"Nothing changes, does it?" The young man driving the VW Golf settled deeper in his seat, resigned to the rush-hour delay.

   It was 8.50am. on the ring-road. The daily conflict here was a four-way battle between those late for the office, parents trying to get children to school on time, contractors attempting to get to jobs and truckers with loads to deliver. It was saloon versus four-by-four versus rusting van versus truck. Each one on a quest more important than every other and each one ready to kill to succeed if necessary.

   "In fact, I think it's got worse," he added. He glanced across at the woman in the passenger seat.

   "Yes." Her reply was delivered absentmindedly. She was deep in thought, going over memories of this place.

Viewed from the air, or as an image on a map, it looked like any other market town suffering the curse of obesity that the late twentieth century had cast upon it. The old town was a bloated waistline straining against the belt of the ring-road, and outside this were the new housing estates and the B&Q, World Of Leather, Currys Electrical Warehouse-filled commercial developments spreading like architectural dermatitis across the smooth back of rural West Country England.

   Avonbridge was like a lot of other country towns that boasted a remarkable history but lived an unremarkable present. And it faced an unworthy future. The new indoor shopping centre, clad with incongruous coloured metal panels and uninspiringly named The Mall, was built on the site of a former brewery. That had been a beautifully proportioned old stock brick building with masonry window arches and soot-lipped chimneys. A bland concrete leisure centre, complete with graffiti walls, lay heavily on what had been the open cattle market. This was an old-town-trying-to-be-modern. Not only was it losing the will to retain its ancient character, but it had also failed to learn how to be tastefully contemporary. Its better-educated young singles and married couples often succumbed to the pull of more lucrative employment in Bristol, Swindon or London. But sometimes, just occasionally, people who had once left moved back here; perhaps in an attempt to re-live the comfortable market-town life of the past. Or perhaps for other reasons.

   Audrey Cooper moved back to Avonbridge with her son. Just the pair of them. She rented a cottage on Cirencester Road. This was the old main road which ran north out of the town. The early Victorian dwellings continued past a roundabout in the ring-road and out to the borough boundary. Here modern signs informed incoming roadusers that Avonbridge was the centre of the Gloucestershire wool industry in the 14^th century and that it was twinned with Troyes in France. And that careful drivers were welcome. That particular sign was of no interest to Mrs.Cooper; she had never learnt to drive a car. The new Cooper residence was on the quieter, more rural part of Cirencester Road, outside the ring-road and a mile and a half from the town centre. It was the last cottage before the country.

    James Cooper had been up at college in Oxford when his father died. It had been said that the stress of a busy local business and certain other family troubles had been the death of him. Audrey Cooper was only too pleased to move out of Avonbridge to get away from the bad taste of a family fallen apart, the death of her husband and from the loneliness of living on her own. She often thought that if James had have been there all the time, none of the bad things would have happened. His optimistic and always-cheerful presence would have bound the family wounds until they healed. She found herself almost blaming him. But then, she could never do that. To her, he was the perfect son.

   Living with her older spinster sister in Cheltenham had been a depressing experience. She felt that she had missed out on several years of her life. But now James was back and she knew she would draw enough strength from him to carry out what she needed to do to get on with a useful life.

   James had earned his degree and would start his proper job in two months. In the meantime, he would live with his mother and find temporary employment in Avonbridge. Once she was settled and everything was taken care of, he could then get on with his life. But for now he was in no hurry. His specialist career subject did not change with fashion and technical progress. It would be the same in two months or even two years.

   Of James's contemporaries that lived locally, most were either still at college, off back-packing somewhere in the world, or had started new jobs. Few worked in Avonbridge. It was not long before he found the person he wanted to see first. The meeting was a surprise one to the other party, in the Lion and Lamb pub. This was one of the old haunts and it still had the same threadbare red carpet and the wall lights with smoke-yellowed glass.

"Blimey, James. I hardly recognised you."

   "Yeah, it's me. You're looking well."

   "You look different. You know my wife, Helen?" He indicated the attractive young woman beside him.

   "Yes, I'm sure we've met." He shook hands with the girl. "Has your dad still got the businesses?" His question was directed at her.

   "Oh yes. Still going strong."

   "You look different, too, Steve." James took a theatrical step back to examine his acquaintance. "Heavier. You obviously make too much money."

