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She had a point.

"Let's take a look over this spray," he said, focussing on a small cumulus cloud overhead and pulling himself towards it. Almost immediately a deep blue line appeared above the spray, growing with every metre he ascended and pushing along the horizon to the north and east. The Atlantic. It was there. The fog, or spray or whatever it was, was a purely local phenomenon, stretching a few hundred metres either side of the ley. Beyond that, rugged granite cliffs tumbled into the sea. A serrated coastline of promontories and small coves stretching from—if his memory served him correctly—Land's End itself, a mile or so to the north down to Carn Guthensbras a mile to the south.

And below shimmered the ancient hill fort of Carn les Boel, the westernmost edge of the great Michael and Mary Line.

He scanned out to sea. Did the line continue? If it did he couldn't see it, not even the faintest outline shone up from the sea bed.

"Shall we fetch John?" asked Louise.

"Yes," he said, already diving.

Arnie Fredericks switched holovision channels for the nineteenth time in as many minutes. This time it was the WCN anchor analysing the latest polls from the slew of Super Tuesday states. Arnie watched, looking and listening for every nuance and spin as the numbers were compared and dissected. Suarez was well in front, no surprise in that, but John still had a chance. His numbers were coming back. Not as fast as Arnie would have liked but they were coming back.

The anchor agreed.

"The polls conducted since the death of Suzi Martinez show a marked swing towards Bruce. Do you think that's a sympathy vote, Craig, or can Bruce build from here?"

The anchor faded to be replaced by the head and shoulders of the youthful and slightly windswept political correspondent, Craig Sorrensen, reporting from outside Bruce's Orlando hotel.

"It's probably too early to tell, Sasha," he said, brushing an errant hair back into place. "But I've been out and about speaking to a number of Republican voters today and I can tell you there are a lot of worried people down here who think the police and Homeland Security have been playing down the Chinese involvement in the two slayings. As one voter told me, one murder's a tragedy but two smacks of conspiracy."

"Do people really think the Chinese are behind these two deaths?" asked the anchor.

"Some do. And I think those numbers will grow until there's a definitive—some would say any—explanation from the authorities about how McKinley died. At the moment there's only one person providing answers and that's John Bruce. Last week people didn't want to believe him. Now, they're not so sure."

Arnie switched the holovision off and turned to John, sitting silently at the back of the room.

"Did you hear that, John? You can still win this."

"You think so?"

Arnie stared at the big man. He looked so . . . indecisive. And unpresidential. Head down, shoulders slumped, sitting on the edge of his bed like a teenager refusing to go to school. But that was John. Most days he was energised, overflowing with a zeal to change the world and burning to debate anyone on any topic. But other days—like today—he just wasn't there. He'd switch off, retreat into himself and come up with all kinds of excuses why he shouldn't leave his room—he wasn't feeling well, he needed to lie down, people were after him, perhaps his candidature had been a mistake, perhaps God had other plans for him.

It was on those days that Arnie earned his money.

"I know so, John," he urged. "Every candidate has a bad week once in their campaign. You've had yours. Now it's time to come out fighting."

"But people are out to get me, Arnie. They're trying to stop me any way they can."

"No one's out to get you. Look at me, John. I'm telling you categorically—listen!—no one is out to get you. Trust me, you're the safest candidate out there."

"Really?"

"Really."

Fredericks smiled. Relief. He was getting through to the big man at last. If only John had the same belief in himself that his supporters had. He was head and shoulders the best candidate—when he wanted to be—he had vision, imagination, a gift for communication and a head for details second to none.

And being a hero didn't hurt. He had the highest name recognition of any candidate. People liked him. There was a naïve honesty about him, a vulnerability that people found appealing. When other politicians spoke you could see the calculation behind their eyes as each word was carefully weighed, the truth secondary to dogma, presentation and spin. But with John, what you saw was what you got. He spoke from the heart.

All he lacked was experience and self-belief. And maybe discipline—that China crack had nearly cost them the election.

But all that was trainable. Given the right team around him.

