chair legs behind her calves. The bent ends of each pin were attached to each other by surgical clamps. The surgical clamps were bolted to a single thick connecting bar running parallel to the length of the bones. Each pin was bent into a perfect circle around an armrest or chair leg.

Julie blinked her eyes painfully as she adjusted to the bright light. It was late summer and Ben had taken to leaving her completely naked in the warm weather. She stared at him in silence as he approached her. She sat naked and vulnerable in the chair but bristled with defiance. The paradox was arresting. She held her head insubordinately high and made no attempt to close her thighs to preserve her modesty. The warm weather swelled her breasts and flushed her damp skin in a strangely alluring sexual overture.

He washed her, brushed her teeth every day, meticulously combed her long hair and manicured her nails. He regularly trimmed her pubic hair to maintain its stark triangular delineation against her soft skin. The bright light danced on the shiny surgical steel jutting out of her skin like bowed spider legs wrapping around the architecture of the chair. Her yielding naked body contrasted the cold clinical steel pins and rods and the artificiality of the plastic chair. She looked beautiful.

It had taken several weeks to insert all the pins and then a few weeks more to change the design and bend them all around the frame of the chair. The wounds had healed and the design worked as well as it looked. Julie could move her arms and legs enough to relieve muscle cramping but was even more securely committed to her chair than when cable ties kept her there. 'Form follows function,' he had assured her while he laboured on the task.

'Sorry I'm late,' Ben said as he unpacked the food onto the table beside her. 'I interviewed someone for a job tonight and I'm very excited about their potential.'

He unscrewed the cap of the milk bottle and held it to her lips. He knew she disliked drinking milk but she knew she needed the fluids; it had been a long hot day. Julie reluctantly drained the bottle to quench her thirst.

'I had a dream,' she said.

'Good,' he replied as he held the sandwich to her lips.

'I dreamt we left here and went on holiday,' she spoke dreamily.

Ben frowned. She was either trying some sort of psychological angle on him, or she was developing Stockholm syndrome, or she was becoming delirious from dehydration. He examined her eyes, gums and skin and diagnosed mild dehydration.

'You're dehydrated,' he told her as he walked across to a cupboard behind her and took a large drip bag out.

He tore off the packaging and inserted a long-line giving set into the bag. He suspended the bag from a hook in the ceiling above her and fed the line through her hands until the on-off control was in her grasp. The free end of the line had to be secured within reach of her mouth so he returned to the open cupboard to find a solution. A Chinese finger trap suture was the obvious answer and he returned with a length of monofilament nylon suture with a curved swaged on cutting needle and tungsten needle holders.

'You're dehydrated, Jules,' he told her again as he held the needle holders and the needle in front of her face. 'There's a bag of saline over your head. I want you to drink all of it by this time tomorrow. You can switch it on and off with your hand and I'm going to suture the end of the line to your shoulder so you can reach it with your mouth.'

He gouged the point of the needle into the skin over the front of her shoulder and tunnelled it under the skin as far as it would go before turning his wrist and forcing the point of the needle up through the skin. Julie flinched and tried to lean away as he pulled the needle through but he ignored her. The free ends of the suture were easily plaited around the plastic tubing and soon it was secure. He fed her the sandwiches and the fruit before speaking again.

'Try it,' he said, nodding at the drip line in her hand.

The dreamy quality to her voiced had dissipated and she parried with, 'How long do you think you'll get away with this, you limp-dick asshole?'

'Julie, my friend, its going to go on forever, day after day after day, just you and me, together forever,' he replied maliciously. 'I see you're not that dehydrated after all. I don't want you getting sick and dying on me, though, so you'd better drink it all before tomorrow or I'll put a central line in you and give it to you that way. It's your choice.'

'Duncan will find me,' Julie continued, 'and when he sees me like this, he'll kill you.'

'Jules, your brother, your father, your sister, your whole fucking family are too stupid and too feeble to fight their way out of a piss-soaked paper bag. It's been months now. If they're coming, where are they? Are they waiting for the right moment to pounce? Are they carefully planning to trap me? A sneaky ambush? Face it, Jules, they're not coming to get you, ever.'

Ben snarled at her as anger welled up inside. 'The police haven't even questioned me as a suspect in your disappearance,' he lied. 'They've probably given you up for dead, which means I now own you forever.'

'Piss off!' she spat at him.

'Good, now we can get on with the task.'

'No!' she blurted involuntarily.

She thought the suturing was the penance for today and was psychologically unprepared for more.

'I'm in a bit of a hurry.' Ben smirked. 'So I thought we'd go back to something familiar.'

'Please,' she whimpered as he walked past her to the cupboard.

'Please nothing,' he said as he returned and stood in front of her with his hands held behind his back.

'Please don't.'

'Remember what you did,' Ben said truculently as he swung the old claw hammer into view in his right hand.

'No,' she protested.

'Oh, yes,' he said, 'but I think we'll try something new.'

He brought his left hand into view to reveal unused cable ties. Julie fought back tears of anticipation as he knelt in the intimate space between her naked thighs and tied her left ankle to the chair leg.

Ben raised his head and spoke to her pubic hair. 'What about a de-gloving injury? Hmmm?' he asked as he looked up at her face.

'Don't,' she said softly as the drip line fell from her open pleading palms.

Ben thought about the cruelty to the bears and the inhumanity of the bastards that tortured them. He remembered his pain when he faced losing everything he had; his home, his business, his wife and all his worldly goods. Vitriol boiled in his veins as he glared at her.

'Fuck you,' she said when she saw the resolve etched on his face.

'No, no,' he said. 'Fuck you!'

He spun the hammer around in his hand and slid the claw over her second toe on her right foot. She felt him thrust the steel up to the top of the toe and clenched her foot instinctively. As she raised her foot off the ground, he forced the toe tightly into the crook of the hammer claw with a downwards thrust. He tested it then jerked it toward himself.

Julie burst into hideous cries as pain erupted in her foot. The claw had ripped the skin off her toe like a sock torn from her foot. The bones and sinews bulged into view for a brief instant before blood obscured the detail. Ben triumphantly pulled the skin from the hammer and dangled it in front of her face. It looked like a child's penis.

'Ow! Ow! Ow!' she wailed.

Ben turned the pouch of skin around in his fingers and then roughly pulled it back over the toe.

Julie screamed again as the pain ascended. She clenched and unclenched her fists as she grabbed at the air and the pins of the fixators banged against the armrests of the chair.

Ben sat back and evaluated the wound. Reapplying the skin had staunched the flow of blood.

'Hmmm,' he mused. The use of cadaver skin as a temporary wound dressing for third-degree burns was well documented in human reconstructive surgery. _Same idea,_ he thought to himself _, the skin might even take._

'Let's see if it heals or dies,' he said to Julie, who sobbed uncontrollably as she failed to internalise her pain.

Ben reached up to the table and grasped the needle holder and the suture needle.

'Best to suture it on to give us the best chance,' he said to her and started placing a row of small, neat simple interrupted sutures to reattach the skin.

20

Cambridge, England

19h30 GMT, 21 August 2011

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Well, yes,' Marion said, 'he is that.'

'Is what?' Ben asked, carrying two glasses of diluted Cranberry juice and a bottle of beer into the room.

'Marion was just saying she's reading a book about you.'

Ben frowned suspiciously at each of them as Chris took the beer and slouched back onto the sofa.

'Here we go,' Ben groaned with a smile as he handed Marion her drink. He sipped his own before returning to his chair. 'What book are we talking about?'

Marion smiled at Ben. 'I didn't say it was about you. Chris was asking what I'm doing at the moment and I was telling him about the leadership course I'm on.'

'Ja, the book she's reading gives examples of personalities and the one closest to you is the "pig-headed bloody-minded determination" one.'

'Is that good or bad?' Ben veiled his smile as he took a sip, the ice cubes clinking in the glass.

'It's a book about successful people and what it takes to achieve success, for people starting their own businesses. You know, the one I told you about, the one written by those guys about opening a successful coffee shop.'

'Yeah, I flipped through it.'

'Well, ja, I was telling her you've always been like that.'

'Like it's a bad thing?'

'No, not at all, it's just that that's your sort of personality. It makes you who you are.'

'Great.'

'Not like that, Ben,' Marion countered. 'But I know what you mean, Chris.' She winked at the younger brother. 'He means in a good way, like a leader, like someone who takes charge and makes things happen.'

'You don't know the half of it, Marion. I know you guys have been together for quite a while now but last time I was here we had this totally weird conversation about how Ben was planning to change the world or save the world or something.'

'What?' Ben frowned. 'What shit are you making up now?'

'Man, remember that stuff in the car last time. About how you're going to go out and save the world and all sinners must be punished, and good and bad, and all that other shit.'

'Bloody hell! I remember that conversation so I can tell you that's not what I said. That's your weird interpretation of what you thought you heard.'

'No way, man.' Chris stood his ground. 'It was all right and wrong and good and bad and you'll decide who lives and dies.'

'Bloody hell, this is the product of growing up in our family,' Ben said to Marion with a chuckle. 'Everything gets a bit distorted and twisted with a double helping of biblical bullshit on top. Chris is obviously going a bit senile like my dad. The only difference is that he's not as far down the road.'

'Bullshit, man.' Chris swallowed a gulp of beer. 'Are you saying that you weren't going on about honour and duty and stuff like some sort of Nazi army general?'

'No, I did talk about honour and dignity, but I didn't take some sort of sermonising religious high ground.'

'Well then, we remember it differently.' Chris failed to hold onto his poker face and cracked up, howling with the enjoyment of antagonising his big brother.

'Bastard!' Ben smiled at his brother as Chris rocked forwards with amusement.

'And that's the last time you two spoke?' Marion asked.

'Ja,' Chris wheezed. 'Shit, isn't he?'

'Hey, you could just as easily phone me.'

'Ja. Ja, I know.' Chris regained his composure. 'We're both shit at keeping in touch.'

'That's better.' Ben nodded.

'The last time we spoke, I was our parents' keeper, now he is. I used to go round every weekend to help them out. How often does he go?'

'As often as he can.'

'Well, rather you than me.' Chris took another slug of beer. 'I love my mother dearly but, Jesus, my dad's an arsehole. I used to be happy to help them out with all the things they couldn't do, but the more I found out about him, the more it pissed me off.'

'Chris, just leave it,' Ben interrupted.

Ja. Ja, I know, the whole "washing your dirty laundry in public doesn't make it any cleaner" thing.' Chris air quoted.

'Exactly.'

'But how come you're on his side now? I thought you were more pissed off than me?'

'I was but now that they've come back and they're living in Salisbury, I've started thinking about it differently.'

'I think I'll leave you guys to talk about this.' Marion rose from her seat.

'No, no, there are no secrets, I don't care who knows what,' Chris protested.

'I've got to finish studying anyway before I go to bed,' Marion insisted. 'Do you want another beer before I lock myself away with ear plugs?'

'Ja, please.' Chris nodded and drained the remainder of his beer before handing her the bottle.

'I'm fine.' Ben smiled at her as she nodded at his glass.

'Jesus, Chris!' Ben admonished after Marion left the room.

'What?' Chris slurred his innocence.

'Jesus!' Ben muttered.

Marion returned with three bottles of beer in the torn cardboard carrier. 'Enjoy,' she said as she handed them to Chris.

'I will.' He beamed at her. 'I like this girl,' he announced and winked at Ben.

'Of course you do, she brought you beer.'

'No, I'm serious. We had a long chat before you got home from work, I really like her.'

'Great,' Ben groaned as Marion placed a consoling hand on his shoulder.

'He's all right,' she said softly to Ben then turned and said to Chris, 'You're all right.'

'Ha!' Chris burst into laughter. 'Look what you've done to her! You're the king of the understatement, now she's doing it too. Most chicks really go for me but apparently now I'm just "all right", nothing more, just "all right",' he cajoled.

'Goodnight, Chris.' Marion smiled.

'Ja, excellent.' Chris grinned back. 'Thanks for dinner and everything.'

'It's a pleasure, see you in the morning.' Marion turned to Ben and said, 'See you later, good luck.'

'Excellent!' Chris boomed and slapped his thigh before draining half a bottle of beer.

Once they heard the bedroom door close down the corridor, Chris frowned at his brother. 'Really? You're really OK with everything?'

'Absolutely.' Ben nodded. 'Since they've been back, I've basically turned into you, helping them out as much as I can.'

'Well, I told him that I don't want anything to do with him ever again.'

'I know, Ma told me.'

'That's weird, man. You were the guy with the issues, now you're saying everything's fine and suddenly I'm the guy with the issues?'

'Look, I know when I went to uni I said I was never coming back, and then you all left and came over here. I know I left you to deal with them but it's not like I deserted you. I just didn't think further than I wanted to get away and live my life.'

'Ja, I know what you mean. It didn't bother me when we came here and you stayed there, I genuinely didn't have a problem with it. I didn't feel deserted or abandoned or anything.'

'Well, I'm sorry if you did.'

'No, seriously, I was fine with it,' Chris reiterated. 'The truth is, I was so young I didn't realise what it was really like because you obviously absorbed it all or protected me or whatever.'

'Well, that's very generous, but it's not really true, I think we all just experienced it differently. When I think about it now, I think it's just the way the world is. He was a good provider but a shit father. It was all a big deal then but now I don't know if it's such a big deal any more. I know he shagged anything that moved, and that hurt Ma, but now that I'm older I can sort of understand it. I really don't want to rehash all of this again.'

'Understand it?' Chris asked before draining the second beer.

'Exactly, I understand it – that's different to "I condone it" or even "I accept it". He was in the prime of his life, women were all over him, he was a big deal and maybe he just had a huge sex drive and Ma didn't. Maybe he had a big libido, lots of opportunity, and he just did what he did without thinking.'

'So he fucked Ma up emotionally and that's OK?'

'No, it's definitely not OK, but I can sort of understand where he was coming from.'

'No fucking way!' Chris protested and screwed the top off the last of the three beers.

'Think about it, man. Imagine you're in a relationship that's gone a bit stale: your wife is past her best and spends most of her time and energy on her kids. The spark's gone. You still love her and your kids, but she now looks like she's had two kids and she's just not into sex any more. Should you be expected to never have sex again, or only once a year on your birthday? Should you just live with unfulfilled, pent-up sexual frustration? It would be bloody difficult.'

'What the fuck are you talking about?' Chris took another long slug of beer. 'What do you know about their sex life?'

'Nothing, I'm just hypothesising. What do you do if you're in that situation? I think he just did things without thinking, I don't think he set out to hurt anyone.'

'What about the times at home?'

'Yeah, he was pissed most of the time, and the booze made him shitty, but he never did anything to us.'

'But it's OK that he beat the shit out of her?'

'Absolutely not and you know that. With the drink in him he wasn't Dad, he was someone else. We couldn't stop him, only she could stop him.'

'She told me you tried.'

'Yeah, I tried. Sometimes when it started getting out of hand, I would try to talk him down. When he was very drunk, usually he would listen to me, so I could talk him out of it.'

'And sometimes you couldn't.'

'And sometimes I couldn't.' Ben sighed.

'And then what?'

'Then shit happened. I told her every time to get a divorce, but she said she loved him and couldn't do it. She also said she couldn't afford to raise us on her own.'

'That's bullshit, I wouldn't have cared if we'd grown up poor if that protected her.'

'She knew that but she made her decision and, right or wrong, we have to respect her for it.'

'And he used his belt on you,' Chris spat out before rinsing his mouth with the dregs of the beer.

'Yeah, but that was normal in those times. He only did it because that's how he was raised.'

'Now you're making excuses for him,' Chris twisted his mouth as he spoke the bitter words, 'and you're not telling the whole truth.'

'What did she say?'

'She said, sometimes when you stepped in, it backfired.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning when it backfired you got the kicking.'

'No, I didn't.'

'You fucking did, she told me.'

'She wouldn't tell you that, because it's not true.'

'It's fucking true all right, and the reason she never told me before was the guilt. She knew every time you got it, it was her fault.'

'Bullshit!'

'Look, I know now. I wish I didn't, but I do. After you got it, she got it anyway, you must have known that. What I don't understand is why you got involved if it never changed anything. All it meant was you both got beaten rather than just her.'

Ben shrugged.

'Come on.'

'Come on what?'

'Why would you volunteer for a pasting that didn't help anyone?'

'None of this has anything to do with you.'

'Fucking ay it does! I'm not judging you, I just don't understand it.'

'I don't want to fucking talk about it.'

'Fine! I'm going for a piss and more beer.'

Ben watched Chris stagger out of the doorway. 'What do you mean "Why?"' he whispered under his breath. 'Isn't it obvious?'

Ben felt strangely calm and serene as he waited alone in the room. All of the issues that had tormented their childhood now seemed a universal flaw in the fabric of adult life. He had grown to realise that parents were as fallible as anyone else. They feel remorse and regret but inevitably keep making the same mistakes because that's the human condition. It's a function of the hippocampus, the primitive brain, all about action, reaction, anger, hunger, lust and joy. The only real difference between adults and children is that the amygdala in the brain gets better at blocking base impulses with age and even then, some do it better than others. Ben could not explain this to Chris because he was only just beginning to understand it himself and could not yet convert this rationalisation into words.

'You can say what you want,' Chris announced as he re-entered the room with a six pack, 'we had it pretty fucked up.'

'It was fucked up, all right, but the more I speak to people, the more I realise that most people had a fucked up childhood in some way or another.'

'But Christ,' Chris interjected as he twisted off the beer cap. 'It's a matter of degrees.'

'Absolutely, but I think we had a skewed perception. Most of our friends had parents who looked and acted like saints and, to us, they were. I'll bet you, though, behind closed doors, there was all sorts of crazy shit going on.'

'Ja, but not as much shit as us, and Dad was supposed to be the shepherd of the flock.

More likely the "ringleader" would be a better word.'

Ben burst out laughing at the metaphor. 'That's good. Forget about having a shepherd, the church put the fucking wolf in charge of the sheep.' The double entendre escalated his delight.

'Fucking ridiculous, isn't it?' Chris guffawed, unable to resist the contagion of Ben's laughter.

'Absolutely fucking ridiculous,' Ben concurred, 'and that makes us the "silence of the lambs".'

'For not saying anything! Excellent!' Chris laughed uncontrollably.

'Well, I can't believe I've gone from being happy with it all, probably because I only found out after the event, and you've gone from being pissed off to accepting it all. We've completely changed sides.'

'What do you mean you just found out? You must have asked.'

'Ma told me most things, the rest I just sort of picked up, I don't know where. Since his mind went, Ma has pretty much been on her own. We left Zims and lived in Pongola for years but we weren't really living. I went to school and then to college and she tried to be a mother and a father to me and a carer to him. She was really just a nursemaid to him, he didn't even know who she was.'

'But you supported her.'

'I helped her by being family and just being around. We only had his church pension, but we didn't feel like we were poor or underprivileged or anything. I was happy when they decided to leave and come back here. The truth is, I was happy that I didn't have to deal with him anymore but I miss her a lot. I didn't think you would be interested at all, even though you're now just up the road.'

'Yeah. I've worked through things in my head and just sort of accepted that it is what it is.'

'I don't think so. What about the punishment and honour thing that you used to talk about? Remember that time in the car? That's got to be a product of all the fucked-up-ness?' Chris slurred as the pile of empty beer bottles collapsed on the floor beside him.

'We spoke about that once,' Ben corrected, 'and I still feel the same but I obviously can't explain it very well.'

'Try me again.'

'I think... basically, what I think is this: you can fuck up as many things in your life as long as you're not fundamentally a bad person.'

'That's a bit vague – you mean like an evil person?'

'No, you see, we've both got a bit of a fucked-up perception of the world because we grew up with Dad. I don't go for the good versus evil thing. I think it's more slippery than that. You've sometimes got to go on your gut instinct when shit happens. You get a feeling for "they fucked up but that's OK" versus "they fucked up but it's not OK". I don't have a strict checklist or anything, I just know.'

'And the whole punishment thing?'

'Yeah, I still go with that because sometimes you can't just let things lie. Sometimes it has to get a bit "eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth". Sometimes, you have to do bad things to bad people and sometimes two wrongs can make a right.'

'That's heavy, man.' Chris was slurring badly now as tears ran down his face. 'It's fucked up and it's heavy but I love you, man,' he blurted out.

'And I love you too.'

'No, man.' Chris blubbered as he lurched to his feet. 'I really, really love you, man!' He sobbed as he fell onto Ben and hugged him with the intensity of a drowning man. 'All I have left now is you and Ma. Boo fucked me over. She moved in with the fucker with our kids and then tried to take my house, my car, everything I had. The money you sent for the lawyers saved my arse. I can't ever thank you for everything you've done.'

They had been avoiding this topic all evening.

'You don't have to,' Ben answered, feeling disconsolate and moved at the same time by Chris's honest vulnerability. 'You don't ever have to thank me for anything.'

'I love you, man!' Chris sobbed again and clung to Ben.

'Ja, Ja, man.' Ben tried to lighten the moment. 'We always love each other most when we're pissed but now you're dripping snot on my shoulder.'

'Fuck you, man.' Chris leant incredulously back onto his haunches. 'I tell you how I'm feeling and you make a joke.'

'Ja, and?'

'Ja, and yourself! If you weren't my brother, I'd beat the shit out of you!' Chris leant back further and fell heavily onto his back with his long skinny legs outstretched. His skull thumped against the floor. It took a moment to realise what had happened and when he saw the concern in Ben's eyes he roared with laughter at himself.

'Man, you can't even beat yourself, the state you're in.' Ben sat back in relief.

'Ja, ja, like I said – fuck you, man. Let's go for a smoke.'

'OK, but then I'm going to bed. I've got work tomorrow.'

The two brothers padded as quietly as they could past the closed bedroom door. No light shone beneath it.

'She go to bed?' Chris asked.

'Yeah, probably to escape all the bullshit you're talking.'

'Ja, self-preservation,' Chris snickered.

Once outside, they stood in silence as Chris fumbled first with the cigarettes then with the lighter. Finally, the end glowed red hot and a moment later he exhaled the smoke into the darkness.

'So what exactly happened with Boo?'

'I don't want to talk about it. It's like you said before, I gave it everything but in the end it all went tits up and she tried to fuck me for everything she could get. You were right: in the end everyone's out to fuck everyone else and, I know, you told me so.' Chris lit another cigarette off the first one and sucked painfully.

'Don't smoke it too fast, it'll make you puke.'

'Too late, man,' Chris countered. 'Somewhere between now and tomorrow morning I'm going to puke my lungs out.'

'Marvellous, I'll put a bucket next to your bed.'

'Good idea. Won't Marion be pissed off?'

'About what?'

'About me being pissed, again, and its late?'

'No, she's not like that.'

'Have you told her anything?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Why would I?'

'I told Boo everything,' Chris admitted.

'That's up to you. I'm not interested in telling anyone. It's got nothing to do with them.'

'It would make you feel better.'

'I feel fine,' Ben objected.

'Don't you trust her?'

'I trust her fine. I just don't see how anything from the past has anything to do with her. I don't talk about us, or previous girlfriends or anything like that. That was then and this is now.'

'But she must ask or guess at things?'

'No. I think she knows I don't want to talk about it so she doesn't ask. We're in a good place in our relationship and dredging up old girlfriends and who had the worst childhood stories doesn't seem right.'

'Like she also had a shit time?'

'No, she talks about her childhood and her family all the time and it was great. Her parents and her sister are lovely. She speaks to them or sees them every day.'

'Jesus, that's like the Swiss Family Robinson.'

'No, I think that's normal.'

'So where are you going?'

'Me and Marion?'

'Ja.'

'I think she's the one.'

'Really? Like "the one", like marriage "the one"?'

'Well, I wouldn't go that far, but it's not completely impossible. We really click. We have the same ideas and the same values. Sometimes I think were almost the same person.'

'Do you tell her all this?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Why should I?'

'Because that's what normal people do. Women like to hear that sort of thing.'

'Well, I don't like to say that sort of stuff. I'm a bit like you, I only really come out with that stuff when I'm pissed and I hardly drink at all anymore so it just doesn't get said.'

'Well, that's fucked up, man. If you're, like, really into her, then you have to tell her. If she doesn't know, she might just give up waiting and leave.'

'She might but I don't think so. I think this is it. I think we're going to grow into old biddies together. I think she just gets it without me saying it.'

'Excellent strategy, man!' Chris commended facetiously. 'Fuck, I feel rough. I'm going to sit out here for a while to see if I need to puke.'

'Great. I'm going to bed. See you in the morning.'

'Ja, ja. If she wakes up, just tell her.'

'Ja, ja.'

Ben opened the bedroom door and closed it behind himself. He crept through the darkness to the side of the bed and dropped his clothes to the floor.

'You can put on the light,' her whisper pierced the darkness.

'I thought you were asleep.'

'I couldn't go to sleep without you. You know how it is.'

Ben slipped under the duvet and she snuggled against him.

'Brrr, you're cold.'

'Yeah, we went outside, Chris needed a cigarette.'

'He sounded very drunk.'

'Could you hear us talking?'

'No, I couldn't really hear what you were saying, I could just hear that he was properly drunk.'

'Oh.'

'What were you talking about for so long?'

'Nothing really, just boy stuff.'

Ben stretched on his back as she nuzzled against him. They listened into the night for sounds of Chris but heard nothing.

'Is he still outside?'

'Yeah, I think he's going to throw up.'

'Marvellous.'

'Yeah, what can I say?'

'I'm glad you don't drink that much any more.'

'Why?'

'I just don't like it.'

'Well, that's fine then.'

'Except that you'd open up more if you did.'

'Well, which would you prefer?'

'I like you just the way you are.'

Ben yawned loudly and stretched again. 'I'm knackered and I've got a majorly busy day tomorrow. I've got an open chest surgery to remove a lung abscess.'

Marion rolled over. 'Spoon me,' she commanded.

Ben snuggled against her back as she twisted her head back to him. 'Kiss,' she said.

He kissed her lightly on the lips and they both adjusted themselves into the bedding.

'Goodnight,' she whispered.

'Goodbye,' he answered.

Moments later Ben twitched twice and Marion knew he was sound asleep. She was constantly amazed that he could go from coherent conversation to REM sleep in minutes. Medically speaking it should be impossible to fall asleep that deeply and that quickly but he did it every night.

'Goodnight, Ben,' she whispered into the darkness.

She frowned to herself as she lay listening to his deep rhythmic breathing and pondered all she had overheard. The bit Chris did not understand was painfully obvious. Ben took the beatings to absorb the worst of the rage and violence before it reached his mother. The more he took, the less was left for her. Deep down his mother knew it but the relief and the guilt were too much to say aloud.

Marion wiped salty tears from her eyes but they would not be assuaged. She swallowed an anguished groan but the pain was unhindered. The snippets of information she had gleaned on the occasions that the brothers spoke of their past bit deep into her heart. She needed to protect them but she was too late. The damage was done. They were two lost boys, together and alone, adrift in the ocean.

21

Starborough Manor, England

10h30 GMT, 29 October 2011

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Dana clasped her ankles in the small of John's back and pulled him more deeply into her as they made love. She was a keen dressage rider and her taut thighs flexed rhythmically to match his thrusts. He supported himself on outstretched arms and saw the red blotches on her décolletage confirming her pleasure. His eyes caressed the weight of her breasts as she bucked violently to meet the crescendo of pleasure rising in her loins. He knew she was close and focused his eyes on her face to watch her climax. She held his gaze for a moment and he smiled back at her. She closed her eyes as he felt her judder beneath him and she clasped him tightly her with ankles. She made soft, gasped sounds in unison with the spasms of her orgasm. _Why always the closed eyes?_ he wondered for a moment before the eroticism of the moment tipped him over the edge. His thrusts became more urgent against the embrace of her legs until he too shuddered in ecstasy.

John collapsed onto Dana and their warm, damp bodies relaxed against each other. Their heads were turned away as they panted to catch their breath. Sunday mornings were almost the only time they had sex anymore so they savoured these moments. Dana recovered first and stroked John's hair as she listened to his breathing ease.

They lay entwined, in contented silence, their thoughts drifting in the space around them.

'What are you thinking?' Dana asked.

'I'm thinking about catching that bastard.'

'John!' Dana scolded playfully. 'You're supposed to be thinking about me! This is meant to be a tender moment!'

'Post-coital tending behaviour,' John quoted as he withdrew and eased himself beside her. He smiled sheepishly by way of apology.

'Well, then.' Dana sighed with teasing resignation. 'Tell me more about it.'

'I'm this close,' John said as he held his thumb and forefinger pinched tightly together in front of their faces.

Dana snuggled into the crook of his arm. 'How did you track him down?'

'I didn't,' he answered, 'he's going to come to me.'

'If the moth won't come to the flame, the flame goes to the moth?'

'Exactly. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,' he said, poking fun at her improvised proverb.

'Stop it!' She laughed. They had been together long enough for her to know when he was being facetious.

'He's appointed himself as some sort of moral philanthropist to save the world.' John was serious again.

'But that's a good thing, isn't it?' she asked.

'He's trying to fix everyone's problems and make all the "bad" people pay for all the "bad" things they've done.' John's tone had become sarcastic.

'Maybe he really believes what he's doing is a good thing,' Dana suggested.

'He's fucked in the head.' John dismissed her suggestion. 'He thinks he's some sort of modern-day Robin Hood crossed with the scales of justice. Catching him should be easy. I've posted sob stories and horror stories in all his chat rooms on every touchy subject I can think of for months now. One of them has to do the trick eventually. One day he'll bite and when he does, I'll reel him in.'

'This guy's clever, John,' Dana said, 'and dangerous. Don't get yourself into trouble.'

'No bother.' John was flippant. 'He might be clever but he's not clever enough.'

'Just don't try to do it all yourself. is what I mean,' she said. 'I don't want you getting hurt.'

'I haven't quite figured out exactly how I'm going to do it, I'll decide when the time comes. Probably just need to give him enough rope to hang himself. I've got all the back-up from MI6 I'll ever need if things get hairy.'

'Maybe I should also post a few stories on his site and see what happens, just for fun?' Dana suggested.

'If you like,' John answered. 'We'll see who hooks him first.'

'What type of things have you tried?'

'I'm not sharing with the competition!' John mocked playfully.

'Oh, come on,' she said as she poked him in the ribs. 'Surely you don't really think I'll get him first?'

'Well, you might,' John said. 'You never know.'

'Come on,' Dana said salaciously, 'if you show me yours, I'll show you mine.'

She poked him in the ribs again and the tickling made him squirm away from her.

'All right, all right,' he said as he grabbed her hand, 'I'll tell you some of them if you stop.'

'OK,' she said and relaxed her arm, 'but you better tell me the good ones.'

'I promise,' he answered, 'but only if you stop with the poking.'

She snuggled up to him and said, 'OK, it's a deal.'

He drew her naked body close against his own and gazed at the ceiling as he spoke. 'I got a bit of a nibble the other day with an animal cruelty story.'

'Hmmm?' she coaxed him.

'I posted a blog about my neighbour being cruel to his dog. I rambled on about cruelty and animal rights with someone in the chat room but it wasn't him or maybe he just wasn't interested. I've retried various scenarios and nothing so far until I started talking about how I would like to punish the bastard for what he was doing. The person I said that to was no help at all, except for saying how disgusted she was. I decided to go the whole way and changed the story to include that I thought the guy was shagging the dog.'

'John, that's sick!' Dana exclaimed. 'And you're sick for even thinking about it!'

'I know, but if you want to catch flies you've got to use shit.'

'John!'

'Anyway,' John continued, ignoring the admonishment, 'she got really freaked out and was ranting until she suddenly went all rational and sensible.'

John paused for so long that Dana was compelled to ask, 'So?'

'So I think our guy was watching the conversation and butted in.'

'What did he say?'

'He just told me to inform the police and animal cruelty organisations and then signed off.'

'So how's that good news?'

'It's good because I'm learning what pushes his buttons.'

'And you're sure it's him?'

'As sure as I can be. I think he cut her off and tried to continue the conversation without me noticing. Such a sudden change in tone and style has to be a different person.'

'And could you hack him after that?'

'No, that's why I'm sure it was him.'

'So we'll just keep trying until you get more from him. I'll try too and let you know when I've got something.'

