"Dr Hill wants a tour of the crime scenes at the sort of time when the bodies were dumped."
Kevin got to his feet.
"Just don't let him talk to any strange men."
Tony took the plastic container of lasagne out of the microwave and sat down at the breakfast bar in his kitchen. He'd input all the data that he could find on the four victims, then he'd transferred the files to a floppy disk so he could work on it at home while he waited for Carol to arrive. As soon as he'd reached the tram stop, he'd realized he was ravenous. Then he remembered he'd eaten nothing since his breakfast cereal. He'd been working with such concentration, he hadn't even noticed. He found the hunger curiously satisfactory. It meant he was too involved in what he was doing to be conscious of himself. He knew from long experience that his best work came when he lost selfconsciousness, when he could immerse himself in the patterns of another human being, locked into that other's idiosyncratic logic, in tune with a different set of emotions.
He attacked the food with gusto, shovelling it down as quickly as possible so he could get to his computer and carry on with his victim profiles. There were still a couple of forkfuls left in the dish when the phone rang. With no pause for thought. Tony snatched up the phone.
"Hello?" he said cheerfully.
"Anthony," the voice said. Tony dropped the fork, tipping the pasta out on the work top
"Angelica," he said. He was back in his own world, anchored within his own head at the sound of her voice.
"Feeling more sociable today?" the sweet huskiness asked.
"I wasn't feeling anti-social yesterday. I just had things to do I couldn't ignore. And you distract me," Tony said, wondering why he bothered to justify himself to her.
"That's the general plan," she said.
"But I missed you, Anthony. I was so horny for you, and when you discarded me like an old sock, all my pleasure in the day was over."
"Why do you do this with me?" he demanded. It was a question he'd asked before, but she had always deflected him.
"Because you deserve me," the voice said.
"Because I want you more than anyone in the world. And because you don't have anyone else in your life to make you happy."
It was the same old story. Cut off the question with some flannel.
But tonight. Tony wanted answers, not flattery. "What makes you think that?" he asked.
The voice chuckled softly.
"I know more about you than you can possibly dream. Anthony, you don't have to be alone any more."
"What if I like being alone? Isn't it fair to assume that I'm alone because I want to be?"
"You don't look like a happy boy to me. Some days, you look like you need a hug more than anything in the world. Some days, you look like you haven't slept for more than a couple of hours. Anthony, I can bring you peace. Women have hurt you before, we both know that. But I won't. I can stop it hurting. I can make you sleep like a baby, you know that. All I want is to make you happy." The voice was soothing, gentle.
Tony sighed. If only . "I find that hard to believe," he stalled.
Right from the start of these conversations, part of him had wanted to slam the phone down on this exquisite tenure. But the scientist in him wanted to hear what she had to say. And the damaged man inside had enough self- awareness to know he needed to be cured, and that this might just be the way. He reminded himself of his earlier resolve not to let her get under his skin, so that when the time came, he could walk away without pain.
"But you let me try." The voice was so self-assured. She was confident of her power over him.
"I listen, don't I? I join in. I haven't put the phone down yet," he said, forcing artificial warmth into his voice.
"Why don't you do just that? Why don't you put down this phone and go upstairs to your bedroom and pick up the extension there? So we can be comfortable?"
A cold stab of fear hit Tony in the chest. He struggled to frame the question professionally. Not,
"How do you know that?" but,
"What makes you think I've got a phone in the bedroom?"