MISSING PERSON [096-5.0]

By: Frances Ferguson

Synopsis:

Detective Sergeant Jane Perry has to cope with male prejudice in the
British Police Force, track down a missing child - and more.

To Robert with thanks

Prologue

The outer London street was fitfully lit and quiet, parked cars lining
it here and there like batches of sleeping tortoises.  An eddying wind
sent flat dust-swirls along the pavement; flapped and crackled at the
loose edges of a green plastic sack protruding from a litter bin.  None
of the houses showed a light, only blackness behind the sheen of glass,
or a white glimpse of nets, the darker folds of thicker curtains.  High
up, the mottled silver disc of a full moon came and went behind a scud
of torn-edged clouds whose blotched grey centres promised rain.

A girl hurried round the corner.  The wind whipped the edges of her
skirt, tossed her short blonde hair around her face.  The hunch of her
shoulders within a pale belted raincoat suggested distraction, the
light click of her heels against the pavement irritation, and a touch
of weariness behind the haste.  Even the sudden sharp crack as the
green plastic sack flapped again didn't make her turn her head, though
she lifted her face as a light spit of the threatened rain blew
suddenly against her before the angry air caught it and swept it
away.

She slowed at the corner of the alley and seemed to hesitate.

It was a short cut, well-known and commonly used.  Its narrow
straightness ran between back gardens, with an overhang of trees, some
bushes, garages opening on to it further along where it widened, and a
cut-through beyond that to the crescent with its new block of flats.

The tossing wind made it a place of flickering shadows interspersed
with patches of thick blackness - but the girl paused for no more than
a second, with a movement which could have been a shrug.  The saving of
a quarter of a mile; a further brief spit of rain in her face; at one
o'clock in the morning, the gesture said impatiently, these things
count more than a few creepy shadows.

Besides, she was late, and there hadn't been any taxis, and she'd come
this way last night without any problems... Her brief dismissive shift
of the shoulders said all this, as she stepped into the alley.

She was halfway along when the footfalls sounded behind her.  At first
they were so muflled they could merely have been her heartbeat.  Or the
padding feet of a large animal.  I'or some reason - or perhaps from a
perfectly rational fear - the latter seemed abruptly far worse... The
idea of a pursuing creature sent an atavistic chill down the back of
her neck, let alone the newspaper reports about pitbulls and
Rottweilers.  And the sound might simply be her imagination.  Should
she stop and look round?  No.  Kick o~ her shoes and run?  The instinct
was there, stamped on by the fear of making a fool of herself.  Walk
steadily, look normal, trust There was suddenly no choice.  In a rush
someone was close behind her.  An arm came across her throat like an
iron bar.  She was being dragged backwards, roughly, the hardness of a
body clamping her from behind, her arms and legs flailing.

She was chokingly short of air.  As she tried instinctively to twist
her head, her wide eyes caught the flash of steel as the other hand
came round in front of her face.

She brought both hands up to clutch at the arm across her throat,
rolled her spine forwards, and threw him.

It was far from her best throw, even with the benefit of surprise.  She
couldn't see which hand held the knife, to stamp on it; the black blur
on the ground was not even winded, and was grabbing for her; she hadn't
found the breath to let out a yell.

For a moment she thought it was all going wrong, as cold leatherclad
fingers caught her ankle to send her tumbling and the other hand
snatched for her hair in a painful yank.

She was sharply remembering the glitter of the knife The blood was
pounding so hard in her ears that for a moment she couldn't hear the
other sounds - voices, the thud of feet.  Reality came with the vivid
dazzle of lights.  The path was abruptly ablaze with a brightness which
sent the shadows receding.  Hands pulled her assailant away from her.

A lot of busy legs moved around him; a muflled yell suggested a tight
armlock.

She could relax... Arms were helping her up from the ground, steadying
her.  She could hear a voice flatly reciting arrest and caution.

From a throat which felt bruised and sore in spite of her trained move
in tucking in her chin, she wanted to croak at the nearest person,
"Where were you?  What took you so long?"

"Good work, Sergeant Perry," the Inspector's voice said in her
direction.  The patronage in it was like a pat on the head.

"We've got him this time!  All right?  No damage?"

"I'm fine, sir."  Her voice came out with a touch of rawness, but a
cough brought that under control.  "He had a knife.  It must be about
somewhere."

"Nasty," one of the CID men said casually, collecting something sharp
and black-handled from under a bush with careful precision and a folded
handkerchief.  He turned his head with a grin.  "So that's why you
didn't wait for him to drag you off into the bushes!"

"He's not going to be able to claim he was just out for a walk, is
he?"

There was a black ski-mask dangling from the Inspector's hand and he
glanced down at it with satisfied disgust.  "All right, that's a wrap,
so let's get our laddie back to the station and charged, and then we
can go home.  A nice display of athletics, Perry - he's not going to
want to play Tarzan to your Jane again in a hurry, is he?"

It was a crack intended to raise a chucKle, and the men around duly
laughed.  Jane Perry murmured a brief, "Sir," by way of
acknowledgement, and made sure it didn't sound as if she'd delivered it
through clenched teeth.  Did she really have to be reduced to some
archetypal image of Jungle Jane, swinging through the trees and
preferably in as few clothes as possible?

Maybe she was just losing her sense of humour.  She certainly ought to
be used to it by now...

They were beginning to move off with their prisoner, the man she had
been used as a decoy to catch.  She followed the group, without
bothering to spare more than a glance for the rapist they'd managed to
nail at last.  He was, after all, just a routine part of police work.

"I suppose we won't need to borrow you any longer, and you'll be off
back to your own patch."  One of the detectives fell back to walk
beside her, sounding friendly and hopeful.  He was nice enough, so she
opted for being pleasantly brisk.

"Yes, you won't be in need of my unfamiliar mush around here any
more.

Your CID's going to owe our CID one - no doubt the guv'nors will fix it
between them.  Well, see you sometime!"

"Or maybe not' was implicit in her voice.  And if the transfer she'd
applied for came through, she'd be somewhere quite else before long.  A
month to work out her notice - if she got the job - and then off to
make her career really count...

As they began to pile into the waiting transport, she glanced up to see
the moon still sailing above the ragged clouds, silvering an edge here
and there, offering the world below the illusion that it was bucketing
across the sky at high speed.

A high-flier of a moon.

If she had been superstitious, she might almost have wished on it.  For
luck.  For a change for the better.

In a German city many hundreds of miles to the south-east, another
young woman was glancing up at the same moon with a frown.

A bit more darkness would have been preferable; a few clouds to provide
a dappling of cover.  Still, it wouldn't matter:

this wasn't an area for much night-time activity and the street was
empty and shuttered.

She was waiting to kill a man.

Her quarry should appear soon.  He was a creature of habit, and on this
night every week he called on his brother-in-law and kept him up late
and yawning over beer and a game of dice.

His murder would make no headlines.  It would merely send ripples into
suitable places.  Word would go round; don't make the mistake of being
seen with the wrong people, or have too much cash to flash around;
don't risk looking as if you might be a police informer.  Not if you've
also been asking questions about the Widow.

After Gerhard's death (could a grown man really die of something as
childish as measles?) she had begun to use the title deliberately.

"The Widow" held the right connotations... as she stepped out of his
shadow, to revive something which had grown torpid.  It had to be
acknowledged that Gerhard had begun to lose his edge over the past few
years; to opt for a softer, lazier life.  Things would be different
now.  Now, there was a new kind of group, hers to lead.

She could have sent one of them to carry out tonight's task.  But had
chosen to do it herself-perhaps as a signal.

The door she was watching opened, spilling yellow light on to the
moon-silvered pavement.  It briefly lit the face she was expecting to
see.  No one had come down to see him off the premises - after all, he
was family.  She could see he was drunk.

He staggered as he pulled the door shut behind him, then took a few
weaving steps, before pausing to let out an audible belch.  At the tap
of her approaching high heels, he swung unsteadily towards her.  She
saw him register the female shape, the tart's clothes and make-up, the
long blonde hair - a disguising wig, even though he had never seen her
in person.  She saw slackmouthed surprise change to a welcoming leer.

He was making it almost too easy.

A gun was the weapon she preferred, and a bullet between the eyes would
make it more obviously an execution, but on this occasion a knife was
better.  She had it concealed against her thigh as she slunk invitingly
towards him.  His leer intensified when she finally slid a hand through
his arm, murmuring in his ear and letting him draw her against him.

There was one last moment when his eyes widened in fear and disbelief
his ears registering her final mocking whisper as the blade struck
home, sliding lethally and accurately between his ribs from behind.

Then he was crumpling down, to lie like any fallen drunk in the
gutter.

She looked down at him, then walked away casually, to any watching eyes
(though there were none) merely disgusted at a potential customer too
drunk to do anything more than fall unconscious at her feet.

It was done.  Now her target was no more than a pile of garbage for the
morning's street cleaners to find.

And a warning to anyone who cared to know.

Take care before you offend the Widow.

Chapter 1

Jane Perry lay propped on her bed, her shoes kicked off the door wide
open.  It was an attractive room with its wide second-floor window
looking out on the tops of trees, lit by early summer sunlight.  Gazing
round, she realised with satisfaction that already it felt like home:
her own casual, untidy clutter spread all about her.  The whole flat
now had a pleasant feeling of familiarity - the familiarity of being
settled.  Since any member of the police force inevitably had to have
her place of living officially vetted, it was lucky that her long-time
friend Matty had not chosen to settle in an area favoured by known
criminals.  Jane raised her voice to carry clearly through to her
friend.

"Ironic, isn't it?  Six months ago I move my career out here to the
sticks."

"Shaking the dust of dizzy London off your feet in favour of the quiet
provincial life," Matty's voice responded from somewhere beyond the
door.

"If that's sarcasm, just lay off!  Where was I?  Oh yes.  I apply for a
local vacancy because you'd tipped me off that CID here was being run
by a woman Detective Chief Inspector who seemed both pleasant and
go-ahead.  And so she was!  But then what happens?  I get the job and
everything's hunky-dory.

Then just three months after I arrive, like all go-ahead types she ups
and goes, to higher things!  And what turns up as her replacement?  A a
dinosaur to make every other male chauvinist I've ever worked with in
the force seem like an enlightened angel!"

"Poor soul."  Matty's husky voice had an amused edge to it, though it
also contained a patient sympathy.

"Damn right!  There I am, getting well settled in, with a decent DI and
good backing from the DCI.  But then she does a bunk.  And Detective
Chief Inspector Morland hoves up on the horizon.  I swear to you, if
that man could contrive to turn the clock back and ban women from the
force altogether, he'd do it!  A female CID sergeant under his nose?  A
graduate, furthermore, who expects to work on the same level as the
men, or, heaven forbid, even take charge of them?  You can practically
see disbelief flashing in his eyes!  He'd have me restricted to making
the tea if he could get away with it!"

"That bad?"  Matty appeared and draped herself against the doorway, a
vision of long mahogany limbs and short Afro hairstyle.  There were
grape-dark smudges of tiredness under her eyes, clearly visible even
against the warm brown of her skin; for a busy hospital doctor, a
perhaps unsurprising weariness.  Her place of work lay just beyond the
trees outside, and a bleeper lying somewhere about the flat could go
off at any time, day or night.

"It gets worse as the days go by, if anything," Jane grumbled in
disgust.  "Dammit, Matty, don't laugh!"

"Sorry," Matty said, her lingering grin a flash of white teeth.