'Well, thank you very much, Sherlock,' John teased as her rolled onto her and kissed her hard on the lips. His hand slid down her front and onto the damp mound below her navel.

'Again?' she asked, surprised.

'I'd love to but I've got to get going,' he said as he gently squeezed her. He kissed her again and moved to the side of the bed.

'You're a tease,' she said as she watched him walk naked across the room and draw the curtains open.

'Thank you very much,' he said and winked at her before stepping into the shower room.

She listened as he turned the shower on.

'I think I've got the hook in a bit deeper with another one,' he said as he stepped back out of the shower room, waiting for the water to warm.

'Oh?' she asked, lying on her side with her head propped up on her hand.

'Aye, I've got a few complicated stories about state-sanctioned animal cruelty abroad. I've had to do some research about things like whaling, bullfighting and dancing bears to wind him up. I've put out a few realistically complicated stories so it's just a matter of time.'

'Why don't you try something else?' she asked. 'The whole animal cruelty thing is just too upsetting.'

'That's the point,' John said, a bit too robustly. 'I've got to try all the really upsetting things to have any chance of getting him to answer,' he continued more gently. 'I've also got stories about date rape, muggings, infidelity, botched operations and that sort of thing in the chat rooms. I'm trying to cover all the angles but the only nibble is the dog story.'

'What about child abuse?'

'Well, sort of,' John answered. 'Child abuse and paedophiles and all that sort of thing just freak me out. I'm trying a few abuse stories but I don't really want to go there so I'm not focusing on those rooms.'

Dana noticed he often recoiled from this topic of conversation so she did not push the point.

'Have your shower,' she said gently 'I might even join you.'

'Oh,' he said and feigned titillation. 'I'll just wait and see then.'

Dana watched him prance about in the doorway before leaping into the shower room and out of sight. She smiled at his antics until a subtle frown crept across her face. She loved John very much but she had a queasy feeling this case would turn out to be a can of worms.

22

Johannesburg, South Africa

20h00 local time, 11 November 2011

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Cdesign02: Hello Gabriel.

Gabriel: How is he?

Cdesign02: He's fine, thank you. The antibiotics did the trick.

Gabriel: Good. Is he eating again?

Cdesign02: Yes.

Gabriel: Excellent. May I see the log and journal?

Ben had insisted, as a condition of his mentoring, that two distinct sets of records be kept. The penitent's log recorded a dispassionate account of the acts of penance applied to the subject and all medical treatments applied subsequently. The personal journal recorded the student's emotional journey, like a personal diary.

Moments later, two attachments appeared on Ben's screen. One was entitled 'Journal' and the other was 'Log'. Ben saved them on his computer in the paired files titled 'Conrad Journal' and 'Penitent Log'.

Ben opened the files and perused them from the beginning. Initial progress had been good. Conrad had smashed one joint every day for the first week when curiosity stopped him from progressing to the other joints. 'What would it be like if he did the same joint twice?' he had wondered. Conrad indulged his curiosity and tried re-smashing previously smashed knuckles. He tried different techniques and experimented with the numbers of days he would allow between revisits. He found that revisiting knuckles produced far greater pain responses than the initial visitation in some cases and less so in others. Ben had theorised, when asked at the time, that the level of repeatable pain was dependant on the extent of sensory nerve damage inflicted at each visitation. If the nerves were irreparably damaged, the pain would be diminished, but if the nerves were able to recover from the trauma then the second event should be even more painful than the first. He was delighted when a scientific study published in a recent veterinary journal documented the phenomenon of "Central sensitisation" confirming his theory. Conrad had meticulously documented his observations and Ben's explanations in the penitent's log. Conrad's pedantic adherence to Ben's medical advice meant that Jabulani's fingers only became non-recyclable after a very impressive twenty-three weeks.

Ben cross-referenced the daily entries in the log and journal. Conrad had recorded an association between each session and the type and extent of emotional catharsis he had experienced at each event. His personal log wrongly assumed that the pleasure he felt was in some way associated with which joint he was smashing. Other students had made the same erroneous associations. The inevitable result was that they would keep revisiting specific joints hoping to re-experience the same feelings they had felt at the first visit to that joint.

The students' craving to reproduce specific emotional experiences would extend to recreating meticulously the finest details and nuances of previous sessions. They were like Pavlov's dog, expecting a specific event to produce a specific pleasure. 'Human emotion is not that predictable,' he told them, 'each act of penance is a new experience for the student and the penitent. That's what makes our work interesting.'

Conrad waited nervously for Ben to continue. He felt like an awkward schoolboy having his homework reviewed. Jabulani had recently developed septic arthritis in his right knee and Ben had talked Conrad through the appropriate treatment. Conrad flushed the joint with IV antibiotics every day and administered a cocktail of antibiotics; all obtained courtesy of internet veterinary pharmacies and forged prescriptions.

Gabriel: Is the joint fluid clear?

Cdesign02: Yes.

Gabriel: Is the joint still swollen?

Cdesign02: No, the pain and redness have gone. It's still a bit stiff but you said it probably would be. His temperature is also back to normal and the lymph nodes in his groin are half the size they were.

Gabriel: Excellent work. Keep flushing the joint every day for another week and keep the pills going for another two weeks. You've done a good job.

Cdesign02: Thank you. When can I start on him again?

Gabriel: Anytime you like. Just avoid that leg for the next few months.

After the finger stage of the penitent's atonement, Ben encouraged his students to evolve their own techniques in accordance with their own aesthetic tastes. Conrad had developed a strong aversion to the sight of blood so he limited himself to the use of his hammer, which he wielded like a modern Michelangelo. After Jabulani had been in the chair for twenty-five months, Conrad had inflicted literally hundreds of bone fractures on him. Conrad then splinted Jabulani's limbs with thick wire to make them heal in the bizarre directions and angles that most pleased him. He would often grow bored with his work or simply change the design and re-break and reset the bones accordingly. Jabulani's distorted body had become a wired work in progress, like a human bonsai.

Conrad's devotion to Jabulani's penance blended seamlessly with his love of art. The only impediment was Conrad's religious intemperance. He was fervently religious and the typical product of the fire and brimstone preaching of his church. Their primary message was the inexorable pain and suffering of all mankind because of their endless sinning and the inevitable retribution of a punitive God.

Conrad had suffered several episodes of what Ben described as 'crises of confidence' in the course of Jabulani's punishment. Most of the time Conrad knew he was doing God's work but, occasionally, his conviction would be challenged when he heard phrases like 'a soft word turneth away wrath' or 'turn the other cheek'. He would withdraw to his bible and the counsel of his church minister for days or weeks without contacting Ben while guilt and remorse struggled against punishment and revenge is his bipolar mind. In the end he would reconcile the need to punish the man who had tortured, raped and killed his sister, with his blinkered devotion to God and the church. Once everything made sense to him again, he would blithely re-establish communication with his mentor. Ben feared Conrad would lose his head in one of these repudiate moments of religious zeal and release his penitent. If he did so, he would be dead within a week; either the penitent and his cronies or the corrupt South African justice system would kill him. Piety could be fatal in this line of work.

Gabriel: I see he's apologised for what he did.

Cdesign02: Many times.

Gabriel: And?

Cdesign02: Words won't bring my sister back.

Gabriel: Exactly.

Cdesign02: I want another one.

Gabriel: Has something happened?

Cdesign02: Not to me or anyone close to me but the same thing's going on all the time here and no one's doing anything about it.

Gabriel: Go on.

Cdesign02: South Africa is fucked. Since the new government came to power, humanity has been thrown to the wind. Violent crime has escalated to a level that dehumanises anyone who lives here because we've all come to accept this as a normal way of life. People are attacked, raped and murdered here in appalling numbers and the government does nothing about it. We have the highest crime and murder rate in the world because human life has no value in our society. People are violently murdered just for a pocket of small change or their mobile phones. One in three women will be raped at least once in their lifetimes. The average life expectancy of someone living here is now thirty-seven. Very few crimes are investigated and even fewer are solved. People visit violence on each other for no reason other than recreation and personal satisfaction. The police do nothing to protect the people.

The same government that fought to end racial discrimination has now formally legislated its own racial discrimination policies. Racism against white people is written into the constitution and systematic violence against them is encouraged by government policy. They call it 'Affirmative Action'. The rest of the world, once appalled by the violation of human rights here, now do and say nothing about it because it's black policy directed against everyone else living here. How does that make it right? Racism is racism. Leaders like Nelson Mandela shudder at the legacy they have left us. Corruption, incompetence, violence and racism are the cornerstones of his new South Africa.

Our government literally has a policy that all civil servants must be black despite acknowledging that thirty per cent of their staff are illiterate. The result is that the state service is collapsing and fundamentals like electricity are frequently unavailable. The president refused to acknowledge that AIDS exists in Africa for several years and now, having relented, teaches the uneducated electorate that it can be cured by eating wild spinach and onions. Urban legends teach young men that raping a young white child will cure them of AIDS. Children are kidnapped and killed to make muti. What was once a first world country with limitless potential is now a lawless society sliding inexorably into a third world economy. I can't save the country but I can make one more person pay for their sins before they die.

Gabriel: Do you have someone picked out?

Cdesign02: Yes.

Gabriel: Tell me.

Cdesign02: It's a familiar story here: three weeks ago, an elderly couple were leaving for work at 7 a.m. A group of five young black men jumped them as they tried to drive out of their garage. They herded them back into the house and made the old man watch as they gang-raped his wife. After raping her, they boiled the kettle, forced her head back and poured the boiling water over her face. They then filled the bath with boiling water and threw the old man in. They kept him in the water with brooms and mops until they were bored with it. They then found bolt cutters in the garage and made the old man watch as they cut his wife's fingers and toes off, one by one. They sawed through his Achilles tendons and slashed his wrists with his own bread knife. The old man was dragged upstairs and tied to his bed then stabbed in the belly several times. His wife was locked in the bathroom downstairs. They were done by 9 a.m.

Gabriel: Why?

Cdesign02: That's exactly it. There was no reason. The bastards did all that just for fun. They spent the rest of the day in the house watching TV and cooking food for themselves then left at five in the afternoon. They took nothing. Both the old man and the woman survived and were found by their daughter that evening. They survived but both say they would rather have died than live with the fear and disability that's now with them for the rest of their lives.

Gabriel: Have the police found them?

Cdesign02: The police are less than useless. Their stated position is that they have no leads and are too short staffed to solve every crime. The government describes what these bastards are doing as 'an understandable backlash after years of oppression by colonialists'. This sort of thing happens every day all over the country and no one does anything about it. We live in houses built like prisons behind electrified fences and razor wire but nothing stops them. If we build walls and gates around our communities, the government knocks them down and accuses us of infringing the civil rights of citizens to 'walk the land'. I want to find one of the five and make him understand that what they did is not 'OK'.

Gabriel: That's vigilantism.

Cdesgn02: I know.

Gabriel: Two penitents could double your risks.

Cdesign02: I know.

Gabriel: What about God?

Cdesign02: Sometimes I think God has left Africa, other times I think he's testing us. I think God lets this happen so that people like me will step up and enforce His laws. The first commandment is 'Thou shalt not kill'. If you ignore God's laws, He demands punishment; He demands an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

Gabriel: Where will you keep him?

Cdesign02: In the same room. They can watch each other.

Conrad waited patiently as he watched the blank space below his last sentence. He knew Gabriel was pensive and considered. If he wanted to do this, he would need Gabriel's help. He could wait as long as he had to.

Gabriel: I still don't understand what you said about the police. If you start searching for this gang, you're bound to cross paths with the police investigation. If you draw attention to yourself, they might start investigating you.

Cdesgn02: The police and the government simply don't care about this kind of crime; they won't pursue this beyond issuing a case number. Their inertia is the government's way of unofficially condoning what they call 'retribution crime' against the former white oppressors. Even if they did catch the criminals they wouldn't be punished. Irrespective of how guilty you are in Africa, bribes will make everyone look the other way. Prisoners escape from unlocked cells every day and the authorities simply shrug their shoulders when we ask how it could have happened. Africa lives by a set of rules and a code of conduct the rest of the world can never understand. Corruption, injustice and greed are as normal as breathing. Bribery is part of life and public servants, especially the police, are the most corruptible.

Conrad realised that he had started ranting but continued, relieved that at least one person in the outside world would know the truth.

Cdesign02: Countries in Africa should be amongst the richest in the world. We have fertile soil, fantastic climates and abundant natural resources like gold, oil and diamonds. We should be the agricultural and industrial powerhouses of the world simply by harvesting what the land has given us for free. Despite all this natural wealth, there is not a single successful economy in Africa. The reason is simply that Africa does not understand the concept of democracy. There is a fundamental need to be ruled by an untouchable king. We elect people like Idi Amin and Robert Mugabe to absolute power and then hope they will be benevolent dictators. They use violence and intimidation on the electorate to force adoration and forgiveness and it works beautifully. Almost every leader degenerates into a corrupt or murderous despot but their right to leadership becomes so entrenched in the minds of the people that they are forgiven for the sins they commit. Our new presidential incumbent is a case in point: he is a convicted rapist and he has defrauded millions from the government. Despite this, the electorate marches in the street protesting that their future president should not be subject to the laws of the land. In any sane country the electorate would demand his immediate imprisonment.

Gabriel: Shouldn't you be trying to help them or trying to change things?

Cdesign02: Africa can't be saved from itself. It is a doomed society where human life and dignity have no value. The strongest rise to power and the masses accept the yoke of subjugation. The people don't understand that democracy gives them the power to elect a new government if the current government is failing them. They simply don't get it. Any criticism of the government by anyone else is refuted as racism. Political correctness has turned reverse racism into a political trump card. When our leaders are criticised, their standard response is to accuse their accusers of racism. This shifts everyone's attention from the real issues to the spectacle of watching the accusers trying to prove they are not racists. It's totally ridiculous that accusations of racism are a guaranteed way to get out of trouble. The tragic irony is that the people who play the race card are the real racists because they are the only ones who raise the issue of race in the debate. To make things worse, the UN inevitably sends food and financial aid to Africa to smooth over their consciences or to douse accusations of racism. The food and the money are always commandeered by corrupt officials to feed their personal armies and the poor fools who elected them starve to death. The theme repeats itself with nauseating certainty in every new generation. Africa is a dog-eat-dog place and the only effective tool is to answer violence with violence.

Conrad sat back and waited for Gabriel to respond.

Gabriel: Catch one of the bastards and bring him in. Call me when you're ready to start.

Cdesign02: Thank you, Gabriel.

Gabriel: Chin up.

Ben had paused at his last sentence before clicking 'enter'. Conrad was an intelligent, successful advertising executive. He held two university degrees and had proven himself to be tenacious and resourceful. He had been a model student until being 'reborn' a year ago. Since then he had become erratic and unpredictable. Ben suspected the religious thing was a symptom of some sort of progressive mental illness. If he deteriorated any further, he would have to cut him loose.

Conrad sat back in his chair in the darkness of Africa and sighed deeply. His ranting to Gabriel had purged him. He felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was a moral crusader, striking at the enemy in the name of virtue. Tomorrow he would renew his quest.

Ben clicked off the conversation and refreshed to the BadDayz.com home page. Conrad's story had appalled and angered him. It reaffirmed the need for the website and the work he was doing. He would keep Conrad in the inner circle for the moment because his penitents truly deserved to be punished.

Ben stood up and walked out of the room. He boiled the kettle and soon settled back in front of the screen with a cup of tea. He slid the cursor down the options and clicked on 'Animals'. Sipping his tea, Ben watched another conversation unfold.

Jennyg: He comes home drunk most evenings and then it starts.

Bender5: Can you see him do it?

Jennyg: No, but I can hear everything. The poor thing is locked indoors all day so it's no surprise it messes on the floor. I hear him shouting about the mess on the floor and then I hear his boots as he searches for her. She always hides behind the sofa so he knows exactly where to find her. I don't know what he does to her but I can't stand the sound of her crying anymore.

Bender5: Why has he got her if he doesn't want a dog?

Jennyg: His wife and daughter moved out a few weeks ago, probably because of his drinking. I thought they would come back for the dog but they haven't. I've been feeding her over the fence when he does let her out but I can't stand this much longer.

Bender5: I hate people who hurt animals. There are laws against this kind of thing. Surely you can do something. Surely you and the other neighbours can talk to him.

Jennyg: What can I do? I'm fifty-eight years old and five foot two. My husband left me a few years ago and I've been on my own ever since. If I upset him, God knows what he'll do to me.

Bender5: Maybe the police can help?

Jennyg: I don't understand how people can do things like this to animals. The poor defenceless dog has no one to help her and no one to care for her. Her whole life is a mixture of fear and pain. I can't stand people who do this. I don't know why God lets things like this happen. The world is so full of cruelty. The whole thing makes me feel sick. It makes me cry. I can't get her poor sad little face out of my mind. And I think it's even worse than that. I think he rapes her.

Bender5: How does someone rape a dog?

Jennyg: He just does. I'm sure he does.

Ben could take it no longer. 'For fuck sakes!' he cursed under his breath. 'Do something! Phone the fucking police and the RSPCA, for God's sake!' he spat out the words as he glared at the screen. He was so incensed he did not notice his spittle settling on the keyboard.

He leant forward to intervene. His fingers rattled over the keyboard and interrupted the conversation.

Gabriel: The only thing you can do is report him to the authorities. The police and RSPCA are used to dealing with cases like this. You can report it anonymously, he'll never know it was you. They don't even have to prove half of what you are saying. I guarantee they'll take her away from him if you report him.

Jennyg: But what if he finds out?

Gabriel: Phone from a public telephone and give a false name. Give another neighbour's name if you want to. It's very simple to solve this – just make two phone calls.

Jennyg: Will you meet with me and help me do it?

Gabriel: There's no need to, just do what I've said and it will all be over. DO IT NOW!

He punched the key that terminated their connection. They would probably think their own computers had simply lost the connection and just log on again. Logging them out would at least buy some time for his advice to sink in.

'Fuck sakes,' he kept muttering to himself as he stared at the screen. Conrad's stories had upset him more than he realised.

Ben slurped his tepid tea and scrolled through the chat room categories. He was angry and in the mood for a fight. He picked the subject that upset him the most and clicked on 'Children/Child/Childhood'. He flicked petulantly through several conversations until he chanced upon one that held his attention.

Cozysuzie: How can you tell for certain?

Ndavies35: It's usually pretty obvious.

Cozysuzie: I read about a case where a nanny shook a girl so violently that she died from bleeding in the brain. The evidence that convicted her was bleeding in her eyes. Is that what you mean?

Ndavies35: That is very suggestive of shaken baby syndrome but there are some other rare conditions and diseases that can cause similar bruising patterns. When we see cases like that we have to rule out all other possible causes before involving the police and social services.

Cozysuzie: But he says she fell.

Ndavies35: I doubt it. If a parent accidently injures their child, they usually admit their mistake and give us an accurate account of what happened so that we can help them. Accidental injuries usually cause completely different types of damage to cases of deliberate child abuse. The appearance and position of the injury usually tells us the true story. For example: if a child falls into a hot bath by accident, they will have thermal burns on their hands, arms and the front or the side of the face because that's how children fall. The burn pattern will be indistinct because the child would have scrambled to get out. If someone put the child into a bath of hot water, intentionally or accidentally, the burns will be on their legs and buttocks. In these cases the burn demarcation is uniform and distinct and the flexion creases are not burnt because the kids bend their arms and legs to protect themselves. If the parent's explanation doesn't fit the injuries, I report the case to my consultant for further investigation.

Cozysuzie: What about bruising?

Ndavies35: Exactly the same principle applies. Accidental bruises are usually on hard leading edges like the shins, forearms and chin. Symmetrical bruises on the soft parts of the body or on the back, head or neck would be suspicious of deliberate injury. If someone shakes a child, we often see grab marks on both upper arms where the adult's fingers gripped them. If I see bruising that doesn't fit what the parents tell me, I am suspicious.

Cozysuzie: What does symmetrical mean?

Ndavies35: It means you see the same bruises on the left and right sides of the body.

Cozysuzie: How do you investigate further when you're suspicious?

Ndavies35: Children who have been shaken violently usually have typical bruising patterns for that type of injury. We look for small bruises inside the eyes and more extensive bruising inside the abdomen. If we suspect head trauma from shaking or from hitting the head against something, we look for bruising inside the head with a CT scan or MRI.

Cozysuzie: I'm sure the bastard shook her. She had bruises in her eyes and brain.

Ndavies35: Was she very sleepy?

Cozysuzie: Yes and she's never really recovered.

Ndavies35: Did they run tests?

Cozysuzie: They ran hundreds of tests because they said they couldn't be certain she had been shaken. They said she might have some type of disease which causes bleeding.

Ndavies35: Did they inform Child Welfare Services?

Cozysuzie: I think so, but so far nothing has happened.

Ben frowned as he followed the conversation. 'Too right the bastard shook her,' he muttered out loud.

'You're obviously talking to a fucking doctor or a nurse, why don't they just come out and say it?' Ben spoke out loud as he reached towards the keyboard.

'What?' a voice asked above the noise from the television in the next room.

'Nothing,' he called back, 'just talking to myself.'

'When are you going to finish working and come watch TV with me?'

'In a minute. I'm almost finished.'

Ben stabbed at the keys on his keyboard as he interrupted the conversation he had been following.

Gabriel: Get a court injunction against him until you're sure.

Cozysuzie: Who's this?

Gabriel: I'm sure you're right.

Cozysuzie: Are you a doctor?

Gabriel: No.

Cozysuzie: Well, the person I was speaking to is a doctor so piss off.

Gabriel: I can help you.

Cozysuzie: Piss off! This is private. I'll report you to the webmaster and you'll be blacklisted

Gabriel: I didn't mean to offend. Your conversation just appeared in my blog.

Cozysuzie: Fuck off!!!

The words stung Ben but he had seen this reaction before. He had violated her privacy. She was angry, embarrassed and ashamed.

He knew she would log off to get rid of him.

Gabriel: I can make sure he never does it again.

Ben typed as fast as he could, hoping to stop her before she was gone.

The space below his last sentence stayed empty. Ben watched and waited but no answer came. She must have logged off.

'Shit,' he muttered to himself as he moved his cursor to log out.

The screen flickered. Ben paused for a moment and then the words appeared.

Cozysuzie: What do you mean?

Ben smiled to himself. She was hooked.

23

Cambridge, England

21h03 GMT, 3 January 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Hello, Jules!' Ben chirped as he descended the stairs.

The curved pins poking from her skin reflected the bright neon light as she squirmed away from him. He saw her recoil from his presence and smiled.

'How are we today?' he asked as he changed the bucket beneath her and hunkered down to examine the skin around the shin pins. He cleaned the exit holes every day with surgical spirit and then applied iodine ointment to keep the holes clean and dry.

Julie bit her lip and remained silent.

'I'm fine,' Ben answered her unasked question as he cleaned her vulva and then her anus with disposable wet wipes.

'I had a great day at work today. Do you remember Mrs Darlington with the Dachshunds?'

Ben ignored the silence as he discarded the soiled wipes into a clinical waste bag from work.

'She brought Emily in today for a caesarean. She was so pregnant her belly literally touched the floor. Miranda and the new nurse Charlotte did the op with me and we got seven pups out, three boys and four girls. They all suckled right off the bat and went home with their mum less than an hour later. Mrs Darlington asked after you and I told her we had lost contact. She remembered the time we did a caesarean on Ruth at two in the morning. Just you, and me, and her, and the four pups.'

Julie stared straight ahead in stoical silence as Ben picked up the plate of hot food he had brought. He had cooked enough for the two of them and had cut hers into small pieces. He offered her a piece of roasted butternut squash on a fork.

She ignored the food and stared straight ahead.

'Eat it or you know what will happen,' Ben warned.

She opened her mouth and ate the food he fed her. It was a traditional roast dinner with beef, potatoes and vegetables. She needed a balanced diet to keep her healthy so he had taken to feeding her mostly whatever he ate.

'She said a funny thing, though,' he continued. 'She said she never really liked you. She said that you were cold and distant and that her husband had even remarked that you had no sex appeal at all.'

Ben paused for a moment as he recalled the conversation.

'Funny thing to say,' he mused. 'I've always thought you were attractive. You're young, pretty good-looking, financially independent, well travelled and well educated. I've never understood why you're always single.'

Ben paused in his soliloquy, waiting for her to swallow the mouthful of food before answering his question. She swallowed but remained silent.

'I know you've had few relationships but you always choose men with huge emotional baggage and then you seem surprised when it all goes wrong. Are you drawn to men who need saving or do you just choose relationships that are doomed to fail? Is it an altruistic thing or a masochistic thing?'

Ben paused for an answer as he placed the empty plate on the table and held a mug of coffee to her lips. He remained silent as he repeatedly held the mug to her lips so that she could sip and savour it at her leisure. A perversely comfortable silence hung in the room after the satiety of the meal. It would be an appropriate atmosphere in the context of two friends relaxing after a normal meal but in this context it was macabre.

'Well?' Ben prompted her for an answer.

'I want to go home,' Julie said softly.

'But this is your home now,' Ben replied.

'I want to go home,' Julie repeated softly.

Ben frowned at her. She seemed strangely serene.

'I'm ready,' she said. 'I'm ready to go home.'

Ben's frown deepened.

'Julie,' he said. 'Who am I?'

'You're my friend,' she answered.

'Why are you here?' he asked.

'I don't know.'

Ben scratched his head. Either she was messing with him or her mind was going. The sensory deprivation of staying in this silent room for so long could certainly affect her sanity. It was deliberate, to force her to dwell on what she had done, but if it was driving her insane it was counterproductive. There was no point in continuing if she was not of sound mind.

'Snap out of it, Jules,' Ben commanded.

Julie stared blankly ahead.

Ben saw her in a different light for the first time. Her fragility and vulnerability aroused an empathetic chord in him as he looked down at her face and naked body. He gazed at her with new eyes and saw a meek and gentle person. He felt something stir deep inside. Could it be pity? It stirred in a part of him he had not felt before. He scanned her impassive face and saw a serene beauty in it. His eyes dropped and drifted over her breasts and belly before settling on her parted thighs. He felt the stirring again and recognised it for what it was. It was lust.

Ben stepped back from her in disgust. He was appalled that a deep, dark corner of him could feel aroused by the person in front of him. After everything she had done to him and, subsequently, all that he had done to her, how could there be lust?

His mind reeled as he railed against the possibility.

He was anguished by his thoughts and stared at her placid face, searching for meaning. Her tranquillity accentuated her charms and stirred his confusion. He felt his penis stiffen and closed his eyes in revulsion. How could this be happening?

Ben opened his eyes again and stared at her intently. He saw her eyes fix on the bulge in his trousers. Her mouth curled into the faintest of smiles, reciprocating his attentions. Did she feel it too?

Ben recognised his physiological responses for what they were. Some repugnant deep corner of his mind was aroused by cruelty. The notion was abhorrent but it was there and it was real. He knew that lust was transient and the irrationality of it would dissipate after the relief of sexual satisfaction. Philanderers, driven by the irrationality of lust, inevitably feel rational remorse for their actions in the immediate post-coital moment. The fact that they philander despite the consequential remorse is testimony to the power of lust. Lust and desire have driven men and women to do what they know they will regret.

'I want you,' Julie said so softly that Ben could not be sure he heard it.

'What?' he croaked.

'I want you,' she whispered.

Ben stared at her like an animal transfixed by the headlights of the car that was about to run it down.

'Kiss me,' she whispered.

He moved towards her in a hypnotic trance, wanting to stop but moving against his will. He moved close to her and she acknowledged his arousal with a hint of a smile.

'Kiss me,' she said again.

He felt his mouth drawn to hers as he stood between her naked thighs. He lowered himself between her legs and leant towards her. The quandary in his mind was overpowered by his primal instincts.

'I want you,' she whispered as his cheek brushed against hers. 'Kiss me,' she urged again.

He moved his cheek across her face and nuzzled her against his neck. Her warm lips and tongue played across his throat and he swallowed in anticipation. The heat of the moment erupted into hideous pain as she bit into the jugular groove in his neck. Her teeth sunk deep into his flesh and she moved her head from side to side, trying to rip his throat.

Ben's hands shot up to her face and tried to prise her mouth open. He cried out in pain as she jerked her head more violently, trying desperately to rip his jugular vein and carotid artery. They both knew that he would bleed to death in minutes if the artery ruptured. Her jaws were clamped tightly shut and his hands grabbed ineffectually at her lips and mouth. She was growling like a rabid animal and his cries of pain mingled with her snarls in a ghoulish cacophony of predator and prey.

He flailed at her face until his hands slipped down to her throat. His grip tightened around her neck as he strangled the air from her lungs. They struggled violently against each other until her movements weakened with the loss of oxygen. Her grip relaxed but Ben did not try to pull away in case she was faking. He maintained the pressure on the trachea until her head slumped and only then did he draw away from her. Blood streamed down his neck but none of it spurted away from him. The carotid artery was intact.

'Bitch!' he screamed at her as he pressed a handful of tissues against his neck.

She regained consciousness and cackled at him hysterically. 'Fuck you!' she shrieked between peals of mocking laughter. 'You fucking loser! Did you really think I would ever want to fuck you? I'd rather fuck a dog than fuck you, you piece of shit!'

Ben realised he had lost face and lost control over her and himself.

'No, sweetheart,' he said menacingly. 'Fuck you!'

He lunged forward and punched her savagely in the face. Her nose disintegrated under the impact with a loud crack and blood spurted from her nostrils. She rocked her head back and was silent as her pupils dilated and she swooned. Ben pressed the paper against his neck to staunch the bleed as he stared blankly at her. Her head bobbed for several moments as she struggled to maintain consciousness.

'I'll be back,' he growled at her as he turned to leave the room.

'Is that your best shot?' she shouted after him. 'You fucking wimp!'

'I'll be back,' Ben said again before ascending the stairs and leaving the room.

Julie sat alone in the silence of the room. Wet blood glistened on her lips, cheeks and neck. She tasted the saltiness of Ben's blood as she reflected on what had just happened.

'Bastard,' she said softly. 'Fucking bastard.'

She had taken to talking to herself out loud to break the oppressive silence.

'I can't believe he wanted to shag me,' she said. 'The sick pervert.'

She licked the saltiness of his blood off her lips and spoke to herself again. 'Just a little bit deeper and I would have got him. When they come looking for him they'll find me and then it'll be over. It'll take a bit of time before he trusts me again but when he does, I'll do it right.'

Julie squirmed in her chair and frowned. She twisted again and craned her neck forwards to look down at her naked body. She glanced at the manicured thatch of pubic hair below the streaks and splatters of blood on her breasts, belly and thighs. She frowned again as she moved her thighs and rolled her hips.

'Oh my God,' she said as she realised the truth.

Her labia were rolled outwards, distended and discoloured by the increased blood supply. She rolled her hips again and felt the wetness in the intimate creases. There was no denying it. She was sexually aroused.

'Fuck!' she said. 'I'm as sick as he is!'

Ben reappeared noisily at the top of the stairs. He descended clumsily, burdened by the weight of an old television. He placed it on the floor at the base of the stairs and disappeared back up the stairs to fetch a small, low table and an old heater.

Julie watched him in silence as he placed the television on the table and positioned it directly in front of her, a few feet away. He had cleaned away the blood from his neck and had changed his shirt. An extensive bruise extended beyond the reach of the large plaster he had stuck over the wound. The small heater he had brought with him was old and battered. It was an old-fashioned twin-bar electric heater. Two elements would glow red hot and radiate heat from behind a protective grille. She frowned as she contemplated his next move. A glance at his crotch confirmed that his mood had changed.

'TV,' Ben said with feigned civility. 'I thought the sensory deprivation might make you lose your mind and we wouldn't want that so I've brought a TV to keep you sane. If you lost your mind, our time together would be pointless. I'll set it on a timer so you'll still have quiet time to contemplate your sins.'

Julie watched and said nothing.

'Remember the time we all went skiing in France?' Ben asked.

Silence.

'We all went out that night and I had the cheese fondue and you had the raclette.' he stated.

Silence.

'Well, I thought we should relive the moment and have a raclette here, just the two of us.'

Silence.

'Do you remember how to do it?'

