Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

Michael Nergadse, the man arrested last month in connection with the disappearance of 13-year-old Fort Lauderdale native Connie Ford, has been released from Broward County Jail without charge. Frustrated officials cited lack of evidence sufficient to secure a conviction-a situation not expected to change unless missing victim Connie Ford is found.

Nergadse's lawyer has promised to vigorously fight any attempt to revoke his visa or have him deported, but confirms his client intends to leave the country voluntarily. 'I have a fourteen-year-old daughter myself,' said one assistant district attorney, when asked what he thought of Nergadse. 'I won't be letting her out of my sight until this monster's out of the country.' Psychologist suicide

Criminal psychologist Suzanne Mansfield was found hanged in her Fort Lauderdale apartment Sunday. She was thirty-one years old. Police sources say that there are no suspicious circumstances, and they are not seeking anyone else in connection with her death.

Mansfield had apparently been in low spirits since the failed search for missing teen Connie Ford, and the collapse of the case against Michael Nergadse, the police's onetime prime suspect. 'She was sick at the thought of him walking free,' former colleague Mitch Baird told this reporter. 'She was convinced he'd strike again. She blamed herself for not getting him to confess, but we're criminal psychologists, not miracle workers.'

Not everyone believes Mansfield killed herself, however. 'She wasn't the kind,' insisted one neighbor. 'It was contrary to her faith, to everything she believed. And I saw her earlier that same afternoon. She was cheerful, not depressed. She'd just seen those gorgeous flame azaleas over on Jackson, and was really excited to plant some herself. Does that sound like someone planning to kill themselves?'

Knox sat back in his chair. Another hanging, just like Antonius. And hadn't he read somewhere that strangulation was a favoured method of serial killers, a way to express power over their victims?

'Something to drink?'

He glanced up. An attractive but sulky young woman with spilling coils of lustrous black hair was standing with her weight on her left leg, holding a tray cluttered with empty cups and ashtrays. A long day already, but plenty more yet to do. 'A coffee, please,' he told her. 'That would be great.'

Gaille tried instinctively to twist away from the German shepherd as it leapt at her face, but her ankle turned beneath her, and she fell hard onto her backside, screaming in terror and expecting the worst. But the dog unaccountably jerked to a sudden halt, as though some hidden hand had grabbed it by its scruff; its legs flew from under it and it fell sprawling onto its back, then it yelped and scrambled to its feet and came for her once more, riding up on its hind legs like a spooked horse, pawing the air in frustrated fury just a metre or so away, snarling and barking and showing her its fangs, while saliva frothed from its mouth and down its jowls, and its eyes glistened and raged. She scrambled on her palms and heels to a safer distance, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, still not quite sure how she'd got away with it.

'It's on a leash,' muttered Iain, returning from wherever he'd fled.

She squinted through the murky light and finally she saw it: a studded collar around the dog's throat, a length of thin black cord attached to it that disappeared in the darkness. 'Petitier must have left it here on guard,' she said in a strained voice.

'Dogs,' said Iain bleakly. 'I hate dogs.'

'So I'd noticed,' she said dryly. She made to get up, but pain lanced up her left leg and she promptly sat back down again. 'My ankle,' she winced. She took off her shoe, her sock. Her foot was blistered and dirty, but there was mercifully little sign of injury. She tried to stand again; again she winced and sat back down. It all felt slightly surreal, with the dog still raging impotently just a few metres away. 'I twisted it when I fell.'

Iain took off his pack, produced a first-aid kit and a roll of crepe bandage. He cut off a good length of it that he wrapped tightly around her ankle and then fixed in place with a couple of safety pins. 'How's that?' he asked.

'Better,' she told him. 'But what do we do now?'

'You wait here. I'll go explore.'

Her heart-rate gradually resettled as she sat there. The dog was still barking and lunging at her with undiminished ferocity; it dismayed her deeply that any creature could wish her such palpable ill. But even this hellhound couldn't sustain its fury forever, and finally it calmed a little, patrolling back and forth as close to her as its leash allowed, snarling and showing her its fangs.

'Hey!' called out Iain. 'Up here.'

She looked up, saw him silhouetted on the roof. 'Good news, bad news,' he said. 'I can't find a way in to the house, but the roof will do us for tonight. And there's a gate at the bottom, so that we can keep that bloody dog out, even if it should get loose.'

'What about your tent? Don't you need to bang in pegs and things?'

'It's a pop-up,' he told her. 'Couldn't be easier. One flap and it's ready. Tell you what, I'll come and give you a hand, then I'll cook us up some pasta. God knows we've earned it. Everything else can wait till morning, when we've got some light to work with.'

Nadya caught up with her email and posted a couple of small items on her blog, because it didn't pay to go dark, not even for a day. She'd intended to write an update on the suspicious death of a human rights lawyer, but her heart wasn't in it, so she closed her laptop. A successful day, all in all-enough to justify yesterday's deferred reward. She checked the mini-bar, but miniatures weren't her style, so she put on some fresh clothes and went down to the lobby bar.

It was empty, however, its lights dimmed, no obvious prospect of it opening soon. She went onto the front steps, looked around. A line of cars opposite, but no black Mercedes. She put on her shawl and dark-glasses for the anonymity, then headed into Plaka, intending to walk up an appetite. Or, more accurately, a thirst.

The night was still young, huddles of gloom and shadow broken by the lights of cafes, restaurants and late-night shops; though not yet enough of them to create an atmosphere. A light drizzle started. She hunched her coat around herself and shrank into its folds, then gave a little shiver, even though it wasn't that cold, despite the gusting wind. Memories. It had been a night much like this: except that she hadn't been alone, of course, not when the evening had started.

She came to a square, where a few groups of hardy tourists were taking al fresco dinners. She turned and went the other way, feeling her sharpest pang yet for a drink. The sight of families often did that to her.

She'd only been at the paper three weeks, head-hunted from her style magazine by a proprietor keen to sex things up. Albert had returned from a gruelling month in Samegrelo, where he'd been covering the civil war, only to learn that his in-depth account of Gamsakhurdia's suicide was being slashed to make more room for her feature on swimwear. He and the editor had gone at it like blacksmiths. 'Sure,' he'd yelled. 'Why the fuck not? Our country is falling to fucking shit around us, so let's write about bikinis.'

She'd been mortified and angry; but mostly angry. She'd gone to his desk intending to read his copy and pick it apart, so that she could feel better about herself. It had only taken two paragraphs for her to be caught up by his story instead. She never read about war if she could help it, it was too depressing, so it had all been new to her. She'd been shocked to learn the depth of horrors going on in her own country, what Georgians were doing to other Georgians. When she'd finished, she'd sensed someone standing at her shoulder.