She added sweetly, "Are you aware you're the only person I know who
complains to me about prejudice?  Just you try being female and black
as well.  At least no one ever assumes your natural language is
Caribbean patois!"  Being the mixed-race child of a high-level African
diplomat, her remark was heartfelt.  "I can tell you, too, medicine's
just as much of a male-chauvinist kingdom - particularly once you set
your sights on higher levels.  I suppose you could say it was our
choice.  We should both have known what we were getting into.  And if
you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen..."

"Easy enough to say with hindsight.  Anyway, a police career seemed to
offer more of a challenge than anything else I could do with my law
degree.  And the kind of background I could cope with after growing up
with the army, too!"  In fact, Jane had taken some care to avoid
mentioning her family connections when she joined the force; she had
even dropped the "Rees' from her double-barrelled surname, just in case
anyone thought she might look for advantage from being the daughter of
a high-profile army General.  "What they don't tell you," she went on
with an edge of bitterness, "when they put out all that recruiting
literature about "graduate entry being a fast track" and in the police
being an equal opportunities employer" is the underlying scenario!

Which is, of course, that most of your actual serving police are still
convinced deep down that the force is really a man's world, where
anything female, fast-track or not, should keep her head down and be
satisfied with a subsidiary position!"

And that was particularly true in CID.  But CID was what Jane had
wanted, despite knowing that staying in uniform might offer a clearer
upward line in promotion.  Particularly if she agreed to be shunted
into administration, or chose one of the other specialisations
considered "suited to women officers".

After attending the Special Course (promised to graduate entrants once
basic training was completed) and coming out with good marks and the
automatic rank of sergeant, Jane had stubbornly opted for the detective
branch.  Where she had gritted her teeth against all the conscious and
unconscious resistance she ran into...

It was only after eighteen months of it that she had come to a restless
conclusion: the Met, for all its vaunted sophistication, was clearly
not going to fulfill her ambitions.  It was time to look for another
angle.  And an advertisement in the Police Gazette requiring
applications for a Detective-Sergeant job down in Matty's area had
looked as if it might be the solution.

A smaller CID force covering a wider area; more chances, then.  And,
more to the point, a female DCI in charge.  Jane had liked her at the
interview, too: a woman who seemed tough but sympathetic, someone who
had got where she was on her own terms without either losing her
essential femininity or playing on it.  DCI Greene had looked like the
ideal boss for someone with Jane's ambitions - both as an example, and
as an encouragement.

Remembering that now, Jane let out a gusty sigh.  Just three months
into the job and with high hopes, she had seen DCI Greene depart in
clouds of glory.  What was it one of her former Inspectors had called
it when everything which had been going well abruptly fell apart?  Oh
yes, "the bugger-it factor'.  And that described the arrival of DCI
Morland as DCI Greene's replacement perfectly...

Suddenly aware that Matty was still standing in the doorway in silent
sympathy, Jane abruptly pulled herself together and gave her an
apologetic grin.

"OK, you can stop looking like patience on a monument!  I'll live - I
suppose!  Have to, won't I?  Anyway, considering you've heard it all
before, I don't know why you don't just yell `Shut up!`" "Would you
listen?"  Matty stretched, her smiling eyes taking on an edge of
mischief.  "I suppose I could try reminding you that you could have
avoided all this if you'd married Maarten Van Damm when he kept asking
you.  Just think, you could be living in The Hague with two point four
perfect Dutch children, being the perfect parliamentarian's wife."

"God, that thought makes my present life seem almost bearable!"

"Poor devoted man - dutifully flying over to see you so regularly, and
trying so desperately to get you to fancy him!"

Matty ducked as Jane picked up her pillow threateningly as if to throw
it.  "We were all laying bets on whether you'd eventually weaken."

"Oh no you weren't, when have you ever seen me as someone who wanted to
be bored to death?  The only useful thing

Maarten ever did for me was teach me to speak Dutch!"  Jane had found
that reasonably easy, since a peripatetic army childhood had given her
a facility with languages.  She added on a chuckle, "I do well remember
his face when I told him I was going to join the police, though - shock
horror, thoroughly infra dig!

I reckon Pa was the only person who wasn't really surprised."  The
General, she remembered, had actually been quite approving.  As were
his letters, still, from New Zealand, to which he had retired from the
army now, investing his golden handshake in a stock farm.  Where he
appeared to be quite happy occupying himself with the finer points of
sheep-dip.

Jane grinned at the thought, then gave a sudden glance at her watch and
swung her legs off the bed.  "It's time I got moving, I've used up my
free hours from being on duty late last night.  Heigh-ho, back we
go!"

"At least you get hours in lieu," Matty pointed out, though with a
cheerful lack of rancour.

"Yeah.  Sometimes.  When something hasn't come up.

Honestly, looking back on our carefree youth, would you ever have
thought we'd both end- up in careers where we not only spend half our
time beating our brains out against the establishment, but also don't
have time for any kind of social life?  Was there really a time when I
used to spend my evenings going to films?  Or dancing?  Going out to
dinner, even, "Let alone a sex life, if that's the next item on your
list?  No, let's not even think of that, it'd take far more energy than
I've got left over these days!"

"Heigh-ho for the life of a career woman .  . ."  It was half
surprising, Jane thought as she came to her feet with both of them
provoked into laughter, that Matty's calm beauty hadn't drawn her into
matrimony by now, or at least into a long-term relationship.  Or, it
would be surprising to anyone who didn't know Matty well enough to be
aware of her dedication to medicine - and her capacity for ignoring the
yearning admiration her looks inspired.  Jane gave her another grin,
and said, "I'm going to make an early lunch before I go on duty, d'you
want anything?"

"No thanks, I'll grab something at the hospital later."

"And probably on the wing?"  Jane enquired, knowing meals were
something Matty ate how and when she could.  "Come and talk to me while
I eat, anyway - since you're actually here!"

They moved off towards the kitchen together.  In appearance they were
an interesting contrast, both medium tall and slender, but one
Afro-dark and the other English-fair.  Jane's most striking feature was
the deep blue of her eyes; Matty's, the almost perfect proportions of
her face which had taken the best from both sides of her mixed
heritage.  Warming to each other on sight when they both arrived at the
same university, they had then found innumerable things in common, not
least the shared experience of coming from an upper-crust but highly
mobile background.  The initial friendship had lasted ever since.

They chatted idly while Jane ate.  Then she set off to drive to work.

Though the main police station was only a brisk walk away, she was
obliged to keep her car readily available.  As she headed down the
hill, the city spread itself out in front of her: a compact centre
contained within the remains of medieval walls, then a widening sprawl
beyond them.  Beyond that, though not visible from here, farmlands
surrounded the city on all sides.

It was pleasant, she reflected absently, to live in a place of such
decorative antiquity in the middle of countryside - after the
endlessness of metropolitan streets which she had been used to in
London.  The change might not have turned out to be quite the break she
had hoped for, but there were advantages.

And another advantage too, which had entered into her calculations when
she applied for the job here.  The city might be small and seem
provincial, but because of its history and its famous cathedral, it
enjoyed more than its fair share of visiting VIPs, foreign as well as
national.  Then there was its proximity to the coast: the ferry
terminals and the gradually encroaching Channel Tunnel gave it an extra
international importance.

They were very much on the border of Europe here; the Chief Constable
had even come out with a decree that all his staff should learn to
speak French.  So - it had occurred to Jane -this was the kind of place
where an ambitious officer speaking several languages might prove
useful.  And noticeable.  Given the chance to make her mark...

So much for hope.  As of the last three months - and thanks to the
bugger-it factor, a.k.a. DCI Morland - Jane was grimly aware that she
wasn't being offered anything to do which would remotely make anyone's
mark.

That brought the reminder of Morland's latest move.  The night-time
warehouse operation.  Dan Crowe, Jane's Inspector and immediate
superior, had automatically put her in charge of one of the shifts.

Late last night she had come wearily off duty to find a memo by Morland
countermanding that.  A woman detective alone with a male colleague in
a car for several hours after dark was "unsuitable".  He didn't quite
have the nerve to say why, in writing, but the thinking was obvious: A
Danger of Illicit Relationships Forming...

Jane had immediately itched to challenge him on it - or fix him with an
icy eye and murmur, "You cannot be serious!"  but it wasn't worth it.

He would love an excuse to claim she lacked discipline, so she wouldn't
give him one.  No way was she going to give him the least chance to do
what she could tell he was dying to do: sink her career without
trace.

No, no way!

She arrived at the tall concrete-and-glass building with its bright
blue sign announcing POLICE, and swung the wheel to pass through the
gap leading to the rear, beside the notice marked Private.  No Entrance
to the Public.  A squad car on its way out paused to let her by, the
driver giving a friendly acknowledging wave.  The gesture reminded her,
cheeringly, that at least she had had the chance to get established
with her colleagues before (she thought drily) the poisoned fang of
acute male chauvinism had struck.  She had taken the trouble to get on
with people, uniform as well as her own bunch; had carefully ignored
overheard remarks which unthinkingly relegated any female to the
category of bimbo or slag; had shown she would share information,
wouldn't stand on rank unnecessarily, and would readily buy her
round.

Besides, the previous DCI's fairness and efficiency had gained enough
respect to produce at least a small trickle-down effect - the
beginnings of the notion that women officers were also human beings
with normal human capabilities.

Jane had even sensed an occasional subterranean wash of sympathy lately
- which perhaps went to show that others didn't like the new DCI an
awful lot more than she did.  So maybe she wasn't just suffering from
paranoia.

She parked the vehicle, and let herself in through the station's
electronically-locked rear door.  Signing in, she exchanged a cheerful
"Hi, how goes it?"  with a duty sergeant, and moments later arrived in
the familiar purlieus of the CID room.

"Afternoon, Guv.  Anything new?"

"Not a lot," Dan Crowe said, acknowledging her arrival with the usual
brief twitch of his eyebrows.  "I'll be going out on the warehouse
surveillance myself later.  Doubt if you're going to miss much."

"I'm taking it all as a compliment to my irresistible sex appeal."  It
was better to make a joke out of it.  "I don't suppose we've got any
further with the missing credit cards, have we What?"

"DCI Morland thinks you're the obvious person to do it.

Lectures on detection to secondary schools are an important part of
community contact," Dan Crowe said deadpan, but managing to convey
several other messages with his eyebrows.

"Bloody hell.  I mean, yes, sir!"  Jane re-inspected the memo which lay
on top of the pile in her in-tray and bit back a scathing comment.

"Tomorrow morning.  And another one in the afternoon.  Lovely.  Gives
me a lot of time to decide what I'm going to say, doesn't it?"

"There's a standard spiel somewhere.  Should be on your desk with the
memo."  He made no further comment as she found it.  She had heard him
mutter that it would be nice to be able to deploy his staff in his own
way but he'd followed it up with a sharp, "Nobody heard me say that!"

Some of the others were wandering in now - Kenny Barnes, still a DC in
his late forties, who might have been jealous of Jane as a
twenty-seven-year-old sergeant but wasn't; Vern Harris, a sergeant at
thirty-seven, who was touchy about being equal-ranked by a newcomer ten
years younger, but hid it behind a Jack-the-Lad charm.  "I've sent Gary
and Mike straight out from lunch to follow up that tip-off about the
shop manager," he told Dan Crowe, "they might just catch him with some
stolen stuff on the premises if we're lucky.  Afternoon, Jane.

How's your stunning friend Dr Ingle?"

"Still stunning, and still trying to repair parts of RTAs which other
doctors can't reach."  Several people at the station had come across
Matty through routine links between the police and the hospital's
accident department, which she was in and out of all the time as
neurosurgical registrar.  It was amusing that all of them without fail
showed a tendency to ask after her with varying degrees of lechery or
wistfulness when it was discovered that Jane actually lived with her.