Silence.

'Let me remind you. Place an open flame close against a wheel of cheese and wait for the surface of the cheese to melt. As the cheese melts we scrape it off with a butter knife and spread it on the bread while we wait for more cheese to melt. Remember?'

Silence.

'Well, this heater is the candle and you are the cheese. Get it?'

Julie closed her eyes to try to remove herself from what was about to happen. Small tears rolled from beneath her closed eyelids. She fought back despair until she could hold it no longer.

'I can't take any more,' she sobbed as her eyes opened and searched for deliverance.

Ben ignored her and busied himself with plugging the heater into the extension cable. He placed a dinner plate and a butter knife on the table beside her.

Julie turned her head and looked at the table beside her.

'Don't fucking do it!' she shouted angrily. 'Don't you fucking dare!'

'Mind your language,' Ben chastised.

'Fuck you!' she screamed as her eyes sighted the first hint of red glow in the heater elements. 'I'm glad I fucked you over! I'm glad you lost everything! I'm glad your wife left you! Fuck you and your tiny dick! I saw your pathetic hard-on. No wonder she left you!'

Anger flared in Ben as she taunted him but he doused the feeling with a mordant smile.

'Almost ready,' he answered calmly, 'you bitch.'

Julie alternated between sobs of anger and sobs of fear as she screamed at him.

'You can do whatever you want to me! I'll never feel sorry for what I did! I wish I'd done more! I wish I'd taken more money! I wish you'd had a heart attack with all the stress!' She emphasised the word stress because she knew he had seen his doctor at the time about the stress of the whole event.

'You fucking wimp!' She continued her screaming rant. 'A real man would have stood up for himself! You just bent over and let the lawyers fuck you! I wish they'd kept going until it killed you!'

'Keep going,' Ben coaxed.

'I'll never apologise! I'll never feel bad about it! I'd rather die!'

'But that's just it, Jules,' Ben said as he placed the red hot heater directly in front of her shins. 'I'll never let you die. I'm going to keep doing this to you until you're an old woman.'

Julie felt the heat bite into the skin of her shins.

'Fuck!!' she shrieked before escalating into incoherent screams of pain.

She rattled her legs against the chair legs and tried to stand up, stooped forwards because the pins through her forearms held them against the armrests. Her shins were restricted by the bone pins wrapped around the chair legs. Her movements were restricted to a gruesome dance of pain, hunched over the heater. Ben watched as the thin skin over the shin bones became inflamed. Small blisters in the skin coalesced into large boils of blood and watery fluid. One by one they burst open and the bloody liquid leaked down her legs and onto the floor, as if she was basting herself. The skin crackled as the fat in the skin ignited and spat into the face of the heater. The sound of the boiling fat was drowned by her screams. The fat droplets burst into small sparks and flames as they splattered against the red-hot bars.

Ben ignored her screams as he reached up and took the butter knife from the plate on the table. The skin started to lift off the shin bones and he prepared to scrape it away. He slid the knife up her left shin bone and pieces of skin sloughed off the bone and slid off the knife onto the floor. Some of the skin was hard and crispy and some of it was a greasy sludge. Julie's screams reached a crescendo as he ran the blade slowly up and down her shins, pealing the slimy flesh under the skin away from the bone. He collected all the skin and fat onto the plate, ignoring her dance of agony. Her screams were deafening and unbearable but he continued, calmly, until the plate was full.

'There,' he said to her, 'we're all done.'

His words were lost in her sobbing screams as he moved the heater away from her and switched it off. He placed the full plate beside her on the table and walked past her to the cabinet behind.

'Shut up!' he shouted in irritation as her screams continued.

He stepped up behind her and wrapped plastic wrapping tape around her mouth and head. The screams continued but were muffled by the tape. Tears and mucous streamed down her face, over the tape, and dripped onto her breasts as she writhed in her seat. Ben collected bandages and sulphadiazine burn ointment from the cabinet and returned to face her. He applied the white ointment liberally to the exposed shin bones and covered them with Vaseline gauze. He wrapped conforming bandages around the legs and looked up at her face when he was done. It was bloated and blotchy and wet with tears and snot.

'Don't feel quite so horny now, do you?' he asked.

Her inexorable screams and sobs continued and he realised speaking to her was pointless. He drew up a syringe full of antibiotics and injected her arm.

'We'll change the dressings every day,' he said more to himself than to her. 'The pain will be exquisite but that's the whole point. It'll take at least twelve weeks to scar over and we'll have to watch out for infection along the way.'

Ben recorded the burns and treatment given in the medical log beside her.

He removed the tape from around her head and looked in the bucket beneath her chair. She sobbed and mumbled unintelligibly. The bucket was empty so Ben prepared to leave.

'Thermal burns can only heal if you have a good diet in the next few weeks. I thought we would start with this for supper tomorrow night with some bread and vegetables,' he said as he took the plate covered with pieces of skin. 'I'll warm it up in the microwave before I bring it back.'

24

Chicago, USA

10h30 local time, 7 February 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Gabriel: Hi Deborah and happy birthday!

Dsingh: Thank you for remembering.

Gabriel: Of course I would remember, you're part of the family. I even sent your scorpion a happy birthday message on his birthday last year. How's he doing?

Dsingh: He has a name. Spiro is fine.

Gabriel: Have you still got him working?

Dsingh: No, he's retired.

Gabriel: And how are you?

Dsingh: OK, I suppose.

Gabriel: What's wrong?

Dsingh: I'm fine.

Gabriel: No, you're not. You've been different lately and you're not using your journal. I thought you might just be feeling a bit down but there's more to it, isn't there?

Dsingh: It's just the old demons and I can't shake them.

Gabriel: Tell me.

Dsingh: You know how sometimes I have an 'ugly day' or a 'stupid day' or a 'fat day' or a 'fat, ugly and stupid day' all at once?

Gabriel: Yes, but that's normal for everyone.

Dsingh: Well, more and more I'm having an empty day. Days where I just feel worthless and empty and that the programme isn't helping anymore.

Gabriel: That's normal too. There is no quick fix for us. The programme will help in the end, that's why we're doing it. Getting back at Billy will get you back on your feet. His log looks good, he's doing well and you're doing good work on him. Your journal entries prove it's working for you. You're just going through a bad phase.

Dsingh: It's more than that. I'm stuck in a depression worse than I've ever had before, and there's no way out.

Gabriel: Depression is just a kind of melancholy. It's just anger without power. What happened to you before Billy, and since then, has made it worse. The whole point of what we're doing is to turn the helpless feelings into strong, affirmative action. You are taking back the power. Punishing Billy will lift you out of this feeling of hopelessness forever and you'll never go back.

Dsingh: I thought it was doing that, but I'm not so sure anymore. I feel like I need a holiday but I can't go anywhere because I can't leave him. It's like he's still controlling my life.

Gabriel: Are you still taking your meds?

Dsingh: The Prozac?

Gabriel: Yes.

Dsingh: No.

Gabriel: Why not?

Dsingh: They're not helping either.

Gabriel: I've been where you are, Deborah. I've been to the very bottom of the pit. I know everything looks black and hopeless but it won't last. You've come on miles since starting the programme and you know you're getting much better.

Dsingh: It's incurable, though. You've helped me out of it before but it doesn't last, I always slide back.

Gabriel: But it's been almost a year since the last time and soon you'll be out of it forever.

Dsingh: I know, but this is the worst it's ever been. My mother says love and happiness are the only valuable things worth holding onto, everything else always goes away. I don't think I'll ever feel either of them again.

Gabriel: What about Harold?

Dsingh: We broke up.

Gabriel: Who left who?

Dsingh: I ended it.

Gabriel: Why?

Dsingh: It just didn't seem right. I think the cultural gap was just too wide.

Gabriel: Fair enough, but now try to meet someone else. If you think about how different we all are, it's crazy to think you'll meet the right person first time. Date as many people as you can and sleep with none of them or all of them, do whatever you want. You've got to meet as many as possible to know when you've found the right one.

Dsingh: It's hard meeting people.

Gabriel: Of course it is, but it's also easier than you think. Just go into it with the right frame of mind – try and then decide. If it's not right then walk away, but, like everything else, you've got to buy a ticket to stand a chance of winning the lottery.

Dsingh: How did you meet yours?

Gabriel: You really want to know?

Dsingh: Yes.

Gabriel: She was a client. She brought her dog to me because she had a freckle on the white part of one of her eyes. It looked a bit odd so I biopsied it and it came back as a melanoma. Do you know what a melanoma is?

Dsingh: Is it a kind of cancer?

Gabriel: Exactly. It's like people who have funny looking freckles or moles – sometimes they turn out to be cancer. So in this case the only advice was repeat surgery to remove the whole eye.

Dsingh: Or put the dog to sleep.

Gabriel: Euthanasia is always an option but why give up at the first hurdle? I'm not one for flogging a dead horse but I always believe we should fight the good fight, even if we know we're likely to lose in the end.

Dsingh: Why fight if you know you're going to lose?

Gabriel: Because that's our nature. If I ever get cancer, I'll do anything and try anything to fight it but, if everything fails and I'm in pain and there are no more options, then I'll off myself quietly, cleanly and painlessly. I completely agree with assisted suicide for people. I don't think chemo and radiation are for everyone but we should make choices and live life to the full before bowing out.

He waited for a response but his screen remained unchanged.

Gabriel: The process of existence is essentially a selfish physical experience. We lead short, fleeting lives and then we die. That's all there is to it. The essence of being alive is experiencing things like taste, touch, pleasure and joy – that's the point so, by definition, it's a process of self-gratification. Grab as much from life as we can get before we grow old and die.

Dsingh: Without harming anyone else unless they harm you first.

Gabriel: Exactly!

Dsingh: I suppose. Tell me the rest of the love story.

Gabriel: Well, at the time, she was a final year med student so I asked if she wanted to watch or assist in the operation.

Dsingh: To dig out her own dog's eyeball?

Gabriel: I know it sounds weird and creepy but that's the point. She watched the operation and the fact that we were doing something about the problem made us both feel better. We both knew deep down we were only buying the dog some more time but that's OK. We were giving her more pain-free, good quality life and that's very satisfying. At the end of the operation I asked her if she wanted to go to a movie with me and she agreed. Raffie lived for another two years and eventually died of old age. That's the moral of the story – have a go at everything but know when you've won or when you've lost. It doesn't matter what happens in the end as long as you gave it a go.

Dsingh: And you're still together?

Gabriel: Yes, and it gets better every year.

Dsingh: It's kind of romantic but it's also pretty gross.

Gabriel: I know, but the point is: don't deny yourself any opportunity. Is there anyone you might be interested in?

Dsingh: There is sort of someone at work but I'm just not in the right time or place in my life.

Gabriel: You need it more than you know. We all need a little tenderness. Relationships aren't always about mad passionate love, sometimes just having another person in the room is enough. Touch is the most important thing in the world. Even if you're just watching TV together, holding hands or lying against each other is enough.

Dsingh: And if it all goes wrong?

Gabriel: Then you dust yourself down and try again. It's not all about sex or the perfect idyllic romance, it's about making a connection. I know sex will be difficult for you so don't try to force it if it doesn't feel right. If it's meant to happen, it will. You have the power to decide and then it will be when you want and how you want.

Dsingh: And the meds?

Gabriel: Take the meds, take the full dose every day. Antidepressants are a fantastic treatment, I think they should put it in the drinking water. Everyone should be taking them.

Dsingh: You sound like you know.

Gabriel: I'm just like you, Deborah, I have the same ups and downs. I know the downs feel much lower and longer than the ups. In fact, most of the ups don't feel very up at all but at least they're not downs. You can either use the meds to help or take up regular daily exercise or both, it all has the same effect. I run five miles every night with my dogs to stop it ever getting a grip on me again. I hate the running but I love the way it makes me feel. Some of us just don't feel joy and happiness as easily or as intensely as others. I have friends who are insanely happy and optimistic and enthusiastic all the time and I wish I was like them but I'm not. We have to accept we're just not made like that. You and I are the same, we feel joy and happiness more like a slow burn than a raging fire and that's fine, that's the way we are. The trick is to keep looking for the slow burn and when you find it, keep stoking the fire.

Dsingh: That's exactly how I feel it, how did you know?

Gabriel: I told you, we're the same.

Dsingh: I feel a bit better.

Gabriel: Excellent. Promise me you'll try with the guy at work.

Dsingh: I can't promise.

Gabriel: Don't promise anything will happen, just promise you'll try.

Dsingh: I promise I'll try.

Gabriel: If you don't want me to know all the romantic details yet, then cut those parts out of your journal before you send it to me. Once you've sent it, remember to paste them back in. Tell me about those bits when you feel you're ready.

Dsingh: We'll see. Please tell me about the others.

Gabriel: We've spoken about this. You know I can't talk about them. Everything they do and everything they tell me is confidential, just like it is with you.

Dsingh: But I feel like I'm connected to them. Just knowing there are others is the only thing that helps when I feel like this.

Gabriel: Of course there are others and they're all connected on a higher level. We're all special, just like you. We're a family.

Dsingh: I'd just like to know more or speak to one.

Gabriel: It's impossible, it's not part of the plan, it's too risky.

Dsingh: What are they doing to theirs?

Gabriel: Everyone's different, that's the point. Everyone does whatever they decide and whatever makes them feel better. That's the point of the process; be yourself to heal yourself.

Dsingh: I sometimes still cry.

Gabriel: And that's completely healthy and normal. If you didn't feel like that, then the bastard would have won. What we're doing is healing you and keeping you human, crying is part of the process. Penitence for him will expel your demons and help you keep your humanity.

Dsingh: Sometimes I see and feel that so clearly, but other times I just feel confused and empty.

Gabriel: The empty times are just chemicals in your brain. That's what your meds and the exercise are for. Think about your brain as a big bath tub. The bath needs to be full of a chemical called serotonin to feel good. Some people, like you and me, have brains where the plug leaks and the serotonin drains out of the bath faster than it can be filled. When the bath is empty, we feel empty. The meds are just like a plug in the bath, they don't change you or your brain, they just plug the bath so your brain can fill with its own serotonin and that's when we feel normal. Take the meds for now, Deborah, and one day, the process of Billy's penitence will become the plug and you won't need the meds. You'll be healed forever, just like me. The purpose of our work is to make a new plug for everyone.

Dsingh: I think I get it. I know I feel good, most of the time, after working on him. But lately he's different. It's like he's lost his mind. It's like I've driven him mad. It's not really him anymore. Maybe that's why it's not working as well.

Gabriel: That may be part of the process for you, Deborah. Destroying his mind means that working on his body is less fulfilling. The next step for you may be to finish him. That may be the final thing you need to be lifted and to be healed.

Dsingh: Kill him?

Gabriel: Yes.

Dsingh: Now?

Gabriel: Not yet, keep working on him and do whatever you want. We'll keep talking and if it's not working then we'll plan the grand denouement.

Dsingh: I think that's what I need.

Gabriel: Good, then we have a plan to move us forward.

Dsingh: I'm sure that's what I need.

Gabriel: Excellent, but not yet.

Dsingh: I'll go to him now. I feel better for talking to you. I feel motivated and creative. I'll go to him and just improvise. I'll just freestyle it today. I think that's what I needed.

Gabriel: Excellent! Do it now and we'll speak about it later. Just don't kill him yet or it will feel like a ruined orgasm.

Dsingh: Gabriel!

Gabriel: You know what I mean. Do girls sometimes also have ruined orgasms?

Dsingh: Sort of. I know what you mean, though.

Gabriel: Well, get to it then. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEBORAH!

Dsingh: I don't know what I'd do without you. Thanks for everything.

Gabriel: My pleasure.

25

London, England

16h23 GMT, 14 February 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Thank you for coming at such short notice,' Sally said to John as she ushered him into a small conference room.

Margaret, Sean and Ray were seated around the table and in deep discussion. They looked up as John entered the room and interrupted their conversation to greet him. He shook hands with each of them before sitting in the seat that Sally indicated.

'And?' John asked with raised eyebrows.

'We had an "event",' Sally explained, 'in Chicago. Ray was there so I'll ask him to update you.'

'Chicago PD stumbled across someone who fits our profile,' Ray explained. He paused after his opening gambit, expecting John to respond in some way.

John sat in silence and stared impassively at Ray as he waited for him to continue.

'Deborah Singh, thirty-four-year-old single Asian woman, registered chartered accountant, living alone in Naperville near Chicago,' Ray continued. 'High-flying, good-looking, already a senior executive at her firm despite a near nervous breakdown two years ago after an alleged rape incident in the city. She started missing days at work then but no one thought anything of it because of the rape thing. Her timekeeping improved after that until recently her behaviour became noticeably erratic. She missed a number of important meetings and deadlines at work over the last six months. The HR manager at the firm wanted to keep it unofficial so she went to visit Miss Singh at home, last week, after an absence of two days.'

Ray noticed John's growing impatience so he came straight to the point.

'While she was there she heard strange noises from the basement, like an animal in distress. She contacted the animal welfare department, who visited the premises accompanied by the police. Miss Singh was not at home at the time so they looked around the sides and the back of the house. They found blood-stained linen in the rubbish bins at the rear of the premises so they got an emergency warrant to enter and search the property in her absence.'

'Get to the point,' John said.

'The point is they found a guy imprisoned in her basement. She had been torturing him for years. Many of his injuries match the case of the mutilated body we found in Port Douglas,' Ray said triumphantly and paused for dramatic effect.

'Matches how?' John pressed.

'The same broken fingers, deliberately smashed over two years ago. Evidence of ongoing torture and similar evidence of informed medical care to keep the victim alive and relatively healthy. The victim was found bound to a chair with cable ties that caused the same bruising pattern seen on the Oz victim and also had the same pressure sores on the buttocks, caused by sitting in a chair with a large hole cut in the seat.'

'Are you suggesting she did the same thing in Australia?'

'No,' Sean interrupted. 'We checked her out. Her father is a first generation immigrant from Delhi, her mother is an American from Louisiana. Deborah Singh was born at the Naperville General Hospital, went to school at Naperville Elementary and Naperville High then the University of Chicago and now works at Brooks and Donaldson accounting. She and her parents are model citizens, no priors, not even a parking ticket. She's never been to Australia, she's never even been out of the state. She filed a rape charge the day after Valentine's Day in 2006 but the case never made it to trial. The DA dismissed it because her statement was contradictory and unreliable.'

'Will she talk?' John asked.

'She committed suicide in a holding cell before they could question her. All we got was a suicide letter to her father apologising for what she had done. Until then, they didn't know about the alleged rape.'

'And the victim?'

'His name is Billy Jackson. He's a thirty-eight-year-old construction worker, trailer trash from the wrong side of town. He went to the same high school but there's nothing else to connect them.'

Margaret interjected, 'Mr Jackson is suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder and paranoid schizophrenia. The damage she did to his body is nothing compared to the damage she did to his mind. The years of sensory deprivation, malnutrition, physical and psychological abuses have destroyed his mind, irreparably I should think. There are psyche teams working with him but I don't think he's going to be able to help us.'

'Her computers?' John asked.

'Nada,' Sean said. 'She has BadDayz.com listed with her favourites but that's it. She deleted her emails and browsing history every day. Forensic IT teams are working on scraping the hard drive but I wouldn't expect anything much.'

'So all we know is that she went after this guy herself?' John asked.

'Not entirely by herself,' Ray said. 'She kept thorough records of what she did to him and a diary.'

'So?'

'She kept a personal diary from the day the victim went missing and a second set of notes recording the daily torture and medical treatments of the victim in minute detail. There are systematic instructions on what to do and how to do it, instructions she clearly received from someone else.'

'From whom?'

'The only thing we have from this so far is a name,' Sally said and then paused.

'Yes?' John asked.

'Gabriel. Our guy's name is Gabriel. The name crops up again and again in her diary and in the torture notes. She describes herself as his "student".'

'It's not his real name,' John said instinctively. 'It's a pseudonym.'

'Almost certainly,' Margaret said, 'but it tells us a lot about him.'

'More psychobabble inference and presumption?' John sneered.

Margaret ignored John's condescension and explained, 'The name Gabriel, literally translated, means "Master, of God". Not God's master, but more subtly he is a "Master" and he is "of God" as in "my master is God". He is also known as the Angel of Death. The character Gabriel is featured in all the major religions, Judaism, Christianity and Islam.'

John nodded and asked, 'So how does that help us?'

'We can deduce a great deal from the name he has chosen: he has a largely traditional value system. I think he's a westerner, not religious per se but raised in a predominantly Christian society. The other religious persuasions are less likely to choose a woman to do this kind of work with them. He chose the name Gabriel because of what he thinks he's doing. He thinks he's like God's right hand, delivering God's wrath to those who have sinned against his value system.'

'His value system?' John asked. 'Not the Christian value system?'

'He's not rigidly applying the Ten Commandments, if that's what you mean,' Margaret replied. 'His value system is the product of his environment, education and life experiences. His personal experiences determine what he regards as right or wrong and how he decides which sin is greater than another.'

Sally interrupted and tried to explain what Margaret was saying, 'What she means is that your opinion about someone says more about you than it does about that person or their deeds. For example, if one man does something to another man, how I feel about the event is determined by my opinions about each man and the reason for what was done. One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist.'

'I get it,' John cut in.

'He chose Miss Singh because he believed her story. Gabriel would have been incensed that the case was dismissed and Mr Jackson was neither tried nor punished. That made him the perfect target and Miss Singh the perfect student.'

'OK.' John nodded.

'Despite his considerable medical knowledge, we no longer think he's a surgeon.' Margaret changed tack. 'His medical improvisations suggest he's more likely to be a paramedic or even a veterinarian, someone who routinely deals with illness and injury outside of a hospital environment.'

John shrugged, acceding to her theories.

'We've compared the catalogue of treatments and mutilations suffered by Mr Jackson to those found on the body in Port Douglas. We've also collated extensive retrospective data on other cases of mutilation murders from all over the world over an extended period of time. What we found suggests that Gabriel has been doing this on an unprecedented scale for several years. Even our most conservative estimates suggest he is the most prolific serial murderer the world has ever seen.'

'How do you tie all the cases to him?'

'The common thread in all the cases is the initial pattern of trauma to the hands and fingers with a hammer. He starts the torture process according to a set formula – that is, the finger joints are smashed over an extended period of time. Her diary confirms that he encouraged his students to develop their own methods of torture and mutilation after the introductory phase of hand mutilation.'

'We've been over this before,' John pointed out. 'What do you know that's new?'

'Mr Jackson's injuries, subsequent to the finger traumas, illustrate that Miss Singh, like all the others, was a willing and enthusiastic accomplice to Gabriel. The point is that he's not brainwashing them or coercing them. He's recruiting them and teaching them but they are doing it entirely of their own volition. They literally are students and he mentors them on what to do and how to do it until they feel confident enough to take the reins themselves. Once their competence and confidence has improved he moves into an advisory role and becomes almost just a spectator. The mutilations, over time, become more representative of the "student" than of Gabriel. For example, the Mules operation technique seen on the body in Australia suggests that the person who performed the procedure works or worked on a sheep farm. This explains the divergence of techniques and mutilations seen over time and this is why no one has connected all these cases before.'

'In practical terms, that means we can reopen all the files of cases of mutilation that fit this guy's MO and work back to find the "student" who did the torturing,' Ray added. 'One of his "students" may know something about him that will give us the breakthrough we need.'

Ray air quoted each time he said 'student' for emphasis. As he did it the second time, he remembered John's reaction the last time they spoke. He dropped his hands into his lap and clenched his fists, bracing himself for John's acid tongue.

John saw Ray's reaction and, knowing that he expected a reaction, said nothing about it. He let him squirm for a few moments before speaking.

'That's all you've got?' John asked them. 'Just theories?'

'Unfortunately, yes,' Margaret replied. 'Serial murderers usually have two phases to their reigns. Gabriel is still in the guided phase of meticulous planning and execution. We usually only catch them when they drift into the random phase where they become careless and take more risks. I don't think he's likely to move into the random phase, though; he's been so controlled for so long there's no reason to think he'll change.'

'So you've got nothing,' John said.

'Nothing more substantial at the moment.' Sally took control of the meeting. 'How have you fared?'

'So-so,' John said. 'I said last time that the only way we'll catch him is to trap him. What Margaret just said proves my point. I've tempted him with several stories posted on his website. His MO seems to be eavesdropping on conversations and then butting in on the ones that interest him. I've caught his attention a few times but not enough for a personal invitation into his twisted world. Animal cruelty and child cruelty push his buttons so that's the best way to hook him. I've got a few lines in the water that look like they'll do the trick. The more elaborate the story, the more likely he is to bite.'

'We took your advice and we've done the same,' Sally said. 'We've got him talking to us about an expatriate child pornographer in Colombia and another wild animal cruelty story we concocted in the Far East. We're doing as he says at the moment to win his confidence and then we'll try to arrange something useful to us.'

'We've made about the same progress, then,' John lied. 'I've got him going on the same things. We'll see who lands him first.'

'Don't try to take him on your own, John,' Sally warned. 'He's dangerous and he has no compunction about killing you or anyone else who offends him. If you do arrange a meeting, we'll send in protection and back-up for you and a watertight police cordon to prevent any escape.'

'We'll see,' John said.

26

Cambridge, England

20h56 GMT, 21 April 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'I thought you'd be too tired for all that,' she panted.

'Me too,' Ben answered into the darkness.

'It was very good, though,' she murmured and snuggled against him under the duvet.

'Oh, yes,' he replied light-heartedly, trying to divert the conversation. 'Are you still all warm and tingly "down below",' he asked lasciviously.

She recognised what he had done and let him get away with it. He had always squirmed away from subjects like love and affection. She knew he loved her but sometimes she desperately needed to hear the words, especially now, just after they had made love. Ben knew what she wanted to hear but found it excruciatingly uncomfortable to say any of it out loud. His standard tactic was to inject humour or surreptitiously change the subject. They both knew he was doing it now.

'I am,' she purred. 'You did a good job.'

'Well, thank you,' he said mischievously. His ploy had worked. 'How was it for you? Seven out of ten?'

'With you it's always a ten out of ten.' She nuzzled against the crook of his neck. 'How was it for you?'

'So-so,' he teased.

'So-so?' she demanded with playful incredulity and sat up to look at him through the darkness. 'What do you mean "So-so"? It sounded pretty good from where I was.'

'About three out of ten,' he goaded impishly.

'Well, then,' she countered, 'we shouldn't bother with it in the future.'

'I wouldn't go that far.' He laughed as he pulled her naked body down against him. 'It just means we need to keep going at it despite the fact that it's such a nasty business.'

'Nasty business?' She gasped and hit him playfully on the chest.

'It's a sordid business but someone's got to do it.'

'Well, thank you very much. I'm going to have to reconsider my position.'

He hugged her tightly and she rolled onto her side and draped her leg over his. They both sighed and smiled unseen smiles in the warm contentment of the moment. He stroked the side of her head and she murmured softly to affirm her pleasure. They listened to the sound of the washing machine methodically working through its economy cycle in the kitchen. The monotonous tone of the drum lulled them into relaxation as their thoughts drifted lazily through their minds. They lay together in silence as the LED clock beside their bed counted down the minutes until they fell asleep. She stroked the skin on his chest as she listened to his breathing change. He always fell asleep first and she smiled contentedly as sleep started to steal him away from her.

'Hmmm?' he asked as he roused from the precipice of sleep.

'You fell asleep,' she said.

'Oh,' he said as he rolled to his right and sat up, lowering his feet onto the floor. 'I'm thirsty.'

Ben padded silently to the dark bathroom and drank long drafts of water from the faucet.

'Are you thirsty?' he called from the bathroom as he reached for a glass beside their toothbrushes.

'No, thank you,' she called back.

He withdrew his hand and returned to their bedroom. He slipped into bed beside her and she cuddled against him.

'Brrrr,' she said, 'you're cold.'

He drew her closer and relaxed into the warmth of the bed.

'You were asleep then,' she said.

'No I wasn't!'

'Oh yes you were!'

'No I wasn't, I remember exactly what we were talking about.'

'We weren't talking about anything,' she argued, laughing, 'You were asleep.'

'No I wasn't.' He laughed. 'I asked you how your day was and I'm still waiting for the answer.'

'No you didn't,' she said and poked him playfully in the ribs.

'Yes I did.'

'No you didn't.'

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Well, how was your day?'

'A bit shitty really.'

'I'm too scared to ask.'

'It was just a bit worse than normal, that's all.'

'What happened?'

'Dr Day called me to review a child.'

'Who's Dr Day?'

'He's one of the paediatric consultants.'

'And?'

'They had a child in with a broken arm and it looked like more than an accident.'

'So what did you think?'

'Dr Day's been doing this a lot longer than me,' Marion explained. 'If he calls me to review a case, you can be pretty sure he's right.'

'And?'

'He was right, as usual. There was a spiral fracture of the left humerus. It's a pretty typical fracture when a child's arm is pulled and twisted. The grab marks above the elbow correlate to adult fingers.'

'Did they get the police involved?' Ben wanted to know.

'No, that's my job. The "paeds" call child welfare and, if we agree, we inform the police and social services.'

'So what now?'

'The little boy went to surgery and I waited with the mother while they operated on him. They fixed his arm but he's way behind in his development for a two year old. He never really had a chance. The mother's the typical greasy hair, yellow teeth, tracksuit type of person we see there a lot. She's only twenty-three and this is her fifth baby by five different fathers. All her other children have already been taken into care. She lives on benefits and cigarettes and keeps having babies that she can't possibly take care of. Her parents were the same and their parents were the same. It's the same old sad story. They don't have a clue how to take care of themselves, let alone a child, so they just keep producing new generations of the same problem.'

'It pisses me off!' Ben said too loudly. 'It really, really pisses me off. They spend their lives on the dole and just keep producing new generations of criminals and fuck-ups. The government encourages them by giving them free fucking everything. Free houses, free bills, free health care, benefit money, everything. My tax pays for them to be career fuck-ups!'

'Calm down. Don't let it make you so angry. It's too late to start a rant.'

'But it just pisses me off!'

'I know, but there's nothing you can do about it. The boy's already been taken into care and social services have admitted the mother to rehab.'

'Fucking great! Like that's going to work.'

'It's the best we can do, for her and the child. I interviewed her while they operated and she's in the same cycle of abuse. She showed me bruises and cigarette burns all over her body. The old scars are from her father and ex-boyfriends. The new ones are from her current boyfriend, she says he beats her and rapes her but she's too afraid to do anything. She's also got infected track marks on all her major veins, heroin I'd guess.'

'How can he beat her and rape her and she still calls him her boyfriend?'

'That's how it works in her world. Domestic violence is something they grow up with and grow into; it's part of their lives. When she doesn't want sex, he forces her. I agree with you, it doesn't matter that he's her boyfriend, rape is rape.'

'Why doesn't she report him to the police?'

'She's afraid of what he'll do and she's afraid of what her family will do.'

'So she's screwed?'

'Sadly, yes,' Marion admitted.

'And she broke the kid's arm?'

'She says he fell off a retaining wall outside their tower block. It's all concrete and metal railings on the estates so that sort of injury is common. '

'Bullshit!'

'That's what Dr Day and I thought too.'

'So what's the real story?'

'When she saw him coming out of theatre she burst into tears and went outside for a cigarette.'

'Great, so instead of staying with him during recovery, she went outside for a fag?'

'Yup.'

'For God's sake!'

'That's why his development is so far behind. She doesn't play with him or cuddle him. She doesn't even pick him up to feed him. She puts the bottle in his mouth in his cot and she doesn't understand why he vomits most of it back. He's filthy, she's filthy, their clothes and blankets are filthy, and they're both malnourished. She was neglected and now she's doing the same to him. Ignorance breeds ignorance.'

'Bloody hell.'

'I followed her outside and spoke to her until she told me what really happened. She and the boyfriend got into an argument and he knocked her around again. When she refused to back down he grabbed the baby and threatened to kill him. He swung him by his arm and broke it, probably by accident. When he realised he dumped him on the ground and stomped out of the flat.'

'So what now?'

'The police are looking for him. He'll go to court and hopefully he'll go to prison, for a while, anyway.'

'But prison's a joke. They get free satellite TV, free libraries, free sports facilities; it's like a bloody holiday camp.'

