In the dim light of the cellar, Lewis peered at his watch. He had been trying to keep track of time but it kept slipping away as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It was late afternoon and there had not been sight or sound of his captor since he had been pushed into the cold cell.

He knew that it was late afternoon, but it felt like he'd been locked up for an eternity. He was tired, cold, and thirsty, but he had already come to the conclusion that his captor had no intention of keeping him alive for any longer than necessary, which led him to wonder why he was still alive right now. The thought was not a comforting one.

Lewis flinched involuntarily at the sound of the front door as it opened and closed. He listened with dread as footsteps drew closer. He saw the shadow through the cracks in the floorboard, and heard a voice talking, and he realised that there were two people above him.

"What the hell are you playing at, Jimmy?" said the first voice, oddly familiar, and pleading in tone, "You can't keep him here, surely?"

"Why not?" the voice of his captor – Jimmy – was indifferent and casual, "The place has never been searched before. I bet these Oxford snobs don't even know I'm out. Part of my bargaining was that my release was never made public."

"Only so the mates you grassed on wouldn't find you," the other voice shot back, panicked and angry, "but if you kill a copper – bloody hell, Jimmy, especially this copper – and they catch you, you'll never see the light of day."

"He's just a copper," sneered Jimmy, "you're all the same, you bastards."

Lewis shifted, listening intently. He knew the first voice – and it stung him to realise that it could be a colleague. He wanted to scream and curse at the man for doing nothing to help him, but he bit his lip and concentrated on trying to work out who it was above him.

"You're the bastard, Jimmy," the familiar voice sighed, sadly, "and I'm a bastard for going along with this."

"I think you'll find that you're the bastard," Jimmy hissed, menacingly, "mummy's little whore-son bastard – brother only by half, and half a man at that."

There was a long moment of silence, and Lewis stared up at the floorboards, but he could see nothing but light and shadow. There was a creak as one of the men moved, and Lewis froze at the slow scraping sound as something heavy was pushed across the floor. There was a click, and the trapdoor slowly lifted. The light was blindingly bright after the darkness, and Lewis threw his hand up to protect his eyes, desperately squinting to see what was going on.

"Oh my…" the familiar voice said, shocked, "you're not keeping him down there, are you?"

"You know what?" Jimmy said, with a tone that made Lewis recoil from the entrance instinctively, "you've become a liability, little brother. One I really can't stand any more…"

Lewis gasped and fell back against the wall, as there was a choked cry, and a figure fell backwards into the small pit, hitting the floor in front of him with a dull thump. Above him, Jimmy – whoever he was – laughed without humour.

"Take a good look, Sergeant," he mocked, "the same will happen to you when I get around to it."

Lewis caught the briefest of glances at the corpse on the floor, but the image was burned onto his mind in that moment as the trapdoor closed. Derringer - it was Derringer! And now, Lewis shared the cell with the young officer's body, his throat slashed, apparently by his own half-brother. Lewis backed into the corner, drew his knees up to his chest, and tried desperately to think of something positive as the darkness closed in on him.

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Morse sat in his office, staring pensively at the crossword on his desk. He'd finished it, of course, but it was a poor distraction from his furious thoughts. He knew Lewis could look after himself, but still… at the hands of that madman… every call that came through, Morse jumped, expecting some news… and hoping against all reason that it was good news. A knock at the door made him glance up.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," said the uniformed constable, "we've got a slight problem the duty sergeant thought you should be aware of."

"Well?" Morse demanded, "spit it out, man!"

"It's Derringer, sir," the constable replied, a little taken aback, "he's more than two hours late reporting in and we can't get in touch with him."

Morse opened his mouth to snap at the constable for bothering him with this, and then closed it again, slowly. He took a deep breath.

"Find out where he was the last time anyone heard from or saw him," Morse ordered, keeping his voice level, "get me details of his planned patrol route and get me a transcript of his last recorded check in. I want them now!"

"Sir!" the constable disappeared, and Morse fell back in his chair, deep in thought.

Derringer… he'd been at the house where the student was murdered. He was the idiot who couldn't conduct a thorough search, but just because he hadn't seen the assailant who had attacked Morse and Lewis did not mean that the man had not seen Derringer. He might have gone after the young patrol man…

"No," Morse mumbled under his breath.

That theory did not make sense. The man had hunted down Lewis because he thought Lewis had seen his face and could identify him. Derringer could not. He was no risk. All he had done was take Lewis's car home…

"Damn it!" Morse slammed his hand down on his desk.