"Is your wife having the baby at the hospital this time?"  she asked
Vern with an innocent sweetness, just to show she knew that any enquiry
from him was definitely lechery.

"Yes - another two months to go."  He moved to pick up the phone as it
rang.  Kenny was talking to Dan Crowe about his expenses and about the
warehouse surveillance and Jane turned to the "standard spiel' she'd
been delegated to deliver next day.

 Lecturing to bored school-kids.  Somebody had to do it, she
supposed.

Somebody else had been booked to do it, presumably; probably someone
from Community Relations.  It was another piece of Morland's
interference to switch it to her.  As if that was all he felt she was
fit for.

If he asked her how it went she could tell him sweetly she hoped she'd
managed to act as a role-model to attract more girls into thinking of
CID as a career.  That should annoy him nicely.

The following morning, however, faced with rows of spotty boys and over
made up girls, all herded in unwillingly, it was a wild stretch of the
imagination to visualise any of them being suited to a police career.

In fact she could recognise at least one youthful face as having been
down at the station for a quite different reason.  And the questions
she was asked, when she invited them, were definitely based on the idea
of evasion of the law rather than its enforcement.

The second school was better, a much smaller group of much more willing
listeners, tidier in their obligatory school uniform.  In fact the
number she had to address ("It's just fourth-year Careers," a teacher
had told her apologetically, "the others are starting GCSEs,") was
small enough for her to opt for informality and sittinEin a circle
rather than rows.  One or two of the questions she was asked were
obviously an attempt to be clever, but on the whole the response was
intelligent.  "Do you ever get sent abroad?"  someone asked
hopefully.

"Mostly, no," Jane said, and smiled at the boy who had put the question
because he was looking disappointed.  "Somebody from CID here could get
sent across to pick up a prisoner after arrest, or to identify someone,
but it would be very unusual for us to go and work in another
country.

We don't know yet if the new EEC arrangements will alter things, but as
each country has its own legal methods, it's most likely that we'll go
on having national police forces each in charge of their own internal
affairs."  She looked round at her attentive audience.

"We do liaise with the other European forces from time to time, but
only really by exchanging information.  Yes, I know, it would help if
we could all move around a bit more, considering the criminals do!  We
see that particularly in this part of the country.  If your bike gets
stolen, for instance, it may be across the Channel before we've even
got the theft logged.

Unfortunately we can't just follow a thief to the other side - or not
without getting in touch with our opposite numbers first, to make sure
we don't tread on anyone's toes!"

"But someone could join Interpol, couldn't they?"

"No.  Interpol isn't an international police force, as people imagine;
it's more like a giant computer.  I'm afraid the only foreign trips I'm
likely to get are the same ones you might do yourselves - a day trip
for shopping and sightseeing!  You go over on school trips, don't
you?

Like the French children do when they come here?"  The locals seemed to
view those, xenophobically, as ill-disciplined, ill-mannered, and
probably only here for an orgy of shoplifting, an attitude of mind
probably repaid when the English schoolchildren went over there.

It was an example of the traditional dislike between the English and
the French which sometimes made Jane wonder wryly how a united Europe
was ever supposed to work.  She glanced at the teacher.  "Well, it
looks as if I'm being given the sign to pack up.  I hope you've found
all this interesting and useful.

Don't forget what I said: you, the public, are our eyes and ears, and
any useful information you can give us will make our job a whole lot
easier!"

The session had gone well, she decided, as she made her way back to the
teachers' car park in receipt of thanks.  If she had to do this mundane
task, at least this particular occasion hadn't been too bad.  A loudly
pealing bell brought a sudden rush of children of all sizes making for
the school bus, and reminded her drily that she had never, ever, wanted
to be a teacher.  On the other hand they did have a day which stopped
at half past three "Miss?  Miss, please, could I talk to you?"

The girl who came to a halt breathlessly behind her seemed to be
screwing up her courage.  She was shifting nervously from foot to
foot.

"Sure," Jane said, recognising her as a quiet one who had sat opposite
to her.  She might not have been sure it was the same girl because the
curly cascade of brown hair falling from a bow high up on one side
seemed to be this month's fashion and made several of them look like
clones, but this girl had watched her with a silent intensity which
made her noticeable.  "Weren't you one of the ones in there-?"

"Yes.  Miss, what do you do if someone's missing?  You said Miss, it's
Deirdre, I know she's missing, but nobody's doing anything!"

"Hang on a minute.  First tell me who you are."

"Shelley Cura.  And she's Deirdre MacArthy.  She hasn't been at school
for more than a week, and she isn't at home either.  But they aren't
they won't - they just told me to mind my own business, "Try to be a
bit clearer.  You're worried about Deirdre because you haven't seen
her, and someone - your teachers?  her parents?  - say that's none of
your business?  Well, maybe there's a reason they know about and you
don't.  It's not usually a good idea to jump to conclusions.  And if
everyone you've told'

"I'm telling you," Shelley almost yelled, desperation breaking out of
her.  "You said that's what we ought to do, didn't you?

Pass on information?  How can I if even you won't listen?

Deirdre's missing, and I know she wouldn't go anywhere without telling
me - so I know something's happened to her, I just know it!"

Chapter 2

They went back into school in the end, since a teacher on bus duty
hurried over to see why a pupil seemed to be shouting at a visitor.

Jane and Shelley were led along corridors whose yawning emptiness
suggested a lemming-like flight of all concerned the minute the school
day ended.  A weary-looking young man was finally produced who was
Deirdre's class-tutor.  At Jane's polite insistence he checked his
register, then looked harassed as they all trailed off again to consult
someone higher up.  The look he gave Shelley boded ill for their future
relationship.

"It's true Deirdre MacArthy hasn't been in school for over a week,"
Jane told Dan Crowe an hour later, putting the situation to him in the
CID room.  "No explanation given, either.

Apparently they usually check up, but this one seems to have slipped
through the net."

"If she's one of the MacArthys from the Ribden Road estate, they're a
bunch of roughnecks," Kenny Barnes commented from his desk across the
room.  "Missing school wouldn't mean much!"

"No, but Deirdre's supposed to be the bright one.  Quiet, but a hard
worker.  She's missed school occasionally but not often.

Shelley - her best friend - always knows where she is and why, even out
of school.  But not this time.  What do you think, Guv, do we check
it?"

"The parents haven't reported her missing, you say?"

"No, I looked that up as soon as I came in."

"Hen.  Anything else from the school?"

"Some concern, and quite a bit of background information.

Not from the class-tutor, he's new this term and didn't really know the
child.  That's the main reason why her absence hadn't been picked up
on, I gathered.  The senior teacher could tell me more.  The family's
known to be "difficult".  Particularly the stepfather - he married the
mother four years ago.  Deirdre's the youngest of the older family and
there are three little ones in the new young family.  All the kids took
the stepfather's name.

But there was surprise that Deirdre hadn't been in school' "How old did
you say she was?"

"Fifteen next week.  Moderately pretty but nothing special.

Quiet.  No trouble.  They describe her as a promising pupil, ahead of
her age as far as work's concerned.  Less so emotionally.

They didn't know if she had a boyfriend but thought it unlikely.

Shelley's her only close friend and they're inseparable."  Jane paused,
frowning.  "The last time she was at school was the Friday before
last.

Shelley saw her on the Saturday, at lunch-time, in the break from
Deirdre's Saturday job.  She does filing and general tidying-up in an
estate agent's office, Crayshaw's."

"I know them.  Watt Street," Kenny put in.

"So I gather."  Jane flipped over the page in her notebook to make sure
she'd got everything else exactly.  "Shelley says they agreed to meet
again on the Sunday afternoon, but Deirdre didn't turn up.  Shelley
doesn't usually go round to the MacArthy house apparently, her parents
don't like her to, but she phoned and was told Deirdre was busy.  By
Wednesday after school, worried that Deirdre hadn't been in touch, she
did go round there, but she didn't see Deirdre and came away with a
flea in her ear.  She hasn't seen her or heard anything from her since
that Saturday."

"This best friend - reliable?"

"Truthful, I'd say.  And desperate.  She swore that she and Deirdre
haven't quarrelled, and I believed her.  She's sure something's
wrong."

Jane paused again.  "I did look up the stepfather to see if we had
anything on him.  We don't.  Unless Kenny...?"

"He's known round the pubs, and used to get thrown out of quite a few
for being fighting drunk.  Not recently," Kenny added on reflection.

"He's kept his nose clean lately as far as I've heard."

"Likely to beat up the girl and keep her away from school because of
bruises?"

"I thought of that, but the school didn't respond when I made it an
open suggestion," Jane put in to Dan Crowe's question.

"Hen.  Doesn't mean it couldn't happen.  Other family?"

"Her real father's dead.  There are two older brothers who'd been to
the same school, both a different kettle of fish from Deirdre.

In fact I gathered they were hardly ever there.  The truancy officer
used to have to go in regularly.  The school will probably tip him off
about Deirdre's absence now, but .

Suppose they wait another week, and there's something more in it?"

"Go and check it out," Dan Crowe said, coming to a decision.

"Make it look like a routine enquiry - you're seeing all the local kids
because of a shoplifting complaint.  Or a break-in at school and has
she seen anyone hanging around?  You know the kind of thing, anything
which means asking to see the girl face to face.  Take Kenny with
you.

Tomorrow morning, though," he added, "and call the school first to see
she hasn't turned up!

And don't let it get in the way of your other cases, it'll probably
turn out to be nothing!"

Morning made the Ribden Road estate look moderately attractive, however
much parts of it might be known as a repository for difficult
families.

One or two of the houses had neat front gardens, showing some care; one
even had a For Sale sign on it, showing that someone had thought it
worth buying from the Council.  Meadowtree Avenue was less appealing
when they swung into it from the main circuit which ran through the
estate: on the edge, with a piece of rough grass at the end of it and
woodlands beyond, it managed to spoil what must have been intended to
be a nicely rural view by its row of beige pebble-dash exteriors and a
generally scruffy appearance.  Number twenty had a rusting bicycle
wheel and several broken plastic toys in its small front garden, but
surprisingly white net curtains.

"Still trying, Ruth McManus," Kenny commented, looking at the
curtains.

"Or Ruth MacArthy as she is now," he corrected himself.  "Used to be a
pretty girl once, I'd say, and might have made something of herself if
she hadn't always chosen the wrong men."

"Where Deirdre got her brains from?"

"Don't know if you could say that... If you marry one man who drinks
himself stupid and then breaks his neck falling off a bus, it's not
clever to pick another one who makes his social life round the pub, is
it?  Still, she's always tried her best with the house and the
children, you could say that for her."

Kenny climbed out of the car.  "Let's go and see what she's got to say
about Deirdre, shall we?  With any luck we'll find the little ones have
got chickenpox and they've just kept the girl in as a babysitter!"

The boy who answered their knock didn't look as if anyone who tried
their best had got very far with him; he was wearing a grimy if
neon-decorated singlet above torn jeans and a skull-andcrossbones
earring dangled from one distinctly dirty ear.  His face looked like an
unwashed invitation to acne.  That was all Jane saw before he tried to
slam the door on them.  It bounced back rapidly, however, from the
rapid insertion of Kenny's hardtoed shoe.  The DC was already speaking
cheerfully.

"Hallo, Jimmy, remember me?  Detective-Constable Barnes?

This is Detective-Sergeant Perry, and we'd like a word with your
mother, if you don't mind.  No, it's not about you, or why you're not
at school!"

"I've left school, haven't I?  Shows how much you know" "Oh, are you
sixteen already?  I thought you'd got another month to go.  Maybe I
can't add.  Just call your mother for us, would you?"

The boy gave in with a glower and bawled out, "Ma!"  with an adolescent
crack in his voice.  "Someone at the door, for you!