'Yes, but they also get therapy and a chance at rehabilitation, that's the point behind a custodial sentence.'

'It's a joke! Prison should be about punishment but, for most of them, their lives are cushier in prison than at home. It's more like a criminal master class for the bastards to train and teach each other.'

'Well, what would you suggest instead?'

'They should still go to prison but prison should be prison. They should be kept in small cells without all the mod cons. Their food should be crap and they should suffer while they're there.'

'But that would violate their human rights.'

'Bugger that! When someone goes to jail they should be stripped of any human rights for the duration. They're going there to be punished, it's not meant to be a holiday camp.'

'The incarceration and being locked away from their lives is the punishment. Once they're in there we should be trying to reform them and help them.'

'And how's that system working? They come out rested and better trained to go back to what they were doing. Prison is no disincentive at all. If it was a nightmare experience like the original Alcatraz they'd think twice about committing crime again. If time in prison was a living hell, there'd be far fewer reoffenders.'

'So you think they should be beaten and tortured while they're in prison?'

'Too right, and they should be forced to be guinea pigs for pharmaceutical companies to do drug trials on to develop new medicines.'

'That's going too far. That's barbaric and sadistic.'

'No, it's not. It's the way it should be. It's simple: everyone knows what the law is. If you choose to break the law, you should be punished and made to suffer. If you decide to break into my house and steal my TV that I worked bloody hard to afford, then you should be reprimanded with more than just a cushy stay in a cosy prison. You should be made to suffer and once everyone knows that that's what's going to happen I won't need to lock my doors at night because no one will want to steal my TV. The Arab countries have got it right – chop their bloody hands off and whip them, stone them and behead the bastards. If the punishment is severe enough, crime and abuse will stop.'

'OK, OK. I get the message,' she said as she stroked his face to calm him. 'You've got yourself all worked up and it's a school night. Try to get some sleep, it's way past midnight.'

'Fucking hell,' Ben whispered to himself.

He stroked her back to soothe her and himself. They lay entwined in pensive silence, punctuated only by the soft sound of his hair against the pillow as he repeatedly shook his head in disbelief. The digits of the LCD clock winked impassively as one morphed into another.

The tension was relieved when Khan, their Siamese kitten, jumped onto the foot of the bed and meowed for their attention.

'Come here, Khan,' Ben called to him and scratched the surface of the duvet to draw him closer.

Khan pounced playfully onto his hand in the darkness. He latched on with his front paws while his back paws raked ineffectually at Ben's wrist.

'Owie!' Ben exclaimed as Khan sunk his needle-sharp baby teeth into his knuckles.

'Did he get you?' She laughed.

'Bloody sore too,' Ben said as she leaned over him and gathered the kitten into her hands.

She rolled him into the crook of her arm against her chest and stroked his cheeks.

'Come on, come on,' she spoke to Khan as he continued the assault and playfully bit and scratched at her fingers. 'Calm down, calm down. It's time to sleep.'

'Is he taking any notice?' Ben asked.

'Yes,' she answered as his loud purring vibrated in the darkness.

Ben found Khan in the darkness and stroked his body. The purring intensified into a machinery drone.

'He's got a healthy set of lungs for such a young kitten,' Ben remarked.

'He's happy here,' she said.

'I know,' Ben replied. 'So am I.'

She stretched her face to his and kissed him with lingering tenderness.

'I don't know how you do what you do,' he said as she settled her face back against her chest.

Khan purred loudly, cradled in the warmth and security between their bodies.

'Sometimes it's hard,' she said, 'but it's a good thing. If I help just one child in my whole life, it'll be a life well spent.'

'You've saved hundreds,' Ben whispered to her. 'You've saved hundreds of them from terrible lives and terrible injuries.'

'The paeds save their lives,' she said. 'I just try to get them out of harm's way and into some sort of stable, safe environment. I try to give them a future.'

'That's what I said. You save their lives.'

'You do the same for animals,' she said.

'Yes, but mostly they're brought in by people who love them. They work with me to help their pet and the pet's problems aren't the product of their malice. You're faced with evil people who deliberately abuse and neglect children.'

'They're not evil,' she said. 'They usually just don't know any better. Most of them were abused or neglected when they were children. My job is to break the cycle.'

'But you don't get to punish them for what they did.'

'Usually it's not about punishing the parents, it's about educating them and helping them. Even this guy only did what he did because he was high on drugs.'

'No matter how stoned I could ever be on drugs, I would never do what he did,' Ben countered. 'There's fundamentally something wrong in some people and they need to be removed from society like a surgeon removes cancer.'

'It's not as simple or as clear cut as that,' she said. 'Anyway, who's to decide who can't be helped and rehabilitated? Who can decide who's beyond saving?'

'I will,' Ben said coldly. 'I'll be judge, jury and executioner if no one else has got the balls to do it.'

'It's just not as simple as that,' she protested.

'It bloody is to me,' Ben growled.

'I'm sorry,' she said gently. 'I shouldn't have told you about it. I know how much it upsets you and it takes days for you to get over this kind of thing.'

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It just plays on my mind in an endless loop. I see the same thing again and again and again and it upsets me. It really pisses me off. I hate cruelty and unfairness. I hate it even more when people like that get away with it. The system lets them get away with it and that's not right. Someone has to make sure that they get what they deserve.'

'I know, I know,' she soothed and stroked his face. 'They're not going to get away with it. The baby's safe and they're in custody. You've got to try to believe in the system more and trust it to do what's necessary. Try to get some sleep, it's one o' clock.'

'I'll be fine,' he lied. 'Roll over with Khan and I'll cuddle you.'

'Kiss,' she said and stretched to kiss him before rolling onto her left side with the sleeping Khan held to her chest.

'See you in the morning,' Ben said and hugged her closely. 'Sleep well.'

'You too,' she said, 'try not to dwell on things so much.'

'I'll try.'

Ben tried to go to sleep but what he had just heard churned in his head for hour after hour. The red LED counted down the hours of missed sleep as he fumed and silently raged against the injustice and the cruelty. He considered every angle and concluded that there could be no extenuating circumstances in a case like this. There was no way they could be forgiven. The mother and the boyfriend deserved all the bad things that could possible happen to them. The mother's life was already so screwed up that that was probably punishment enough. The boyfriend was another matter entirely. Time in prison might be just the ticket. Ben had read newspaper stories about child molesters being murdered in prison – they were the exceptional to the rule that prison was an easy ride. Even murderers and rapists, accepting of each others crimes, considered paedophiles and crimes against children abhorrent. Prison was inevitable for the boyfriend and, hopefully, the other inmates would do the necessary.

It was five in the morning before Ben's mind relented and yielded to troubled sleep.

27

Lhasa, China

16h47 local time, 26 July 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Michael sat down at his laptop and typed triumphantly:

Mikegzb: I've got her!

Gabriel: The owner?

Mikegzb: No, his wife.

Gabriel: Is she part of it?

Mikegzb: I don't think so.

Gabriel: So why have you got her?

Mikegzb: He's never alone so it was easier to get her. We use her to get to him.

Gabriel: But she's not part of it.

Mikegzb: She is, indirectly.

Gabriel: What?

Mikegzb: She knows what they do to the bears and she lives off the profits, that makes her guilty by association.

Gabriel: But she has no say over what he does. She's not responsible for his actions.

Michael felt the conversation beginning to sour. He had not expected this reaction.

Mikegzb: She's his wife. If she wanted him to stop, she could make him stop.

Gabriel: Bollocks! He wouldn't let her dictate to him and he definitely wouldn't take business advice from her.

Michael felt his body go cold and then hot with the prickled surge of adrenalin. Anxiety constricted his chest.

Mikegzb: If she hasn't tried, then she's as guilty as he is. They've both got the bears' blood on their hands.

Gabriel: That's not how this works. Let her go.

Michael jumped up from his chair, spurred by an unseen bolt of electricity. He felt nauseous and dizzy and paced around the room.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' he spoke out loud, oblivious to the dark stains expanding in his armpits. He rubbed his head and face in agitation and dried his hands on the seat of his jeans. Michael stood and stared at his screen. Gabriel's words hung in the air like a death sentence. He swallowed hard and sunk unsteadily into his chair to type his answer.

Mikegzb: I can't! She'll tell him I kidnapped her. He'll kill me for sure. He's the richest man in this province and an evil bastard to boot. I can't just let her go.

He stared at the screen with bulging eyes, his pupils dilated by nervous anticipation.

Gabriel: You've really fucked this up.

Michael's heart sank.

Mikegzb: No I haven't! Please just listen to my plan. I'll send him an anonymous letter saying that I've kidnapped her and threaten to kill her if he doesn't do what we want. He'll do whatever we say.

Gabriel: And then?

Mikegzb: What do you mean 'and then?'

Gabriel: What's your plan from there on?

Mikegzb: I don't know.

Gabriel: Exactly! You don't have a fucking clue. I told you exactly what to do and somehow you've still fucked it up.

Mikegzb: We can use her to get to him.

Gabriel: Forget it! The plan was to punish him, no one else. I won't use her to get at him. He's the fucker I want and he's the only one I'll help you with. Without him, the deal's off. If you harm her, the deal's off. If you fuck up again, the deal's off. Do you understand?

Mikegzb: Please help me. I can't just let her walk out of here.

Gabriel: Did anyone see you take her?

Mikegzb: I don't think so.

Gabriel: Forget about could have, should have, might have! Did anyone see you take her: yes or no?

Mikegzb: No.

Gabriel: Where is she now?

Mikegzb: In my bedroom.

Gabriel: Is she tied up?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: With what?

Mikegzb: Nylon rope.

Gabriel: Rope's no good. Use plastic cable ties and tie her to a heavy chair. Screw the chair to the floor and gag her with tape.

'Fuck,' Michael muttered to himself as he realised he was completely out of his depth and a long way from home. He had no way of helping himself and was now completely reliant on someone he knew nothing about.

Mikegzb: How do we let her go and get him?'

Gabriel: Simple. We make her forget that you kidnapped her and make her think you saved her from her kidnapper. She'll tell her husband that you saved her and that will win his trust. He'll be more accessible to you and then we'll get him in the chair.

Mikegzb: Great plan, but how? How do I change her memories?

Gabriel: Planting new memories is easy enough; it's erasing the real memory that's difficult. There's been some research into inducing retrograde amnesia but it's sketchy and unpredictable.

'Oh God,' Michael keened softly to himself.

Gabriel: There will be hundreds of natural medicine shops and dealers in every town and village in China. Drive to the biggest shop you can find out of our guy's area of influence. I want you to buy two medicines. The first one is easy enough to find and won't arose any suspicions. Buy ten doses of Indian water hyssop, the locals call it 'brahmi'. If they ask you what you want it for, tell them you are studying for an exam and want to improve your memory. The second drug may be more problematic. Ask for a single large dose of powdered 'Brugmansia' leaves. The leaves are from a plant in South America containing a chemical called scopolamine. If they ask, tell them it's for your wife to help her through labour. Get them now and contact me in less than five hours. Don't let her see your face.

Michael gazed at the screen, dumbstruck and despairing. Gabriel had logged off.

'Oh Jesus,' Michael groaned to himself as the crushing gravity of the situation descended on him.

He had only two options: do exactly as Gabriel said and hope things worked out or flee to the airport and leave the country. Running was not an option, the triads would find him and kill him wherever he went, so his only choice was to try to fix his mistake. He would have to do as Gabriel said and pray that he knew what he was doing.

28

Cambridge, England

20h11 GMT, 28 July 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Gabriel: Well done, Max.

Maxim06: The tourniquet was a good idea. I didn't realise I could leave it on for two hours.

Gabriel: How did it go?

Maxim06: Fantastic! Better than I expected and the tourniquet kept the cleaning to a minimum.

Gabriel: Would you do it again?

Maxim06: Definitely. I'll send you the photos and the log. I'd like to try a knee next time. I got all the bandaging stuff from the website. What's the best way to do it?

Gabriel: Replace the bandages at least once a day. Smear the enzymatic debridement gel directly onto the exposed tissues and then apply the wound dressings. Remember the shiny side of the dressing goes against the wound. Cover the whole area with gauze and the tubular bandage to occlude the wounds. It'll take about three or four months to heal but the dressing changes will hurt enough to continue his penance.

Ben clicked the icon and opened the attachment he had been sent. He clicked to view the photos in the log as a slideshow.

The first photograph was of an ordinary kitchen cheese grater.

The second was of the penitent's right elbow. The wrist of the right arm was tightly bound to the angle of the chair where the armrest was welded to the backrest. The upper arm was bound to the top of the backrest. The effect was that the elbow was bent at ninety degrees and jutted out backwards from the chair. The cable ties were tighter than he would have done himself but that didn't matter.

The third photo showed the tourniquet, tightly twisted around the top of the arm. The tourniquet was a narrow strip of bicycle tubing with the loose ends knotted together. The rubber ring had been slid up the arm into the armpit like an armband. A long screwdriver had been inserted through the ring and twisted around many times to tighten the rubber into a very tight tourniquet.

The next series of photos showed how he had used the cheese grater to grate away the point of the elbow. Ben noticed the clock on the wall at the back of the photograph. The grating had continued up and down, left and right and at various diagonal angles for a full twenty minutes. He had kept grating the back of the elbow until all the skin was gone and long tassels of shredded muscles and tendons drooped limply against the deep gouges in the bones.

The tourniquet had indeed limited the bleeding to a steady ooze of thick gelatinous purple blood. The final photos showed the unmistakable thick globs of joint fluid oozing out of the elbow like sticky tears.

Ben smiled and grimaced at the same time as his eyes hung on the grisly images. Post-operative infection would be a significant risk to the open joint.

Gabriel: Write a prescription for prophylactic antibiotics. He will need one 250 mg tablet of amoxicillin potentiated with Clavulanic acid QID and 200 mg of Gentamicin intramuscular injection OID until further notice. Write up the prescription as you did for the bandages and send it to a different internet veterinary pharmacy. Write on the prescription that the drugs are for ornamental koi carp fish.

Maxim06: Thanks, will do.

Gabriel: How did you get the idea to use a cheese grater?

Maxim06: Mental gymnastics. He didn't only fuck my wife, he fucked everyone's wife. The bastard apparently shagged most of the women attached to the club while their husbands were at work. I tortured myself with endless scenarios and images playing in my head about him and my wife having sex. I imagined my wife loving every minute of it. I imaged myself plugging the same hole after him and she's just lying there thinking about him while stupid me takes his sloppy seconds. I imagined them in every position and the image of his dick going in and out of her made me think about the friction of their skin rubbing together. I kept obsessing over the minute details of the friction of the sex until it suddenly became clear to me. If he likes the friction and the rubbing so much, then that's what I would give him. Lots and lots of rubbing and lots and lots of friction. It fits perfectly.

Gabriel: Very creative.

Maxim06: Thank you, and very appropriate, I thought.

Gabriel: Do any of the other husbands know he slept with their wives?

Maxim06: Most of them do now.

Gabriel: Aren't they looking for him?

Maxim06: No, everyone thinks he left town after the truth got out. He was the club pro at a tennis club in Barbados before he came to work at our club. We found out he shagged all the women there too. Everyone here thinks he just snuck out one night and they're waiting for him to resurface at another club in some forgotten corner of the world. They think they'll get him then.

Gabriel: So no one suspects you?

Maxim06: No way. If anything, they all think I'm too spineless to do anything. Everyone expects some of the guys with the big mouths and bigger wallets to do something when they find him. They'll never know that I got to him first. That's part of the pleasure for me. I'm one up on them and I'm definitely one up on him.

Gabriel: What about your wife?

Maxim06: She thinks I've forgiven her.

Gabriel: Have you?

Maxim06: No fucking way. He gave her genital warts and now I have them too. The doctor says there's a treatment for the flare-ups but there's no permanent cure. Her time will come to pay the ferryman.

Gabriel: Don't do anything rash. If you don't think it through, you'll get caught. Discuss your plans for her with me before you do anything.

Maxim06: I don't have any plans for her yet. We're in therapy with a marriage counsellor and I think some of it's good for me so I'll stick with it for the moment. Also, now that I don't feel the same about her, I'm doing things with her that I would never have done before. My sex life is great because she feels too guilty to refuse anything I want to try. Everything's working out great for me; I'm getting exactly what I want from everyone.

Gabriel: Good work, Max, but be careful. Keep your head down.

Maxim06: Thanks, man.

Ben clicked off the conversation and stretched lazily before getting up from the chair and leaving the room. He returned moments later with two bowls of dog food for Bet and Tess. They hurtled through the back door and leapt around him with joy. He cuddled them and rolled around on the floor playing with them until he was out of breath.

'Go on,' he said, 'eat your supper. I'll be back in a moment.'

He lifted Khan's food bowl onto the worktop and out of reach before leaving the room and closing the door.

Ben opened a bag of toffees and refreshed the BadDayz website home page. He retyped his codeword and scrolled through his emails and the list of students currently online. Two of them immediately caught his eye. The subject of the first one was 'shaken baby syndrome' and the other was 'bile farm'. He clicked on the first one.

Cozysuzie: Hello Gabriel.

Gabriel: Hello.

Cozysuzie: I've checked all the websites you sent me and I'm surer than ever that we're right. She definitely shook them even if the doctors don't think so.

Gabriel: So you got a second opinion?

Cozysuzie: My husband went crazy at the time. He insisted on second opinions from all the paediatric consultants at the hospital. We've had three more expert opinions from the best private consultants in the country who have reviewed the cases recently. They all insist that it isn't shaken baby syndrome. They think it's more likely to be some weird rare medical condition that looks very similar.

Gabriel: What happened to the nanny?

Cozysuzie: She went back to France after the police released her, back to her rich family, and I haven't stayed in contact for obvious reasons.

Gabriel: Do you have the original medical records?

Cozysuzie: I've only got pieces of information that I wrote down from the notes at the time. The NHS lost the original records after the police got involved. They said the police lost the notes and the police say the hospital lost them. I'm sure they're covering something up.

Gabriel: Why are you so sure?

Cozysuzie: Well, the first two registrars who saw them were convinced they were shaken, I saw it in their notes. After the records were lost they changed their minds and changed the diagnosis. My husband and his lawyers fought with them for months but they insisted I misunderstood what they had written. I've read up a lot about this and I don't know how they could think it's something else.

Gabriel: How wealthy is her family?

Cozysuzie: Obscenely wealthy. It turns out she was only here to play at being a nanny like Marie Antoinette played at being a milkmaid.

Gabriel: Wealthy enough to hire private investigators to watch you for years and rich enough to bribe doctors and hospitals?

Cozysuzie: Small change to them.

Gabriel: The only way forward is to hire a private investigator to find her and get the truth from her.

Cozysuzie: I'm sure she'll be easy to find. The question is: how do we get the truth out of her?

Gabriel: Hire the right people and they'll get the truth, that part is up to you. Once we have the truth, we'll talk about punishment.

Cozysuzie: Thank you for believing me.

Gabriel: Tell no one about this.

Ben logged off the conversation and chewed a large lump of liquorice toffee as he mused on the case. After several pensive moments his thoughts returned to the present and he saw another name appear in his IM buddy list. Michael was online so Ben clicked on 'Michael/bile farm'.

Mikegzb: I've got it.

Gabriel: Two days late.

Mikegzb: I know, but it was hard to find the Brugmansia, as you said it would be.

Gabriel: Any problems when you found it?

Mikegzb: No, they didn't ask what it's for.

Gabriel: Good. How is she?

Mikegzb: She's frightened but OK.

Gabriel: Has she seen your face?

Mikegzb: No.

Gabriel: Do you have an extension lead?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: Will it reach the bathroom?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: Plug it in but don't switch it on. Cut off whatever is on the other end of the cable. Do it now.

Ben waited in silence as Michael did as he asked.

Mikegzb: Done it.

Gabriel: Fill the bath with warm water and put her in it. Keep her clothes on and keep her tied up and gagged. Blow half the Brugmansia powder into her face. Make sure most of it goes up her nose. Then turn on the power in the extension lead. I want you to dunk the cut end of the lead into the water and shock her until she's unconscious. Give her a few moments to regain consciousness and then blow the rest of the powder up her nose. Shock her again until she loses consciousness again. Do it five times; she must go unconscious five times after the second dose.

Mikegzb: Won't it kill her?

Gabriel: Not if you're careful. Remove the cable the moment she passes out. She'll pass out because the electrical shocks make the breathing muscles spasm and stop her breathing in. She'll pass out from hypoxia. The electricity, the hypoxia and the Brugmansia should combine to destroy her short-term memory, especially the memory of you kidnapping her. The Brugmansia will have taken effect after the five shocks. The powder will make her obey you and will make her forget the events after the shock therapy. That will give you time to get her into the boot of your car and take her far away from her village. Take her to a remote place where no one will find her. Tie her to a tree overnight and collect her the next morning. When you collect her she should not recognise you. If she does, then her memory of the recent events is intact and we'll have to rethink the whole thing. If you're sure she doesn't recognise you, then get her into your car and give her food and a warm drink. Lace the drink with Brahmi and programme her new memory as you drive back to the village. Tell her you found her tied to the tree by chance. Suggest to her that someone must have kidnapped her for ransom and that you are her rescuer. Keep going over the story until you get back to the village.

Mikegzb: Are you sure this will work?

Gabriel: If she doesn't recognise you when you rescue her, then we should be fine.

Mikegzb: Should be fine? How can we be sure? If she tells him I'm the kidnapper, he'll kill me.

Gabriel: If she doesn't recognise you when you rescue her then you will be fine.

Mikegzb: I'm really not sure about this.

Gabriel: When you collect her it will be obvious whether it's worked or not.

There was a long pause. Ben waited impatiently. He knew Michael's life was on the line but he would have to take the gamble.

Mikegzb: Assuming I'm satisfied she doesn't remember me, what then?

Gabriel: Take her straight to the farm and make a big show of returning her to her husband. Make a lot of noise and fuss and make sure everyone sees your face and knows who you are. Tell him how you found her and rescued her. Tell him that she told you she was kidnapped by someone and left tied to the tree. Tell him that she doesn't remember anything else. When he puts the story to her it will reinforce it as her reality because of his psychological dominance over her.

Mikegzb: I'm really nervous about this. If he even thinks I've got something to do with her kidnapping, he'll kill me there and then.

Gabriel: I guarantee this will work if you play the part of the hero to the hilt. He'll owe you and everyone will know it.

Another pause. Ben waited patiently; he knew Michael was on board. He knew he would agree.

Mikegzb: OK, I'll do it. When do I start?

Gabriel: Start immediately and remember: the Brugmansia powder only works for twelve to eighteen hours. Contact me when you get back.

Mikegzb: If I get back.

Gabriel: I guarantee you'll be fine, I've done this before. The next step is getting close to him, close enough to kidnap him. Once we've got him we can get the bears out.

Mikegzb: OK.

Ben felt the despair in Michael's last word.

29

Cambridge, England

06h00 GMT, 3 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'What?' Ben was stirred from sleep by Marion poking his arm.

'Someone's at the door,' Marion mumbled from beneath the duvet.

'It's six o' clock in the morning!'

'Go see who it is,' she said as she snuggled deeper into the bedding. She turned away from him, only the dishevelled hair on the top of her head now visible.

'Why me?' he groaned as Khan looked up, stood up, stretched, turned around and went back to sleep, lying against Marion's back.

'Because you're "the man of the house",' she replied facetiously.

'Bloody hell,' he whined as he slipped on yesterday's clothes from the side of the bed. He pulled the buttoned-up shirt over his head and walked down the hall.

Several people were visible through the frosted glass as he turned the lock and opened the front door. Inspector Nokes, looking rested and energised, smiled up at Ben's baggy eyes and creased face.

'Good morning, Mr Mitchell,' she announced.

'It's six o' clock.'

'Thought we'd get you before you went to work. Didn't want to miss you.'

'What's up?' Ben frowned at the dozen uniformed officers behind Nokes.

'Just taking you up on your offer to meet with us at home.' She beamed.

'At six in the morning?'

'Always like to get an early start.'

'Do you all want to come in or just you?' Ben asked. 'It's a small house.'

'Just me, for starters.'

'Fine, come in.' Ben turned and led the way to the living room.

He headed for the sofa and slouched into the cushions, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Inspector Nokes followed and perched delicately on the seat of the armchair.

'You remember our last conversation at the practice?'

'Yeah, you wanted to dig up the garden for missing bodies.'

'Well, as a matter of fact, yes.' She nodded. 'That's why we're here.'

'You're joking?'

'I wish I was.'

'You're seriously here to dig up the garden?'

'I have a court order.'

'Really?' Ben sat up, realizing the gravity of the situation. 'You've got a court order to dig up my garden? Why?'

'Well, after our last conversation, I took the liberty of interviewing your neighbours.'

'My neighbours?'

'Yes, they all said the same thing: that you built your new conservatory right after Julie Cockram disappeared.'

'So this is about planning permission?'

'We checked the council planning records and we know you did it without planning permission, but that's not why we're here. We also checked you bank records and found a large payment to Insta-Crete.'

'To Murtha?'

'Yes, to Mr Sullivan's concrete company for seven cubic metres of concrete.'

'Yeah, the concrete for the base of the dogs' room – what my neighbours call the conservatory.'

'Right after Miss Cockram disappeared.'

'What's going on?' Marion asked from the door of the bedroom, holding Khan in her arms.

'Nothing,' Ben answered as Nokes turned to Marion. 'The police are here because they think I buried Julie in the concrete floor of the dogs' room.'

'What?' Marion choked.

'Exactly.' Ben scowled at Nokes. 'Can we at least get showered and dressed first?'

'Of course.' Nokes smiled courteously. 'Dr Henning?' she enquired of Marion.

'Yes?' Marion confirmed her identity.

'We'd like to ask you some questions before you leave for work.'

'It's my day off.'

'We'd like to ask you some questions before you leave the house.'

'Fine, is it OK if I go shower?'

'Of course.' Nokes smiled.

Ben watched Marion turn and leave the doorway then returned his gaze to Nokes.

'So you think I killed her and buried her in concrete at the back of the house?'

'It's been done before, and like you said, you'd have to be our prime suspect.'

'Oh my God,' he blurted out.

'Would you like to have your solicitor present? We can wait.'

'My solicitor?'

'Yes, we can wait for him or her to arrive to advise you of your rights.'

'I don't have a solicitor. If you've got a court order, then it's pointless anyway.'

'Well, yes, they can't overturn the order.'

'Anyway, I don't have anything to hide. Go ahead and do what you have to do.'

'Before we start, I need to clarify exactly what works you have done here since moving in. The neighbours said you also built a new garage?'

'Yes, but I simply replaced like with like.'

'Mr Mitchell, we're not interested in whether or not you had planning permission. We're only interested in what works were done, when and where, specifically the earthworks.'

'OK,' Ben confessed, 'there was an old single garage with a shed behind it. I knocked them both down and built the long garage you see there now. It takes one car behind another. We use the back half as the indoor part of our aviary. It's all made of timber so technically it doesn't need planning permission, it's a temporary structure, and anyway, it's more than five metres from the house and less than three metres high.'

'Like I told you, Mr Mitchell, we're not interested in the legality of your building works. So you replaced the old garage and shed with a new structure and built a conservatory at the rear of the house?'

'Yes, and like I told you, it's not really a conservatory. It's more of a big timber room for our dogs, so they don't trash the house in winter.'

'And the dog room was built on a concrete base?'

'Of course it was.'

'Four metres by three metres?'

'Yes.'

'How thick is the base?'

'I don't know exactly, probably about a foot thick.'

'Well, Mr Sullivan's records show they delivered seven cubic metres of concrete and that you barrowed it from their vehicle to the back of the house.'

'That's the way they work. They just mix it on site, they don't provide the labour to barrow it in.'

'So you did it all yourself?'

'Yes.'

'That's what they confirmed.'

'So?'

'So, unless the base of the dog room is over a metre thick, how do you account for using that much concrete?' Nokes persisted.

'I had dug up the kitchen floor because we had a burst pipe after installing a new central heating system. A high pressure combi boiler.'

'So the concrete went to the dog room base and a new kitchen floor.'

'Yes.'

'What about the garage?'

'What about it?'

'Did you cast a new base?'

'No. I already told you, there was always a garage and a shed there, I just rebuilt on the old base.'

'Even the shed had a concrete base?'

'Yes, you can check it yourself, or better still, ask the neighbours. They seem to know everything about what goes on here. They'll tell you who cast the garage base and the shed base – they were already here and looked pretty weathered when I bought the house. I just rebuilt on the original base.'

'Our engineers will confirm the volumes used for the dog room and in the kitchen. If the numbers tally, then that's all we'll have to break up.'

'Wait a minute. I thought you said you were going to dig up the garden, not the whole house?'

'Not the whole house, Mr Mitchell, just the dog room and the kitchen,' Nokes confirmed her intentions. 'Oh, and the garden,' she added as an afterthought.

'Bloody marvellous,' Ben groaned.

Ben joined Marion in the bathroom. He stripped of his clothes and opened the shower door to step in with her.

'I'm just finished,' she said, 'let me get out then you can have it to yourself.'

'No, hang on,' Ben said softly and stepped into the shower enclosure with her. He embraced her and stood under the falling water with their heads pressed together.

'Listen to me,' he whispered, hoping the noise of the water would conceal their whispers.

'What's going on?' She stiffened. 'Is this about the planning regulations? I told you they'd find out.'

'They think I killed Julie,' he whispered, 'and buried her under the dogs' room.'

'Seriously?'

'Yes, seriously, they're going to dig it up.'

'Oh, for God's sake.'

'And the kitchen floor.'

'You've got to be kidding. And the garage too?'

'No, not the garage.'

'Why not?'

'Because I told them that the concrete base of the garage was always there.'

'Well, the front part was, but I thought you put in the back part where the shed was for the floor of the aviary?'

'Yes, I did, but I told them it was always there because I don't want them digging that up too. If they need to dig that up, what are we going to do about the birds?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, if they dig up the aviary, we'll have to catch all the birds first and keep them somewhere until they're finished. Do you know anyone who can keep all the birds for us for maybe one or two weeks?'

'No.'

'Exactly, so just play along. If they ask about the garage and the aviary, just tell them the truth. Tell them you were working in Glasgow for the first year that I lived here, and that I'd built everything before you saw it all for the first time. That is technically the truth because if I hadn't told you about the work I did, you would never have known about the base for the aviary. If we both stick to the same story, we don't have to worry about the birds.'

'Well, OK, but I don't think lying to the police is a good idea.'

'It's not lying, it's just not making the situation worse than it is. Anyway, it's bloody ridiculous, thinking we buried her under our house.'

'We?'

'Well, OK, me, but they're probably thinking you're the accomplice. That's how ridiculous the whole thing is. Let's just cooperate to let them satisfy themselves that we're not murderers, with the minimum destruction of our home. Let's just get this over with as painlessly as possible.'

'OK, OK,' she said. 'I need to get out now, I'm turning into a prune. If they ask me, I'll tell them that,' she said, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel.

'Excellent,' Ben said, briskly washing and stepping out to towel off before she had dressed.

He went to the bedroom with a towel around his waist while she headed for coffee in the kitchen.

'I'm sorry for the intrusion and the inconvenience,' Nokes said as Marion entered the small kitchen.

Several uniformed policemen were carrying pneumatic drills into the room. Marion heard the dogs barking in their room.

'If you're going to be using those,' Marion pointed at the jackhammers, 'I'm going to take the dogs out for the day. Ben will take Khan to work.'

'Of course,' Nokes agreed, 'good idea. My dogs wouldn't cope with it either. About the building works – did you help with any of it or were you involved in any way?'

'Not really, I was working at the Vale of Leven Hospital at Loch Lomond and then at Paisley hospital in Glasgow for the first year that Ben bought the house. I did help with some of the shiplapping on the walls of the dogs' room at the end of the project.'

'Yes,' Nokes affirmed, 'we have confirmed that with those hospitals, but you did fly down on weekends?'

'Yes, most weekends.'

'So, how much of the building process did you see?'

'Only the timber building bit.'

'Not the floors?'

'No.'

'Do you know what floors he laid?'

'Just the kitchen and the dogs' room, I think.'

'You think?'