   "Does it show that much? But what about you: what's with the change of image? You had long hair since you were a baby. And when I saw you last, the scruffy beard and those little hippy glasses. You looked just like John Lennon. Now you've got a crop - what is that, a number two?"

   "Huh. Was a number one. It's grown. And I've got lenses now. Girls don't make passes and all that."

   "Right. So what's up?"

   "I'll get a pint and tell you."

   Steve Davidson was several years older than James. James often wondered how he got to know him, what with them being so different. Steve started a used car sales business before he was twenty and now had several car lots in other towns. He was rather a flashy character, known in his late teens for his pub brawling and dodgy dealing. He was not a grammar school boy like James, but oddly, he had been to an expensive private school and was a most astute businessman. He just liked selling cars.

   James smiled as he waited for his beer. He certainly remembered Helen. He and his mates referred to her as ‘the face that launched a thousand chips'. Her father owned several fish and chip shops in the area and at one time, Helen had worked in one. Married now to Steve, she would not need to work.

   "So, how did you do at Oxford?"

   "Got a first."

   "A first? Christ. That takes some doing."

   "Well ... I enjoy the subject. That makes it easier. Anyway, Steve." James paused, looked down into his beer and then sharply up and into Steve's eyes. "I need a favour. I don't start my job in ... er, Manchester, for two months. I've got to help my mother sort out a few affairs here but in the meantime, I'll go potty if I don't do something useful. G'is a job?"

   "I dunno. Er... what did you have in mind?"

   "Nothing fancy. I can valet cars, collect and deliver. I can do mechanical jobs."

   "I could certainly do with some help ..."
   "I can even sell cars."

   "Yeah? Selling cars requires a special talent. It takes psychology, son." Steve was proud of his sales ability.

   "I've got a first class degree in that."

   "Don't push your luck."

   "Valeting, collecting and delivering, and mechanical jobs. That'll do me."

   Steve Davidson described where his main car sales establishment was; he referred to it as his Head Office. It was on a trading estate outside the ring-road. James was to call on him in the morning to discuss money and what he was to do. For this evening, they were both happy to talk about the past in Avonbridge. James caught up on gossip and discovered one or two things that he wanted to know. His questions did not arouse any suspicion in Steve's mind; that degree in psychology was proving useful already.

Audrey Cooper went about tidying the rented cottage and moving the sparse furniture into a more acceptable arrangement. The furnishings were cheap. She was used to expensive. The cottage was small. She was used to large. Her own proper household contents were still in store at Pickford's warehouse in Cheltenham, but she had a nagging suspicion that she would never again have a grand enough house in which to accommodate all of them. Why would she want a big house now? It was just her and James. And even he would leave her one day soon. She might just as well sell off her contents; it was costing a fortune to keep them stored. Those old house contents were just like memories: sometimes nice to possess, but mainly a heavy burden.

   The cottage on the edge of Avonbridge was rented in the name of Mrs. Jane Marshall, the rent to be paid in cash to the letting agent in the town each month. It was a name that came easily to Audrey. Jane had been a good friend at school all those years ago. She had emigrated to Canada way back. The rent was paid in advance for three months. Audrey thought there was a chance that people in the town might recognise her, so James had arranged that side of things. Her family name was too well known in the area for her to announce in any way that she had moved back. She wanted to remain anonymous, distant from any old family friends, distant from the events that caused her to move away. Old house contents, old family friends, memories: too much of a weight on someone with a mission, someone seeking a new life.

James was taking morning coffee with Steve Davidson. They had agreed on a cash-no-paperwork employer-employee relationship. That way, Steve didn't have to bother with PAYE, National Insurance, sick pay or a contract. James was more than happy; the weekly cash was tax-free, on the dot every Friday afternoon, and he remained unnamed, anywhere. No employment file. When it became timely to leave the job, he could just walk away with no records of lowly employment to mar his future career.

   "It was good last night; catching up with the Avonbridge society gossip."

   "Yeah." Steve was shuffling car documents, looking for an errant MoT certificate.

   "But we didn't mention Carmen and Wicks. Are they still around?" Those names had gnawed away at his mind, and sanity, for years.

   Steve stopped what he was doing instantly and looked straight at James. "What do you want to know about them for? They're the last people you want to meet."

   "Yeah. Precisely. Just the point; I don't want to bump into them."