It's the pigs, if you want to know!"  he added deliberately, and with
that he vanished rapidly towards the back of the house.

A second later there was a distinct yelp, and then a man appeared
abruptly and soft-footedly from the direction the boy had gone.  He was
rubbing one hand as if he might have just delivered a blow with it, and
there was a sense of dangerous animality about him which suggested the
same.  He was almost as grubby as the boy and similarly dressed in a
singlet and jeans, in his case marked with black stains of oil.  But he
was much handsomer: heavily-muscled shoulders, a curling crop of black
hair, wide cheekbones, a full-lipped mouth.  Irish teeth, Jane thought,
noting their slight protuberance with a gap between the front two.  She
felt his eyes raking over her in an immediate knowing inspection, male
to female, but as if it was something he did automatically, his mind
elsewhere.  And guarded.

"Yes?  You're wanting something?"

"Mr MacArthy?  I'm Detective-Sergeant Perry and this is
Detective-Constable Barnes."  She flipped open her police
identification and held it out for him to see.  "We're sorry to disturb
you, and this is just a routine enquiry, but we wondered if we could
have a word with your wife?  Well, actually, with your stepdaughter.

It's Deirdre we'd like to see."

"Deirdre?"  He said it Irish fashion, so that it came out "Deedera'.

"She's not here."

"No?  We've already tried her school.  I wonder' "She's away staying
with relatives.  I was meaning to let the school know, I've been busy
and forgot.  Shea "Michael, who is it?"

The voice which broke in came from the stairs.  The woman who came into
view had tear-reddened eyes, that was the first thing Jane noticed
about her.  A sense of shrinking tension was the second.  She might
once have been pretty, but she was too worn-looking now for that to be
visible.  A toddler clung to one of her hands, and another of equal
size was heavily balanced on her hip; they were both surprisingly
cleanly dressed, and the one she was carrying had a pink bow in its
hair.

An abrupt wail from upstairs suggested an even younger baby.

"Go back up to the babe, woman, I'll deal with this.  They're after
Deirdre not being at school, is all.  I've said she's away."

"Mrs MacArthy?  Could we come in and have a word?  And if Deirdre's not
here, could you tell us where we can get in touch with her?"

"She's in Ireland."  It was Michael MacArthy who answered, coming in
smoothly.  "She was a bit washed out and her mother and me thought she
could do with a holiday.  Isn't that right, woman?"

"Yes .  . ."  But Ruth MacArthy glanced at her husband nervously before
she said it.  She went on in a rush.  "All the little ones haven't been
well and Deirdre's been helping me with them.  We've none of us had a
lot of sleep' She looked upwards as the baby wailed again, then back to
Jane and Kenny standing silently by.

"When did she leave?"  Jane asked pleasantly, keeping her eyes on the
woman's face and raising her eyebrows enquiringly.

"Oh, it was Wednesday, wasn't it, Michael?  Or - or Tuesday..."

"Last week sometime, I disremember the day.  But if the school's
asking, you can tell them we're sorry, I'd have sent in a note if I
hadn't forgot.  They make too much fuss about it for a girl of her
age."

"And when will Deirdre be back?"  Jane asked, still addressing Mrs
MacArthy.  "She is only fourteen, and it is term time."

"And I'm her guardian.  Are they sending the polis now to interfere in
a family matter?"  Michael MacArthy's voice was still smooth, but a
barely concealed aggression underlay it.  "Woman, will you go up and
see to that babe before he gets right into his crying?  And take the
twins with you - no, give me Shaunie, he likes being with his Da, don't
you, boy?"  He stepped forward to sweep the standing toddler up into
his arms, a picture of fond parenthood.  "The little one wants feeding
and my wife was in the middle of it, so if you'll excuse us now?"  Ruth
MacArthy had set off back upstairs, silently, her receding figure
briefly visible and then gone.  "As for when Deirdre will be back, who
knows?  Her auntie'll keep her until she's looking better, and she'll
be at school again then!  So if there's nothing else?"

There was no point in saying there were routine questions they wanted
to ask Deirdre.  Not if she was in Ireland, as he claimed.

"Did you believe a word of that?"  Jane asked Kenny once they were back
in the car.

"Could be true.  The girl might be pregnant, and that's why they've
sent her off.  That would explain the way Ruth was looking, too."

"That nervous?  And that worried?  Did you see the look in her eyes?"

"He wasn't going to let us talk to her if he could help it, I'll
admit.

All the same..."

"Damn.  If we could have seen the wife alone - or if we could have
taken a quick look round the house, that at least!"

"You think there might be something in the other idea, and the girl
might be upstairs covered with bruises?  I'd agree I wouldn't put it
past him.  Nasty piece of work.  We can't prove whether she's there or
not, though, without a warrant."

"And we haven't got sufficient grounds to get one."  A man who
addressed his wife as "woman" all the time might make the hairs on
Jane's neck curl, but it wasn't enough to take to a magistrate.

"Social services?  Any chance of..  .?  Or neighbours, anyone we can
ask without' "Getting a possible complaint of police harassment?"

"I suppose so.  But I'd dearly like - All right, drive on.  There isn't
much we can do here for the moment!"  They had taken Kenny's battered
car, because he had said no one would find it worth vandalising if they
were any length of time about their interview.

"You're steamed up about it, aren't you?"  he asked as they moved
off.

"Aren't you?"

"Yes.  I've got daughters.  But we don't know she's there, and the Ruth
McManus I used to know wouldn't have let that happen.  She always did
look after the kids properly.  Even the eldest, the one that's left
home now, and he was a right tearaway.  Mind you, she does seem well
under this new husband's thumb."

"Shelley would have known if Deirdre was pregnant.  We haven't even
heard there was a boyfriend!  As for that story of the children being
ill, those twins didn't look as if they'd had much wrong with them
lately to me.  Ireland.  Conveniently impossible for us to follow
up!"

She was abruptly aware they were taking an unexpected route.  "Are we
driving right round the estate for a reason?"

"Just something I've got in mind.  Ah, that's what I thought I might
see!"

He swerved suddenly to the kerb, pulled to a halt, and was out of the
car in one rapid movement.  There was a brief scuffle, then the back
door of the car was flung open to admit a recognisable grubby form, his
arm held tightly in Kenny's grip as the DC climbed in after him.

"You ain't got no right' "Now now Jimmy, we just want a word with
you!

I thought you might have sloped out the back while we were at your
house, and here you are!"

"I wasn't doing nothing "cept walking along.  It's bleedin' false
arrest!  And police brutality

"Am I touching you now?  Can you prove I ever did?  Besides, the
sergeant and I could always say we saw you with a brick in your hand
and looking at that nice plate-glass window in the house over there.

Or we might not," Kenny Barnes said amiably, ignoring the stiffening he
must have been aware of in Jane's shoulders.  "We only want to talk to
you about your Deirdre."

"Oh, is Miss Toffee-nose in trouble then?  What happened, did her posh
friends chuck her out?"

"Which posh friends are those, Jimmy?"  Jane asked, making it cool and
casual and turning round as if she was only being conversational
instead of closely watching his face.

"That Shelley Cura.  Always going off with her, isn't she?  So that's
where she'll have gone when she ran off.  Why should I tell you
anything?"  he added, his anti-police attitudes suddenly taking over
from sibling spite.

"Maybe to help your sister?  When did she run off, then?"

"Didn't come home Sat'dy before last, did she?  "Cos she'd got told off
Friday night.  Serves her right for comin' in late, I get it round the
head enough, and for her it was only a couple of belts and- He broke
off, his face showing a sudden wariness.  And an edge of panic.  "If
that Mrs Cura's made a complaint, I didn't say nothing about Dee
getting belted!"

"But you think that's why Deirdre ran away?  You did say she ran away,
didn't you?  Have you seen her at all since she left home?"

"I'm not saying nothing'

"I think you've said enough.  But suppose we just want to know where
Deirdre is?  To know she's safe?  Have you seen her since the Saturday
before last?"

"No, I ain't, but if she's gone missing I ain't saying why!

She's prob'ly run off to tart it around London if her posh friends
wouldn't have her, and I hope she's livin' in cardboard city!  Thinks
she's better than all of us, doesn't she?  Can I go now?  You don't
have no - " "Out," Jane said abruptly, reaching back to press the
handle of the rear door.  "It's not locked!"

Jimmy didn't need telling twice.  He was out of the car in a flash,
skinny legs pumping him round the nearest corner at speed.

"We couldn't have kept him.  We shouldn't even have had him in the car
at all, as a minor.  Let alone under threat."  She had to say it, but
they both knew she was in no position to turn it into an official
reprimand.  As rank1~ officer she was responsible, and she had gone
along with Kenny's action.  "If he brings it up "He won't, not Jimmy.

He's all mouth but too much of a coward to push his luck.  Gave us the
break we were looking for, anyway, didn't it?  Jimmy's too thick to
lie.  The girl's not in the house.  And she didn't get sent off to
Ireland in the middle of last week either."

No.  She hadn't come home from work on the Saturday.

Ten days ago.

After being belted by her stepfather on the Friday night.

"We'll have to work round it officially, and see Mrs Cura to make sure
Deirdre didn't go there after work on the Saturday.  We may already
know she didn't from Shelley, but we still have to do it by the book.

We'll have to ask at Crayshaw's, too, the estate agents, to see whether
Deirdre was there on Saturday afternoon, and if so what time she left
work.  And whether she seemed normal.  After that, we need to find out
whether anyone at all saw her after that Saturday..."

Maybe it would turn out to be just another missing teenager run off to
London.  There were plenty of them, after all.

But surely she would have told her best friend?  And why hadn't her
mother, at least, reported it?

Chapter 3

"I want to go to Crayshaw's first thing - Oh shit, that's a ladder in
my new tights, and just where it shows!"  Jane unpeeled both legs in
exasperation, then rooted around in a jumbled drawer with urgent
fingers.  "Purple - what the hell did I buy those for?  Black... no,
too much like uniform.  Ah, don't say this pair's intact?  As I was
saying, I want to do all the followups before I get deflected.

Otherwise it's going to get classed as "just another runaway teenager
to put on the list", you know?"

As usual she was carrying on this conversation with Matty through an
open door, her voice pitched to reach her invisible flatmate.  One
missing schoolgirl, whose absence hadn't even been reported by her
parents.  It was a hard fact, but without more to go on, Jane was
likely to be instructed simply to file it.  Since they hadn't even
received a formal complaint.

So many teenagers did take off for London from all parts of the
country, so why did she feel in her bones that Deirdre's case was
different?

"Have you got time for some toast?"  Matty's voice floated through from
the kitchen.

"Not when I've just slept through my alarm!"  That was what came of
sitting up late over a bottle of Greek brandy with several of Matty's
friends who were for once not on call.  "Oh God, and I'm always meaning
to set it even earlier and go jogging!"

"Cagney and Lacey stuff?  Whichever of them it is who does all that
running around in a tracksuit behind the credits."

Jane appeared in the kitchen halfway through Matty's comment, still
rapidly buttoning her skirt.  "Tell me that kettle's just boiled," she
said imploringly.  "Tea I must have!"

"That kettle's just boiled," Matty said obediently.

"Thank God for that.  And now I come to think of it, I can stop finding
excuses for why I never go jogging.  That guy from orthopaedics last
night was telling me all about stress fractures.  Do you have to look
so revoltingly chipper?"

"I've had more than two hours' sleep for once," Matty pointed out
cheerfully.  She looked blooming in her silk wrapper, which was covered
with vivid flowers in colours which would have drowned anyone else's
skin tones.  "You look OK - the smartly neutral look?  By the way, I
noticed you and Daniel seemed to be getting on pretty well."