'Well, I didn't see him do it, that's just what he told me. I saw it all for the first time after the new kitchen lino was down and the dogs' room was half built.'

'So just the kitchen and the dog room, then?'

'Yes.'

'Good, that's what we thought. Thank you for your patience. We'll hold off on the noise until you've left with the dogs.'

'Left with the dogs?' Ben asked as he walked into the room.

'I'm taking the dogs out to avoid the noise and dust,' Marion said.

'Good idea,' Ben agreed. 'Take them up to your mum's for the day.'

'I'll go now, I'll have breakfast there.'

'See you later,' Ben said and kissed her goodbye.

Nokes waited for Marion to leave before asking, 'Where will you be during the course of the day? In case we need to contact you?'

'At work, of course, until at least seven tonight. You know where it is.'

'Indeed.'

'So you're going to chop out both floors?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you'd better make good afterwards, and the garden.'

'It will all be reinstated as we found it, pending your approval.'

'And how long will it all take?'

'We'll have the floors up and the ground excavated by this afternoon. The new concrete will be laid tomorrow and the floor coverings reinstated the next day, so three days in total. If you prefer to move into a hotel for that time, we'll reimburse your living expenses.'

'I'd rather stay here, to sleep here at night. Is that a problem?'

'Not at all.'

'Well, I'm going to work then, I'll be back after seven.'

'No breakfast?'

'I've lost my appetite, I'll get something at work.'

******

'You've got a face on,' Sue chirped as Ben walked into the practice.

'You wouldn't bloody believe it,' he complained, 'the police are digging up my house, looking for Julie's body.'

'Oh my God!' Sue exclaimed, titillated by the scandal.

'Because obviously I murder everyone who pisses me off and bury them under the floorboards.'

'Oh my God!' Sue repeated, still trying to comprehend Ben's first bombshell. 'They're digging up your house?'

'And the garden.'

'Oh my God,' she murmured to herself as she followed him through the building, heading for the staff room.

'You're late,' Miranda teased as Ben walked in, followed by Sue. 'And you're flushed,' she said to Sue after noticing the red in her face.

'Tell her,' Sue prompted.

'Tell me what?' Miranda asked.

'The police are digging up my house and garden looking for Julie's body.'

'Oh my God!' Miranda exclaimed.

'That's exactly what I said.' Sue nodded.

'It's like the goddam _Jerry Springer Show_ ,' Ben groaned as he filled a bowl with cereal and milk.

'They think you got her?' Miranda enquired and handed him a mug of coffee.

'Well, clearly they think I buried her under my floor.'

'And did you?' Miranda prodded, smiling.

'Yeah right, of course I did,' Ben complained and stuffed a large spoon of cereal into his mouth.

'Fantastic!' Miranda exclaimed, sharing in Sue's delight at the unfolding drama.

'Fantastic if it's somebody else's house.' Cereal flakes dropped from Ben's mouth as he spoke.

'So what are you going to do?'

'There's nothing I can do, just live with it. They said they'd be finished in three days. Your hot chick policewoman is in charge of the whole thing.'

'The blonde one? The one who looks about twelve?'

'Yeah.' Ben shovelled another mouthful in.

'Well, at least there's something for you to look at while they trash your house.'

'Bloody marvellous.' Ben sprayed cereal from his lips.

'We'll see you downstairs in a minute,' Sue said and took Miranda by the arm to leave the room.

Ben could hear their hushed voices and nervous giggles as they savoured the story, en route to tell the others. He carried his bowl and coffee mug and moved to the computer table at the back of the room. He switched on the screen and glanced at the empty doorway.

'Countries that do not have extradition treaties with the UK', he typed into Google via the in-private browsing option. Moments later he Googled 'last minute budget flights' and scanned the page before writing down a number. He rose and walked to the row of staff lockers and opened the doors, one at a time, until reaching into the second to last one. He retrieved a pink mobile phone from beside a bunch of keys and a luminous pink iPod. He keyed in the number on the scrap of paper and tapped his fingers, waiting for an answer.

'Ah yes,' Ben spoke as softly as he could without whispering. 'Could you check availability for flights to Namibia this evening, please?'

'Return,' he said after a brief silence.

'Yes, tonight,' he confirmed.

Moments ticked by.

'British,' he said.

'Excellent.' Ben sighed. 'Why so many?'

'Swallows?' he asked.

'Oh, I see, expats, you mean,' he said after hearing the explanation for the next flight being less than half full. 'Can you reserve and hold a seat in economy for me, please? Just for a few hours? That's fine. I'm going to try to find a cheaper flight and if not I'll get back to you this afternoon to confirm and pay.'

He gave the name John Peterson and jotted down the booking reference number on the scrap of paper.

'Thanks for your help, Mandy,' he said cheerfully. 'I'll make sure they put me through to you when I phone back so you get the commission. Cheers,' he said and switched off the phone before dropping it into his pocket.

Ben walked down the stairs and directly to the X-ray room. He adjusted the dial to the maximum settings and placed the pink telephone on the table in the collimated area. Stepping out of the room, he checked the empty corridor before pushing the button to take the X-ray. Moments later he was back in the staff room and put the phone in exactly the position he had found it.

'Going on holiday?" Miranda sang as she walked into the room. 'Somewhere nice?'

'No,' Ben faltered.

'I came back up for a wee. I thought I heard you booking a holiday on the phone as I walked past.'

'Oh, that,' Ben fumbled.

'Somewhere in Africa.'

'No, not a holiday.'

'What then, a congress?'

'No, more like an exit strategy.'

Miranda frowned, 'Sounds like you need a holiday.'

30

Langley, USA

08h01 local time, 4 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Thank you for giving me this opportunity,' Margaret said to Brad Dervish.

Brad was an ebullient American, short, stout, to the point and above all, fiercely patriotic. He had been recruited into the FBI from the Marine Corps Operational Intelligence section after being injured in Colombia twenty-five years ago. His chiselled features and tightly cropped hair suggested the hard discipline of a military man. He wore a dark blue suit with a starched collar tightly buttoned beneath his tie. He resented Margaret's presence in his office but he had been ordered to extend her every courtesy and assist her with whatever she required.

'Welcome to Langley, Ms Trent,' Brad said as he wheeled himself from behind his expansive mahogany desk.

He extended his hand from his wheelchair and shook her hand.

'Good,' he said with a nod as she matched his firm grip. 'Can I get you anything? Coffee? A sandwich?'

'No, thank you,' Margaret replied, 'I'd prefer to start immediately.'

'Good,' Brad confirmed. He had expected her to be tired from the flight. He leant to his side and pressed a button on his phone.

'Yes, sir?' a voice answered.

'Show Ms Trent to the interview room,' Brad commanded and released the button.

Margaret turned as Brad's assistant entered the room.

'If there's anything you need, please let me know,' Brad said to Margaret and extended his hand to her again, before wheeling himself back to his position at his desk.

'See to it that Ms Trent has our full cooperation,' he said to his aide.

'Yes, sir,' the young man said from the doorway.

'Thank you for your time' Margaret said to Brad before leaving the room.

'This way, ma'am.' The rigidly formal aide in his severe dark suit gestured to her.

She followed him down the austere corridor. He pressed the lift button and stood to attention as they waited in silence.

The lift doors opened and he motioned for her to enter. He stepped in behind and pressed the appropriate button on the panel. The lift descended and they stood in silence as it travelled twenty-three floors beneath the ground.

When the doors opened again he followed her out into the brightly lit corridor and led her to the single heavy glass door at the end. The security staff at their station inside the doorway pressed a sequence of buttons and Margaret heard a succession of locks closing in doors she was unable to see. The last lock to turn was the one securing the door ahead of her and the guard pulled it open.

'This is Ms Trent,' her chaperone informed them. 'Dr Selvan is expecting her.'

'Yes, sir,' the guard replied and nodded to his colleague, who dialled a number and spoke secretively into his headset.

'I'll collect you when you're ready to leave, Ms Trent,' her guide said courteously and shook her hand before leaving through the glass door.

'This way, ma'am.' The guard led her down several corridors until they reached a door marked 'Interview room 3'. He spoke quietly into his headset and moments later the door unlocked. He pushed the door open and indicated that she should enter. 'Please wait in here,' he said as he closed the door behind her.

Margaret looked around the room in silence. It was comfortably furnished, like an informal living room in an average house in Middle America. Plush sofas and chairs were arranged around a coffee table facing a large flat-screen television in the corner of the room. Magazines, coasters and coffee mugs covered the top of the table. Margaret surveyed the room's reflection in the large mirror covering the wall behind the television.

Margaret heard the door behind her open and she turned to see an energetic young man bustle into the room. He was Asian, in his mid thirties, five foot nine with a slim athletic build. He wore dark blue chinos and a white cotton shirt with a tie fashioned into a Windsor knot. The tie was loose enough to reveal that his top button was undone and his sleeves were untidily rolled up just below his elbows.

'Hello, Margaret,' he said warmly as he extended his hand. 'Amicharan Selvan, IAO Psyche unit.' He clenched a large box file precariously under his other arm. 'Call me Ami. I'm sorry I've kept you waiting but I assumed you'd only start work tomorrow after your long flight and the time zones and all that.'

'I thought I'd get straight to work,' Margaret said as she shook his hand. 'Thank you for taking the time to see me.'

'Not at all,' he said as he placed the box files on the table. 'Please sit down, Mr Jackson will join us as soon as possible. In the mean time I may be able to answer any questions you might have.'

'Thank you,' Margaret said as she sat on the sofa opposite him.

She eyed the file on the table between them.

'Her notes,' Amicharan said, standing up and handing the file to her. 'There's a lot in there.'

Margaret clicked the box open and lifted out two hardback notebooks. They were proprietary lined and spaced notebooks from a government stationer. The edges and spines were well worn. One of them bore the handwritten label 'Penitent's Log' and the other was labelled 'Journal'.

'What do you think?' Margaret asked as she held the notebooks in her hand.

'I don't think they were her idea. I think he insisted she kept records of what she was doing from two perspectives, hence a set of medical notes and a separate private diary. They make for gruesome reading,' Amicharan said. 'They tell us a great deal and yet they reveal nothing.'

'May I?' Margaret asked, her hand on the cover of the first of the books.

'Please do,' Amicharan said. 'I would read the penitent's log first, then the journal. The log is really just a medical document recording the torture applied, the effects of the torture on the body and the subsequent medical management of the trauma. Miss Singh had no prior medical training, not even a Girl Scout medical badge, so she recorded and followed Gabriel's instructions to the letter. Some of his treatments suggest he may be a veterinarian but most of the drug protocols and dosages he uses are human treatments so we can only guess at his profession. We have no idea how or where she obtained the medical supplies but what we do know is that his treatment protocols were meticulous, exacting and very successful.'

'We aren't sure about his medical training either,' Margaret volunteered. 'We suspect he may be a veterinary surgeon or a paramedic.'

'There's no way to be sure,' Amicharan agreed. 'He could be ex-military, like an ops medic – we simply don't know.'

'Quite,' Margaret agreed.

'Her personal journal is much more informative. She used it like a diary to record and explore her thoughts and feelings. The scorpion event marked the moment she changed from a victim to a survivor. Her motive changed from revenge to punishment. Even her relationship with Gabriel changed – she became more assertive and demonstrative. Reading between the lines, I think he liked the change in her. I think that's part of the whole thing for him; it's not just about punishing the guilty, it's also about helping his students rebuild their lives and recover from what happened to them.'

'That's an interesting idea that I hadn't considered,' Margaret mused. 'I suppose he thinks the whole thing is like therapy for them.'

'Exactly.' Amicharan nodded. 'The journal is a record of the student's emotional and psychological recovery. It's as though Gabriel is their therapist, guiding and recording their recovery through their own eyes and their own words in such a subtle way that they think they're doing it themselves. He's a master manipulator and as sly as a fox. She's left nothing in the log or the journal to lead us to him. I believe that's because he told her nothing about himself. It was all about her.'

A knock at the door broke the conversation.

'Come,' Amicharan called loudly.

The door swung open and a nurse led an overweight middle-aged man into the room and towards an armchair. She held his arm as he shuffled slowly forwards, his shoulders stooped and his back hunched. His awkward movements were the consequence of repeated assaults on his genitals. A thick mop of greasy brown hair was combed into an untidy side parting. His face was turned down to the floor. He had once been broad and powerfully built but the horrors he had lived through had broken his body and his spirit. His broken fingers had grown together into twisted clenched fists he would never use again.

The nurse settled him into the armchair and stepped away from the centre of the room.

'Thank you, Miss Cappell,' Ami said politely. 'Please leave us.'

The nurse nodded and left the room. Her patient sat alone in his chair, staring down at his lap and mumbling incoherently to himself. Margaret could not see his face.

'Hello, Billy,' Amicharan said cheerfully. 'How are you today?'

Billy kept his face turned down and continued mumbling, rubbing his clawed hands together.

'Billy, I've brought a new friend to meet you today,' Amicharan continued. 'Her name's Margaret.'

Billy failed to respond.

'Post-traumatic stress disorder,' Amicharan announced. 'It's put him somewhere in the middle of the autistic spectrum.'

Margaret nodded.

'Please,' Amicharan invited, 'speak with him.'

Margaret turned her attention back to him. 'Hello, Billy,' she said softly.

Billy ignored her.

'Billy, I've come to help you,' she said as she rose from her seat.

Billy ignored her.

'Billy,' Margaret said again as she gently touched his arm.

He recoiled from her touch and screamed hysterically. He twisted away from her and in his panic his screams escalated to incoherent squawking. He rocked violently backwards and forwards and folded himself into a protective foetal position. The screams abruptly receded into a frightened whimper.

'He has good days and bad days,' Amicharan explained. 'Today would be a bad day.'

'Billy,' Margaret soothed, taking care not to touch him. 'Billy, you're safe now.'

Billy keened softly to himself.

'No one is going to hurt you, Billy,' she said gently. 'You're safe now.'

Billy rocked himself into a tense ball and babbled unintelligibly.

'Billy, can you hear me?' Margaret continued. 'Can you understand me?'

Billy rocked himself more violently and whispered, 'She's coming.'

'Who's coming?' Margaret asked.

'Miss Singh,' he whispered, 'Miss Singh is coming.'

'You're safe now, Billy,' Margaret repeated. 'Miss Singh is never coming back.'

'She always comes back,' Billy insisted. 'She's coming to help me.'

'What do you mean, Billy?' Margaret asked. 'What do you mean, "she's coming to help you"?'

'She helps me,' Billy stuttered and nodded to himself. 'She helps me,' he repeated.

'How does she help you, Billy?' Margaret probed.

'She's my friend,' Billy whimpered. 'She's my only friend. She helps me to understand.'

'What does she help you to understand?' Margaret asked.

Amicharan leant forward as he strained to hear Billy's soft words.

Billy rocked rhythmically.

'What does she help you to understand?' Margaret asked again.

Billy continued to rock and keen softly.

'What does she help you to understand?' Margaret asked again.

'It's no use,' Amicharan said from behind her.

'What does she help you to understand?' Margaret ignored Amicharan.

Billy keened more loudly for a few moments before settling back into soft whimpering and gentle rocking.

'It's no use,' Amicharan said again.

Billy fell silent and bobbed his head up and down. Margaret had still not seen his face. He stared vacantly down at his lap.

Margaret listened to his breathing for several moments before hearing him speak faintly.

'I did a bad thing,' Billy whispered so softly that only Margaret heard his words.

'What does she help you to understand?' Margaret whispered softly.

'I did a bad thing,' Billy whispered back.

'Yes,' Margaret replied, 'you did a bad thing but you're safe now. Miss Singh is gone now, she won't hurt you anymore.'

'Gone?' Billy asked.

'Yes,' Margaret answered.

'Gone where?'

'She died, Billy,' Margaret explained. 'She can't hurt you again.'

'No!' Billy shouted 'No!'

'You're safe, Billy,' Margaret said again. 'You're safe now.'

'Miss Singh is my friend!' Billy shouted. 'Miss Singh is my friend!'

'It's OK, Billy.' Amicharan knelt down beside him. 'It's OK.'

Billy dissolved into tears and wept.

Amicharan hugged Billy to comfort him, and Billy clung on, sobbing remorselessly.

'I want Miss Singh. I did a bad thing,' Billy whimpered.

Amicharan looked up at Margaret and said, 'He'll be fine in a little while. He needs to calm down.'

Margaret nodded and stepped away from them.

'Stockholm syndrome,' Amicharan said to her. 'Damndest thing.'

******

Sally checked her phone before leaving the building. One new message.

'Hi Aunt Sally. Mission failed. We dug up the whole garden and the house but found nothing. Geophys negative. Waiting on soil sample tests but not optimistic. Boss has withdrawn surveillance. Still think it's him. Will keep on it.'

'Trust your instincts, sink your teeth in, don't let go,' Sally texted back and smiled. She recognised a little of herself in her favourite niece.

31

Cambridge, England

07h03 GMT, 18 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Mikegzb: Got him.

Gabriel: How?

Mikegzb: He came around at one in the morning last night, completely pissed. He wanted to go for a drink to thank me for saving her life. We drank sake at a local bar until we were both wasted. The bar owner was too afraid of him to ask us to leave so we stayed there until he passed out. The barman's son took me home and the barman drove Xiao Li home in his own car. Just before dawn Xiao appeared in my room and woke me up. Apparently he'd woken up on his way home and kicked the barman out of his car to drive himself home. Not surprisingly he crashed the car and walked to my house for some reason. He's passed out again and I've tied him to the chair and gagged him. We've got him, Gabriel! No one knows he's here.

Gabriel: Does he have his mobile phone?

Mikegzb: Why?

Gabriel: Does he have his phone?

Mikegzb: Yes, why?

Gabriel: Why did he walk to your house? Why didn't he phone someone to go fetch him?

No response.

Gabriel: Check his phone log to see who he's called in the last 12 hours.

Ben stroked Khan sitting on his lap as he waited for Michael to answer.

Mikegzb: He didn't make any calls last night.

Gabriel: Would anyone have seen him walking to you last night?

Mikegzb: I don't think so, no one's about that time of night.

Gabriel: Is he secure?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: With cable ties and a gag?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: Does anyone other than the barman know the boy brought you home?

Mikegzb: Yes, I woke the neighbours up to get my spare key to get into the house. They saw the boy and the moped waiting for me outside.

Gabriel: Excellent, that's your alibi if anyone asks. Do nothing else for the next two days. Wait for his men to come looking for you. If they don't come, they don't suspect you. They'll probably think the barman has something to do with his disappearance.

Mikegzb: Do I need to get anything ready?

Gabriel: Switch off his mobile phone to save the batteries. Take his trousers off, saw a hole in the bottom of his chair and put a bucket under it. Keep him well fed and make sure he drinks lots of water for the next two days then contact me again.

'Excellent,' Ben said out loud to himself as he logged off and deleted his browsing history.

'What?' a female voice asked from the shower.

'Nothing,' he called back to the haze of steam drifting from the bathroom. 'Just talking to myself.'

'Come and join me,' she called out. 'If you wash my back, I'll wash your front.'

'Now there's an offer,' Ben said as he stepped into the bathroom. He looked at her naked body through the shower glass and felt his groin tighten.

'What were you doing?' she asked innocently.

'Waiting for your invitation,' he answered as he stripped off his clothes.

'Turn off the light,' she said coyly. 'I'm shy.'

'Sure you are,' he said, leaving the light on and joining her under the shower head.

32

Lhasa, China

17h34 local time, 20 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Gabriel: So no one knows what happened to him?

Mikegzb: No. They beat the hell out of the poor barman and his son but they could only tell them what they knew.

Gabriel: Have they spoken to you?

Mikegzb: Only to ask what we spoke about that night. I told them exactly what we spoke about and the barman verified what I said so I think I'm off their list.

Gabriel: Excellent.

Mikegzb: What do we do now?

Gabriel: Have you got a hammer?

Mikegzb: No.

Gabriel: How did you secure the chair to the floor?

Mikegzb: I used an electric drill and long woodscrews.

Gabriel: Have you got drill bits?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: Have you got a bit as long as his fingers and about one third as thick as a finger?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: Use the small cable ties to tie his index finger tightly to the armrest of the chair. Tie it down dead straight.

Michael left his laptop and walked across the room to his seated captive. Xiao was a small man, even by Chinese standards. Michael had removed only his trousers and underpants, he was still wearing his tailored jacket, shirt and tie. The cable ties around his arms pressed deep creases into the lustrous cloth. His thin naked legs looked weak and vulnerable below the wealth and power of his bespoke shirt and jacket. The long strands of hair, usually carefully combed over his bald head, drooped limply over his left ear. The cable ties around his lower legs were crusted in dried blood. His concerted efforts to jerk his legs free had only succeeded in cutting the plastic ties deeply into his skin. A few dried trickles of blood reached down to his pale yellow socks.

His rage had escalated over the last two days and, as Michael approached him, he renewed his threats and abuse from beneath his gag. He clenched his fists and wrenched himself furiously against the cable ties. The long strands of hair whipped across his face as he threw his head forwards and backwards. The skin on his swollen face was purple with rage and tortuous veins throbbed against his temples as he glared at Michael.

Michael stood calmly in front of him and said, 'I need you to cooperate.'

Michael grabbed Xiao's right hand and wrestled with it as he fought to prise the fingers open. After considerable effort he extended the forefinger and tied it tightly against the armrest. The other fingers still tried to ball into a fist but the armrest was in the way. When he was finished he returned to his laptop.

Mikegzb: Done it.

Gabriel: Is he still gagged?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: I want you to drill into the tip of his finger up to the first joint. Once you have reached the first joint stop and give him as much time as he needs to calm down before speaking to him. Once he's calm enough to listen, tell him that you are going to drill out the inside of all his fingers if he does not do exactly as you say. Once you have told him then start drilling again and keep going all the way down the length of the finger. Make sure the drill bit hollows out the inside of the finger all the way until it reaches the palm of the hand. Leave the drill bit and the drill hanging there and ask him if he's ready to cooperate. If he doesn't agree to cooperate, then do the same to the next finger. Make sure the bucket is directly beneath him before you start.

Michael winced at the thought as he typed: 'Give me a few minutes.'

He left the room as Xiao railed against him in incoherent muffled fury. He returned a few moments later and plugged the drill in. He pressed the point of the drill bit against the point of Xiao's finger. He pressed harder until the pink of the nail-bed blanched white.

Xiao stopped shouting for a moment as he looked down at his finger, trying to comprehend what Michael was doing. He looked back up at Michael a moment later and bellowed at him from beneath the gag.

Michael ignored him as he concentrated to aim the drill accurately. His finger squeezed the trigger and the drill spun into life. The skin over the fingertip twisted hideously for an instant before the drill bit sunk into the bone. The twist of the skin wrenched Michael's wrist and the point of the drill bit emerged through the base of the nail.

'Shit!' Michael cursed, oblivious to Xiao's howls of pain.

He fumbled with the switch on the drill and selected reverse. Squeezing the trigger again he pulled the drill bit out of the finger. Blood spurted out of the hole and speckled Michael's face, arms and chest.

Shit!' he cursed again and selected the forward switch.

He knelt carefully and started drilling again until the first quarter of the bit was deeply embedded within the finger.

Xiao was screaming beneath his gag as Michael stood up and watched him curiously. His screams seemed to be motivated by anger and indignation rather than just pain.

_Bloody hell,_ Michael thought to himself.

'Xiao,' he said, but it fell on deaf ears. Xiao was not listening to him.

'Xiao,' he said again, more sternly than before.

Xiao continued his hysterical tirade and refused to acknowledge Michael.

Michael fetched his chair from the table and dragged it back to Xiao. He sat down and stared back at him, waiting for him to calm down enough to listen. Xiao saw Michael's intention and fell silent.

'Xiao,' Michael said firmly, 'like it or not, you're my prisoner and I can do whatever I want to you. You're men aren't coming for you. They've spoken to me and they're satisfied I have no idea where you are. You must understand what I'm about to say to you. I'm going to keep doing this to you until you do what I want, do you understand?'

Xiao whipped his head forward and snorted snot at Michael's face. Two thick ropes of mucous slapped across Michael's mouth. Michael was startled and revolted by the mucous and leapt from his chair. He pursed his lips tightly shut and ran to the bathroom where he washed his face obsessively until he felt clean.

'Right, Xiao,' he said as he stomped back into the room. 'Fuck you!'

He grabbed the drill roughly and squeezed the trigger tightly. The drill leapt to life and Michael grimaced in anger as he forced the drill bit through the length of the finger. Once the entire length of the bit was inside the finger he slid it backwards and forwards and round and round in a circular motion to make the hollowed out centre of the finger as large as possible.

'Fuck you, Xiao,' he said as he worked the drill in and out of the hole. 'Are you going to cooperate?' he shouted.

Xiao howled like a wounded pig but his gag stifled his cries and confined his pain to the room.

'Are you?' Michael shouted at him as he rammed the drill bit, spinning at full speed, back into the finger and twisted it violently.

Xiao paused for a moment and tried to blow snot out of his flaring nostrils again but only a fine watery spray came out.

Michael was ready this time and moved his face out of the way.

'Fine,' he said, 'then we'll do the next one.'

He placed the drill on the floor and wiped his blood-spattered hands against his trousers. As he fought with Xiao to get hold of the next finger their fingers became increasingly slippery with blood. He finally succeeded in strapping the second finger against the first and secured it tightly to the armrest.

'Right, you fucker,' he panted, 'let's keep going.'

He knelt in the pool of blood at the base of the chair leg and rammed the drill bit against the next fingertip. He took a few deep breaths to compose himself. He aimed carefully before he squeezed the trigger and the skin twisted violently again.

Xiao howled against his will as the skin beneath his nail disintegrated.

Michael slowed the drill speed to a crawl and felt the tip of the bit cutting at the bone as it advanced into the finger. Michael smelt Xiao's bowels empty into the bucket beneath him. The splatter of liquid faeces and the malodour made him gag and he turned his head away from the source.

The tone of Xiao's voice changed but Michael ignored him and continued drilling slowly and rocked the drill from side to side to maximise the pain. The entire drill bit was soon hidden inside the second finger. Michael let go of the drill to let its full weight pivot against the bones inside.

'Are you ready to cooperate?' he shouted at Xiao.

Disbelief drew Xiao's eyes and mouth wide open and he slowly nodded his head.

'Good,' Michael said and stepped away from the smell.

He walked back to his laptop and was about to start typing when he changed his mind and returned to Xiao. He removed the bucket from beneath the chair and left the room to empty the contents into the toilet. He took the bucket outside and hosed the inside clean before returning to the room and putting it under the chair again.

Mikegzb: He wants to cooperate.

Gabriel: And so he should. Let him think about it for the rest of the day. We'll start again tomorrow.

33

Cambridge, England

19h30 GMT, 21 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Marion had seemed distracted when she arrived home from work and Ben kissed her 'Hello'. He suggested a run with the dogs, hoping it would lift her spirits, and she had agreed. Tess and Bet recognised the word 'run' and the small house was instantly overwhelmed by the cacophony of frenzied barking and frantic yelping as Ben and Marion dressed in silence. They set off on the usual route of six miles along the footpaths and bridle paths spanning the huge Great Cam Manor Estate near their home. They would usually have chatted over the first few miles, discussing what had happened at work that day until their breath could no longer sustain conversation, but not tonight. He had tried to engage her in conversation but her answers were succinct and to the point, very polite but brief.

Ben had run beside her in silence for most of the way, knowing that he should draw her out but feeling awkward about it because, had the roles been reversed, he would have wanted some quiet time to mull over his thoughts. _Mars and Venus,_ he remonstrated with himself. They ran in silence punctuated only by the occasional yapping of the dogs as a surprised pheasant fled noisily from its hiding place. Ben drifted into his own thoughts as the exertion released endorphins and dopamine into his veins. His mind sifted through the events of his day and filed them in the appropriate places. Before he knew it, they were back at home, preparing their evening meal.

After eating, Marion remained brooding and muted all evening and Ben sensed a storm on the horizon. She probably wanted to talk about babies, again. Her biological clock had been gonging loudly and incessantly since the birth of her niece and Ben realised he couldn't avoid a final showdown with her forever. She wanted babies, lots of them, and Ben wanted his life to stay the same. They had been to her niece's first birthday party the previous weekend. Marion was in heaven at the party, surrounded by Holly and all the other babies with their cooing mothers. She revelled in the maelstrom of maternal pheromones and baby odours. Ben had smiled at all the right moments and apparently enjoyed it as much as everyone else but even now, the sour smell of soiled nappies still haunted his nostrils. The question of starting a family of their own was more than an impasse; it was the Mount Everest of relationship issues.

'I'll wash up and feed the dogs,' he suggested to her. 'Why don't you go and have a shower?'

'I'll help you clear up first,' she said, 'it's not fair for you to do everything.'

'I don't mind,' he said.

'I know you don't, it'll get done quicker if we both do it.'

'OK,' he answered, 'then you can shower and I'll shower after you.'

Ben squatted on his haunches and loaded the dishwasher as Marion prepared the meals for the dogs. Unable to think of anything to say, he started whistling 'O Tannenbaum' softly to himself.

'Stop that,' Marion said.

'What?' Ben asked.

'The whistling.'

'Why?'

'You only whistle when you're pissed off about something.'

'No.'

'Yes.'

'I'm not pissed off about anything.'

'Well then, maybe it's because you seem so distant tonight.'

'I'm not distant.'

'Yes you are.'

'I'm just a bit edgy because you seem edgy.'

Ben looked up at her but her back was turned as she put the empty dog food can into the recycling box. She took the dog bowls and left the room in silence.

_Oh, God,_ Ben thought to himself, _I hate it when she gets like this._

Marion returned to the kitchen and washed her hands.

'Marion,' he sighed, 'what's wrong?'

'I know about Gabriel,' Marion blurted and turned to face him.

Her words fell like a bombshell, a thermo-nuclear, ear-splitting, gut-wrenching, burning, blinding, all-consuming bombshell. He had expected bad but this was exponentially worse. A deafening thunderclap of silence shook the room.

'Oh,' Ben replied feebly as his mind reeled with the blow.

The air in the room crackled with excruciating distress. There was no place to run and no place to hide. He was cornered, boxed in, trapped, marooned. Ben remained on his haunches, staring distantly into the belly of the dishwasher. He felt dizzy and nauseous and leant down to steady himself with a hand on the floor. The pervasive silence sucked him down like quicksand.

'Oh,' he said again.

'I know everything,' she said.

'Oh,' was all he could muster.

The sound of a dog growling broke the tension.

'Hang on a minute,' Ben said, agitated. 'Khan!' he shouted. 'How did he get into the dogs' room?'

Marion protested with a plaintive wave of her hand.

'Just hang on a second,' Ben repeated, 'I'll go rescue him.'

Ben fled from the kitchen and stumbled numbly into the dogs' room. Khan was eating heartily from Bet's bowl as she stood back and growled ineffectually at him. Tess rolled her eyes from the far corner of the room, keeping the kitten in view and gulping her food as fast as she could. Khan ignored Bet's threats and chirruped to Ben as he walked up to him.

'Not a good idea, Khan,' Ben said as he picked him up and draped him over his shoulder.

Bet dived back into her bowl and wolfed her food down, glaring at Khan's face peering at her from over Ben's shoulder. Ben left the room and closed the door before lowering Khan to the ground.

He braced his shoulders before returning to the kitchen.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Marion asked, hurt and betrayed.

'How?'

'How what?'

'How do you know?'

'That's not important. What's important is, how could you hide this from me?'

'Well...'

'What do you mean "Well"?'

'I didn't want you to get caught up in the whole thing.'

'I'm involved with you, so obviously I'm involved in everything about you.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I don't need you to be sorry, I'm devastated.'

'What are you going to do?'

'What can I do?'

'Who are you going to tell?'

'No one. Why would I tell anyone?'

'So you're not going to tell anyone?' Ben's voice faltered.

'Of course not.'

'How did you find out?'

'That's not important, Ben.'

'Of course it is. When did you find out?' he persisted.

'The day after Chris phoned to tell us he might be here for my birthday.'

'Does Chris know? Did he tell you?' Ben fired questions at her.

'You're not making sense, Ben, why are you twisting the question?'

