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don’t want you getting any ideas about paying a call on Tony Kavella.’
    Rita looked at him unconvinced. Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘He’s a career criminal, a diagnosed psychopath. And he’s instigated violent sex attacks before.’
    ‘Don’t even go there. He’s out of bounds. Unless there’s solid evidence against him, steer clear of Kavella.’
    ‘The victim was a regular at his club,’ argued Rita. ‘And the offender made a reference to “the rules of the cave”. That has a nasty ring of familiarity. Kavella could even be taunting us with another round of sadistic sex games, after getting away with it before.’
    ‘First, that can’t be proven in court,’ Loftus replied. ‘Second, he’s got lawyers like a school of sharks. And third, you’re making it personal when you should be exercising objectivity.’
    ‘But -‘ she persisted.
    ‘No evidence, no move on Kavella,’ said Loftus, walking to the door with a warning glare. ‘Plato’s Cave is more dangerous than you can possibly know.’
    Rita watched him go with a puzzled look on her face. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Loftus had access to information that senior officers kept to themselves, so there was no point in trying to guess, nor was there any point in dragging out her work any longer. The day had drained her. She logged off, and went to the ladies to freshen up, her face in the mirror regaining some of its glow with a touch of make-up.
    She rode the lift down to the ground floor and nodded to the desk officer as she crossed the lobby.
    ‘Cheer up, Van Hassel,’ he said. ‘It’s us against the bastards.’
    ‘Yeah, but they play dirty,’ she laughed. ‘And they outnumber us.’
    Mike Cassidy’s crime report was broadcast again on the late news bulletin. He stood at the counter of a Southbank wine bar, surrounded by fellow journalists, and assessed his own performance on the overhead screen. It was authoritative, no matter what Rita thought, with just the right note of alarm.
    One of his colleagues agreed. ‘Nice scare story.’
    ‘It’s all in the delivery,’ said Cassidy.
    Not everyone watched the news report as a detached observer.
    One man viewed the story with a vivid image in his mind. He didn’t try to imagine what the girl in the hospital was going through, or how her family was trying to cope. Their ordeal was beyond his concern. Nor did he try to reconcile the tragic consequences with the events of the night before - the naked body in chains, the flickering flames, the shadows. What fascinated him most was her transformation from prisoner to she-devil, and how she’d been tamed.
    The TV report mentioned none of this.
    Yet it did predict there would be more to come. Were the police simply guessing, or did their profiler have a special insight into the dynamics of the game that was up and running? It would be a challenge to get close to her and find out. But not now. It was time to switch off. He picked up the remote control and turned off the television. Then he got up, shrugging off any feelings of involvement, picked up the bronze-coloured mask beside him and put it away.
    Crime lab scientist Dale Quinn was an enthusiast who enjoyed his work, wore his hair in a ponytail and talked too fast. Rita listened intently as he rattled off his findings.
    ‘The bondage equipment is top of the range, imported, and not some cheap backstreet product,’ he was saying. ‘We’re talking quality fetish gear, Donner-und-Blitzen brand, made in Germany with proper serial numbers. Only a handful of shops around the city stock it and they charge top dollar. I’m surprised they were left at the crime scene.’
    ‘Me too,’ said Rita. Her morning visit to the forensic services centre was already pointing to contradictions in her preliminary profile of the perpetrator.
    ‘Chrome steel chains, manacles, shackles - and in mint condition,’
    said Quinn. ‘At a guess, all recently purchased with tender,