   "Like, you don't want to get even?" Steve momentarily pictured the academic James in a fight with two nasty characters that could look after themselves. Sure, he looked lean and fit, like he had taken part in athletics at college. But not heavily strong, not like he'd played rugby. And he was no dirty streetfighter. The vision dissolved quickly; it was too silly to contemplate.

   "No way. Water under the bridge, mate. A thing of the past. You can't change history."

   "Maybe not. Carmen and Wicks.  Mick Carmen and Dave Wicks. They both work at Motorway Tyres on this estate. They're tyre fitters. Bastards. They got away too lightly, if you ask me. Anybody who remembers it hates them."

   "Our fine legal system, Steve." James was sarcastic. "I know a bit about that now ... from friends studying criminal law at Oxford. It's a farce. Especially the soft sentences that young offenders get for major crimes."

   "They might have been young, but they knew what they were doing alright."

    James went outside to finish leathering-off a Rover that he was to deliver later. Several minutes later Steve drifted up to him, lit a cigar and blew smoke into the air. He spoke quietly to James.

   "Jim. Those two arseholes; if you ever want anything done about them ... know what I mean?"

   "Yeah. I know what you mean, but ... nah, they're not worth it, mate."

   "If you ever change your mind ... I know people who specialise in that sort of thing. Partial or complete jobs. They're very thorough and they don't come cheap, but sometimes it's worth it. I'd be glad chip in, you now."

   James studied Steve's expression and realised that he was deadly serious.

   "Thanks. I really do appreciate that. But ... like I said..." James wanted to de-fuse the tension. " ... and boss."

   "Yeah?"

   "Mind where you're flicking that fucking ash, will you: I've just leathered this motor."

Because of the hideous traffic congestion at rush-hour times, James decided to walk to and from work most days. Sometimes, he would take a car home to the cottage ready to deliver it early the next day. This evening, he was walking home. He did not mind this at all. In fact, he enjoyed the exercise. He had worked until 7pm., doing a simple service on a car that had been sold. He walked into the town then turned left onto Cirencester Road, crossing over to the eastern side to catch the evening sun that was still above roof height on the other side of the road. As he passed number 66, on the opposite side, he glanced at the house then up at the front bedroom window. The sun was gleaming over the roof and he had to squint against its glare.

   Number 66 Cirencester Road was empty. It had been so for many years, even before James had gone up to Oxford. It was quite dilapidated but the glass in the windows was intact. It was one of those houses in limbo; the old owner had died and his only living relative, a distant cousin, was in Australia. After much searching, the solicitors found him and informed him that he had inherited a house in Cirencester, England. He could not afford to travel to England so perhaps one day he would sell the property. But then again, he might just come to claim it, if and when funds allowed. The house had been used variously by squatters and tramps, and for god-knows what else.

    James saw the girl at the bedroom window. She looked unhappy and drawn. Her facial expression and hand movements indicated that she was forlorn, waiting for something, appealing for help. He stopped and gazed up at her sad face. And was overcome by a whole rash of emotions ranging from helplessness to anger. He turned away and continued homewards. In order to take his mind off of the girl, he spent the rest of the evening studying maps.

   "What are you looking at those for, James?" asked Audrey Cooper.

   "Right. I'm working out the best place to live when I start the proper job. I don't want to live in the city; I hate the thought of that. Crime-ridden, expensive and dirty. I want village life but not too far from a main line so I can drive to the station and get the train to work."

   "That won't be cheap. You won't be the only one looking for the ideal. Will it be ... far away from here?" She knew it might have to happen one day, but James's living too far away from her was something she could not grasp just now.

   "Don't worry about that, Ma. I'll make sure it's in just the right place for both of us. You want a new start? Let's make sure that it's in a nice village, too. Between us, we could afford a really nice place."

   "You don't want that. It's not right for a young man."

   "You simply can't stay in Avonbridge. I won't have that. The reminders of what has gone on would not be good for you. We're OK together, and anyway, I'll be away quite a bit. The job involves a lot of travel."