'I'm not.'

'Then just tell me the truth.'

'I don't know what you want me to say.'

'The truth, Ben, just tell me the truth.'

'What did he tell you?'

'For God's sake, Ben, this is serious.'

'I know,' Ben said sadly as he considered the very few options she had now left him.

'So just tell me.'

Khan walked into the kitchen and twisted himself around her ankles, purring loudly.

'Not now, Khan,' Marion said to him and gently pushed him away.

Ben stood transfixed, silent and immovable in the centre of the kitchen. His eyes moved from Marion's face to Khan to Marion's face and finally to a distant horizon outside the window over the sink. He didn't really have options here. He had only one option.

'Talk to me Ben, please.'

'Tell me exactly what you know and how you know and who knows what,' Ben whispered, staring despairingly ahead.

'You're scaring me, Ben,' Marion pleaded softly. 'Please just talk to me.'

'Tell me exactly what you know,' Ben hardened.

Marion was trembling. Ben turned to her and she saw a cold hardness in his face that she had never seen before. He didn't look like Ben at all. She paled as she searched for the man she loved and found a stranger in his place.

'Tell me exactly what you know,' Ben repeated with clenched hands and jaw.

'Your mother told me.' Marion recoiled.

'My mother?'

'Yes, your mother. She phoned for a chat just after I got off the phone with Chris. We were talking and she just came out with it, like she thought I knew all about it.'

'After you spoke to Chris?' Ben's mind was scrambling through decisions and implications.

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'There's nothing to tell.'

'It's a big thing to her.'

'What did she tell you? How does she know?'

'What do you mean, "How does she know?"' Marion wiped away a tear with a trembling hand. 'You're really scaring me now, Ben.'

Her eyes pleaded with him as the ice of anxiety spread through her veins. She clasped her hands to stop them shaking. Ben stared back at her, weighing the options and waiting for the answer.

'She told me about losing him and that she still can't come to terms with it,' she stammered, afraid and tentative.

'And?'

'She told me how she lost him.'

'You mean Gabriel?' Ben asked, confused.

'Yes.'

'The baby she lost?' He frowned at her.

'Yes.'

'Gabriel?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.' Ben laughed in disbelief. 'That's what you're talking about.'

Marion stared at him, bewildered by his reaction.

'Ben, are you OK?' she asked. Her tone changed from anxiety to concern.

'Yes, yes,' he replied and smiled at her as relief washed the strain from his face.

She frowned at him then smiled back nervously.

'That's just it, it's a big thing to her and my dad but to me and Chris it meant nothing,' Ben explained.

'That's a bit cold, Ben,' she remonstrated. 'How can you call a miscarriage "nothing"?'

'I didn't mean it like that. It was her first child so it happened years before we were born. She miscarried at twenty weeks and, although he probably looked like a tiny human being, he technically never really got beyond being an immature non-viable foetus. What I mean is, it's a tragedy for them that they lost the baby but they never knew him as a person. I know it would have been horrendous to look at the little body, and there was a funeral and everything, but he was never a person in the true sense of the word. He was her first pregnancy but it's not like they lost a three year old or a ten year old. I realise they went through the whole process of bereavement and mourning but it all happened before I was born. I can empathise with how they must have felt but for Chris and me it was only ever something they told us about, it was never a personal experience.'

'How can you treat it like it was nothing? For a parent it's something that scars you for life. Don't you wonder what it would have been like to have an older brother? He even had a name and everything.'

'They had to give him a name to bury him, so they called him Gabriel.'

'They named him after an angel,' she mused out loud. 'That's beautiful.'

'Technically, yes,' he interrupted her, 'but I think they also just liked biblical names, that's why I'm Benjamin and Chris is Christopher.'

'I think it's beautiful that they named him after an angel, the most important angel.' Tears spilled from Marion's eyes.

'Yes it was,' Ben whispered softly as he took her in his arms.

He hugged her with a sense of relief she could never understand and she hugged him back. They stood together for a long time, imperfect and perfect, warm and comforting, like home was inside each other.

'I still don't know why you never told me.' Marion sniffed and raised a hand to wipe her tears without letting go.

'It just never came up,' Ben protested softly.

'It must have come up with Chris somehow. She said he phoned her and they talked about it for the first time in years.'

'Yeah, sometimes it comes up in my mind too.'

'You say it like it's a bad thing to come up?'

'For me and Chris it's always been a difficult thing.'

'Losing a brother?'

'No, not that. It's a long story.'

'Please tell me, Ben,' she pleaded. 'Please don't shut me out of that part of your life. Obviously it hurt you more than you thought. Tell me how you feel.'

'Let's go sit down,' he said and led her to the living room. They sat down and he took her hands.

'My dad doesn't have Alzheimer's,' Ben said bluntly.

'But...' she started to answer.

'His symptoms are the result of being an alcoholic for the twenty-two years we spent in Africa. He was sent there by the church to head the diocese of Harare. They handpicked him here and fast-tracked him to bishop once he got there. They chose him because he was young, ambitious and passionate about his work. It was considered an honour that they selected him to go and apparently he was very well received when they got there. For the first few years he worked hard and completely transformed the diocese. They wanted to promote him to archbishop of Zimbabwe but he declined the offer, saying he didn't want to lose touch with his parishioners. He was definitely well liked by everyone in Harare and the culture of endless rounds of social drinks and sundowners meant he drank more than he should have.'

'That doesn't make him an alcoholic though.'

'Well, he kept it a pretty good secret. In the beginning it didn't affect his work for the church so they turned a blind eye to it. That's when my mother became pregnant for the first time and she had the miscarriage. It hit them hard and he drank more and more, to try to cope I suppose. By the time I was born he was getting drunk at home every evening and started missing calls for help at night, you know, people calling him for deaths or personal dramas. By the time Chris was born, most people knew he was no good after eight at night, but it didn't affect his work during the day so no one said anything. By the time I was seven the delusions started. He fabricated a complete life and personality for Gabriel and constantly compared me and Chris to him. Ma tried to rationalise it, saying that he was just comparing us to what he thought Gabriel might have been like.'

'That's not a healthy environment for a child.' Marion stated the obvious.

'At first it confused the hell out of us because we were only kids. As we got older we realised his mind wasn't right but he was our dad, so what could we do? We tried to do anything and everything to please him but Gabriel had become his obsession, we were just extra baggage to him. Ma tried to smooth things over all the time but, by the time we were teenagers, we just tried to avoid him. It was always about Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel, all the time, until the church finally realised his mind was going and he was unfit to stay on as bishop. They moved us to a small hick town in rural Kwazulu-Natal in South Africa where we stayed for several years and he worked as a local vicar. Eventually they arranged to have him recalled to England because he had become an embarrassment there too. He and Ma and Chris left but I stayed behind to finish university and when I graduated I came back here to be near them. When they retired him they reinstated him as an emeritus bishop to get them a better retirement deal. Their tiny house is an alms house in a forgotten parish. They pay him a small pension, just enough to keep them alive but out of the way.'

'That's a terrible story,' Marion stuttered and leant forward to hug him fiercely. 'Any child growing up in that kind of painful and confusing environment would need therapy to deal with it all. Did you ever go for any counselling?'

'Never needed it,' Ben said. 'I was upset for a while but now I see it for what it was. I don't have any issues.'

'And Chris?'

'He's still working through it but it's getting better.'

'I don't know what to say,' she said and kissed him.

'You don't have to say anything. It's a grim story and that's why I've never told anyone. Even Chris and I haven't spoken about it since we came back to England.'

'And?'

'There's nothing more to say. It is what it is.'

'It was a big thing for your mother... It still is a big thing for her,' she corrected herself.

'I know,' Ben sighed and the pain in his words was palpable, 'but I don't know how to help her with it.'

'I don't think you can,' Marion replied. 'From speaking to her I think you've managed to leave the past in the past but her pain and confusion will never go away.'

'Exactly, so I try not to think about it. I try just to be there when she needs me. How much did she tell you?' Ben asked.

'Only that he was stillborn and that she misses him terribly.'

'Nothing else?'

'Nothing else. I think she may have blotted most of what you told me out of her memory, like a self-preserving amnesia.'

'Well then, that's good for her. I love her very much and my father will always still be my father.'

'You don't know how much you mean to me,' Marion said as she wiped more tears from her eyes.

Ben's shoulder was wet as she kept her face nuzzled tightly against him. 'You mean everything to me,' he whispered.

'Why don't you ever say it?'

'I want to but I can't. If I call it "love" it somehow makes it less than it is. I suppose I do have issues in that sense. I can't use the word "love". People profess undying love for each other all the time and at least fifty per cent of them end up getting divorced. It's become a cheap word to me because people abuse it and use it too easily and too lightly. Measure me by what I do and you'll know how I feel about you. I just find it hard to say it out loud.'

'Oh, Ben,' she sighed and clung to him in the ensuing silence.

She loved the needy way he hugged her, the need to belong and to be wanted.

'Oh, Ben,' she sighed again and raised her head up, brushing her lips against his neck as she searched for his lips. She found them and kissed him deeply.

34

MI6 headquarters, London, England

14h05 GMT, 22 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Eventually we went for regression hypnosis,' Margaret said in the meeting.

John grimaced as he looked at the large colour photographs of Billy Jackson's body. He had barely listened to Margaret's report since realising that it had not yielded anything useful to catch Gabriel.

'Mr Jackson's mind is considerably more damaged and distorted than his body,' Margaret continued. 'He developed a multiple personality disorder to survive the thirty-four months in that basement. To get through his ordeal he had to become the person he thought she wanted him to be and the person he thought it was safest to be. His mind fragmented into three distinct personalities, each unaware of the others. The dominant personality is penitent and self-flagellatory, exactly what Miss Singh wanted. The second personality is based on the delusion that Miss Singh is his only real friend, a variation on the Stockholm syndrome. His real identity has regressed beyond the grasp of his conscious mind; hypnosis is the only hope of reaching him.'

'And?' John asked, unable to look away from the grisly photographs.

'We failed,' Margaret answered unapologetically. 'Multiple personality disorder is a tough nut to crack.'

'So you got nothing?' John pursued her.

'Dr Selvan and his team will continue working with him. Miss Singh may have said something that could be critical in identifying who Gabriel is. Ongoing hypnotherapy may retrieve crucial memories repressed deep inside his mind. Mr Jackson may hold the key to solving this case.'

'Or, more likely, he'll be permanently la-la,' John interrupted.

'Time will tell,' Margaret countered.

John grunted dismissively and dropped the sheaf of photographs back onto the table.

'Dr Selvan and his team are working on an angle that we hadn't considered,' Margaret went on. 'We've focused on the retribution angle, centring on the mutilations of the victims. They're suggesting that it's not about the torture of the victims. Dr Selvan's theory is that the torture is just a component of a long, complicated course of psychotherapy for the people administering the torture.'

Margaret paused to let everyone assimilate what she was saying.

'So he thinks he's a shrink?' Sean asked.

'That's two questions,' John observed.

'Two very good questions,' Margaret said. 'No, Dr Selvan doesn't think Gabriel is a psychotherapist and yes, Gabriel probably thinks of himself as one who is helping his patients work through their emotional and psychological problems.'

'By torturing the hell out of the people who pissed them off?' John asked.

'In a nutshell,' Margaret answered, 'yes.'

'Let me get this straight,' Sean interrupted, 'the new theory is that the torture is just a minor part of what he does?'

'Yes.'

'And, in his twisted mind, he's just using it like Prozac to help people get over their issues?'

'In essence,' Margaret said, 'yes.'

'Thank you, Maggie.' Sally took control of the meeting. 'Keep us posted.'

'But what's with the years and years of torture?' John interrupted. 'Why does it have to go on for so long?'

'Two reasons,' Margaret explained. 'Firstly, psychological wounds are deeply integrated into the psyche and therapy, by its very nature, is a slow process achieved by gradually learning to let go and learning to know yourself.'

'Of course it is.' John rolled his eyes.

'Secondly, I think there's an element of ego involved.'

John frowned.

'I think Gabriel likes the intellectual challenge of keeping the victims alive for as long as he can. He's a show-off, he likes to prove to everyone, especially himself, just how good a physician he is.'

'I'll buy that,' John concurred.

'Thank you, Maggie,' Sally said again. 'We've made significant progress while you were away. Gabriel showed considerable interest in the story you devised about the expat child pornographer in Thailand. Sean and Ray have arranged a contact.'

John's ears pricked up but he remained outwardly unmoved.

Sally looked at Sean and invited him to explain with a nod of her head.

'He's taken the bait all right,' Sean said. 'We spun him the story about the paedophile and it pissed him off right from the start. I let on I was the mother of a boy molested by this guy a couple of years ago and I only found out after he had emigrated to Thailand. I took the line that I wanted to travel out there and kill the bastard myself but I couldn't afford it. Our man Gabriel took it on and obviously did a bit of homework on his own. He researched international extradition law and talked me through the procedure of securing extradition based on the new uncontested allegations of paedophilia against the guy. I said I did everything he asked and secured the extradition back to the UK. I stuck to my story that I wanted to kill the bastard but our man insisted it was impossible once the authorities were involved. He's obviously right because I wouldn't get a look in past the police, customs and prison services. He kept his head and gave me good, sensible advice. The only way I could tempt him was to tell him when and where the bastard would be returned to the UK. I invited him to meet me there to see the end of it and so I could thank him.'

'And?' John asked impatiently.

'And he took the bait,' Sean retorted smugly. 'I told him the bastard was arriving on flight BA 257 from Bangkok at ten to seven on the twenty-sixth of August and he said he'd consider meeting me at the arrivals gate.'

'He said he'd "consider" it?' John asked.

'Yeah,' Sean said. 'We'll stake it out and take him down if he shows.'

'When he shows,' John corrected him.

'If he shows,' Ray argued. 'He wouldn't commit to it. The most he would say was that he "would be prepared to travel".'

'He'll be there,' John insisted.

'You know nothing about this,' Sean vigorously twisted his wedding ring. 'Why are you being such an arse?'

'I'm telling you,' John said smugly, 'he'll be there.'

'John,' Sally interrupted, 'there's obviously something you're not telling us.'

'And that's why you're the boss,' John replied. 'Of course I know something you don't know.'

'Spit it out,' Ray groaned and adjusted his glasses.

'I've also gotten his attention with my sob stories,' John explained, 'but he's always refused to meet me.'

'And?' Sean asked irritably.

'Until now,' John gloated.

'And?' Sean asked again.

'I pushed him to meet with me about an animal welfare case recently and he refused. I asked again a few days later and he agreed. He said he'd meet me at Liverpool Street Station in London on his way to Heathrow on the twenty-sixth of August. The Heathrow part was irrelevant until now. He's obviously going to meet me en route to his meeting with you. That doubles our chances of springing the trap. You'd have to be morons to cock this up.'

'Thank you, John,' Sally said to defuse the implied insult. 'Have you arranged the details of how you will meet?'

'You mean how will we recognise him?'

'Exactly.'

'He said he'd wear a ruby stud in his left ear and meet me at the baguette bar closest to the ticket office.'

'That's it?' Sean asked.

'What else do you want?' John answered. 'His address and NI number?'

'We've got him,' Sally said as she wrung her hands together.

'Damn right,' Sean said.

'Thank you, John,' Sally said. 'We'll contact you when we've worked out the details. You'll be fully briefed and we'll back you up to the hilt to guarantee your safety.'

'I told you I'd get him,' John bragged.

35

Cambridge, England

20h53 GMT, 22 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Hello, Chris,' she said and kissed him on the cheek as she hugged him.

'Happy birthday!' He threw his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.

'Thank you very much,' she said and hugged him back.

Chris ducked his head as he stepped through the doorway.

'Chris!' Ben said warmly.

Come here!' Chris bellowed and enveloped Ben in a bear hug.

Ben squeezed back as hard as he could but his younger brother was a foot taller than him and a lot stronger.

'Come in, come in,' Marion invited and led the way into the living room. 'Drop your bag anywhere you like,' she said. 'What would you like to drink? Beer? Tea? Coke?'

'A beer would be good,' Chris answered as he unslung his heavy bag from his shoulder.

'Tea?' she asked Ben with a raise of her eyebrows.

'Yes, please,' Ben nodded.

'Sit down, I'll bring it through ,' Marion said as she left the room.

'Tea?' Chris asked quizzically.

Ben sighed resignedly and sat down on one of the sofas. 'Take a seat,' he said and gestured towards the other sofa.

'Tea?' Chris asked again as he sat down.

'Yeah,' Ben conceded.

'Tea!' Chris said resolutely.

'I've sworn off the demon drink,' Ben said.

'Completely?' Chris asked disbelievingly.

'Completely,' Ben confirmed.

'And how does it feel?'

'Shit,' Ben answered and he and Chris roared in laughter as Marion re-entered the room. She handed Ben a mug of strong brewed tea and Chris a bottle of lager.

'What's the joke?' Marion wondered.

'No joke,' Ben said, 'I just told him I don't drink anymore.'

A smirk spread across Chris's face as he guffawed. He then looked cautiously at Marion.

'Marion doesn't drink either,' Ben offered.

'Bloody hell!' Chris said and took a deep drink. He drained half the beer before saying, 'Well, looks like I'm going to make up for both of you.' He raised the bottle to his lips and downed the rest.

'I've got to get going, I'm sorry I can't stay,' Marion said.

'Work's work,' Chris said with a shrug, 'and I did kind of spring this on you.'

Chris hugged her and kissed the top of her head. 'I'm going to go put this in my room,' he said and slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder as he walked off.

Marion drew on her coat and took her keys from the bookshelf.

'See you tomorrow evening,' she said, knowing that Ben would still be at work when she arrived home in the morning.

'Bye,' Ben said. He kissed her and squeezed her bum as she stepped out of the door.

Ben closed the door and turned to see Chris emerge from the spare room at the end of the passage.

'Just the two of us, then,' Chris whooped like a naughty schoolboy.

'Yup,' Ben said with a smile as they walked back into the living room.

'Beer now?' Chris asked.

'No, thanks,' Ben answered.

'But she's gone.' Chris objected.

'I know.'

'And still no beer?'

'Nope.'

'Weird.' Chris whistled with disbelief. He drained almost half of the bottle in his hand before saying, 'Right, let's get some pizza. What's their number?'

They ate pizza and drank beer and tea into the early hours of the morning. They shared anecdotes and delved into the minutiae of each other's lives, both private and professional. Chris became increasingly animated as the stock of beer diminished.

'So where are the kids?' he asked, bleary-eyed and contented.

'No kids,' Ben answered. 'It's enough that I'm godfather to yours.'

'Come on, man.' Chris stretched. 'Kids are great.'

'Yours were,' Ben agreed.

'You mean Boo's were.'

'Yeah, biologically they were Boo's, but you were a proper father to them for a good long time.'

'Until it all went tits up.'

'Yeah, until it all went tits up.'

'So when are you going to have some? Marion's great, you've got a nice home, you'd make a great dad, I'd make a great uncle, so what's stopping you?'

'I've just never had the need,' Ben proffered. 'I've never felt any paternal instinct or any desire to reproduce.'

'You think about things too much,' Chris slurred slightly. 'If you're waiting for the "right time" in your life, I can tell you there's never a right time. You've just got to take a deep breath and jump. It's the best thing that ever happened to me and you know how I always said I would never settle down. And anyway, you're the oldest so you should have had them already.'

Chris nodded resolutely and slouched back into the sofa as if to say 'the prosecution rests'.

'Yeah,' Ben said cautiously, 'Marion's dead keen on the idea but I just don't see myself in that role. And what if something happens to me and I'm not there to take care of her and raise the kid?'

'What do you mean, "if something happens to you"?'

'You know, if I die or I'm unable to work to support them.'

'Well, you're too young to die and you've always been disgustingly healthy so what could possibly happen to stop you working?'

'I could be injured or I could have a stroke or something.'

'Unlikely.'

'Or I could go to prison.'

'What?' Chris burst out laughing. 'Go to prison for what? What's going on that I don't know about?'

'Nothing's going on,' Ben said, flustered, 'we're just talking hypothetically about what could happen and why that influences my decision to not start reproducing myself.'

'No, no, no,' Chris persisted, 'that's a bit of a Freudian slip. Something dodgy's happened, maybe not now but sometime in your life and you're afraid that it's going to come back and haunt you. Come on, out with it, what have you done?'

'Nothing's happened, we're talking about why not to have kids and that's a reason why not. I might die, I might be disabled, I might do something illegal and go to prison, they're all just reasons why not to do it.'

'That's either a hell of a stretch for an excuse not to have kids or something very fishy's going on,' Chris probed. 'Are you growing weed or something? Are you selling drugs from work to druggies?'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'So there's no dodgy business?'

'Of course not.'

'Promise?'

'There's nothing dodgy going on.'

'But you won't promise?'

'For fuck sakes, Chris.'

'Just say "I promise on my word of honour", and then I'll let it go.'

'Chris, you're pissing me off now. There's nothing going on, I just gave it as an example, I don't want to talk about this anymore.'

'Touchy, touchy.' Chris smiled and tapped his chin like a ponderous detective.

'I mean it, Chris.'

'Then I think you're just afraid of making mistakes and you're looking for excuses. I think you're afraid because of our screwed up childhood.

'It wasn't that bad,' Ben said.

'I'm amazed neither of us were left with major psychological issues. Have you ever imagined just how fucked up we could have been?'

'I think you're exaggerating,' Ben answered soberly and lucidly. 'I was there, you know.'

'I was fucking there too.' Chris slurred the words into a single angry sound.

'Think about the positives,' Ben insisted. 'How many kids get to grow up in the sunshine in Africa? We had a great life in Harare. Zims has got to be the most beautiful place in the world and we got to live there for fifteen years.'

'That's true.' Chris welded the words together. 'But it fucked Dad up, you can't argue that.'

'We went through all of this last time, Chris. He had a lot to deal with,' Ben defended their father. 'One minute he was the vicar in Wiveliscombe, here in Blighty, and the next he's the bishop in Harare. Talk about a culture shock.'

'It wasn't that,' Chris debated, 'it was the booze, after the abortion.'

'It wasn't an abortion,' Ben corrected him. 'She had a miscarriage.'

'Well, you call it whatever you want to call it, that's what screwed him up and the booze sealed the deal.'

'Well, he–'

'Well nothing,' Chris interrupted him. 'It was pretty fucked up. Constantly comparing us to someone who wasn't even there, that's fucked up. In the beginning it was only when he was drunk but, after a few years, he was drunk all the time.' Chris paused and wiped the spittle from his mouth.

'They did their best for us,' Ben said softly, 'especially Ma. She gave us everything, she tried to protect us.'

'But she couldn't, could she?' Chris prickled acrimoniously. 'How could she? She couldn't be there all the time and even when she was, she couldn't stop him.'

'She did her best,' Ben said and pointed an aggrieved finger at his brother, 'and I don't want to hear anything else about her.'

'You're right.' Chris concentrated to avoid slurring. 'And you're right to defend her, but I don't know why you always defend him.'

'He also tried his best,' Ben said, without the pointing finger. 'Alcoholism is a disease. He never had a chance. We didn't understand it then but we can try to understand it now.'

'And what about all the fucking women?' Chris sprayed fine droplets as he spoke the angry words. 'Was that also out of his control?'

'Chris, we only seem to talk about this when you're a bit pissed. It's not healthy trying to deal with this stuff when you're sloshed, it all gets just too emotional. We should just leave it now and talk about it tomorrow if you still want to.'

'Fuck tomorrow, man, I want to talk about it now.'

'OK, OK. Look, I don't condone what he did, Chris,' Ben said gently. 'All I'm saying is that maybe I understand it better now and I forgive him. He's only human. He made mistakes. I think you should go see them sometime and try to work through it.'

'I'm never going back!' Chris snapped defiantly. 'You got the worst of it, you should be more pissed off than me.'

'It did piss me off then, but I'm trying to accept it and leave it behind us. The reality of the here and now is this: he's left with alcoholic dementia, his brain is frazzled. He can't even dress himself or feed himself but Ma insists on taking care of him on her own. She's forgiven him and she's standing by him. The least I can do is support her.'

'How can constantly comparing your sons to your dead son ever be a good thing?' Chris was almost shouting in his despair at his memories. ' Constantly saying, "If Gabriel was here, he would have done this", "If Gabriel was here, he would have done that", "Gabriel would have achieved this", "Gabriel would have achieved that", "Why cant you be as good as Gabriel?", "Why cant you do what Gabriel would have done?". It was totally fucked up, man.' Chris rolled his hands outwards in a pleading gesture, looking at Ben, searching for answers.

Ben stared back at Chris's eyes, welling up with tears. He wanted to take his brother's pain away, he wanted to take away his bad memories and give him good memories but he could not.

'It's OK, Chris,' he soothed.

'That's just it!' Chris exclaimed. 'It's not OK! It'll never be OK! He'd created a whole life for Gabriel in his head. He created a perfect child living a perfect life and he wanted us to live up to him. How can you spend your whole childhood coming second best to a brother that never existed and not be fucked up? And then he names the child after an angel. We spent our whole lives trying to be equal to an actual fucking angel. Childhoods don't get more fucked up than that! It was like a sustained subliminal mind-fuck! It was fucking child abuse! I never want to see him again! If Ma refuses to see me without him, then I will only ever speak to her on the phone. Having you visit them will have to be enough for her.'

'I know it's fucked up,' Ben consoled his brother, 'but we survived and we turned out OK because we've got Ma and we've got each other.'

'It's fucked up, man.' Chris keened softly as his eyes burnt with unshed tears.

'I know,' Ben said as he stood up and walked to his brother. 'Give me a hug.'

Chris lurched unsteadily to his feet and grabbed onto Ben like he was a lifebelt in a vast stormy sea. He held Ben tightly, stooping to rest his head on his brother's shoulder as he disintegrated into a hailstorm of tears and sobs.

'I can't take this shit anymore. I don't know how you can be so forgiving. I wish I could forgive them but I can't. I can't be as big about it as you are.'

'And that's OK, man, but we can't keep having this conversation when you're pissed. We've got to move on and leave it all in the past. Ma told Marion about him the other day and that really pissed me off. Gabriel is a family thing and none of us should ever tell anyone else about him. It's private and personal and it has to stay that way. If people know about Gabriel, they'll start making all sorts of associations with you and me that won't be any good for either of us. I don't want anyone knowing about Gabriel or making any connection between him and me. Do you understand?'

'Yeah, I know what you mean,' Chris mumbled.

'I've told Ma never to speak about him to anyone outside of the family ever again. I want you to tell her the same thing. Will you do that for me?'

'Yeah.' Chris was overcome with emotion, anger turning to sorrow. 'Yeah, you're right, I'll definitely tell her the same thing. There's no reason anyone else should know.'

Ben hugged his brother. 'It's hard to accept but, believe me, some good will come out of all that bad we went through.'

'I love you, man,' Chris sobbed softly.

'I know,' Ben said as the two brothers clung to each other like pilgrims in a foreign land.

They had never spoken openly, as adults, about Gabriel until tonight. Since leaving Africa with their father in disgrace, they had never broached the subject, choosing instead to live with the suppressed memories. Their open, honest conversation had purged them and had left Chris exhausted and Ben invigorated. Ben was more convinced than ever about the value and merit of his work.

'Some good will come out of all that bad,' he repeated softly, 'I promise.'

36

Lhasa, China

08h12 local time, 23 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'We're all set, Xiao,' Michael said as he finished breakfast and stood up from his laptop. 'It's all worked out. Today you're going to do exactly what we tell you to do.'

'I will kill your whole family,' Xiao seethed. 'I will kill your parents, your children, your wife, your brothers and your sisters. I will make you watch them die, one by one, and then will I kill you. Your death will be slow and painful, a death without honour. You will die like a pig.'

'That's fighting talk,' Michael said facetiously to conceal his fear. 'We'll get to that when you've done what we want.'

Xiao had experienced the Maoist movement as a child and his father had enforced the ideals onto him. One of these was the ability to endure suffering by dissociating the mind from the pain. He had composed himself after Michael's assault and had put the agony in his hand out of his mind. He seemed oblivious to the throbbing beneath his bloodstained bandages and defiance had returned to his demeanour.

'I will do nothing,' Xiao declared contemptuously.

'Oh, but you will,' Michael said cruelly. 'You're going to pay for what you've done. You're going to pay over and over and over, until I'm satisfied that your debt has been paid.'

Michael left the room and returned moments later, carrying a cheese grater.

'He said you might be like this,' Michael said, his face flushed red with anger. 'Do you see this?' Michael held the cheese grater in front of Xiao's face.

'Your mother was a street whore fucked by a dog. You are the shit in the gutter. I will not yield to you. I will not answer your stupid questions.' Xiao spat in Michael's face.

'Fuck you!' Michael shouted and threw the grater at Xiao's feet. He retrieved the tape from his desk and wrapped it around Xiao's head to gag him.

Xiao hurled incoherent abuse from beneath his gag.

'Fuck you!' Michael shouted again and wiped the spittle from his face. 'Let's see how you like this, you cunt!'

Michael grasped the handle at the top of the grater and forcefully started grating Xiao's knee. The fabric of his trousers resisted the first few strokes before splitting and tearing. Xiao howled with pain as the eyes of the grater sliced long strips of skin off his knee. The knee erupted in a crimson explosion and the trouser fabric below the knee discoloured as it absorbed some of the blood running down his leg.

'Fuck you!' Michael shouted again as the grater jammed against the bone of the kneecap and his hands slipped off the handle.

He wrenched the grater free and redoubled his efforts.

'Shit!' Michael shouted in frustration as the grater snagged in the muscle fibres, making him lose his grip again.

'Fuck it!' he ripped it free to start again.

He changed technique and rasped the bone away in single lunging strokes, tearing the grater free at the end of each one. The grater sliced against the knee again and again, like a plane removing thin strips of wood. Michael was soon out of breath and his arms ached but he forced himself to keep going. He rasped and hacked and ripped the bones and muscles and tendons until he was satisfied that the kneecap was gone. Blobs of bone marrow, blood splatter and muscle tissue covered his hands, arms, face and neck. His breathing was laboured and he wheezed until he could do no more. Exhausted, he dropped the grater and sat on the floor to catch his breath. Rivers of sweat collected the blood splatter and etched red streaks down the inside of his shirt. His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at what he had done.

'Oh, God,' Michael blurted as bile churned in the pit of his stomach. The horror of what he had just done crashed down on him like a ton of jagged rocks. The sight of Xiao's knee made the room list and roll as a wave of nausea crashed over him.

He vomited repeatedly. He retched and gagged several times after his stomach was empty until the pain in his belly pinned him to the floor.

He lay on his side and stared at the vomit with watery eyes.

'Fuck,' he groaned as he wiped his mouth and spat onto the floor.

Michael lay still and alone, afraid to contemplate what he had done. He closed his eyes and imagined he was a child again, safe at home with his parents.

The muted cries of an animal, tormented by pain, drew his mind back to reality. He had been oblivious to Xiao's muffled screams as he worked on the knee but it was all coming back to him now. He cocked his head as he looked at the great man now reduced to a wailing child. Xiao squirmed in his chair to escape the scorching pain in his leg. Tears rolled down his face and his eyes rolled in his head. His defiance was gone. He was ready to cooperate.

'Well, Xiao,' Michael panted as he rose to his feet. 'Are you ready to do exactly what I say?'

Xiao clenched his eyes tightly shut as he tried to hide from the pain. His body juddered uncontrollably, he was sweating profusely and his skin was very pale. Michael's words fell on deaf ears.

'Xiao!' Michael shouted and slapped his face. 'Xiao!'

Xiao opened his eyes and stared uncomprehendingly at Michael.

'Will you cooperate?' Michael shouted at him.

Xiao nodded vigorously like a chastised child, desperate to end the assault.

'Good,' Michael shouted and then left the room. He returned with an assortment of bandages and tightly bound the knee to stem the bleeding.

'Drink this,' he ordered as he tore the tape from Xiao's mouth and rammed a cup of sake against his lips.

Xiao coughed and spluttered as the alcohol made him gasp.

'Drink it all,' Michael menaced him.

He drained the cup and stared back at Michael with teary eyes.

Michael produced Xiao's phone from his pocket and switched it on.