"No, Daniel's hypnotised by you.  He just finds it easier to talk to me
because I'm not the princess in the tower, just the princess's
friend."

Jane grinned at Matty's grimace.  "Never mind, that's better than the
ones who fall into acute silence the minute they hear I'm a cop.  Ouch,
why did I swallow that tea too hot?  Well, I'm out of here.  See you
when I see you!"

One of these days she might find a circle of friends of her own in this
place, instead of being dependent on Matty's.  The trouble was, if you
ruled out colleagues (which she did, knowing warily the effect the
wrong relationship could have on a police career) who else did she
meet?  The criminal fraternity.  And members of the public who saw her
in her police guise.  If she did happen to meet someone otherwise, even
the most innocent new acquaintance seemed to develop a look in the eyes
as if hastily wondering about unpaid parking tickets the minute her job
was mentioned... She was used to that by now, but it still gave her
narrowed options.  In London there had been one or two old friends when
she wasn't too busy herself to see them; but here she was still a
relative newcomer.

Never mind, that would change.  And no doubt there were advantages in
living like a celibate nun - if she could think what they were.

Sublimation, perhaps?  She bit back a snort of laughter, and
straightened her thoughts for the interview she was on her way to
conduct.  Crayshaw's, Estate Agents, should have opened its doors by
now.

It had.  Mr Anthony Crayshaw, FICS, was there in person.

He was in his middle forties, with hair marginally beginning a retreat
from his brow and the smooth plumpness of someone who might be a
regular attender at Rotarian dinners.  On hearing who Jane was he swept
her to the rear of the property showroom and into his private office.

It had discreet but thickpile carpeting, an expensive-looking antique
desk, and good water-colour paintings of local scenes against elegant
Georgianstriped wallpaper.  There he fussed about ushering her into a
chair, which was also antique.  Noticeably, he left the door wide open,
and Jane somehow had the impression that it was to show he had nothing
at all to hide.

"Now, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"  he asked heartily.

"We haven't got squatters in one of our empty properties, I hope!

No?  Oh, that's a relief!  Well, what little problem can we help you
with?"

"I'm just making some routine enquiries about a teenager called Deirdre
MacArthy.  I believe you employ her here on Saturdays?"

"Saturdays.  Deirdre MacArthy.  I'm not sure, my office manager deals
with... Oh yes, I remember now, one of our very part-time staff."

Jane took him through her list of questions.  Had Deirdre been in the
office last Saturday?  Well, now it was mentioned he believed she
hadn't; he seemed to remember his office manager complaining the girl
hadn't turned up.  Yes, he was right, and it had been annoying.  But
that was the trouble with teenagers, wasn't it?  Thoroughly willing and
keen to start with, then abruptly bored with the whole idea!

The previous Saturday?  Yes, he supposed she had been in then.  He
wouldn't necessarily have been aware... He would have been seeing
clients and taking them out to show them round houses; Deirdre's work
took place in the back offices: filing, photocopying, making tea or
coffee.  As far as he knew, she would have left at her usual time,
six.

She certainly hadn't been here when he had locked up the office at six
forty-five.  As to whether she had seemed normal that day, he really
couldn't say.  If it was important he could ask his Saturday staff,
though none of them was actually in today.

Oh dear, was the girl in some kind of trouble?

That seemed like an afterthought.

Jane let the implication float that it was merely a matter of the girl
missing school.  She received his instant assurances that there would
never be, had never been, any question of his office employing anyone
of that age during school hours.  It had been a Saturday job only, and
he had given the girl a job because she seemed keen to have some office
experience, and earn some pocketmoney at the same time.  Since how
long?

Oh, three or four months, he supposed.

Jane murmured something reassuring, and managed to elicit that Deirdre
had seemed a reasonably good employee, as far as he knew.  Mr Crayshaw
then told Jane again that teenage attention-span was short, so he had
not really been surprised to learn that the MacArthy girl had stopped
coming in.

At that age girls did tend to be unreliable, didn't Sergeant Perry
agree?

Winding things up, Jane let him encourage her to come to Crayshaw's if
she ever decided to buy a property herself.

There really were some very good bargains on the market...

His eagerness suggested his firm was as badly hit by the recession as
any other, though he certainly didn't look as if poverty were about to
get up and bite him.

He shook her wringingly by the hand and she left him.

Walking back to her car, she tried to assess what she had made of Mr
Anthony Crayshaw.  He had certainly seemed the picture of innocent
candour... though had she sensed a very slight flicker in his eyes at
her first mention of Deirdre MacArthy's name?  And while he had claimed
to find the girl singularly unnoticeable, he did eventually find
himself able to give quite clear details of the girl's hours and
duties.

She let a faint query arise in her mind: had her employer fancied the
girl?  A little bit of sexual harassment, maybe?

Enough to make him so keen to stress that teenagers were not to be
trusted?

It was probably nothing.  Deirdre would surely have shared something
like that with Shelley - her best friend - and Shelley had seemed
certain there was nothing at all in Deirdre's life to make her run
away.  The girl had been almost vehement about that.

And then on the other side there was Jimmy, Deirdre's brother, so sure
she had run away; the parents, claiming to have sent her to Ireland;
Mrs Cura, Shelley's mother, already visited and positive about the fact
that Deirdre had not come to her house seeking refuge.  Mrs Cura would
have no reason to lie.  So there were a lot of pieces which didn't
quite fit together.

But, anyway, Jane had made all the enquiries she could decently make at
this stage from Crayshaw's.  She could make a note that Deirdre usually
left the premises at six and had definitely not been there when the
place was locked up at six forty-five.  If things did proceed further
Jane could probably go back and interview Crayshaw's Saturday staff, to
see what mood Deirdre had been in that day, but that was all.

To convince herself that she had done everything possible, Jane made a
detour via both the rail stations to show the staff a snapshot Mrs Cura
had provided, out of a collection of Shelley's.  No one had seen a girl
resembling the slightly blurred image... "But then we wouldn't really
notice, would we, I mean, just one passenger?  There's kids catching
trains all the time!"  The answer was much the same at the coach
station.

It was time for Jane to return to her desk.  There was plenty of other
work calling for her attention.  Those lost or stolen credit cards, for
instance .  . . though that seemed to be a cooling trail.  And
collating public complaints about graffiti vandals - Morland's latest
stimulating brainwave to occupy Jane's time.  She would simply have to
write up what little she had on Deirdre and leave the information on an
open file.

Back in the CID room, Jane found a surprise.  Vern Harris was busily
clearing his desk and loading the contents into a cardboard box.  He
was looking exceptionally pleased with himself and offered a wide grin
when he noticed her raised eyebrows.

"Yes, that's right, I'm off!  On my way!"

"Really?  Where?"

"I got on the Advanced Course.  I thought it was a turn down when I
didn't hear, but apparently it was just that the paperwork got sent
somewhere else - or someone else fell out of the course, I don't know
don't care much, either!  Anyway I'm expected pronto, I only heard late
last night."  He was too excited to hide behind his usual
who-am-I-to-care attitude.  "You know what it means - promotion at
last!  So maybe coming up through the ranks does count for something
after all... Ah, nothing against you personally, Jane."

"Nothing personal taken.  And congratulations.  They might have given
you a bit more warning, though!  And us.  We'll miss you."  Like a hole
in the head when he was in one of his more conceited moods, but she was
genuinely pleased for him just the same.  "Where's the course being
held?"

"The centre just outside Manchester.  A new place, purpose-built.

It'll be a change going north again, I used to work up that way."

"Well, great."  Not for his wife, left abruptly with two young children
and in an advanced state of pregnancy, but Jane forbore to cloud his
satisfaction by mentioning that.  Police wives were supposed to take
whatever the force handed out, anyway.  "I wish you all the best, I
hope it goes well!"

"I'll see that it does, believe you me!  Now, I think that's the lot.

Oh, Morland was asking for you.  Something to do with some old ladies
in a home, and he wants you to look into it."

That sounded very likely.  Anything to do with the old, the halt, or
pet-owners wanting missing cats traced.  "Thanks," Jane said drily.

"Cheer up, I'll leave you my unfinished files to follow up and perhaps
he won't notice," Vern said, out of competition enough to be generous
and flashing her a smile.  "Oh, and there's that snout of mine who's
trying to get a sniff on whether there's some steal-to-order car racket
going on.  . . No, I reckon the guy'nor'll think Gary ought to take him
over.  Right, that's it, I've got everything.  I'll do a quick go-round
to say my goodbyes, and then I'm away!"

The door banged behind him, a man in a hurry.  Jane glanced round the
temporarily empty CID room, and knew that they would miss him.  She
might personally find him a pain sometimes, but he had a good nose for
villains.  His sudden departure would certainly leave them all
busier.

They'd be one short on CID sergeants, however they changed the reliefs
round.

That could be useful as far as she was concerned.  She was tempted to
have a quick flick through the files Vern had left now instead of
waiting for Dan Crowe to reallocate them.

Morland could hardly sideline her now - not with a hole in the
department until such time as a proper replacement could be found.

That might take a while, too.

This thought put her in a good enough temper to go and see the man
himself about the old ladies Vern had mentioned.  It transpired that
the DCI had been reading through the back files and found that three
residents of a local Retirement Home had got into a panic because they
thought their pension books were being taken away from them.  Kenny
Barnes had already sorted it out; it had merely been the home's matron
being helpful about getting their pensions cashed.  Now, Morland wanted
Jane to go back and check again, to see that nothing dubious was
happening, and that there had been no cause for complaint since.

"Certainly, sir, if that's what you want, but DI Crowe did think DC
Barnes' judgement was to be trusted "One can't be too careful.  Old
people too easily lay themselves open to being cheated - and
mistreated!  - and I think it's a good idea to show we're keeping a
close eye on things.  A woman's touch here, I think.  Now, what else
did I see... Oh yes, this question of a missing girl who isn't actually
missing at all, but merely gone away to Ireland.  I think you can close
that one, Sergeant Perry.  It was just a piece of hysteria from her
friend - typical of a teenage girl."

"DI Crowe thought it was worth checking, sir.  And I did a bit of
following up this morning, I went to see Crayshaw's where the MacArthy
girl used to do some part-time work.  I spoke to Mr Anthony Crayshaw,
and there's a slight'

"You bothered Anthony Crayshaw personally?  Don't you realise he's a
member of the same Rotary Club as the Chief Superintendent?  It can't
have been necessary to bother him with such a routine enquiry!"  DCI
Morland gave her a minatory frown, and if there had been a set of
advertising lights above his head, their message would definitely have
flashed a yearning to put her somewhere harmless.  Like in uniform
directing traffic.  "If you'd been here for the planning meeting at
nine, you would have known we concluded it was a false alarm.  The girl
will no doubt reappear shortly, and her parents told you quite clearly
she was on holiday."

"I know, sir, but..  ."  No, she was damned if she was going to pass on
what they'd heard from Jimmy MacArthy, and get an official reprimand
for both herself and Kenny for questioning a minor without his parents
present.  She hadn't even told Dan Crowe yet, waiting to catch him at a
good moment.  DCI

Morland ignored her attempted interjection and was steamrollering on.

"You may be aware that Sergeant Harris leaves today, and without any of
the warning we should have had.  I'm making it a priority to consider
who should step in as acting sergeant - DC Lockley, probably.  It won't
really be your concern, except to give every assistance to whoever may
move in from uniform to take Lockley's place.  That's all, then,
Sergeant Perry."