He had missed the obvious question. How the hell had the man known where Lewis lived? Morse had been so caught up in events that he had not stopped to think things through. The man had somehow learned Lewis's address in enough time to get there, break in, and wait for them to arrive. How could he possibly have known the address? Morse scrubbed his hand through his hair. He could only think of one possible explanation – that the man had cornered Derringer with Lewis's car and forced him to drive him over to the house. Why, then, had he allowed Derringer to go free? If Derringer was indeed missing, this man was their only viable suspect. Why allow him to go free only to pick him up again later?

A feeling of dread crept over Morse, and then betrayal. After all, to an honest cop, there was nothing worse than a bent one…

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Light flooded into the cellar as the trapdoor lifted again, and Lewis winced at the brightness as he squinted upwards. He could clearly make out the muzzle of a gun pointed at him and the dark silhouette of the man who held it.

"Pick up that piece of shit," the man, Jimmy, ordered, gesturing to Derringer's body with the gun, before bringing it to bear on Lewis, "and then get up here, you bastard. And if I don't like so much as the way you blink, you're a dead man."

Lewis glanced at the corpse nearby, and then stood up slowly. He was tired, frozen, hungry and cramped, but still he managed to lift Derringer over his shoulder. Getting through the hatch presented some problems, but, eventually, he struggled through and fell to his knees.

"Get up!" Jimmy ordered, harshly, "get up, you bastard!"

He emphasised this with a kick for good measure that elicited a pained gasp from Lewis. Struggling to his feet, Lewis had no time to pull himself together as he was pushed towards the front door.

"Open the latch!"

Lewis did as he was bid, well aware that every action he took could be his last. He reached out with his free hand and opened the door. Given that he was carrying a dead body over his shoulder he should not have been surprised that it was dark out. Shakily, he climbed the steps from the basement flat. There was a car parked in front of him – a patrol car no less. He gaped at as it sat there with the boot already open.

"Get him in!" hissed Jimmy, pushing him forward.

The gun never wavered as Lewis placed his grisly load into the boot of the car. He prayed with all his might that someone – anyone – would come along and see them, but the whole street was in darkness and there was not a soul to be seen. Jimmy slammed the boot shut and grabbed Lewis by the shoulder. Lewis gasped as the barrel of the gun was slammed under his chin, forcing his head back. He closed his eyes. Suddenly, however, the gun was pulled away, and Jimmy seized his arm and forced him back down the steps.

"Much as I hate to admit it, I might need you," Jimmy growled, as he shoved Lewis back into the dingy basement, "might need a hostage. First, I've gotta get rid of that pig-shit cop-body. Back you go!"

Lewis was pushed back into the kitchen, and there he saw the gaping trapdoor to his own tiny, private hell-hole.

"Aw, no…!" Lewis held up his hands to protest, but it was no use.

The butt of the gun swung around and connected with his temple with a sickening crack, and Lewis fell into the cold darkness once more.

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Morning shift started early the next day, but for Morse, it had all blurred into one. Yes, he'd been home, but only because he thought better in the comfort of his own home. Then he had felt guilty for being comfortable, because wherever Lewis was, he doubted that his captor, or captors, had comfort in mind for him. And now, Derringer was also officially missing. He had called the duty sergeant into Strange's office for a debriefing. It was not going well for the sergeant.

"So when Derringer came on duty yesterday, he was booked to patrol in a squad car," Strange was saying, "who was he partnered with that day?"

"Bailey, sir," the sergeant, by the name of Craig, had a red flush creeping up his neck to his face, "Bailey had already clocked in, but…"

"But…?" Morse prompted, his voice low and dangerous.

"But he actually, err, hadn't, sir," Craig went on, flustered, "he, ah, he called in sick about an hour after Derringer left. Seems Derringer had clocked him in so it didn't look like he was late for shift."

"Or to cover his own backside," Morse snapped, "he took the squad car out alone, didn't he?"

"It, err, seems so, sir," Craig replied, no longer able to look at either Morse or Strange.

Strange was almost seething with anger.

"So a lone patrol officer took a squad car, went out, and never came back? Are you trying to tell me one of my officers stole a patrol car, and has disappeared with it?"

"It, ah, it seems that way," Craig looked as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

"Well!" Strange flicked his hand, glanced at Morse, and shook his head slowly, "Well. There's not much we can do right now. Mark my words, there will be a full investigation. Right now, we have two missing officers to find. Craig, you're dismissed – but this isn't the last you'll hear of this!"