   Audrey Cooper remembered more than James realised. When her husband was at the peak of success with his agricultural buildings business, her ideal world had been blown apart. She had been used to being taken everywhere by him in a succession of expensive Jaguar cars. They even drove to Italy in a classic Jaguar E-type that he bought especially for the trip, staying at expensive hotels in France and Switzerland on the way there and back. San Remo was her fondest memory. The open sports car with the growling exhaust as they sped along, the sun and wine and ... When she discovered that he had been having an affair with his secretary for several years, it was like someone stabbing her repeatedly in the heart. Only it was his heart that gave out, not hers. The constant arguments about his infidelity, the stress of the business, and his guilt (she liked to think), was too much for him. That, and another event that nobody cared to mention. James knew nothing about the affair. All he knew was that his father had died of a heart attack, likely brought on by business stress ... and the other problem.

James began to enjoy his job at Steve's car sales business. There was absolutely no pressure on him. On the trading estate and almost opposite Motorway Tyres, was a snack wagon. It was open from early morning to about 2.30pm. each day. James often went there for a sandwich and drink on the way out to, or back from, Steve's other branches. He developed acquaintances with several regulars, including the fitters from Motorway Tyres.

   On the days that he walked to or from work along Cirencester Road, he would look up at the bedroom window of number 66. Sometimes the girl was not there. Sometimes her pleading face appeared at the window, causing him to falter. After a few weeks, though, she appeared more regularly. He felt drawn to go into the house and comfort her. He just had to.

"It's OK, James is here now. God, this place needs fixing up. It's a mess. I'll bring some tools and get started."

    James started going out in the evenings more. He went to number 66, entering by the broken back door, and worked on getting the bedroom into a more acceptable condition. He did a lot of work those evenings but always by candlelight; there was no electricity. He delayed telling Audrey about this, but when he explained everything, she was happy with it. She would even help him later.

   In the daytime, he got quite friendly with two of the tyre fitters,  Mick and Dave.

   "Well, lads, I've met this great girl. Lives in Cirencester Road. Well, to be truthful, she's a bit strange. Nice body and everything, but ... she lives on her own."

   "What, all on her own?" asked Mick Carmen.

   "Yeah. Her folks work away somewhere, she reckons. Bankers in South Africa, I think she said."

   James had the tyre fitters inquisitive. After several more days of hearing him talk about the girl, Carmen and Wicks became agitated. Carmen grabbed James's arm and dragged him behind the snack wagon.

   "Look, fella, what's all this shit you're giving us about this fucking girl, eh?"

   James feigned fright. "Wha... I dunno what you mean. It's not shit. If she's something special to either of you, I'll back off. It's just ... I haven't had a woman in ages and she's a bit tasty."

   "Where's she live?" Wicks was angry.

   "Cirencester Road."

   "I know that, twat! What fucking number?"

   "Er ... sixty-six."

   "That's derelict. Been like it years. You're a lying bastard." Carmen squeezed James's arm hard.

   "I'm not! She squats there!"

   "What's her name?"

   "Rebecca. Likes to be called Becky."

Mick Carmen went white as a sheet.

    Dave Wicks's face became evil. "What you trying to pull, fella?"

   "I don't know what you mean." James spread out his hands.

   "Leave it Wicksie," said Carmen. "It's a mistake. Must be."

   "Yeah. It'd better be."

"Ma. I'm taking two days off from the job. Been in touch with a friend from college. His girlfriend is an estate agent and she might be able to sort me out a cottage in the right location. I'm going over to see them and to look at a few possible places. I shouldn't think I'll be back tomorrow night. Richard is a bit of a drinker and I expect we'll have a session. You'll be OK for a couple of days?"

   "Don't be silly. Of course I will. Those clothes you wanted; I'll try to get those for you."

   "Great idea. Why not try the charity shops? You could get some nice period stuff there."

   "Um. I'll catch the bus to Cheltenham. There's lots of charity shops there. Good quality stuff in them as well."

   "Yeh. You know the sizes?"

   "Naturally. I might even get something interesting for myself."

Three days later, James pulled up at the snack wagon. Wicks and Carmen were drinking tea. They ignored him.

   "Hello, fellas," said James.

   "Fuck off," said Carmen.

   James ordered his tea, "Look, if it's about the girl, Becky..."

   "I told you to fuck off, didn't I?"

   "It's just that ... she knows you. Both of you." James was now getting nervous. This had to work or he'd be in serious trouble.

   "What?"

   "You're Mick and Dave, aren't you? She knows you. Said she'd like to meet you again." He moved closer to them to speak quietly. This was a big risk.

   "Go on, we're listening."