Jane went away simmering, as always, and as always conscious that she
disliked the man from the top of his highdomed bald head to the tip of
his over-shiny shoes.  Let alone his self-importantly picky manner and
his endless lists, charts, checks, and extended planning meetings.  She
could only decide that some other regional force had probably used a
glowing recommendation as a way of getting him out of their hair.  And
why wasn't it supposed to be her concern who became the new sergeant in
CID?  Answer - undoubtedly - because he hoped she'd become invisible.

Well, he certainly had another hope coming on that one...

She went off to fulfill the task of enquiring into the old ladies and
their pension books, leaving a note in the still-empty CID room to
explain where she'd gone - where was everyone this morning?  An hour
later she came back with notes to prove that everything had indeed been
sorted out and that there were no further complaints.  It was some
consolation for her timewasting visit to find that the fat fraud-file
Vern had been working on had landed up on her desk.  It was a slow one
and needed a lot of computer checking, but if she could unravel it
properly it might turn out to be big.  The DI was just in the process
of handing out assignments.

"Gary, you'd better take over the motor-theft stuff, since Vern
suggested you already knew his snout.  See if you can get something a
bit more useful out of him!  Kenny, you can go on looking into the
query arson but report back to me.  Mike - no, I'll give this one to
the only proper sergeant I've got left.

It's a spate of minor burglaries Vern was keeping on the backburner."

He flung the file in Jane's direction, adding, "You can use the
woodentops to help with the enquiries.  They've got half the
information anyway.  Mike, you can have the last two the assault, and
the pending prosecution for dog-fighting.

Everyone happy?  Right, scatter, you've all got plenty to do and so
have I!"

"Guv?"

"Yes, DC Lockley, I have been asked for my opinion about you becoming
acting DS.  I'm still thinking about it."  Dan Crowe beetled at Mike's
hopeful face, though somethirg in his voice suggested he was merely
delaying his agreement so as to keep the DC in line.  "Now, I've got
people to see, and so have all of you: get busy!"

This was not the moment to talk to him about the Deirdre MacArthy case,
or tell him why she wanted it kept open.  Jane made a point of typing
up her own report, and put the file in her pending basket, before she
picked up Vern's burglaries file and looked to see which of the
woodentops (or uniform, out of slang) she would need to talk to about
it.  There was something still nagging at her about the missing girl.

Not just the different versions she'd been given by Jimmy and Michael
MacArthy.

There was something else, like an echo...

She put it out of her mind and went to look for the uniform sergeant
who had been in charge of booking in a burglary suspect - later
released because he'd found three friends to alibi him.  Then she
picked up on a call-out to a shop break-in, not connected but worth CID
presence.  It was late afternoon when she was back at her desk with the
chance to delve into the fraud file and familiarise herself with it.

She was soon deeply immersed in the endless columns of figures, merely
keeping one ear cocked towards the desultory conversation going on
between Kenny and Mike who were both at their own desks.  Mike had put
his feet up on his the moment Dan Crowe was safely out of the way on a
summons upstairs to see the Super.

"If we're all going to do extra work, let's hope they give us overtime
instead of just calling it part of our general allowance!  I could do
with the extra dosh, and my girlfriend's not best pleased even now by
the number of evenings I've been working late!"

"You and your girlfriends," Kenny retorted.  "You'd do better to keep
your mind on the job, my lad!  Overtime's a fine hope anyway.  It's
hard enough to get our expenses OKed, nowadays.  Some people should try
what it's like with a wife and four kids and a mortgage!"

"Some people don't reckon to.  Not for a while yet.  By the way, have
you seen the new uniform girl, the one with the tits oops, sorry,
Sarge!"  Mike said as Jane lifted her head.  It was something that he
bothered to say it, even with an unrepentant grin.

"Don't mind me!"  she said sweetly.  "I just wonder sometimes how you
fellas would like to be described by nothing by your anatomy, that's
all!"

"Dunno, you should hear some of the things my sister says when she's
been out on a hen-night to see one of those male strippers!"

"Round here?  Heavens, and here was I thinking it was a quiet cathedral
city!"

"Oh, it's all seething sex behind closed doors," Kenny pronounced.

"You should hear the stories my wife tells about what goes on on our
estate - Ahem, sir!"

The door had opened unexpectedly on Superintendent Annerley, down from
his administrative office on the second floor and as suave and tidy as
always.  He had Dan Crowe with him.

Mike's legs were down from his desk with the rapidity of a
contortionist, and he and Kenny were suddenly extremely busy, though
with an alertness to show they were poised to spring to their feet if
required.  Nominally Jane was in charge, and she bit her lip, but found
herself rescued by the Super's deadpan ability to ignore minor
infractions.

"Sergeant Perry, Detectives - all catching up on your paperwork, I
see?

Good.  Sergeant Perry, if I could have a word?"

"Yes, of course, sir."

"No, no need to get up, I just wanted to tell you personally about the
new colleague who'll be joining you tomorrow.

Detective-Sergeant Ryan is being sent to us to fill Vernon Harris's
place on a temporary posting.  I've asked Inspector Crowe to put you on
to work together, since Sergeant Ryan won't be familiar with anything
we've been doing.  If you won't mind showing him the ropes, and keeping
a general eye on him while he's settling in..."

Keeping an eye on him?  What was he, a geriatric called back for
duty?

"No, of course not, sir," Jane agreed, and glanced at Dan Crowe.  Now
what was he looking so bad-tempered about?  Having a strange sergeant
pushed on to him just when he'd reorganised Vern's work, or what?

"Good," the Super said again, and stepped back to show he had finished
all he wanted to say.  "I'll leave you to it, then, carry on!"

The door closed behind him.  "You two, your desks look as if you've
been collecting from the nearest tip, and isn't one of you supposed to
be out?"  Dan Crowe asked explosively, with a glower at Kenny and
Mike.

"Or have you just decided between you that Gary doesn't need relieving
from outside that villain's last known address?"

"Sorry, Guv, hadn't noticed the time."  Kenny moved as quickly as his
round bulk would allow.  "Just going now!"

"Right.  And DC Lockley, it seems they've found a new ranking sergeant
for us before we'd expected, but maybe that's fortunate considering
where you had your feet when I came in!  This is a working office, not
your lounge!"

With that he banged off into his own small cubby-hole of an office and
slammed the door.  Cross as hell.  Maybe it was just an untidy CID room
and an apparently relaxing staff when the Super happened to wander in
which was at the root of his bad temper.

Still, it definitely was not the moment to talk to him about Deirdre
MacArthy.

Chapter 4

The new sergeant certainly wasn't geriatric.  He arrived in Dan Crowe's
wake in the CID room just after Jane had come back from lunch, and
Jane's first impression was, thirtyish, tight but well-fitting jeans,
a brown leather jacket.  He also looked tough and self-contained and
very much at ease with himself - and quite unmoved by the fact that the
DI was still clearly in one of his snappier moods.

"Good, you're here," he greeted Jane on a growl.  "This is Sergeant
Ryan - Sergeant Perry.  She'll show you round.  He can have Vernon's
desk, you can start there.  And you'd better give him a tour of the
whole station so he doesn't waste everyone's time by getting lost.

Otherwise, take him round with you, you heard what the Super said!"

"Yes, Guv."

"He can meet the others when they bother to trail back in, if they can
remember I'm not running a holiday camp.  There isn't anything urgent
you want to see me about, is there?

Good, get him settled in, then!"

He gave the newcomer a noticeably dispassionate look and headed off
into his office.  Jane found herself being regarded amiably by a pair
of ruefully amused grey eyes, and a hand was held out for her to
shake.

"Hi.  Steve Ryan.  I think I'm in the doghouse already for turning up
late, but then nobody told me exactly when I was expected... Sorry to
be thrust on you like a lost sheep, but if you won't mind giving me the
low-down on everything in sight?"

"That seems to be my job.  Jane Perry," Jane told him, returning his
handshake.  It was extremely firm, a quick grip of muscular fingers.

He certainly didn't look as if he would easily feel lost.  No more than
a couple of inches above Jane's own height, he was compactly muscled
and stood with a boxer's easy balance, weight poised for movement.

Perhaps it was boxing which had broken his nose at some time, leaving
it very slightly crooked and with a small scar on the bridge.  It
didn't detract from his good-looking competence; not handsome, but a
long way from being ugly.  He had very short hair, almost an army cut,
above neat ears.

Not someone who looked at all as if he would need nursemaiding.  Jane
realised abruptly that he was aware he was being comprehensively
inspected - and, in the same breath, that he was attractive.  He
probably knew it, too.  She moved rapidly back to the official line,
coolly friendly.

"So - where are you from?"

"London.  Born there thirty years ago, bred there, worked there
Docklands area, last.  This'll be a change."  It was the other side of
London from Jane's former haunts; it wasn't even worth asking if they
had any common acquaintances in the force.  There was no London twang
in his voice, which was straightforwardly classless, and she wondered
what sort of a background he came from.  And why he was floating and
available to fill in sudden vacancies.  A moment later he answered that
question, with an easy stretch of leather-clad shoulders.  "I've been
on leave for a while after stopping a bullet, and now I'm back and fit
for duty someone, somewhere, seems to have decided there isn't anywhere
to put me for the moment.  Hence..."

"They've sent you out here for a quiet life?"  Even as she said it Jane
was amused to recognise how quickly she'd picked up local defensive
attitudes, the Met versus the provinces.  It had taken her a good month
after her arrival to convince people that she was not automatically
pecting things to be quiet and dozy after the capital.  "Have you left
a family behind in London?"  she asked politely.

"Nope, no ties.  Maybe that's why they decided I wouldn't gripe about
being used as a hole-plugger.  What's it like here?

Easy to find somewhere to live?"

"No, hard, the city's got a lot of students.  They'll probably be able
to find you something in the Section House."

"No thanks!"  The answer was prompt and he pulled a face at her.  "I'd
rather take my chances!"

"I'll start showing you round."  She wondered suddenly whether he
outranked her: she must ask him, as casually as possible, how long he
had been a sergeant.  Morland would love it if he could establish the
new DS as her senior.  Not that that was Steve Ryan's fault.  And the
Super had seemed to suggest he would be working to her, at least to
start with.  What was the position on temporary postings, anyway?

"That's your desk there, the empty one.  That, in the corner, is the
coffee-machine, when it works, though what it produces is warm and wet
rather than coffee.  Which will be no surprise...

"None!"

"It's better in the canteen, they haven't gone automated yet.

That's the day-to-day chart, on that wall; that's the shift chart next
to it.  Filing cabinets over there, current.  Phone extensions for CID
are 196 and 197.  The guy's office, through there, 198.

There's a list on the wall of all the others.  Tell me if I'm going too
fast for you!"

"I've got a good memory."

"Good.  We might as well go out and do the whole tour, then, and I'll
show you where everything is.  It's probably much the same pattern as
you're used to.  Communications is central, and the charging area.

Interview rooms are all down one side.  The cells are - well, never
mind, you'll see.  And I'll introduce you around to uniform and the
civilian clerks - unless the guy's already done that?"

"No, he just collected me from upstairs, where I was sent when I
arrived.  .. Am I interrupting something you were doing?"  he asked,
his eyes on the file she had left open on her desk.  "I could probably
find my own way around."

"It's all right, I was only going over some computer print-outs.

A fraud I've taken over from Vern Harris, the sergeant you're
replacing."  And she wasn't passing that file over to him, he needn't
think so.  "It's been chuntering on for months, it'll keep!"

"Sooner you than me, I hate columns of figures.  DI Crowe said you and
I would work on the same cases until I'm settled; well, you can keep
that one!"

She would.  And whatever else came her way.  Morland permitting.

"You've met DCI Morland, I gather?"  she asked, glancing towards the
stairs as she led the way out of the CID room.

