Mick finished with the cognac and dropped the bottle on the floor. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he tapped Trevor on the shoulder and suggested that they look around upstairs. In the master bedroom, their eyes, now accustomed to the dark, picked out the outlines of bed, wardrobe and dresser. The gleam of a streetlamp through the net curtains helped visibility, too, and they turned off their pen-lights.

Trevor began searching through the drawers, using his light again to illuminate the contents. He found dark, silky underwear: bras, panties, tights, slips, camisoles. They were soft and slippery in his hands, charging him with static, and he rubbed them against his face, smelling the fresh, lemony scent of the woman. He also found an old cigar box in a drawer full of the man's socks, string vests and underpants; inside it were a set of keys and about a hundred and fifty pounds in cash.

Mick found what looked like a jewelry box on the dresser. When he opened it up, a ballet dancer began spinning to tinkling music. He dropped the box and spilled the jewels on the floor; then, cursing, he bent and scooped them up.

Trevor looked around for any locked cabinets that the keys might fit, but he found nothing. The two of them went back downstairs, feet sinking luxuriously into the deep pile carpeting, and, shining their flashlights again, had another look around the living room. There, in a corner, set into the wall, was what looked like a safe. Trevor tried his keys but none fit. Mick tried the crowbar but it bent. Eventually, they gave up.

"Let's take the VCR," Mick whispered.

"No. It's too heavy, too easy to trace."

"Lenny'll get rid of it in London."

"No, Mick. We're not taking big stuff like that. It'll slow us down. You've got the jewels and I've got a hundred quid. It's enough."

"Enough!" Mick snorted. "These people are fucking rolling in it. We've not got much more than we get from the old bags."

"Yes, we have. And people are more careful these days-we're bloody lucky to have got so much."

Reluctantly Mick gave up the idea and agreed to leave. Trevor was still enjoying just being there, though, still tingling, and he wanted to do something. Finally, he unzipped his fly and started to urinate over the TV, VCR and music center, spraying lavishly on the carpet, paintings and mantelpiece, too. It seemed to go on forever, a powerful, translucent stream glittering in the pen-light's beam, and with it, he felt himself relax, felt a delicious warmth infuse his bones.

Not to be outdone, Mick lowered his pants and dropped a steaming pile on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, giggling softly to himself as he did it.

When they'd both finished, they left the way they came, pausing only briefly to check the kitchen drawers and cupboards, just in case.

"There's no evidence that we've got a Byrne or a Floyd on our hands," Jenny said, sipping her half of bitter. "I think that if we had, something would have happened before now. The trouble with psychology is that it works best when you know all the facts. It's hard to make guesses in the dark. It's also unscientific."

"Police work's the same," Banks added. "There's nothing like facts, but I've always found that occasional guesses, or some kind of hunch based on limited knowledge, can often work well. It gives you a bit of room for the intuition, imagination."

"That's surprising, coming from you," Jenny said, looking at him as if all her earlier theories had been wrong.

"Why?"

"It just is. I suppose I've been used to you asking for facts, looking for evidence."

"It's important, I'm not denying it. But more often than not forensic evidence is only useful in getting a conviction. First you have to catch the criminal, and he's as cunning and imaginative as can be. Some aren't, of course, some are plain stupid. But they're the easy ones."

"I should think your peeper is probably quite intelligent. Again, this is mostly guesswork, but he has avoided capture so far, and he's got his system worked out quite well. It remains to be seen how adaptable he is. He's certainly not a fool."

"Back to my original question," Banks said. "You don't think he'll escalate?"

"I said I didn't think we had a serious sex criminal on our hands. I don't think he's likely to move on to necrophilia or eating breasts, with or without sugar, but I wouldn't be too sure that merely peeping will keep him happy for much longer. It might be getting too easy for him, especially if he's intelligent. If he stops getting his thrills that way… then…" She shrugged. "At best he might turn to exhibitionism, at worst some kind of attack, molestation."

"Rape?"

"Ultimately. Although it might not be rape in the legal sense. There may be no penetration; he might simply force women to strip. I don't know, I'm just trying to project the pattern. He might feel the need for greater danger, more risk; he might need to see and absorb the fear of his victims. Yes, it could happen. Especially the closer he gets to his original impulse."

"What do you mean?"

"If he finds someone who reminds him of his mother, or whoever he was first struck by, then the stimulus might be too much; it might cause him to push through to another level."

"What can we do with what we've got so far, then?" Banks asked.

"You want me to tell you your job?"

"Why not? You've not done so badly at it so far."

"All right. What I'd do is this: find out how many men between the ages of about twenty and thirty-five are either living alone or with a single parent, most likely a mother."

"Why?"

"It's just what the statistics show. Not completely reliable of course, but better than a slap in the face with a wet fish, wouldn't you say?"

"I would. I was just wondering about the single-parent business."

"I think there's generally more stability with both parents around, unless the marriage is in a really bad way. It's what the stats show, anyway. Shall I go on?"

"Yes."

"There shouldn't be all that many in Eastvale, I don't think. Most people move away or get married. Next I'd 'stake out' selected pubs, as they say on the telly."

"I've told you how many pubs there are in Eastvale. We don't have anything like the manpower."

"Use what you have. He's tried the same pub twice. Why not a third time? There's one you can cover. And you must have some pretty policewomen around who'd be happy to work overtime to help get rid of this particular criminal, surely?"

Banks nodded. "Go on."

"As far as the other two pubs are concerned, you can cover them, too. If he struck lucky once he might try for a second time."

"So you suggest that we cover the pubs he's already operated in?"

"Yes."

"Good. We're already doing that."

"Bastard!" Jenny laughed and slapped his arm playfully. "You've got to admit, though, I was on the right track, wasn't I?"

"Definitely. Any time you need a job. Is there anything else?"

"You might check around the pornographic bookshops-if there are any in Eastvale-and the strip-clubs. I don't mean that you should pester everyone who enjoys seeing a bit of tit and ass now and then, but make your presence felt. Maybe if you put the wind up him he'll make a mistake."

"You think he's likely to hang around such places?"

"It's possible. After all, it's looking, isn't it? Even if it's not as thrilling as the other kind. By the way, are there places like that in Eastvale?"

"One or two. We keep an eye on them, but I'll do as you recommend, push a bit harder."

Jenny nodded. "Excuse me for asking," she said, "but how did you get that scar?" And she leaned forward and touched the small scar by Banks's right eye.

"Accident," he said tersely. "Years ago."

"How disappointing. And I thought you must have got it in some heroic struggle with a knife-wielding maniac, or perhaps from a gun that went off as you grappled to save someone's life."