"Sir," Craig mumbled, and disappeared quickly.

There was a long moment of silence. Strange stared at the desk while Morse stared at Strange.

"I know you've got a theory. Let's hear it."

"Derringer knows whose got Lewis," Morse said, bluntly, "either because he's under duress – which I almost hope he is – because any alternative is unthinkable. He's either gone out to help Lewis, or to prove to be an undoing for either one or both of them."

Strange opened and closed his mouth a few times, but Morse persisted.

"I think Derringer knew the guy who was in the house where the student was killed. He told him to hide, knowing that with a full confession we would just sweep the place and leave. Derringer could then get his… this man… out of there quietly and we'd be none the wiser. Unfortunately, Lewis spotted him and he had to make a break for it. I think Derringer took him to Lewis's house when he took the car back, and I was dumb-fool enough to let him do it!"

"Recriminations later," Strange interrupted, bluntly, "carry on."

"You know what happened when we arrived at Lewis's house. I think either Derringer took the patrol car to confront this man, or worse, to assist him. I've got a couple of PC's going back through Derringer's personnel file and case history to see if anything leaps out."

Strange opened his mouth to comment when there was a sudden pounding on the door and Craig re-entered without waiting to be summoned.

"Sir!" he blurted out, "They've found Derringer's car!"

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Morse drove with almost reckless abandon. Derringer's patrol car had been found by a passing motorist, who had laughed himself silly at the sight of a patrol car sticking out of a ditch on the very outskirts of town. As he drove, More replayed various scenarios and theories in his head. All the time, he kept coming back to the question of who their mysterious man was. What had the man been doing in the house, and why the extreme reaction to being seen there?

He could only guess, but Morse's theory was that the man had possibly been a dealer – dishing out drugs to the students. Clearly he'd done time and feared going back, but who the hell was he, and why couldn't Morse shake the suspicion that there was a hell of a lot more to this than was apparent? He trusted his instincts, and right now, they were screaming at him that something was very wrong with this case, and it was not just because Lewis was missing, presumed… missing, Morse told himself firmly, Lewis was simply missing, and he would be found.

He expertly manoeuvred the Jaguar into a parked position behind the other two squad cars on the scene, both with lights flashing. The now slightly stunned motorist was no longer laughing as he was being grilled by two experienced patrol officers. Morse crossed to the other two, who were examining the car in the ditch.

"Forensics are on their way, sir," one of them reported, from where he stood knee-deep in nettles, "there's… there's blood strains on the boot lid."

"Have you opened it?" Morse could not prevent the revulsion from creeping into his voice. God, how he hated the sight of dead bodies, and if this was… if it was Lewis… he could not finish the thought, let along prepare himself for the sight.

The patrol man seemed to be able to see what he was thinking.

"I'll do it, sir," he said, "the keys are still in the ignition."

He retrieved the keys, and opened the boot. Morse saw the man's face go pale, and he forced himself to move in closer for a look. He saw a white face, a light blue shirt, and a whole lot of blood. He gagged and turned away from the dead staring eyes. Derringer. It was Derringer. Morse headed back to his car, and picked up the radio. He reported in to the desk sergeant, and tried to be gentle in breaking the news of Derringer's death. He asked for an ambulance to be dispatched, and then closed off the radio. For a long moment he stood there, leaning on the hood of his beloved Jaguar, and wondered what the hell to do now. His musing was interrupted by the approach of the constable.

"Sir," he was holding out an envelope which, Morse noticed with distaste, was somewhat marred with blood, "Sir, this was in the boot…"

Morse glanced down at it. His name was scrawled on the front of it, simply "Morse". He knew the patrol man should not have removed it. He knew it should have been photographed by forensics, dusted for prints, tested for saliva, and a lot more extensive wasting of time carried out before he got the chance to read it… he took it wordlessly from the constable. It was not sealed, so he slipped out a piece of plain white paper. His eyes scanned the text quickly.

Morse. I want to make a deal – the life of Sergeant Lewis in exchange for my freedom. Meet me at his house at 8pm. Come alone. I'm watching. One false move, he dies.

Morse folded the letter up and slid it back into the envelope. The text was handwritten, little more than a child's scrawl – probably done with the non-dominant hand to prevent handwriting analysis. He tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"Sir?" the patrol man said, cautiously, "That might be evidence…"

"Yes," Morse replied, as he got into his car, "and now I'm taking it to Strange."

The constable had no further chance to comment as the Jaguar swung out of the parking space and disappeared with a roar of the engine.