"The thin Humpty-Dumpty who looks as if he's got to keep counting the
bricks on the wall to stop himself falling off?"

It was so beautifully apt that Jane had to swallow a sudden choke.  Oh,
Steve Ryan was going to be worth having around, if only for that!  "The
DCI's only been here a few months and he's still settling in," she
managed, though not without a tremor in her voice.

"And I ought to be more careful what I say?"  A glance at him showed an
innocently enquiring expression, and he added, "Now that does take me
back, who was it who used to say that to me all the time when I was a
rookie?"  His look of mischief changed to a friendly grin.  "I liked
the look of your guy, though - our guy?  - in spite of the way he was
growling.  A good copper?"

"Yes, he is."  She was beginning to get the feeling that Steve Ryan was
a deliberate rebel - floating because he'd got on the wrong side of
someone in authority?  Maybe Dan Crowe knew that, and was feeling
dumped on.  Interesting.

It wouldn't necessarily mean the new sergeant wasn't a good
detective.

They would just have to wait and see on that one.

She showed him all round, and let him make his number with the duty
officers.  There was some surprise that a replacement for Vern had been
found so rapidly after his last-minute departure, and the usual
assessing looks which said silently, What's this one going to be
like?

They were making their way back to the CID room when a WPC put her head
out from Communications and summoned them with an urgent wave.

"Sergeant Perry!  A smash-and-grab has just come in from Herne Bay and
they're asking for CID back-up.  The DI wants you two to go, straight
away, he said!"

"Right.  Just give me some details."

They were in her car moments later, armed with a map-reference for the
street and a quick print-out of the name of the jewellery store, also
the name of the officer in charge to whom they should report.  "There
are sub-stations in most of the coastal towns, but this lot are near
enough to come under us," Jane explained to Steve Ryan as she took a
back-street route to avoid getting snarled up in traffic, then joined
the main north road out of the city.  "Herne Bay's only five or six
miles from here.  It's a seaside tourist place - there's a strip of
them along the estuary coast.  On a clear day you can just see Southend
opposite, so I'm told.  Or am I telling you things you already know?"

"No, this part of Kent's new territory to me."  He sat easily in the
passenger seat beside her, glancing with apparent interest at the
farmlands they were passing, a criss-cross pattern of flat fields with
neat hedges.  "D'you get the same sort of troubles as Southend?"

"No, luckily, it's quieter this side.  The bikers haven't picked on it
as a place to gather.  There's just the odd teenage fight around the
amusement arcades."  They crossed the Thanet Way with its flat
surroundings and a glimpse of ugly, shed-like industrial buildings
spread out behind, then turned into the outskirts of the small town
bungalows, Edwardian villas to show a once-fashionable history as a
watering-place, then the sudden glare of plate-glass and neon-scrawled
signs which was a shopping arcade.  The sea was abruptly visible
through a gap ahead in a thin line along the horizon.

The jewellery shop was in the modernised pedestrian precinct, all
pattern-laid brick paving and bollards to make parking impossible.

There was a jagged hole in the shop window and bright shards of glass
everywhere.  Jane caught up with the uniformed sergeant in charge, one
she knew.

"Hello, Ron, someone's got a nerve in broad daylight, haven't they?

Did they get away with much?"

"A display of rings, a couple of necklaces, a handful of gold chains.

The owner's just trying to give us a list.  It was one perp, white,
male, twentyish.  We've got a couple of witnesses prepared to give a
description."  He glanced curiously at Steve and gave a friendly nod as
Jane introduced them.  "He ran away on foot, and no one seems to have
had the nous to try and stop him.  One of the witnesses is almost sure
he was bleeding, though.  And the other one says she's "sure he's not
local"."

"She got a good look at his face?  That should help.  I suppose she
means "local" as here, not that he was actually a foreigner."

Jane was used to the insularity of this part of the country by now.  As
often as not someone was classed as "coming from outside" if they lived
more than three miles away.  "OK, we'll talk to both the witnesses, and
see if it sounds like anyone we might know.  Anyone hurt - apart from
the perp?"

"No, luckily.  There's a bit of blood on the glass over there which is
probably his.  I've asked for a SOCO to come and dust for prints, since
it looks as if he wasn't wearing gloves.  We'll be round the streets
keeping our eyes open for anyone likely wearing a bandage, but it looks
as if he's slipped through for now.  Jeavons, keep those people back,
will you?  No, Madam, I'm sorry, I can't let you through to the baker's
just now.  If you wouldn't mind waiting ten minutes we should have
cleared a path for you by then!"

He moved away and Jane went to talk to the shop owner, and the two
witnesses.  Steve Ryan went with her, and she soon noticed that he had
an easy way with elderly ladies eager to tell someone what they had
seen.  Also, the ability to charm them patiently into remembering.  A
useful talent, if surprising from someone she would have thought the
old lady concerned might have viewed with suspicion as looking like a
tear-away.

Driving back, trying to sort out her assessment of what she'd seen of
him so far, she asked him casually how long he'd been in the Met - and
how long he had been a Detective Sergeant.  Twelve years and three
years respectively, he said.

Three years - damn, that did make him technically her senior.

"You must have joined up straight from school," she said.

"A uniform seemed a good cure for boredom, and for some reason I
fancied doing the nicking rather than being nicked.

Where I come from you could call that the basic choice.  Half the
people I was at school with took the opposite route."  He sounded
amused about it, and she wondered again about the classless voice.  A
deliberate attempt to distance himself from his origins?  "How about
you, Sergeant Jane Perry?  I'll tell you what I guess.  You're a force
high-flier, fast-promotion stream.  I bet you came in from
university."

"Are you one of those who objects?"

"Not in the least.  Ambitious?"

"I want to get somewhere, yes.  Not necessarily in a hurry, though."

She glanced across at him and saw an amused interest in his eyes which
made her feel she might have sounded defensive.  "Nothing wrong with
ambition, is there?  And, like you, I prefer to do something
interesting with my time!"

"I'm surprised you aren't with the Met.  That's where I'd have expected
to find you."

"That was where I started.  Got tired of big city life, though, and
thought there might be more variety out here.  As there is, from time
to time.  Damn!"

"Something the matter?"  He must have been aware of her instinctive
move to stamp on the brakes, though she had changed her mind almost
instantly.  "Have we left something behind?"

"No, sorry."  Coming to a dead stop had been her first reaction to a
sharp memory, but would have been pointless.  "It was just that
something came back to me.  About another case I'm working on.  I knew
it was setting up echoes.  . . There's a missing schoolgirl, and I've
had an uneasy feeling about it."  And a reason, a recognition, had
abruptly come to her.

"Share it?"

"It was a case when I first joined - when I was still on the beat.  It
involved a Turkish family..  ."  With a young daughter who had vanished
as abruptly as Deirdre had.  And parents who had claimed the girl had
merely gone away on a visit to their homeland.  It was a young male
teacher that time who had stuck his neck out by insisting on having the
girl's disappearance looked into - at some cost to his career when it
turned out he'd been having a close relationship with the
seventeen-year-old.  But he had been right.  They had found the girl's
dismembered body in the freezer of her parents' home, waiting to be
disposed of, and her strictly Moslem father and uncle had stood trial
for her murder.  "It's not necessarily the same situation, but I know
now why I was getting warning bells," Jane told the man beside her.

"Still, we can leave it for now."  And she went back to negotiating her
way through the traffic, thickening now they were approaching the city
again.

Reaching the station, she made her way back inside, with Steve behind
her.  She paused at Communications to tell them there was a SOCO report
she would want, please, when it came in, and found there was another
message for her.

"The Duty Desk civilian was asking if you were back yet.

About five minutes ago."

"Oh, right.  Did he say what he wanted?  Don't worry, I'll go round
that way and ask him.  Can you remember your way back to CID?"  she
asked Steve, noticing meanwhile, with a philosophical cynicism, that
one of the WPCs had taken off her headset and was combing her fingers
through her hair, probably so that the new sergeant could notice how
prettily it curled.

"Yes, I'll manage.  I'll tell the DI you'll be along in a minute, shall
I?"

"OK, do that The station's reception area was fenced off behind
protective glass and had another glass panel behind itso that anyone on
the desk could communicate with the office behind without having to
move.  Jane tapped on it to show she was there, and the Duty Desk
civilian slipped the locking catch and slid the panel back to speak to
her.  "Oh yes, Sergeant Perry, there's someone asking for you - won't
talk to anyone else.  She said she'd wait.

I think she's still here."  He moved back to lean over the desk and
peer round the corner, then came back to her.

"Yes, she is.  She wants "the lady detective".  She wouldn't give her
name."

"All right, I'll come round," Jane told him.  Maybe it was one of the
little old ladies worrying about her pension book still.

She hoped that whole thing wasn't going to start up again.

Jane let herself out through the security lock into the front area and
glanced across to see who was waiting for her.

Then she was moving quickly, her breath caught.  If she had come in
even a minute later... The figure had already got up and turned away
towards the exit, moving like someone who had lost heart.  Dear God,
don't let her have changed her mind.

Jane reached Ruth MacArthy just as she began to push the door open, and
laid a gentle hand on her arm.

"Mrs MacArthy?  I'm sorry you've had to wait.  I've only just heard you
were here.  You'd like to talk to me?  I'm Sergeant Perry, remember?"

"I..  . It doesn't matter.  I'd better be -" "Yes of course it matters,
if you've bothered to come all this way!  Shall we go inside and talk
over a cup of tea?"

For a moment it seemed as if Ruth MacArthy might refuse.

Then, with an air of gathering her courage, she nodded.  She had no
children with her today; a glance outside showed no pram or
push-chair.

She allowed Jane to lead her back to the inner door and waited while it
was opened; she let herself be ushered into the nearest free interview
room.  A quick word ensured that two teas would be brought.

As soon as she was seated, Ruth MacArthy lifted her chin and spoke,
softly but with a surprising firmness.

"I've come to report my daughter Deirdre missing.  She's been gone from
home almost two weeks now.  I'm sorry we lied to you, but Michael
thought, "Your husband thought?"  Jane prompted as she broke off and
didn't continue.

"He thought she'd get herself a bad name..."

The tap on the door came at the wrong moment, but it was the tea,
brought by a young policewoman in uniform.  As she handed over the
steaming cardboard cups and offered sugar, Jane signed to her to
stay.

Ruth MacArthy looked immediately apprehensive, but Jane fixed her with
a deliberately reassuring gaze.

"If you're reporting Deirdre missing, we'll need to get it written
down.  And Constable?"

"Welsh, Sergeant."

"Yes, Constable Welsh, sorry."  It was due to working with the men that
she could only think of the girl as "the new uniform with the tits',
which swelled her regulation jacket noticeably above an otherwise trim
figure.  "Constable Welsh can write it all down for you, and we'll get
you to sign it.  And then we can start looking for Deirdre.  All
right?"

Ruth MacArthy nodded again, with only the barest hesitation this time,
as if, having taken the plunge, she would now accept whatever that
brought.

"You were saying?"  Jane prompted.  "Deirdre's been gone from home
almost two weeks, and you don't know where she is?  So you didn't
actually send her off to Ireland for a holiday?"

"I'm sorry about the story.  Michael cares about her, and she's a girl
after all, so it matters if she gets herself a bad reputation.  So he
thought... we thought that it was better... And that she'd come home!

I was sure she would - she's not one to frighten me like this!  And
anything could have happened to her by now, couldn't it?"  The worn
hands were suddenly twisting in Ruth MacArthy's lap.  "You read such
things..."

"Yes, you do, so it's much safer to report someone missing and get her
looked for.  I'm glad you've told me and I think you're very wise.  I
expect your husband agreed that you should; did he?"