   "Right." He was now almost whispering. "Look, I don't know what's going on, I really fucking don't, but she told me a weird story. It scared me shitless. She had some kind of trouble several years ago. Don't know when exactly. But it was something big. She had to disappear from Avonbridge, quickly. And this bit is hard to believe: She was walking along the railway line and she found the body of a girl. Been hit by a train. She swapped identities with her, clothes and all, and did a disappearing act. To make it look authentic, she wrote a suicide note and put in the dead girl's bag. That's all I know. That's all she told me. So far as she's concerned, I'm out of there. She's all yours. In fact, she asked me to tell you she really wants to see you both. At number 66. Tonight. She'll be there after eleven. I've had enough of this fucking crazy bird and her story. She's a fucking head-case." James left his hot tea, got in the car and drove off.

   "What do you reckon then?" said Dave Wicks.

   "You heard it. Then she didn't commit suicide after ... you know."

   "D'you believe that twat?"

   "It's got to be true. How else would he know what happened? It would have to come from her, wouldn't it?"

   "Yeah. But what about the inquest? The mother positively identified the girl, didn't she?"

   "Well, they said the face was not recognisable but the clothes and everything matched."

    "We'll have to sort this out. If anything got out, it'd bring it all back. We could be in the shit again. I say we go there tonight and see this bird. She might need a bit of encouragement to keep quiet. Know what I mean?"

   "Yeah ... No, wait a minute. If it is Rebecca, why would she want to see us, for Christ's sake."

   Wicks grinned. "P'raps she enjoyed it so much, she wants it again! Women are funny. Some like it rough."

   "Yeah! Bitches!"

   "And if its not her, but someone just as tasty like the twat said, she can enjoy it just as well."

   "Yeah." Carmen's bravado diminished and he felt uneasy. "Dave. What if it is Becky and she did kill herself."

   "Eh?"

   "Like; s'pose she's come back to ... to, kind of, haunt ..."

   "D'yer believe in all that bollocks, then?"

   "You never know. They say people who die a violent death come back to haunt places. There's got to be some truth in that."

   "Shuddup, you stupid c...."

Wicks and Carmen entered the bedroom at a quarter to eleven. They had been drinking in pubs for several hours and while Carmen was more mellow and didn't care what happened, Wicks was even more agitated and aggressive than normal. The first thing to hit them was the atmosphere. The room was heavy with smoke from scented candles and joss sticks ... and burning cannabis. The herbal aromas reminded them of that night years ago; it had been just like this. In the dim light, at first they could not make out much detail. They were too preoccupied to hear the door click shut behind them.

   "Hello boys. You're early, but I expected that."  The voice came from near the front window.

   Then they realised, both at the same time, that there was an armchair with its back to them and it was occupied by a girl. They could make out the back of her head and long brown hair.

   "Becky? Rebecca? Is that you?" stuttered Carmen.

   "Of course," came the reply. The voice sounded so strange, like it was coming through a muffler.

   "What, really you. Like, you didn't kill yourself after all?" Carmen's skin started to creep.

   "Ha, ha, ha." The laugh was hollow. "Of course I did. Everybody knows that. It was in all the papers."

   "Then..."

   "Shuddup, Carmen you idiot." Wicks was trying to make out what was happening.

   The figure in the chair stood up, slowly, and turned to face them. Carmen nearly passed out, Wicks was shocked. The figure moved away from the chair and stood legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind its back with its chest stuck out.

   "What the fuck's that?" mumbled Carmen.

   "Jesus. I don't fuckin' know."

   The figure was tall, and with exactly the same hairstyle as Rebecca had that night those few years ago. It wore short red glittery boots, black net stockings and a miniskirt. The skirt was white pvc and so short that it showed bare thigh above the stocking tops. One stocking top was lower than the other. The top was a red low-cut tee-shirt and the breasts were large and pointed. Great swathes of beads hung around the neck. But it was the face that terrified Carmen and made Wicks feel strange. The makeup was bizarre and horrific. Great bright red lips. Heavy blusher decorated the cheeks. Long false eyelashes were daubed with mascara and the eye shadow looked like it had been trowelled on. The huge pendant earrings would have been more in place on a Christmas tree. That skin that was visible didn't look like a girl's smooth skin. The overall impression was that the makeup had been applied heavily to cover up bad skin, or bruises, or scars. Or to make a pale undead being appear alive.