'Xiao,' he said, 'listen to me very closely. I want you to do exactly as I say. If you try anything, the punishment will start again. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'Good. I'm going to phone Chang at the farm. Tell him that all the bears must be ready to travel next Tuesday. They must be taken to the station in wooden crates with enough food and water for three days' travelling. Tell him to book transport on the train to Kodari. No one from the farm is to travel with them. Tell him you will send people to collect the bears there and will contact him then with further instructions. Once the train has departed he is to burn the farm to the ground. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'If you say anything else, I will start the pain again. If you try to warn them, I will start the pain again. If you call for help, I will start the pain again. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

Michael pressed the speed dial button on the phone and then pressed the speaker button.

'Master Xiao!' Chang's voice answered the phone.

'Chang...' Xiao's voice faltered for a moment.

Michael glared at him.

'Yes, master,' Chang said.

Xiao relayed the instructions, just as Michael has said.

'Master Xiao,' Chang protested, 'I do not understand.'

'Do as I say!' Xiao shouted.

'Y-yes, m-m-master,' Chang stammered.

'We will speak again when I have the bears.'

'Yes, master,' Chang replied. 'It will be done.'

Michael terminated the connection.

'Good,' he said to Xiao and offered him another bowl of sake. He drank gratefully, desperate to numb the pain.

Michael returned to his desk and typed on the keyboard.

Mikegzb: It's all arranged. The bears will travel next Tuesday. Where are they going?

Gabriel: The ISPCA will meet them in Kodari. They have arranged for transport trucks to take them to the Langtang Nature Reserve in Nepal. They will be safe there. There is a rehabilitation centre there to hold them before releasing them into the reserve.

Mikegzb: What about their wounds and the bile tubes?

Gabriel: The ISPCA have rescued bears all over the world. They've done this many times before. They have vets who will meet them there and perform any corrective surgeries that they may need.

Mikegzb: What about Xiao?

Gabriel: What about him?

Mikegzb: I can't do this anymore.

Gabriel: You've done enough.

Mikegzb: I want to go with the bears.

Gabriel: You can't. It will arouse suspicion.

Mikegzb: I can't stay here.

Gabriel: You have to stay until the bears are out of the country.

Mikegzb: What about Xiao?

Gabriel: You don't have to do anything. Leave his wounds open and wait, the climate will kill him. He'll be dead from septicaemia in two days.

Mikegzb: I can't stay here and watch him die.

Gabriel: You must. If you leave now, someone may find him. One phone call from him will cancel the whole operation. You have to stay with him until the bears are in Nepal. Once they are safe you can leave.

No response.

Gabriel: Remove any clothes and jewellery that may identify him and bury his body before you leave. Within two weeks even his wife won't recognise him.

Still no response.

Gabriel: Michael?

Mikegzb: Yes?

Gabriel: You can do this. Do it for the bears. You're giving them a last chance at a normal life. Xiao deserves what's coming. We're almost done, just wait a few more days.

Mikegzb: I can't.

Gabriel: Have no illusions about this, Michael. If you don't see this through, they will find you and they will kill you. They will find you wherever you go. You can't leave him alive and you can't leave under suspicion. Use the next few days to act completely normally. If they question you, just keep calm and stick to the story.

Mikegzb: How will I know when they're safe?

Gabriel: I'll let you know.

Mikegzb: OK.

Michael closed the lid of his laptop. He turned to look at Xiao shaking uncontrollably from his pain. The metallic smell of blood permeated the room.

'Jesus,' Michael groaned as he rose from his chair and left the room.

37

Cambridge, England

11h27 GMT, 24 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Are we ready?' Ben asked, looking at Miranda.

Miranda rechecked the anaesthetic and oxygen flow rates and assessed the pupil size and position. Her anaesthetic chart already listed a constant drip infusion rate and steady heart rate, respiration rate and blood oxygen saturation. IV antibiotics had been added to the drip and analgesics were injected intra-muscularly.

'Ready,' she confirmed.

The pulse-oximeter and ECG monitor beeped in agreement.

'Right, let's go,' Ben said as he reached for the scalpel.

Ben wore a green theatre cap, a surgical mask and a full-length sterile theatre gown. His hands were double-gloved with sterile latex gloves. The operating table in front of him was covered in a sea of green sterile surgical drapes. A young man wearing the same theatre garb stood on the opposite side of the table facing Ben. Miranda wore blue theatre scrubs and a face mask and theatre cap at the head of the table. Beneath the drapes was Diesel, a seven-year-old male Dobermann pinscher. He had presented an hour ago with a history of lethargy, loss of appetite and vomiting. Paul was the youngest vet at the clinic and he had admitted Diesel for investigation of his condition. Paul took X-rays, ran blood tests, ultrasound-scanned the abdomen and performed a peritoneal lavage in the process of reaching a diagnosis. He ultimately diagnosed a ruptured bowel with secondary peritonitis. He reviewed his findings with Ben, who concurred. Treatment required exploratory laparotomy to identify the cause of the rupture and to repair it.

'Thanks for doing this for me,' Paul said as Ben drew the scalpel blade from the navel to the penis. 'I've assisted on a few of these at university but I've never done one alone.'

Ben gently curved the blade around the front of the penis and extended the incision along the side of back to the pubic bone.

'No problem at all,' Ben chirped as he placed the scalpel back on the surgical ray and picked up the rat-tooth forceps and curved scissors. 'Swab, please,' he asked.

Paul swabbed the blood from the initial incision.

'The best way to learn is to do,' Ben continued. 'I'll lead on this one and then I'll assist you when the next one comes in.'

Ben opened the scissor blades and thrust the lower blade into the exposed fat beneath the skin. He held the blades open and slid the scissors forwards, neatly splitting the fat layer to expose the underlying muscle. Paul swabbed the blood away as Ben retrieved the scalpel and made a sharp stab incision through the linea alba. He inserted the open scissor blade through the hole and cut through the muscle layer as far forwards as the navel to enter the abdomen. He turned the scissors and repeated the process to open the abdomen as far back as the pubic bone. Paul inserted an abdominal spreader and ratcheted it open.

'Right,' Ben said. 'Tell me what you see.'

'Well,' Paul said tentatively, 'the omentum and the serosa are severely inflamed, confirming the peritonitis.'

'Good,' Ben said. 'Now explore the abdomen until you find the problem.'

Paul carefully delved into the abdomen and ineffectually groped at the organs and intestines. A watery fluid like tepid tomato soup with bits of soggy noodles overflowed from the inside.

'What are these white bits?' Paul asked.

'Pus floccules in the inflammatory effusion,' Ben answered before looking across to Miranda and asking, 'Steady your end?'

'Everything's fine,' Miranda answered as she jotted down figures on the anaesthetic monitoring chart.

Ben looked back at Paul's hands in Diesel's belly. 'You can be a lot firmer than that,' he said to Paul.

'You do this bit and I'll assist,' Paul said and drew his hands out.

'OK,' Ben said and confidently slid his hand into the fluid and drew a length of intestine out of the abdomen. He dexterously drew the rest of the intestines out like a long piece of rope and packed them onto the sterile drape. 'Hold, please,' he asked Paul.

'Almost there,' he said as Paul struggled to control the slippery mass of bowels.

'There,' Ben announced triumphantly as the abnormal length of intestine popped into view.

The hole in the intestine was obvious enough and a sickly thin greenish brown fluid seeped out of it. The intestine around the hole was severely thickened and felt hard when he pinched it with his fingers.

'Feel this,' Ben said and offered the offending piece of bowel to Paul.

Paul faltered, not knowing how to examine the abnormal length of bowel and prevent the rest of the bowels sliding down the table. Ben offered the abnormal bowel with his left hand and pinned down the rest of the bowels with his right hand. Paul studied the abnormal section intently.

'Well?' Ben asked. 'What do you think?'

'Fibrosis?' Paul suggested.

'Possibly,' Ben answered. 'Any other ideas?'

'Tumour?' Paul said unconvincingly.

'That would be my guess,' Ben declared. 'Probably a ruptured intestinal adenocarcinoma. So what's the plan?'

'Suction the abdomen to get rid of the fluid and examine everything else to see if it's spread,' Paul said confidently.

'Very good,' Ben agreed, nodding to Miranda to switch on the suction pump.

They drained two litres of fluid from the abdomen and then meticulously examined the stomach, liver, spleen, omentum, kidneys, peritoneum, lymph nodes, bladder and the rest of the intestines. There was no sign that the tumour had spread.

'Excellent,' Ben announced. 'We'll remove the diseased portion of bowel and do an end-to-end anastomosis to reattach the free ends of the bowel. Do you want to do it?' he asked Paul.

'I'll assist,' Paul declined.

'Dexon 3/0, please,' Ben asked Miranda. 'Three packs, please.'

Miranda opened three sterile packs of dissolving suture line with swaged on needles and handed them to Ben.

'Thank you,' Ben said before looking back at Paul. 'What suture pattern were you taught to use? Hold here,' Ben instructed before Paul had time to answer.

'Simple interrupted apposing sutures,' Paul answered confidently as Ben cut out and removed the ruptured length of intestine.

'That's how I do it too,' Ben said as he dropped the resected tissue into a kidney bowl. 'Send that for histology please,' he said to Miranda, handing her the bowl. 'When I was trained we were taught that crushing sutures and appositional sutures worked the same but now I think apposing is better than crushing,' he continued.

Paul nodded as he watched Ben resect the everted mucous membrane before placing the first sutures.

'This is the boring bit,' Ben said. 'Simply place one suture at the mesenteric margin and another at the antimesenteric margin then just stitch up both sides with enough sutures so that there are no leaks. Your job is to hold the ends together until all the sutures have been placed. Your hands might cramp a bit after a while. Just let me know and I'll stop and let you rest them for a few minutes if you need to.'

Paul nodded again as he watched Ben's hands deftly place and tie one suture after another. Years of surgical experience had made his movements smoothly efficient and elegantly economical. Ben worked on in methodical silence for several moments before speaking again.

'So, what's your answer to the eternal question? Why did you become a vet?'

'Well...' Paul faltered for a moment. 'My father was a vet and as far back as I can remember I always wanted to do what he did. It wasn't really a conscious decision; I think I just always knew that that was what I wanted to do.'

'That seems to be the most common answer,' Ben mused. 'Most vets always wanted to be a vet from a very young age. There's usually no sentient moment when they decided.'

'And you?' Paul turned the tables.

'I sort of fell into it,' Ben said. 'In my final year at school I had narrowed my options down to doctor, dentist or architect.'

'Architect?' Miranda spluttered.

'And why not?' Ben said as he disposed of an old needle and continued suturing with a new one.

'No reason,' Miranda backtracked and busied herself with monitoring the anaesthetic.

'So how did vet come into the frame?' Paul asked.

'Well, I'd been accepted at various universities for all three options and I had decided to go with the doctor option. I supposed I chose it just because everyone assumed the kids with good grades should go on to med school. After I had made up my mind I overheard the school careers guidance teacher commiserating with a friend of mine that he was unlikely to be accepted to vet school with his grades. I asked what grades he would need and she snapped at me that the entrance requirements would be far beyond me too. I was really offended because she didn't know anything about me so I applied to vet school just to see if I could get in. When I was accepted I was in a hell of a quandary. I had always been interested in medicine and surgery but being a doctor was somehow preordained. It was the most glamorous, I suppose.'

'I can't imagine you being a doctor,' Miranda quipped mischievously.

'Why not?' Ben asked, the smile beneath his mask creasing the corners of his eyes.

'I just can't,' she said.

'Well, it made me sit down and think because I only had one week to make my final acceptance.'

'And you decided you liked animals more than people,' Miranda said with a laugh. 'Me too.'

'No,' Ben continued, 'it wasn't as simple as that. It sounds cheesy but I knew for certain that I wanted to help end pain and suffering. I wanted to fix the things that went wrong in people's lives. I had always just extrapolated that into being a doctor but when I thought about it I realised that I could do the same thing by fixing animals. That way I could do two things at once – by helping animals, I would also help people.'

'That is a bit cheesy,' Miranda said as she adjusted the drip flow rate.

'I knew you'd like that,' Ben said. 'When I thought about it a bit longer I realised that I had more empathy for animals' suffering than for people's suffering.'

'That's more like it.' Miranda nodded.

'No,' Ben corrected her, 'it's not like that either. I empathise with people but I feel more empathy and sympathy for animals. I think it's because I feel that people can do something to help themselves but animals are completely reliant on us to help them. I suppose I wanted to help them for fear that no one else would. I think it's as simple as that – I decided to help those least able to help themselves. I hate injustice and unfairness more than anything else and animals are on the receiving end more than people are.'

'So that was your centennial moment?' Miranda teased.

'Sentient moment,' Ben corrected her, 'and no, that wasn't it.'

'Oh, for goodness sake!' she exclaimed. 'Is this story ever going to end?'

'Well, if you're not interested, I'll stop talking.' Ben smiled. 'Could I have two litres of warm saline, please? We need to flush the abdomen before closing.'

Miranda retrieved four 500-millilitre bags of saline from the incubator and attached them to a high-pressure spout.

'That's it,' Ben said to Paul. 'You can let go now, it's all done. We'll flush the abdomen then close. I close the abdomen with nylon, what where you taught?'

'PDS sutures,' Paul replied.

'That would work just as well, but nylon's cheaper for our clients so I'll stick with it.'

They worked together to rinse and drain all vestiges of the inflammatory fluid from the abdomen before double-checking the sutures holding the intestine together.

'Good,' Ben said, 'that'll do it.'

'I'll close if you like,' Paul offered. 'You can go and get some lunch.'

'OK,' Ben agreed and stepped away from the table. 'I'll leave you to it.'

He was about to leave the theatre and remove his gloves, gown and mask when Miranda stopped him.

'What about the end of your story?'

'I thought you weren't interested?' Ben asked.

'I was only joking. Please tell me. I want to know.'

'Are you taking the mickey?'

'No, I'm serious, I really want to know. I've worked with you for twelve years and you've never told me anything personal about yourself. You know everything about all of us but you're such a closed book, we know nothing about you.'

'Is she taking the piss?' Ben asked Paul.

'No,' Paul replied, 'I think she's serious and I know she's right that you're a closed book.'

'Go on,' Miranda pleaded as she handed sterile nylon to Paul to suture the abdominal wall closed. 'Please?'

'OK,' Ben relented. 'The sentient moment was a memory that came back to me when I was deliberating. It was like an epiphany.'

Ben paused to see whether Miranda would mock his sentimentality.

She looked at him and smiled silently beneath her mask, sensing the delicacy of the moment.

'I had a fabulous English bull terrier bitch when I was a young boy in Zimbabwe,' Ben continued. 'We did everything together and I loved her very much. One day I found her playing with a tortoise in the garden. It must have wandered in from the open fields behind the house. I was going to take it back into the fields and release it there but my dog was obsessed with it so I left them together in the garden. She fussed over it constantly whenever she was outside and I thought it was cute the way she mothered it. It pulled its head and legs in whenever she was around it so it didn't move much during the day but she was locked in the house at night so it had the chance to escape if it wanted to. Every morning it was in much the same place in the garden so I assumed it didn't want to leave. After a couple of weeks I found it in her basket with her. She must have carried it there herself. She looked very sweet curled around it like a mum with a baby in her bed. It looked very cute but obviously it couldn't eat if she kept it in her bed so I took it out and carried it back to the lawn. As I carried it I looked at it more closely and realised why it hadn't left the garden. She had gnawed its legs off as far into its shell as she could reach. She wasn't mothering it at all; she was trying to kill it. She was eating it alive. It was malnourished and barely alive when I realised and I was devastated. I was too ashamed to tell anyone and went to the local pharmacist for advice. I asked him how to humanely euthanise it to end its suffering. He gave me a bottle of carbon tetrachloride and suggested I pour the liquid onto a piece of cotton wool and hold it against the nostrils. The fumes would be fatal.'

'That's not very humane,' Paul said sympathetically. 'They should have told you to go to a vet.'

'I know that now,' Ben said sadly. 'That poor creature suffered a long systematic torture and a painful death because of me. I decided then that I wanted to do everything I could to prevent anyone or anything else suffering in the future. I suppose I needed and still need absolution. I try to help someone or something every day. That event is what made me choose to be a vet rather than a doctor.'

'That's a horrible story,' Miranda said, dismayed.

'What makes it more terrible is that it's true,' Ben said softly.

Paul looked at Ben and frowned.

'Have you got everything under control?' Ben asked.

Paul and Miranda nodded in silence.

'OK, I'll leave you to it then,' Ben said and left the room.

'He really needs a break,' Paul said, 'there's a lot on his shoulders. Running this place twenty-four-seven is killing him. That's why I would never want my own practice or even a partnership.'

'I don't think it's that,' Miranda said. 'He's been running his own practice for years without any problems. I think he just cares too much.'

'About what?'

'Everyone and everything. He tries to fix everything but he can't be all things to all people.'

'I suppose.'

'He just needs a change of scenery to recharge and get a bit of perspective. He'll be raring to go when he gets back from his holiday, you'll see.'

38

Liverpool Street Station, London, England

10h27 GMT, 26 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'How's Kieran?' Ray asked Sean.

'Shit.'

'Is there anything I can do?'

'No. Doctors reckon it's not long now.'

'You spoke to them this morning?'

'This morning and every morning.'

'Fuck, man, I'm really, really sorry. I mean it when I say if there's anything...'

'Thanks, I know, but I don't want to talk about it. Especially not now that this fuckwit has arrived,' Sean said, nodding at the stairs.

'Your guys aren't very subtle,' John said to Sean as he crested the last step.

'What the fuck is that supposed to mean?' Sean reflexively rotated his wedding ring around his finger to calm himself.

'That guy's been following me since I left home.' John indicated the throng of commuters disgorging from the underground station.

'Who?' Sean asked as he scanned the sea of faces.

'He's disappeared now,' John said, failing to pick him out from the crowd.

'I don't have anyone on you,' Sean said warily.

'Probably your boss sent him, then,' John said nonchalantly. 'Apparently she doesn't trust me.'

Sean grunted.

'All set?' John asked as they walked through the concourse.

'Everything's ready,' Sean confirmed. 'All the cleaners, half the shop assistants and most of the BR uniforms are our people. There's no way out.'

'Bit premature, though; it's only ten thirty.'

'We can wait.'

The trio walked through the bustle of commuters towards the stairs at the east entrance. John peered into the shop fronts, expecting to differentiate between the real staff and Sally's people but no one stood out.

'Just play it cool, John,' Ray adjusted his glasses. 'Stick to the plan.'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' John said.

'Don't try to be a hero.' Ray stood squarely in front of John. 'The only way this can go wrong is if you do something stupid.'

'OK, enough,' John said as he stepped around Ray's imposing frame.

The first-floor balcony circled the building and provided unobscured views of the ground floor. Agents were dotted around the balcony, blending in seamlessly with the tourists and commuters. John spotted a young couple lounging against the glass railing, kissing and petting inappropriately.

'Yours?' John asked with a raise of his eyebrows.

'Yeah,' Sean said after glancing at them for only a moment.

'Hide in plain sight,' John said. 'I like it. No one would ever suspect them.'

John leant his forearms against the banister and clasped his hands as he peered into the crowd milling below. The station was always full and busy. Teenagers with dirty rucksacks rubbed shoulders with the suited worker drones of the city. Harassed executives tutted their way around groups of tourists photographing everything and nothing. Everyone ignored everyone else in their haste and effort to get where they were going. Everyone was anonymous in the faceless ebb and flow.

'We don't even know for certain that he's a he,' John said impassively.

'He's a he all right,' Sean said, 'don't you fear.'

'He's due anytime within about two hours,' John said. 'Pub's open, anyone fancy a drink?'

'No,' Ray said disapprovingly.

'I'm going to have one,' John said.

'Don't fuck this up,' Ray hissed at John. 'It's ten thirty in the morning, for fuck's sake.'

'Anytime's a good time.' John winked up at Ray as he pushed himself off the banister.

'Let him go,' Sean said. 'He's just fucking with you.'

John walked away from them and down the stairs. His tartan cap made it easy to track him as he mingled with the masses.

'Tosser,' Ray said under his breath.

'Fuck him,' Sean said. 'After today we're done with him.'

'Too right,' Ray agreed.

They watched as John strolled over to join a queue extending through the doors of a coffee shop. John enjoyed the attention and looked around, trying to guess who the good guys were and which one was the bad guy. Hundreds of eyes watched him enter the coffee shop and waited for him to reappear. He emerged with a large cardboard cup of coffee and a childish grin. He felt like a superstar.

'Wanker,' Ray hissed as John ascended the escalator at the west end of the building. He carried the hot cup carefully as he sauntered along the balcony to rejoin them.

'Well?' John asked as he sidled up to Ray.

'Well what?'

'Where's Sally?' John glimpsed the edge of a flesh-tone earpiece concealed deep within Ray's ear. He hadn't noticed it earlier.

'She's around.'

'Around?'

'Yes.'

'I didn't think she'd miss this for the world.'

'She's not.'

'It's all cloak and dagger stuff, isn't it?' John's tone shifted to sarcastic as the balance of power swung away from him. 'Like boy scouts.'

He slurped his coffee noisily. 'CCTV, I expect,' John commented as he scanned the roof.

'Whatever,' Ray replied.

'Hey.' Sean nudged Ray's arm. 'Isn't that the boss's niece?'

'Where?' Ray scoured the masses.

'There.' Sean nodded his head. 'The blonde with the purple coat.'

'Where?' John asked.

'Shut up, John,' Sean snapped.

'At the vending machine?' Ray asked.

'Yeah, that's it, I'm sure it's her.'

'I wouldn't know, I've never met her,' Ray said.

'Neither have I, but I've seen her in Sally's family snaps,' Sean explained without breaking his stare.

'Oh, I see her,' John interrupted as he recognised the young woman in the rickshaw photograph on Sally's desk. 'Hot bod.' John made a lascivious sucking noise. 'I'd give her one.'

'Shut the fuck up.' Sean scowled at John.

'Or what?'

'The day's coming, mate. The day's coming,' Sean said through clenched teeth.

'Lighten up, man, she's nothing to you.' John shrugged him off.

'If she's Sally's niece, then she's something to me.'

'If, but, maybe,' John needled Sean. 'As of now you don't know who the fuck she is, but you've already volunteered to be her knight in shining amour. What the fuck's that all about?'

'Fuck sakes!' Ray exclaimed, stepping in. 'Just fucking leave it, John, we're here to do a job. Focus on what we're paying you for. Sean, ignore him, he's fucking with you.'

'You're not paying me anything for this,' John corrected. 'I'm having so much fun, I'm doing this part for free.'

'Just leave us to do our jobs,' Ray snapped.

'OK, just chill out.' John slurped his coffee again as the three of them leant against the rail and stared below in silence.

Sean dipped his head to his chest and spoke without moving his lips. 'Boss, I think your niece is here. The blonde with the purple coat at the ticket machine across from the pharmacy.'

'Keep this channel clear,' a voice chastised into his earpiece.

Ray and Sean continued to scan the crowds below, searching for their quarry. They had no idea what he looked like but a deep part of them hoped they would instinctively recognise him when they saw him. They watched and waited. They had enough back-up to seal off the station and everyone in it with a single command and more men outside ready to cordon off a three-mile radius. This was one fish that could not and would not slip through the net.

They watched Nokes moving deliberately through the crowds. She was stalking prey of her own. Both men recognised the methodical movements and followed her line of sight to try to see who or what was being pursued.

'She's out of her jurisdiction,' Ray whispered to Sean.

'Yeah, boyfriend playing away from home?' Sean suggested.

'Could be,' Ray agreed.

'That's the guy,' Sean said as both men identified who she was following.

'Medium height, medium build, blonde hair, good-looking, good posture, middle-class clothes and a small overnight bag,' Ray observed.

'The boyfriend,' Sean said and both men smiled.

'Blondie and Blondie,' John chipped in. 'And he's got a change of clothes, a toothbrush and, no doubt, a shit-load of condoms for a night out with his bit on the side. Naughty boy doesn't even know he's busted.'

Ray and Sean ignored John as they continued analysing everything they saw. Pairs of policemen and women strolled authoritatively around the premises. They had all been briefed on the operation and their primary task was to act normally and do what they always did. Having no police presence would be highly unusual and therefore suspicious to anyone astute enough to notice. A known pickpocket and thief loitered at the south entrance, rigidly avoiding any eye contact with the uniformed police. A group of unruly Italian backpackers sat on their bags, failing to comprehend the train timetable. Their eyes were sunken and red from the cannabis they had smoked earlier.

A uniformed officer walked up to the woman in the purple coat and she momentarily took her eyes off her target. Sean and Ray watched as she left the area with the officer, frequently turning her head to maintain her line of sight to the blonde man.

'He's got to be here,' Ray breathed the words softly to himself.

'It's too early,' John corrected him.

'Believe him,' Sean said. Sean had learned to trust Ray's instincts a long time ago.

'Where?' John asked.

'I don't know,' Ray said as his eyes picked through the crowd.

He watched an overweight tourist, probably from the American Midwest, enter through the north entrance. Ray, Sean and John immediately noticed her because of her obese frame and garish clothes. One of the wheels on her overfilled suitcase was bent. The suitcase refused to be rolled along the floor and the woman's face flushed with the effort of dragging it.

Ray assessed her and immediately discarded her to redirect his scrutiny to the flood of bodies cresting the stairs from the underground.

'Fat bitch,' John said as he watched her struggle.

Ray narrowed his eyes as he caught the glint of light off an earring in the crowd but dismissed it as he watched the wearer descend the stairs leading to the Tube station. John watched the fat woman's bag finally dig its heels in and keel over onto its bloated side. The stream of people behind her parted and flowed around her as she struggled to pick the bag up. Sean saw the pickpocket's eyes light up as he set off from his perch towards the stricken woman. Ray saw another figure advancing on her from the other side of the entrance. The man he saw was blonde, carrying a small heavily laden overnight bag easily in his right hand.

'Ah,' John announced, 'it's Blondie to the rescue.'

The blonde man reached the woman ahead of the pickpocket and placed his bag beside hers. Sean watched as the pickpocket discreetly veered away from them and drifted back to his post. Ray and John watched the blonde man wrestle the woman's suitcase back onto its wheels. He rolled it back and forth by the handle and listened intently as the woman spoke to him. They were two tiny figures in the distance, too far away to see their lips moving or hear what was being said.

Ray confirmed him as the presumed boyfriend the niece had been following and dismissed him as insignificant to their purpose. He nodded his approval at the charitable act of helping a stranger before redirecting his eyes to sweep the noisy crowds again.

John slurped his coffee more comfortably and fixed on the two figures talking over the broken suitcase. The blonde man picked his own bag up and dragged the woman's suitcase towards the tables and chairs of a small bar. The woman dumped herself heavily into a chair and watched her rescuer upend her suitcase. He settled on his haunches to assess the problem. A waiter descended on them, presumably to ask them to move along, and John smirked as he saw the waiter wildly gesticulating.

'That's more like it,' John nodded and spoke out loud.

'What?' Ray asked.

John kept his eyes trained on the unfolding drama and Sean and Ray followed his line of sight.

'I was beginning to lose my faith in human nature,' John explained. 'Blondie's Blondie is trying to play the Good Samaritan with that fat bitch, but now the waiter's told them both to leave. There's no one else in his pub but he's telling them to piss off anyway. That's how the real world works.'

Sean and Ray ignored John's irrelevant observations and returned to scouring the scene below. They slowly drifted apart by twenty yards and then leant nonchalantly against the railing again. Sean looked down and adjusted one of his shirt buttons for good effect as he picked out the purple coat and the police officer walking through the turnstiles to platforms nineteen to twenty-four.

Nokes followed the officer up a narrow metal flight of stairs marked 'No Entry'. She cast furtive glances over her shoulder, trying constantly to keep her blonde man in sight. The stairs led along a gangway and then her view was obscured by scaffolding. Regaining sight of the target, she saw that he was talking to a large woman outside a bar. The officer stopped abruptly and knocked on an unmarked door beside a large pane of one-way glass.

'Yes,' a voice inside called out.

The officer opened the door and leant inside. 'The lady you asked for,' he said and stood back to let Nokes enter the room.

'Auntie Sally.' She hugged her aunt.

'DI Nokes,' Sally teased, 'you're out of your jurisdiction.'

'You mean why am I in yours?' Nokes smiled.

'I assumed you were sightseeing,' Sally said as she redirected her binoculars out of the window, onto the crowds below.

'No, you didn't,' Nokes corrected as she picked out the blonde man and the overweight American at the bar tables far below.

Sally followed her gaze to the two figures and asked, 'Errant boyfriend?'

'No, no.' Nokes blushed. 'It's work.'

'On my patch?'

'Unofficial work.'

'Pray tell?'

'He's the guy in the disappearance case I can't let go of,' Nokes explained.

'The vet?'

'Yeah, Ben Mitchell.'

'You redecorated his house while I was in the US a few weeks ago?'

'That's the one, dug up the floors in his house and found nothing.'

'And you still fancy him for the case?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Good girl. But now you're on it in your own time?'

'Yeah, the investigation's been mothballed because we're out of leads.'

'Except you're still on it, unofficially, like a hobby.'

'And only in my down time.'

'Well, good for you. He looks more like boyfriend material than your primary suspect in a possible homicide,' Sally said, smiling, her binoculars still fixed on him.

'What?' Nokes asked, her eyes also trained on him.

'He's a looker.'

'Is he? I hadn't noticed.'

'Oh, come on, you expect me to believe that? You're not blind.'

'OK, so he's not bad looking. What's that got to do with anything?'

'Just an observation. So why is he here?' Sally asked, redirecting her binoculars to Sean and Ray at the far side of the station. 'With an overnight bag?'

'That's just it. I don't know.' Nokes kept staring, afraid to lose him in the crowd if he left the bar. 'It's only dodgy because it's unusual for him. He usually spends what little free time he has with his girlfriend. Why's he here without her? Where's he going? What's he doing? It's all very out of character. I don't see how he can have the time or energy for anything sordid.'

'Don't believe that for an instant,' Sally said. 'All men have an infinite capacity to be bastards.'

'He's not like that, he's really into her.'

'We'll see.'

'So why are you here?'

'It's classified,' Sally replied. 'We're looking for someone.'

'I know, I know,' Nokes teased, 'you could tell me but then you'd have to kill me.'

'Something like that.'

'And I don't suppose you could lend me some of your extensive resources to follow my guy?'

'He's small time,' Sally said. 'The guy I'm looking for is mega big time.'

'You mean evil and scary looking, with scars on his face?' Nokes joked.

'Maybe, maybe not,' Sally said, focusing her binoculars on Nokes's vet again, 'but he's unlikely to be as dishy as yours.'

'Oh my God, Aunt Sally,' Nokes said, laughing, 'you're incorrigible.'

'No, just horny.'

'Aunt Sally!'

Both women laughed then continued their vigil in silence, sharing a cup of coffee from a flask as minutes ticked by. Sally's radio was quiet as she watched and waited and hoped.

Nokes stared hypnotically at Ben's tiny figure, far below. She shifted her weight several times then announced, 'I'm going back down. I don't want to risk losing him if he moves. I'll phone you later and let you know if there is a scarlet woman in his life.'

'I look forward to it.' Sally lowered the binoculars for a moment and hugged her niece. 'Be careful,' she cautioned.

'Always,' Nokes said and closed the door behind her.

John was immersed in watching the blonde man and the fat woman and narrated the scene out loud to himself. The waiter abruptly stopped waving his arms and scurried back into the recesses of the bar. 'Blondie continued his ministrations on the uncooperative suitcase as the fat bloater mopped her face with a soggy napkin from the table,' John reported with the inflection of a football match commentator. 'Moments later, Blondie tipped the case back onto its wheels and triumphantly rolled it back and forth in a straight line to demonstrate the efficiency of his repair,' John continued. 'The fat American then grabbed his hand and blurted out some over-the-top insincere platitude.'

John watched gleefully as the young man attempted to extricate himself and flee from the cougar's charms but she held his hand tightly. The waiter returned with a tall glass of something, probably iced tea piss, John surmised. She clung to his hand until he sat down in the chair opposite her and turned his attention to the waiter. Moments later the waiter reappeared and presented a tray with tableware to the man.