"Come on, John, get dressed. We've got to get out there and fight back. And when we've killed off Suarez, we've got to go for the Democrats. It's a kill or be killed world out there, John. Let's show them what we're made of."

Bill Suarez took his place on the sofa and smiled for the cameras. Not exactly the venue he'd have chosen but exposure was exposure and if that meant dropping in on mid-morning live talk shows then that's what he had to do. Voters had to be courted wherever they were to be found.

Missy Guzman, former child star and model, flashed her trademark smile in Suarez's direction. "Tell me, Bill," she said, leaning over and touching his knee. "How are you holding up knowing there's a crazy guy out there killing Republicans?"

Suarez smiled back. "I don't give it a second thought, Missy."

"You don't want to search Missy for a concealed weapon then, Bill?" joked co-host Sherman Zinger, turning to nod conspiratorially to the audience.

Suarez played along, holding up his hands and backing away. "I don't think anything could be concealed in that dress."

Laughter. Maybe a vote or two. Suarez smiled again for the cameras, imagining a room full of floating stay-at-home voters: groups C2-4, mainly women.

"So you don't think the Chinese are interfering in this election?" asked Sherman.

Suarez shook his head, time to be serious and showcase his political credentials. "I think it's laughable. I've met President Hua and I can tell you that the last thing he or his government wants is conflict with the United States."

"So who do you think killed McKinley?" asked Missy.

The answer stuck in Suarez's throat—literally. A guttural 'ch' sound formed at the back of his mouth but that was as far as it got. He swallowed and tried again. Nothing. Why couldn't he speak? What was happening? Panic, a terrified internalised panic that he covered up with an apologetic smile. He was a candidate for Chrissake. He couldn't look stupid on HV.

He covered his mouth with his hand and coughed, bought himself some time, his voice had to come back soon. Had he injured his vocal chords—all those speaking engagements?

Missy looked concerned. "Are you okay, Bill?" she said, her hand once more straying towards his knee.

He tried to say 'fine' but it came out as "Ugh."

Another cough. He shrugged apologetically and pointed at this throat. Maybe he could still come out of this okay. A voice strain, nothing embarrassing, nothing that would throw doubt on his suitability for President. People lost their voice all the time, didn't they?

He swallowed again. His throat didn't feel sore. Shouldn't it feel sore if he'd hurt his voice? More panic. What if it wasn't a sore throat? Hadn't McKinley's demise started with a cough?

He looked down at his hand, a glance at his palm. No blood, thank God.

But . . . there was something. Something . . . strange. His thoughts were . . . echoing? There it was again. Every word he internalised reverberated as though spoken inside a vast church. Was that . . . normal? Was he fainting, losing consciousness?

What the hell was happening to him?

Water. His eyes fell on a small bottle of mineral water on the coffee table in front of him. If he poured himself a drink, maybe that would sooth his vocal chords, bring his voice back.

He reached forward, stretching towards the bottle then . . . flipped his hand at the last second, grasped the bottle by the neck, raised and inverted it in one motion then brought it down hard on the edge of the table. The bottle smashed, leaving a jagged glass weapon in Suarez's hand.

He turned violently, swinging and thrusting without warning, and . . . drove the bottle into Sherman Zinger's neck.

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then pandemonium. Missy started screaming. Zinger staggered to his feet, clutching his throat, falling backwards, blood spurting everywhere. Someone in the audience applauded, another laughed. Was it a stunt? It had to be a stunt, right?

"Cut!" shouted the director. "Get a doctor!"

The set exploded into activity; people rushing on, Missy screaming at the top of her voice. Suarez, confused, stared at the jagged bottle in his hand, at the blood, at the twitching, writhing body of Sherman Zinger . . .

"What's happened?" he asked. "Why . . ."

He threw the broken bottle on the floor. "It wasn't me," he shouted. "It wasn't me!"

Ziegler hurried along the corridor. A month ago an urgent summons to Peter's cell would have been a cause for excitement, now it terrified him. Bazley had been right, let Peter into your life and he'll never let go.

The blackened image of Suzi Martinez rocketed into Ziegler's mind. Peter had said he'd kill again. "Watch the news, doc," he'd said. "They'll be another one soon. These cell walls can't contain me any more. I only have to dream someone dead and—poof—they're gone."