   "What's up, boys," it said. "Fancy smoking a joint and having some real fun with me? Like before, eh? One at a time or both together? You like both together, I seem to remember. And I like it rough."

   Carmen was rooted to the spot but Wicks took the only action that he knew: attack it, fight it, kill it. As he started to move forward, the figure reached up and pulled on the knotted end of a rope. A large and heavy net dropped from the ceiling. It was weighted all around with driftnet weights. Carmen was in the middle of the net and it forced him to the ground. Wicks was too near the edge and a driftnet weight smashed down on his shoulder.

  "Oh fuck!" he screamed. His collar bone had been broken. Both men struggled under the net but made their predicament worse. The strange being approached.

   "I'm disappointed in you, David Wicks. I thought we were going to have fun." The hollow voice was now mocking. "Look at me, Dave."

   He looked up, his face racked with pain and now fear. The close view of the hideous face was worse than he expected. His torturer now produced a long wooden club from behind its back -- it was wearing bright yellow Marigold rubber gloves on its hands -- and struck him around the head and shoulders with the weapon, hard enough to bring cries of agony but not hard enough to render him unconscious.

   "And now you, Michael Carmen. I'm very disappointed in you. You're the one that talked dirty, aren't you. All the time, as I remember. Yes, it was ‘Fuck the bitch, Wicksie, fuck her hard. Yeah!' Lost your enthusiasm, have you?" The being was vicious with the club. Carmen had ended up on his back under the net. The club smashed into his genitals and he writhed and clutched at himself. The club smashed at his elbows and knees, breaking bone and tearing cartilage. He screamed and sobbed for mercy.

James removed the wig and wrenched the padding out of the tee-shirt. "Look at me, Wicks. Look at me, Carmen. Who's the twat now, eh?"

   James looked even more bizarre without the wig than with it. His near-shaved head contrasted sharply with the horrific makeup. He continued: "I really want you to know something, OK? You raped my sister Rebecca, repeatedly and violently and then you beat her up. You probably knew that she had left home after a row and was vulnerable. You knew she was living rough in this house, quite alone. Didn't you, Wicks?" He shouted this and struck Wicks a blow to the side of the head with the club. "And OK, so she was a bit of a hippy at the time and smoked a bit of weed. But you took advantage of her, didn't you, Carmen?" He hit the unfortunate in the face with the club, smashing his nose. "And during your trial, your phony trial that was a farce, she committed suicide. She jumped in front of a train! All because of you. And the stupid bastards gave you eighteen months in a young offenders institution. For my sister's life! Shortly after my sister's suicide, my father died from a heart attack. This was doubtless brought about by my sister's death. You caused immeasurable suffering to my sister, my father, my mother and me. You destroyed my mother's daughter and husband. You destroyed my sister and father. So now it's time for proper justice to be carried out. David Wicks and Michael Carmen: You are guilty of a heinous crime. You violated a defenceless young woman. You ruined her mentally. You are directly responsible for her horrific death. You are also indirectly responsible for my father's death. I have only one option and that is to sentence you to death." He looked up. "Mother, I believe you wish to carry out the sentence."

   "Naturally." Audrey Cooper came out of the shadows carrying a large axe. Candlelight glinted on the newly sharpened edge. She was wearing all black clothes and a hat with a black veil. James thought the veil was a nice touch.

The beautiful village of Wickham Bishops is nowhere near Manchester. It is in Essex and only six miles from the mainline station at Witham. This line gives access to Liverpool Street station in London in only forty minutes. On the edge of Wickham Bishops is a pretty cottage.

   The golden sun of an unusually warm September evening bathed the scene. Bees were still buzzing around the blooms. House martins swooped and flitted above, collecting high-flying insects. As Audrey Cooper cut some white lilies for the dining table vase, a new Jaguar X-type pulled into the gateway. James got out, dragging his laptop behind him. He went over to his mother and kissed her on the cheek. He slumped into the rustic wooden seat by the side door, facing the warm sun.

   "Hi, Ma. I'm absolutely knackered. And starving."

   "Ah good. How do lemon sole goujons, French fries and fresh garden peas sound? With homemade sauce tartare, of course?"

   "Excellent!"

   "Stay where you are. I'll bring you out a cold beer."

   Audrey Cooper did not really know what a Home Office criminal psychologist did all day, but she was prepared to accept that anything her son did, he did with dedication. He probably was tired.

END