'Tea,' John said out loud. 'Now he's having tea with her.'

Sean and Ray looked at John irritably for a moment before continuing their scrutiny of the crowds. Ray drew up his sleeve to check the time as he walked back to John.

'Show time,' Ray said as he approached John.

'It's too early,' John protested.

'It's eleven fifteen,' Ray said as he took John's hand and shook it enthusiastically.

'What now?' John asked, not understanding why they were shaking hands.

'Just in case he's watching,' Ray said. 'Looks like we're old mates, not Old Bill.'

'You guys love this shit, don't you?'

'Time to go,' Ray said as he turned, slapping John's back in a demonstrative farewell.

'Fuck sakes,' John muttered as he approached the stairs.

John decided to do a slow lap of the ground floor en route to his meeting point at the baguette bar. He wanted to see just how fat she was. Sean watched John's tartan cap weave through the crowd, leisurely and unconcerned. He watched John move close to the table and then turn side on to disguise his interest. John listened to their conversation.

'... and then my husband said, "I'm not paying thirty dollars for one suitcase" and stormed out of the shop. I bought it there and then just to show him I'm my own person. I'll never hear the end of it now when he sees it's broken.' She peeled off into cackles of laughter and the young man smiled back at her.

'We're going back home tonight, Ben,' she continued. 'You look like you're on your way somewhere too.'

He smiled and nodded his head.

'Only a small suitcase, though,' she said, winking at him. 'Just enough for one night?' She winked again.

'It's business,' he answered. 'Just a short business trip.'

'Well, I hope you get what you're going for,' she drawled. 'You've really helped me out and like my daddy used to say, one good turn deserves another.'

'I'm sure it will work out fine,' he said as he sipped his tea.

_Fucking tourists,_ John thought to himself as he drained the last of his coffee.

John knelt down and retied his shoelace. As he rose a young black boy thrust a flyer at him. John ignored him and looked at the table to see another boy hand the fat American an identical flyer. The man opposite her declined when he was offered one too. She placed hers on the table without looking at it and launched into more dull conversation as John melted away from them and disappeared into the crowd.

'What's he up to?' an undercover policeman disguised as a cleaner asked his colleague as they swept the floor near the bar.

'Who knows, maybe he's got a hard-on for the fat ones.'

'Weirdo.'

John walked past the cleaners talking about him, unaware they were MI6 operatives. He dropped his empty cup into their wheelie bin and continued on towards the baguette bar. He joined the queue and bought a ham roll.

There were now more tourists than city workers passing through the station, John noted. The pace became more leisurely and clothes were less formal. He leant idly against a stanchion, watching and waiting as he chewed on the crust of his roll.

'Dere you are,' a Jamaican boy said and held a flyer out to John.

His voice startled John and he waved the boy away irritably. John scanned through the crowd and realised that several young lads were distributing the flyers to anyone who would take them. _Easy money for them,_ John mused, _waste of money for whoever printed them._

Another lad approached him and thrust a flyer at him.

'Fuck off!' John snapped and waved him away.

John looked up at the first floor and saw Ray accept a flyer from another determined lad. He lowered his eyes and found another lad directly in front of him, insisting he take a flyer.

'Fuck sakes,' John said and took the flyer. He held it in plain sight in his free hand to repel any further interruptions.

The roaming policemen and women discretely reined the boys in, one by one, and ejected them from the building. The last boy to leave dumped his pile of undelivered flyers on an empty table in the pub behind the fat American as he left the building.

'Oi!' the waiter shouted at the lad and startled the fat woman into spilling her drink down the front of her tracksuit.

'Oi!' he shouted again but the boy skipped out of the building and disappeared into the bustling street.

The waiter swore under his breath as he took the flyers from the table and stalked behind the bar. He dumped the sheaf of paper into the bin and returned his attention to his newspaper.

'Look at the time,' the woman said as she tried in vain to dry herself with her serviette. She reached across the table and gathered all the serviettes. 'You don't mind, do you?' she asked.

'Not at all,' Ben answered.

'It's been lovely meeting you, Ben,' she said as she hoisted herself onto her feet. 'I've got to get going or I'll be late. Thank you once again for all your help.'

'Not a bit,' Ben said and stood to help her on her way.

*****

'It's a no-show,' Sally announced into the microphone. She had put off calling an end to the operation for as long as possible in the hope that Gabriel had been delayed.

'Shit,' Ray and Sean said in unison as they stood up from their slouched positions against an advertising board.

'It's twenty past six,' Sally spoke into the microphone again. 'Sean and Ray will meet me at the car. We'll make Heathrow if we blue-light all the way. We've still got another chance.'

John watched as Ray and Sean ran down the stairs. He moved to intercept them.

'Lying bastard,' John announced.

'It's over,' Sean said to him. 'Go home.'

'What about Heathrow?' John asked.

'We're going there now. We'll let you know.'

'I'm coming with you.'

'No, you're not,' Ray said before he and Sean ran into the crowd and disappeared.

John turned to try to spot the agents concealed around the premises. They would be gutted. He expected at least some of them to reveal themselves through their body language. He searched in vain; nothing changed.

'Fuck it!' John cursed as he walked aimlessly forwards, away from his post.

'Lying bastard,' he reiterated to himself as he fished in his pocket for his car keys. He approached the bar where the fat one and the Good Samaritan had sat that morning. The bar was filling up with suits from the city, having a quick drink before going home. His eyes fell on a familiar face at the bar.

'Well, that didn't work out, did it?' John said as he joined him.

'Do I know you?' the man replied.

'Cut the crap,' John said tersely. 'You followed me here this morning.'

He leant back and looked at both of his ears. He did not have an earpiece.

'You obviously haven't heard,' John informed him. 'They've given up and gone to Heathrow.'

'Ah,' the man replied.

'She's bloody paranoid, you know,' John said to him, trying to catch the bartender's attention. 'I don't know why she got you to follow me. I don't know why she thought I'd be the one to fuck this up.'

'Yes, gents?' the bartender asked.

'Stella and a Jameson chaser,' John said. 'What're you having?' He nodded at the empty glass in the man's hand.

'Bitter shandy,' he answered.

'Two Stellas and two chasers,' John said to the barman.

'I don't think we're going to get anything today,' John said as they waited for the drinks.

'We'll see.'

The bartender delivered the drinks and John paid him.

'Lighten up, man,' John said.

'It is what it is,' the man said as John slid a pint and a chaser in front of him.

John threw back the measure of whiskey and drank deeply from the pint glass before setting it down on the counter.

'We're in this shit together,' John spoke again. 'What do I call you?' he asked. 'Agent Starling?' John suggested and smiled at his own reference.

'Brough Coubrough,' the man introduced himself and offered John his hand.

'From the high country?' John shook his hand and guessed at his ancestry.

'I'm English,' Brough said, 'Scots descent.'

'Not your fault,' John commiserated and toasted him with his pint of lager.

Brough raised his glass and sipped meagrely as John drained his glass and immediately ordered two more rounds.

39

Heathrow Airport, England

18h40 GMT, 26 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

Ben reclined in a plastic chair with his legs stretched out. His small suitcase stood beside him with a half-eaten bar of chocolate precariously balanced on it. He had removed the lid from the cardboard cup of tea and sipped it patiently as he read the newspaper. He was a tourist here, not a part of it but partaking of it. The arrivals board to his right silently announced the arrival of flight BA 257 from Bangkok. A glance at his watch confirmed it was ten minutes early.

He had never heard about Jack Ernshaw until his story presented itself on the website. Jack had been a career backbencher in the Tory party, renowned because he was the only politician who could claim having never said a single thing in the halls of parliament. Away from the green benches he was a completely different politician, always involved in processes and procedures, supporting and contesting the trivial things that upset his constituents. He avoided political wrangling in favour of the personal touch, managing his constituents' complaints and concerns without ever achieving anything.

Socially, Jack was a legend in the 'lifestyle'. He had convinced his wife to join a clandestine swingers club with him only four years after they had married. His wife, Maureen, was a reluctant participant but accompanied him to all the events out of a sense of duty. They settled into a tolerable status quo in time as he earned a reputation as an insatiable Lothario and she as a cold fish. Women swingers flocked to him and the men avoided her.

Jack and Maureen had remained childless because of his low sperm count. They were both very fond of children and busied themselves with volunteer work for a variety of children's charities and societies. Jack's proclivity for children slowly evolved into a more sinister interest during his last few years of public service. Diabetes, high cholesterol and high blood pressure rendered him impotent just after his fifty sixth birthday and his loss of sexual prowess prompted an early retirement from parliament and public scrutiny. He slipped imperceptibly from the moral constrains of society into the clandestine world of paedophilia. The impotence precluded sexual penetration of children and so child pornography came to dominate his life. He produced an extensive collection of illegal material and soon discovered there was an international demand for his talent. He sold hundreds of copies of his material, refusing to part with any originals.

Ben was here as a spectator to see the fruits of his labours. He had orchestrated the extradition of this monster via Alice, a mother of one of the victims on the website. She wanted to have him killed but Ben had diverted her energy into campaigning for extradition back to Britain where he faced a trial and an inevitable prison sentence. The prison inmates would be her instruments of retribution. Ben assured her that Jack's life would be a living hell in prison and, inevitably, one of the assaults would kill him.

Alice had made repeated requests to meet him, to thank him for all he had done, but Ben had declined. He was satisfied with their sanitised internet relationship and had no need to 'put a face to the name' as she put it. She persisted relentlessly until he tentatively agreed to meet her here, simply to stop her asking again. He would play it by ear now that he was here, but he felt disinclined to reveal himself to her. He was here primarily because he wanted closure on the issue with Jack.

There had been no news reports about the extradition so Ben was surprised by the number of people waiting at the arrivals gate. There also seemed to be more airline ground staff and maintenance staff in the terminal than normal. Ben noticed the anomaly but thought nothing of it. He was an infrequent traveller and had probably simply missed the change in airline terminal demographics. He folded his newspaper, stretched his arms and settled back to drink the rest of the tea.

He was seated within eyeshot of the arrivals gate but in the furthest bank of chairs. The first class passengers were the first to appear followed by the ebb and flow of economy and business class passengers. The waiting crowd thinned as they left with the passengers they had come to collect. Ben made a point of only occasionally scrutinising the arrivals passengers as it would be obvious which of them was the prisoner. Jack may not be shackled but the police escort would clearly mark him as the one.

The flow of passengers slowed to a spasmodic trickle as Ben drained the last of the tea from his cup. He was considering the crossword when a woman in the crowd caught his eye. She had ginger hair cut into a short executive style and wore a fitted trouser suit. Beneath the suit her body was slim and athletic. Her full lips contrasted sensually with her pale skin. She was beautiful. She carried a small home-made sign in front of her. When she turned Ben saw the name on the sign. The name was 'Gabriel'. It was Alice.

_Hot!_ Ben thought to himself.

Her charms almost succeeded in drawing him from his chair to introduce himself. He was about to go to her, drawn like a bee to honey, when he faltered.

_It'll get complicated,_ he thought to himself and clenched the armrests of his chair to restrain himself. _She's damaged goods. I'm in a good relationship, and if she confuses sex with gratitude it'll get complicated,_ he rationalised.

He stayed in his seat and forced himself to look away. The crossword was the only distraction but completely inadequate. He turned his head obliquely downwards so that it looked like he was doing the crossword as he watched her every movement. The one-way sports sunglasses hid his eyes.

Ben checked his watch and realised that he had been staring at her for twenty-eight minutes. There were no more passengers from the flight and Alice was alone at the gate.

_Maybe he'll be the last,_ Ben thought to himself, _or maybe they took him through a side door and he's already gone._

Ben waited for another ten minutes then drank her in one last time before standing up and dusting himself off. He turned his back on her and walked away.

*****

'Shit! Shit! Shit!' Sean cursed as he leapt from the car at the passenger drop-off bay. Ray followed him as he ran through the terminal building and up the escalator to the arrivals level.

Ben approached the escalator to descend to the ground floor. He heard the commotion before he saw it. As the escalator carried him down it crossed the escalator going up. Two men were running up the escalator, pushing people out of their way as they ran. It didn't appear that one was pursuing the other. They were both rushing for the same reason. Ben heard a public announcement start with the words, 'This is the final call for passengers for flight...' and thought nothing more of it.

'Shit!' Sean said again as he jumped off the top of the escalator and saw the red-headed woman standing alone at the arrivals gate.

He slowed to a walk and Ray caught up to him.

'Fuck,' Sean said. 'We've missed him.'

'He's a no-show,' Ray radioed back to Sally.

'It's a no-show,' Sally relayed Ray's assessment into the microphone of her headset. 'Stand by for thirty minutes then all agents stand down if no-show confirmed. Stand down in thirty minutes. Debriefing tomorrow at nine,' she announced and then pulled off her headset.

'Shit,' she said softly as she dialled her supervisor.

40

MI6, London, England

09h43 GMT, 27 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Break it down,' Sally asked from the head of the table.

'We've gone though everything we've got,' Sam said, 'and nothing. Digital enhancement, all the angles, electronic face recognition, motion dynamics, overlaps, repeatability, nothing.'

Sam Rosenthal was highly placed in the digital surveillance and recovery department. His skin was sallow and dark rings cupped his bloodshot eyes. Stubble coloured his chin blue. He and his staff had been up all night examining and manipulating all the footage from the surveillance cameras. They had compiled a databank of tens of thousands of digitally enhanced faces of every person that entered and exited Liverpool Street Station and Heathrow Airport in the last forty-eight hours. It was an impressive effort in the short time they were given but what they had was a databank of useless anonymous images.

'There are 763 confirmed overlaps and 2,327 maybes,' Sam said.

Sean groaned.

'Start with the confirmed ones,' Sally instructed. 'Cross-reference the surveillance images with the security ID pictures and chase every single one of them down.'

'Gabriel could be anyone of them or none of them,' Sam admitted morosely.

'It's a start,' Sally said. 'Everyone who shows up on surveillance at the station and the airport is a prime suspect. Chase every single one of them down, including home visits.'

Sean sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and said nothing.

'There must be something more,' Ray mused out loud. He had also been up all night reviewing the surveillance tapes and he looked worse than Sam. They wore the same crumpled clothes they'd had on yesterday and their breath smelt of stale coffee.

'Thank you, Sam,' Sally said. 'Any final thoughts?' she asked.

Everyone at the meeting shook their heads. They represented most of the intelligence departments of MI6 and collectively they had yielded almost nothing. Sam was the last of the department chiefs to offer input and he was the only one able to come up with something tangible to pursue.

'That's all we've got,' Sally tied up the meeting. 'Run down all the identities and report back to me within forty-eight hours. If he goes to ground, we may never find him. Sean, get John back on the case, for what it's worth.'

Sean groaned and tipped his head back in despair.

'Meeting adjourned,' Sally announced. 'Good work, people.'

Everyone besides Ray and Sean rose from their chairs and collected their belongings. Sally watched them as the others filed out of the room. Ray was pensive, clutching at an idea that had not yet fully formed itself in his mind. Sean was less considered, his mood petulant, with a face like thunder.

'Come on, guys,' Sally cajoled them. 'We've just got to keep going.'

'I'll get it over with,' Sean groaned again as he reached for the conference phone hub.

He dialled the number and Sally delayed her exit as she waited for John to answer.

'Hello?' a woman's voice answered the phone.

'Dana, it's Sean.'

'Good morning, Sean.'

'I'm sorry to bother you this early,' Sean said. 'Could I speak to John, please?'

'He's not here,' Dana said. 'He didn't come home last night. I thought he was still with you.'

'Do you have any idea when he'll be in?'

'No idea, I haven't heard from him since he left yesterday morning.'

'OK, thank you,' Sean said. 'Ask him to give me a call when he gets in.'

'Will do.'

'Bye now.'

'Bye.'

'That's odd,' Sally said.

'Not really,' Ray countered.

'Yes?' Sally rolled her wrists to open her palms and cocked her eyebrows to ask for an explanation.

'He was pissing it up all night with the guy you had tailing him yesterday,' Ray said. 'They were the last to leave the bar at the station last night.'

'I didn't send anyone to tail him.' Sally frowned.

'He said the guy followed him from home,' Sean said. 'He wasn't one of ours so I assumed he was one of yours.'

'No.' Sally's frown deepened. 'I didn't put anyone on him.'

Ray dialled a number on his phone. 'Sam,' he said, 'could you bring the files with John in the pub to the main conference room please.'

'Yes, now,' Ray said and then added, 'Please.' He clicked the phone shut and placed it on the table.

'If he's not one of ours, who the hell is he?' Ray asked.

Moments later Sam appeared at the door carrying a laptop.

'We want to recheck some of the footage we have of John in the pub,' Ray explained as Sam placed the laptop on the table. He flipped it open and typed briskly. Moments later a poor definition black and white image appeared and extended itself into a surveillance video. Sally squinted to make out John's face in the crowded pub.

'That's him, there.' Sam stabbed his finger against the screen.

Sam froze the image and typed in several commands which refreshed the screen and the image quality improved dramatically. The image of the back of the head of the man seated beside him also sharpened.

'Can we get a look at that guy's face?' Ray queried.

Sam advanced the recording, frame by frame, until a clear image of the man's face appeared on the screen.

'Could you print that?' Sally asked. 'We need to know who he is.'

'One of my guys already made him,' Sam said. 'His name's Brough Coubrough, retired SAS, works as a freelance investigator.'

'John says he followed him from home yesterday?' Sally asked Sean.

'He said someone followed him,' Sean corrected her. 'I didn't see who it was.'

'Bring him in,' Sally said to Ray. 'See what he knows.'

Ray nodded.

'When you've done that,' she said, 'go home, have a shower and get some sleep.'

Sally gathered her notes and turned to leave.

Ray nodded and licked the surface of his teeth, suddenly conscious that he hadn't been able to brush them in a while. He searched his pockets for a stick of chewing gum to freshen his breath. He had bought two packs while waiting for Gabriel at the station. He found them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Beside them he found a folded piece of paper. He frowned as he drew out the chewing gum and the paper and then remembered what it was. He unfolded the flyer the boy had given him and cast his eyes over it as he unwrapped a stick of gum.

'Shit!' he cursed and put the gum on the table.

'What?' Sally and Sean asked.

'Look at this,' Ray said and slid the flyer across the table towards them.

Sean drew it in front of him and Sally read it over his shoulder.

## BadDayz.com

**BadDayz.com** is the **FREE** website forum for people who have had enough. It's a chat room, a help room and a brainstorming problem-solving community.

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It's free, it's fair, it's fantastic.

BadDayz.com

It confirmed what they had all been thinking.

'Shit!' Sean said incredulously.

'He was there,' Sally groaned and closed her eyes.

41

Langtang National Park, Nepal

07h37 local time, 28 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

'Good morning, Ben,' Ingrid said in a broad velvety Bavarian accent, 'and welcome. I haven't seen you since Kusadasi.'

'I've been very busy at work so I've missed a few. How are you?'

'I am always good. How are you? How was your flight?'

'Heathrow to Kathmandu and then four bumpy hours in a knackered old taxi. I'm tired but I'm glad to be here. When did you arrive?'

'Yesterday,' she said, 'but we waited for you. Is that all you brought?' she asked, looking at his small suitcase.

'It's enough for four days.'

'Come then, I'll show you,' she said and turned to lead the way to a metal gate in the high fence.

She was wearing a dark blue T-shirt with the letters ISPCA printed in bold white print on the back. The shirt hung loosely over the top of her faded jeans. The athletic lines of her tight hamstrings showed through the worn denim. Her trim buttocks filled the jeans perfectly and transported him back to the last time he saw her in Kusadasi, Turkey, three years ago. They had met there as volunteer vets for ISPCA, to institute the treatment and rehabilitation of rescued dancing bears. The ISPCA had paid extortionate sums of money to buy the bears from individual owners after attempts to convince the Turkish government to ban the spectacle of dancing bears had failed. The bears presented to ISPCA were psychologically ruined, rocking obsessively from side to side and malnourished to the brink of death. Their hollow eyes stared through the people trying to help them, gazing blankly into a place far, far away, trying to find glimpses of what was left of themselves. Many of the bears were beyond saving and they had no option but to put them to sleep.

Euthanising seven of the bears they had come to save was harrowing. It was the opposite of what they had gone there to do and demolished their morale on that first day after their arrival when they had been full of hope and expectation. They drowned their sorrows in local brandy that evening. He and Ingrid were the only vets among all the other volunteers and felt a need to put a brave face on in front of the others, like officers leading their soldiers. When they were alone in the early hours of the morning, Ingrid broke down in drunken anguish. She clung to him and he clung to her, like shipwreck victims drowning in a sea of despair. Their primal need to be comforted, fanned by drunken inhibition, flared into a conflagration of lust and sexual solace. They made love with the intensity and urgency they needed to dissociate themselves from the horrors of their day. They fell asleep in each other's embrace and woke in the same state of mind. They spent only three days and four nights together before returning home. Their passion was the crutch that carried them through that distressing time.

They had both rationalised what had happened between them and made no effort to contact each other afterwards. Their short relationship had been entirely sexual, a product of their environment, a coping strategy. They had both been single at the time so what had happened had helped them and hurt no one.

He noticed she had a wedding ring on her finger as she slid the bolt back and pushed the gate open.

_Thank God,_ he thought to himself.

'Come,' she said as he stepped through the gate in silence and finally tore his eyes off her.

'Thank you,' he said as she closed and bolted the gate.

'Here,' she directed him along a path to their right.

As he followed he looked around, taking in the vegetation. This was a good place for bears, with plenty for them to eat. She led him into a large, crumbling, single-storey building. It was the open sleeping quarters of the staff, hurriedly converted to accommodate the bears in makeshift pens.

They stopped in front of the bears and stared in silence as they contemplated the horror of their lives. There were adults, juveniles and cubs in varying states of neglect. The cubs and the youngsters were in the best condition, not having been milked yet. The adults ranged from poor condition to cachectic and emaciated.

'Don't worry,' Ingrid said softly and squeezed his hand, 'I have checked them all over and they are all salvageable. There will be no euthanasia this time.'

'Thank God,' Ben said and squeezed her hand back before letting it go. _This time will be better,_ he thought to himself.

'I must let someone know I've arrived,' Ben said to Ingrid.

'Ja, of course,' Ingrid said, 'your wife?'

'No, a friend.'

'Do you have a phone?'

'I'll send an email.'

'I have my laptop here,' Ingrid said, 'you can connect with my cell phone.'

'I've got my own stuff,' Ben said. 'Save your batteries.'

'Use the office.' She gestured toward an open doorway in the crumbling whitewashed render.

'Thank you,' Ben said as he carried his bag toward the doorway.

Ben sat at the desk in the cramped space of the makeshift office. He pushed Ingrid's equipment aside and unpacked his own. He was about to connect when Ingrid popped her head round the door.

'These are yours,' she said and threw a blue roll of material for him to catch.

He caught it and shook it out; two dark blue T-shirts with the letters ISPCA emblazoned on the back.

Ben stared at the letters on the shirts for several pensive moments before smiling to himself.

_This is why I'm here,_ he thought to himself and pulled his shirt off. He put the fresh T-shirt on and shrugged his shoulders to adjust the fit before looking down at the small letters embroidered over the left side of his chest: ISPCA volunteer. A contented grin crept across his face, full of promise and the joy of helping these forgotten animals.

'Excellent,' he murmured to himself as he turned back to the desk and started typing.

Ben typed in his username before entering his unwieldy password and then answered a sequence of self-imposed security questions. The entire RAM capacity of his computer was required to encode and encrypt and re-encode then re-encrypt the information before cross-referencing the results with all the similarly processed information guarding the entrance to the website.

Moments later, access was granted and he was logged on as Username: Gabriel.

_I hate using an alias,_ Ben thought to himself.

Ben would have preferred to use his own name because an alias implies subterfuge, criminality and sadly even shame or megalomania and psychosis. Ben was not ashamed of what he was doing. He was acting for the greater good of humanity. He was proud of his work and he was doing it voluntarily with sound mind and forethought. The alias was imperative to protect him from the prying eyes of people who failed to understand the importance of his work.

'The paradox of modern society is how difficult it is for good people to punish bad people,' Ben said out loud. Then he began to type.

Gabriel: The bears have arrived safely.

Mikegzb: How are they?

Gabriel: They're all fine. How are you coping?

Mikegzb: He's dead.

Gabriel: Good.

Mikegzb: I buried him.

Gabriel: Good.

Mikegzb: No one here suspects anything.

Gabriel: Good.

Mikegzb: I'm leaving this morning.

Gabriel: Good. Make as public an exit as you can. It proves you've got nothing to hide.

Mikegzb: I'm going to Kodari.

Gabriel: Have you got a visa for Nepal?

Mikegzb: Yes.

Gabriel: Excellent. The bears are at the Langtang National Park just across the border in Nepal. I know one of the vets there, his name is Ben. I'll send him an email so he'll expect you.

No response.

Gabriel: You've done a good job, Michael.

Still no response.

Gabriel: Michael?

Still nothing.

Gabriel: Michael?

Mikegzb: It feels wrong.

Gabriel: It shouldn't. You've done the right thing. You were the only one who could save them and you did it. Most people would just have walked away. You saved them all and you got rid of the bastard who did this to them. You did a good thing.

Mikegzb: I just want to see them free again, then I'll know for sure.

Gabriel: When you see them you'll know. You saved them, Michael. You've saved fifty lives. How many people can say they've done that? If there were more people like you, the world would be a better place.

Mikegzb: I guess.

Gabriel: You rescued them from a living hell, Michael. Imagine what they would say to you if they could talk.

Mikegzb: Thank you, Gabriel. I know you're right. It's just this place is giving me the creeps. I'll feel better when I'm out of here.

Gabriel: You're a hero, Michael, never forget that.

Mikegzb: See you in Langtang?

Gabriel: Afraid not, but you'll meet an old friend, Ben. You'll like him.

Mikegzb: Thank you.

Gabriel: No, Michael, on behalf of the bears you saved, thank you. Speak later.

Ben logged off and stared pensively at the screen for several long moments.

_If anyone found out about me,_ Ben thought to himself, _they'd think I'm some sort of Jekyll and Hyde schizophrenic monster. I can just imagine the sort of nauseating hyperbole and clichéd drivel they'd write in newspapers: sensationalist speculations about dual personalities and gratuitous torture and murder. Self-proclaimed experts would write self-serving, bullshit biographies and there would probably even be tacky, voyeuristic docudramas._

Ben stretched back in his chair and scratched his head.

_That's exactly what people would think if they knew._ Ben sighed to himself. _They'd focus on the gory bits and completely miss the point._

Ben shrugged his shoulders and leant forwards over his laptop.

_Why would that be easier to understand than to accept that I'm just a normal guy trying to help people to help themselves?_ he asked himself. _I'm not insane, I'm not schizophrenic, I'm not sadistic, I'm not deliberately looking to hurt anyone. I'm just someone who's taken a stand. Humanity can't survive without revenge and retribution, it's the basis of every legal system in every country. Revenge cleanses the soul. Even Aristotle wrote that the soul is purged by the fear that tragedy evokes, that we fulfil the soul's greatest desire through the tragedy of revenge. If what I do is what it takes to help people repair their lives or to stop bad things happening, then c'est la vie, I'll keep doing it._

Ingrid stepped into the open doorway and watched Ben stooped over his laptop. She smiled affectionately when she saw he was already wearing the shirt she had given him. The letters ISPCA were proudly emblazoned across his back. She understood his need to help and his pride in stepping up to the plate.

_He is a good man,_ she thought to herself as she waited quietly for him to finish what he was doing.

Ben switched the computer off and stuffed it back into his case. He turned on his heel as he stood up.

'Shit!' He jumped when he saw her. 'You gave me a fright.'

'Don't worry,' she said, giggling, 'I couldn't see what you were writing to your wife.'

Ben laughed at his own anxiety.

'Now hurry up,' she chastised playfully, 'we must get to work.'

'I'm ready,' Ben said enthusiastically. 'Let's go.'

42

Starborough Manor, England

09h50 GMT, 28 August 2012

2006—2007—2008—2009—2010—2011—2012

John blinked painfully as she switched the light on. He had been drunk for two days.

'Fuck,' he groaned as the pain in his head throbbed against the inside of his skull.

He looked around the room and realised it was not his bedroom.

'Where am I?' he moaned and closed his eyes again.

'At home,' a woman's voice answered from the doorway.

'Dana?' he asked and strained to open his eyes against the glare of the naked light bulb.

'Yes, it's me,' she answered.

'What's going on?' John asked and tried to stand up. 'What the fuck?' he stammered as he realised he was tied down. 'What the fuck's going on?'

He swivelled his head to look down at himself and around the room. He realised that he was in the cellar and he was tied to a chair with plastic cable ties. He was naked from the waist down. He fixed his bloodshot eyes on his wife.

'What the fuck's going on?' he demanded.

'Shut up, John,' she said coldly. 'I know the truth.'

'What fucking truth? The truth about what? What the fuck is all this?'

'You shook them,' she said icily. 'You shook them both!' she screamed at him.

Dana charged into the room, screaming hysterically through her tears.

'You shook them both, you bastard! And you lied about it! All these years you've lied to me!' She wailed as she rained blows down on him.

'What the fuck are you talking about?' he shouted back, trying to save his face from her clawing hands. 'Dana! What the fuck are you talking about?'

'Shut up!' she shrieked in anguish. 'Shut the fuck up!'

She grabbed a roll of brown plastic tape from the table beside him and fumbled to find the loose end. She wound it tightly around his head several times to gag him.

'Shut up,' she said more softly as she dropped the roll of tape and stumbled backwards to lean against the wall.

'Shut up,' she said repeated, sinking to her haunches. She drew breath in short painful gasps between the sobs that wracked her body.

John strained to focus his eyes as he looked around the room, searching for an explanation. His gaze settled on a sheaf of ring-bound papers on the table beside him. He strained his eyes to read the words on the cover: Coubrough Investigations.

Dana saw him read the words and rose unsteadily to her feet.

'That's right, John. It's all there in his report in black and white. The real records, the real reports, the real statements, the real testimonies, their confessions that you paid them to lie, everything!'

'I know everything now,' she said quietly. 'I know how you bribed the hospital. You bribed the police. You bought all those second opinions. You bribed everyone. You bribed them to cover it up and they all lied to me. You lied to me.'

Dana paused for a moment then shouted, 'You lied to me and you tried to pin it on that fucking nanny! All that to save your own skin!'

John stared back at her with wide eyes. She knew the truth.

'All the medicine I've been giving them all these years to hide your lies. They're your sons, John! They're our children. How could you do this to them?'

John made muffled noises as he tried to explain.

'Both of them, John!' she yelled. 'Two shaken babies! My beautiful boys! Both of them! You destroyed both of them!'

John protested, incoherent muffled noises.

'There's nothing you can do or say to make this better, John,' she said quietly. 'Nothing will ever make this right.'

John strained his arms against the cable ties and extended his fingers towards her pleadingly.

'So what am I going to do?' she asked menacingly. 'I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to made you pay, John. I'm going to make you suffer every day for the rest of your life.'

She paused for a moment and glared at him. He had never seen anger in her eyes until today. Hate and rage boiled inside her as she stared at him.

'Every day, John,' she said, 'every day you're going to suffer like they have. Every day you're going to suffer like I have. You're going to suffer and you're going to think about what you've done.'

She paused before saying, 'Every day, every day until you die.'

John's bowels opened and a slush of hungover diarrhoea cascaded noisily into the bucket beneath his chair. The stench exploded into the room but Dana was oblivious to it.

She turned her back to him and walked to the open door directly ahead of him at the far side of the room. She closed the door and turned the key in the lock. He watched her back as she stepped to her right and opened a tall cabinet standing beside the door.

'You want to know exactly what I'm going to do?' she asked with her back to him. 'I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'll tell you every day before I do it.'

She turned to face him and advanced on him. He looked at her hands and saw what she was carrying. She had a fistful of small cable ties in her left hand. He looked at her right hand and then uncomprehendingly up at her face.

'That's right, John,' she said as she stood before him, bristling with rage. 'I'm going to start with this hammer.'

THE END

