Michael Morley - Spider

'How long has she been like that?' interrupted Jack.

'It is possible that this footage was shot some time ago and the girl is already dead. Or it could be that this is very recent footage. If that is the case, then I can tell you that, in my expert opinion, even if she survived the convulsion she is critically close to death.'

'How long would you give her, doc?' asked Howie.

Carter took his time thinking about it. 'Forty-eight hours max.'

Sunday, 8 July

Holiday Inn, New York It was the early hours of the morning when Howie had finally gone home for round two with Carrie while Jack checked in at the Holiday Inn on Lafayette Street.

Jack guessed the Bureau had a deal on the slate price because the room was tiny and stank of the unseen and unclean who'd been there before him. He flopped down on the bed and discovered it had springs crafted by cavemen. He rang reception and asked if there was a chance of a sandwich and a glass of milk. The guy laughed and said something in Spanish that Jack guessed meant 'no way'. He put the phone down and at first was pissed as hell, but then figured that missing a midnight snack might turn out to be a good thing. He remembered the girl in the video and felt guilty. Poor kid would kill just for the bottle of water in his room, let alone a bar of chocolate from the mini-bar, and there he was cursing about not being able to get room service.

Jack kicked off his shoes, checked his watch and called Nancy. Just approaching one a.m. in New York, meant it was seven a.m. in Tuscany and he timed things perfectly so he caught her seconds after her alarm went off. Nancy was a creature of habit. The clock was always set for the same time, even on holiday. She saw no point in lying in bed and always wanted to start the day as early as possible. They didn't speak for long, just long enough to say they loved each other, and for Jack to send Zack a hug and a kiss.

After hanging up, Jack lay back on the bed, still in his suit, and pictured his wife and child just about to start their day. The image was soothing enough to make him feel sleepy, but he popped an Ambien to make sure and washed it down with a slug of water. He'd meant to rest for a minute and then clean up in the bathroom, but he never made it. Within seconds of shutting his eyes, he was asleep.

And then the nightmare started.

Only this time, it was different.

This time he was in the same room as the girl in the video. She was having convulsions again, her body jumping all over that strange table she was tied to. Jack put his hand on her chest to calm her down. He checked her face and she was still breathing. He loosened her chains and turned her on her side so she wouldn't choke, then he got a blanket from somewhere and covered her up. Soon the room was filling with paramedics, cops and scene-of-crime officers. The paramedics gently lifted the girl on to a stretcher, quickly attached a saline drip and carried her out to an ambulance.

Jack felt good; she was going to be all right. He'd saved her. He looked around the room as the forensics team started snapping pictures, bagging and tagging evidence. He saw something on the floor. Something utterly shocking.

Jack woke up.

A thought hit his subconscious like a bolt of lightning.

In the dream he'd just had, he was reaching for the newspaper on the floor, the copy of USA Today, the copy dated the second of July.

Suddenly, Jack had the answer to the questions he'd posed himself in Tariq el Daher's office.

Why wouldn't her attacker film it himself with a hand-held camera, so he could get up close and personal?

The paper had been left to prove to anyone watching the first video after Tariq got it on the fifth of July that it was recent material. But when Tariq received new footage on the seventh, there was no new paper.

Why?

The answer was simple. Because he hadn't been in that room since he left the paper in the video. Because from the second of July onwards, six days ago, he'd left the girl to starve to death and was remotely controlling the recording and delivery of the footage by Internet. Internet – the perfect tool of anonymous criminals.

But where was he now?

San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Dawn turned back the clock on San Quirico D'Orcia, making the village seem as unspoiled as the days its medieval founding fathers settled there.

Terry McLeod slipped unheard and unnoticed through the front door of La Casa Strada. None of the other guests was up and about and it would be a long time before Maria arrived, touched up her make-up and took her place behind the reception desk. McLeod had chosen rubber-soled shoes, so that his feet would not make a noise, even outside on the golden-coloured stone slabs that surrounded the hotel. He was dressed in loose green combat trousers, a brown T-shirt, a green jumper which he knew he would be removing as soon as the sun rose another foot in the sky and a brown cap to shield his eyes. On his back he carried a medium-sized green rucksack, packed with the 'tools of his trade' and some drinks and snacks that would sustain him while he patiently waited for the day's events to unfold.

The streets were deserted but still told their stories of how history and contemporary life had agreed to get on. Against the brightly painted walls of centuries-old homes, lines of washing hung, heavy with white bedsheets, coloured shirts and greying underwear. Next to them, outside the glass-fronted cafes and restaurants, tables and chairs stood stacked, waiting for the pavements to be cleaned. The odd dropped ice-cream cone had left multi-coloured stains on the smooth stone flags. Bicycles stood propped next to doorways or down alleyways, never locked by townsfolk to whom theft was as unthinkable as bad local food or wine. A few streets away church bells chimed every half-hour – it was 7.00 a.m.

McLeod knew exactly where he was going. Over the past few days he'd located the precise spot for today's event.

He headed south-east towards where Via Dante Alighieri meets the trunk of Via Cassia; then he came off the beaten tourist path and veered more southerly. Soon he was climbing a peak of scrubland that probably only a few of the town's more adventurous kids were aware of. Here the grass was deep and had probably never been cut or even chewed on by local livestock. Big boulders of sandstone even darker than the colour of the town's ancient walls formed a perfect shelter from the sun and any prying eyes.

McLeod looked around and checked any possible routes to where he stood. He examined the ground around him and then settled down, his carefully chosen green and brown attire allowing him to disappear chameleon-like into the rocky terrain.

He undid the flap of his rucksack, took out a pair of high-powered binoculars, wiped the lenses with a soft cloth and peered through them. He found La Casa Strada almost instantly. He refocused. A slight pan to his right gave him a perfect view of the private gardens which Nancy King had curtly asked him to leave. A fractional pan and tilt to his left showed him the bedroom window where he knew she slept, her shutters closed but the window behind them clearly open.

McLeod stood up and shifted behind one of the large sandstone rocks. With a little movement he could now see the roads around the hotel and the route she took to Pienza with her child. He was satisfied with the position. From this vantage point, he had the perfect shot.

The Tuscan sun lethargically trekked across the blue morning sky, seemingly buckling under the burden of carrying another blazing day on its back. Golden rays soon soaked the outside of La Casa Strada, turning the terracotta roof tiles the colour of a blood orange. Just after seven a.m. Nancy King opened her windows and took in the beauty of a newborn day.