Ziegler shivered. He couldn't forget that look in Peter's eye. The man was so plausible, even when he was spouting rubbish.

Which was what made this situation worse—what if it wasn't rubbish? Those two murders in Oxford—Vince Culley and Karen Hawkins—two horrific murders and the only suspects were two people with a direct link to Peter. The first murder even sounded like one of Peter's.

Coincidence? It had to be. A coincidence that Peter was now manipulating for his own purposes. Look at me, I'm a killer again. Why not call in the police, Doctor Z? I'm sure they'll want to know?

Like hell he would. The thought of Peter Pendennis insinuating himself into a major police investigation was beyond frightening. He'd turn it into a road-show. He'd hint and twist and smile—just like he was doing with Ziegler. "See that murder in the States last night, doc? That McKinley bloke. The one that exploded. I did that. My yank friend told me to do it, so I did. Do you think it was bad? Do you think you should refer me to a sleep specialist—maybe try and stop the dreams?"

If Peter had his way he'd have everyone on the planet at his beck and call. The man was an attention seeker with an insatiable appetite.

Which begged the question—what was it going to be now? Another personality? Another murder?

A nervous and very young warder hovered outside Peter's cell door as Ziegler turned the corner.

"What's happened?" asked Ziegler.

"It's Pendennis, sir. We can't wake him. He's in some kind of coma."

Ziegler pushed past. Another warder—Mike Harris—was standing by Peter's bed. He stood back to let Ziegler through.

"We thought he was faking it or we'd have called you sooner," said Mike, biting his lip.

Nerves or a guilty conscience, thought Ziegler, wondering if he was going to find evidence of a beating. Not that there were any obvious marks on Peter's face. He looked almost peaceful. If it wasn't for his eyes staring up at the ceiling he'd have passed for asleep.

Hesitation. If this had been any other inmate, Ziegler would have rushed forward and started checking for vital signs. But this wasn't any other inmate. This was Peter Pendennis who could feign death one second and rip your ear off the next.

"Mike, could you stand at the head of the bed and hold Peter's shoulders down."

The warder obeyed without comment. Not even a raised eyebrow to his colleague. Everyone knew that Pendennis was one inmate no one took chances with.

Ziegler lifted Peter's left wrist and felt for a pulse—slow but steady. He let the wrist go and watched it flop back onto the bed, lifeless. Then he took a small flashlight from his top pocket and played the pencil-thin beam across Peter's eyes—unresponsive, fixed, but no sign of trauma. He checked his breathing—fine—he ran his hands over Peter's head. No sign of injury anywhere. But those eyes . . .

Could he be faking it?

He tried the light test again, playing the beam back and forth across Peter's eyes, watching for the slightest reaction, a blink, a dilation, a spontaneous movement. Anything!

How could anyone fake that? Even Peter couldn't control his pupil's reaction to light, could he?

Ziegler stood back, torn between his medical training and an irrational fear. Pendennis needed urgent medical attention. Something they couldn't handle at Upper Heywood. He'd have to be transferred.

And let Peter loose on the outside world?

The thought hit him like a fist to the gut. Could Peter have engineered this? Swallowed something? Another of his twisted plans—fake a medical emergency and get transferred to a less secure environment?

Hippocratic Oath. First do no harm. Peter had to be hospitalised.

He punched in the code on his wrist phone and started to make the arrangements for the transfer.

"Run and get a gurney, Mike," he said. "We need to get him moved fast."

A sudden cry brought everyone's attention back to the bed.

"His eyes moved! I saw them," said the young warder, pointing at Pendennis.

Ziegler reached for his pen light and as he did so Peter's head began to turn—slowly, ever so slowly, tracking towards Ziegler—the rest of his body perfectly still.

Ziegler froze. There was something unreal—theatrical—about the whole scene. He half expected Peter's head to do a complete 360.

It didn't. It stopped the moment Peter's unblinking eyes fixed upon Ziegler's. Pendennis smiled. And spoke.