"He doesn't know I've - Only, he won't listen when I tell him!  And I'm
her mother, aren't I?  And there's her friend coming round asking for
her so she can't be there - and Jimmy saying she'll have run off to
London.  And I can't just go on waiting to hear from her, can I?  She's
not a bad girl, whatever Michael says!  She wouldn't run off with some
man and get him to buy her new clothes and everything!"

"So she hasn't taken any of her own clothes with her?"

"Not a stitch but what she was wearing to go to work.

There's nothing missing from her room.  And.  . . and then today I
found this!"

She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a thin blue booklet.

A Post Office Savings book, Jane saw as it was handed to her.

With Deirdre MacArthy, name, address and signature, written along the
side of the cover in a rounded hand under the clear plastic.

"She was saving her wages," Ruth MacArthy explained on a tremor, "so
she'd only have the one day's money with her, wouldn't she, if she'd
left without this?  And she wouldn't have left it if she'd meant not to
come home?  So when I found it I thought - I had to come, didn't I?  No
matter what it means, I had to tell you."

"Yes, of course you did.  Let's get all the dates and times written
down properly, and then we can start trying to find her."

Jane reached out a hand to touch the other woman's, tightly clenched on
the table.

No, this wasn't the same as the case with the Turkish girl, whose
mother had known what had happened but accepted it as the male world's
justice to an erring daughter.

All the same, as soon as Ruth MacArthy's statement was signed and made
official, the first person Jane would want to talk to would be Michael
MacArthy, who hadn't wanted his stepdaughter reported missing.  And who
still didn't, since his wife had had to come here without his
knowledge.

It was a proper case now.

And, since no young girl sensible enough to bank her wages would run
away without them, probably a nasty one.

Chapter 5

"We still shouldn't jump to the conclusion that it's anything more than
a runaway, though I agree there are certain worrying features."  DCI
Morland tapped a pencil against his desk, looking sour.  "Sergeant
Perry and DC Barnes should obviously have tried to talk to the mother
alone at the start!"

"At that stage she wasn't ready to co-operate.  Now she is, so we can
go on from there," Dan Crowe said.

They were at a hastily convened case meeting in Morland's office Jane,
Dan Crowe, and Kenny Barnes, with Steve Ryan included.

"I'd be in favour of pulling out a lot more of the stops and checking
all the girl's last known movements," Dan Crowe went on.  "It may not
come to anything, but we don't want to lay ourselves open to
accusations that we didn't even look for her."

The DCI gave a noticeable twitch, which Dan Crowe took as agreement.

"Sergeant Perry's already covered a bit of the ground, fortunately, by
talking to the girl's employer, on my say-so."  He put that in without
a flicker.  "But we'll need to ask again.  Family, friends, anyone else
she might have talked to.

Stick up her picture and we might just be lucky enough to find someone
who saw her after she left work.  And noticed which direction she was
heading, whether she was with someone, whether she got into a car...

What was her usual route home, do we know?"

"Mrs MacArthy thought she always took the bus from just beyond the
roundabout, then walked through the short cut at the back of the
estate.  I've put it down in her statement."

"That means the woods," Kenny put in, offering his knowledge of the
neighbourhood.  "The short cut.  Daylight, though, if it was what,
six-thirty?  And there are always kids hurtling about up there
pretending they're on trail-bikes, even at that time of day!"

"I'm going to need extra manpower if we have to start searching those
woods.  But I reckon we might look closer to home first and have
another go at the stepfather.  Don't you agree, sir?  We've already
caught him out in one lie, and there's been a whisper about domestic
violence which is worth following up."  Dan Crowe said it without
elaborating on where the whisper had come from, though Jane had given
him all of it now.  "Pull him in and see what he's got to say about
wanting the girl's absence kept quiet?"

"Invite him in.  It's all still speculation at the moment, but I agree
we ought to start pursuing enquiries.  I suggest you put'

"I'd like Sergeant Perry to stay on it, sir.  She seems to have got the
mother's trust.  I'd reckon putting her in charge reporting direct to
me, of course."

"If the stepfather has a tough reputation"It's sometimes better to use
a woman to defuse it, yes, I agree, sir.  Anyway I'll give her Sergeant
Ryan as back-up the Super suggested they worked in tandem until he gets
to know the district."

Jane had known Dan Crowe could finagle, but she had never seen him cut
the ground from under somebody's feet so blatantly before.  He was
leaning back in his chair as if it was settled.  He glanced across at
her and added, "It's your weekend on duty, isn't it?  Good, you won't
have any plans you have to cancel, then.  If it was me I'd see the
stepfather tonight before he's had time to think up too many answers.

Then start checking everything else tomorrow.  You might find the kid
somewhere safe and well; let's hope so!  OK to go ahead, sir?"

"We seem to have wrapped up the general outline.  Very well, make your
enquiries, Sergeant Perry.  And keep me informed.  That seems to be
all, and I've got an interdepartmental meeting in five minutes..."

"Thanks, Guv," Jane said when the door was safely shut behind them.

"Don't thank me yet.  Wait until you've done all the miles of
trudging.

And probably for nothing.  God, if there's one thing I hate it's
missing kids!  Give me a straightforward robbery blag any day.  As to
that, I'll give Ron Dellow a ring and tell him I'm going to look into
his smash-and-grab case myself.  I've got all your notes, haven't I?

Don't imagine I'm taking anything else off your desk, though.  Well,
get on, then!"

He had just stuck his neck out to stop the Deirdre case being taken
away from her, so Jane certainly wasn't going to complain about being
growled at.  As the DI stamped away, Jane turned her head to the
others.

"Steve and I may as well go straight to the Ribden Road estate.  Mrs
MacArthy promised to find me a good photo of Deirdre.  Kenny - how are
you fixed, are you going to have time to help with this one?"

"I'll do what I can.  I've got several other things on, but I don't
mind being involved in between."

"Good.  I'll probably want to know the names of some of the kids who
play in those woods.  I'm going to check with all the bus drivers first
to see if there's one who can remember if Deirdre caught her usual bus
that evening.  Someone might if she was a regular.  Anything else
you've remembered about Michael MacArthy before I go and talk to
him?"

"Nothing comes to mind.  He's long-term unemployed and living on
benefits, but we covered that before.  Want me to try the Central
Computer to see if he's known in any other manor?"

"Thanks, that'd be a help.  I wonder if he's doing any kind of
undeclared money-in-the-hand job?  Put the word round and see if anyone
knows.  It could be useful to have something to threaten him with!"

They had reached the CID room and Jane paused briefly, looking across
at Kenny.  "By the way, were you serious when you said that any car
left unattended up there might get vandalised?"

"Well, I'd certainly leave it where you can see it!"

"Thanks, I'll remember.  I've had it under a year and I'd rather not
get the paint scratched or wipers ripped off!"  She glanced across at
Steve and added, "I suppose you don't want to take your wheels,
whatever they are...?"

"We could.  My transport's very second-hand, but it's got a Porsche
engine, so I don't want that cut out and taken away either!  I like to
feel a bit of power under my foot," he added, grinning at Kenny who had
raised an eyebrow.

"We'll take mine," Jane said, cutting off a possible discussion on the
value of high-powered car engines.  "Shall we go?"

Speed under the bonnet of an ordinary-looking car - that somehow fitted
with the rebel-image she had got of Steve Ryan so far.  His air of
controlled toughness might be a help with Michael MacArthy .  . . as
long as he stayed in the background unless or until she wanted him to
use it.  They were on the road before he spoke again.

"What has Humpty-Dumpty got against you?"

"That I'm a woman, and therefore only fit to make tea and soothe
fevered brows!"

"Bad judge of character, that man.  So Humpty-Dumpty wants you to stay
in the background and be a traditional female, does he?  A frustrating
boss to find yourself lumbered with?"

"Luckily his predecessor was my gender, very good at her job, and
earned herself a lot of liking and respect.  So that means we start
about even."  She wasn't going to begin sharing gripes with him.

"You'll have gathered the background to this case from the meeting,
yes?  Girl missing, reported by friend initially.  Parents
unco-operative until now.  There's a brother, about a year older, who
let it out to Kenny and me that the stepfather took his fists to the
girl the night before she disappeared.  How badly I don't know, the boy
considered it mild.  So now we're going to ask the stepfather for his
version!"

"This is the man who lied about why she was missing?  Hen.

Standard reason?"

"You picked up that he'd been suggesting she was a bad girl, and that
she might have gone off with some man?  That said possible sexual abuse
to me, too."  Jane paused, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she
waited for a break in the traffic so as to turn into the estate.  "It
does give a reason for Deirdre to take off.  But without money or
clothes..  . If it's true that she stayed out later than she's allowed
on the night before she disappeared, and wouldn't say who she was with
- the mother's version - that brings someone else we haven't heard
about yet into the equation too.  But I'm targeting Michael MacArthy
first, obviously."

"More often than not murder's close to home.  You think the girl's
dead, don't you."

He made it a statement rather than a question.  "My instincts say so,
though I'm hoping not," Jane answered him, after a careful moment.  "Oh
well, now we've got the mother's statement, we can at least start
looking!"

And without letting any more time go by, either.  Enough had already:
almost two weeks since the girl had last been seen.

Jane pulled up at the end of Meadowtree Avenue, noting the dead-eyed
blankness of the houses.  It was the time when they were probably all
about to eat tea in front of a flickering telly.  Her eyes took in the
visible strip of woodland too - where the short cut must be?  Deirdre's
usual route home... if, that night, she had ever got that far.

They were barely at number twenty's short front path when they heard
the shouting from inside the house.  Two voices rose and fell at high
volume, male and female; if audible from here, surely deafening through
the partition wall of the adjoining semi.  Not a front curtain
twitched, however.

Jane lengthened her stride rapidly.  Her finger pressed and held the
door-bell and its continuing shrillness cut across a woman's brief
scream, and a thud which could he heard clearly through the thin front
door.  A baby began an abrupt wailing somewhere above.  The other
voices had stopped, but there was a movement in the hall and the front
door swung furiously open.

"Will you mind your own..."

The sight of them did at least stop Michael MacArthy in mid-snarl.  He
was breathing heavily.  And Ruth MacArthy lay beyond him on the floor,
sprawled clumsily like a badly-jointed doll and with a rapidly
reddening mark across one cheek.  Jane was past him with one arctic
blue stare, and bent over to help the woman as she began to struggle to
her feet.

"It's all right, Mrs MacArthy.  It's Sergeant Perry again - I said I'd
be round."  She steadied the woman and turned an icy gaze back on
Michael MacArthy.  "If your wife wants to make a complaint against you,
Mr MacArthy, Sergeant Ryan and I are right here and ready to hear
it!"

"I - I don't "I should think about that for a moment or two if I were
you.  Mr MacArthy, we've come here to ask you some questions about
Deirdre, and to enquire why you lied to us about her whereabouts.  In
fact, we've come to invite you to come down to the station with us and
answer a few questions.  I imagine you'll be willing to do that?"

"Why should I?"

"Because we're asking you," Steve Ryan put in from behind him, smoothly
casual.  Jane saw Michael MacArthy turn his head to size him up.  For a
moment Jane feared a macho confrontation, and she resumed the
initiative with a deliberate coolness.

"If you want Deirdre found as much as we all do, Mr MacArthy, you won't
mind answering some questions to help us.  Though, of course, if your
wife does care to make a complaint against you-" "It's only that he has
a temper," Ruth MacArthy interrupted quickly.  She shook off Jane's
supporting hand and moved to her husband to lay her own hand pleadingly
on his arm.

"Michael, I told you, it was the only thing to do to tell them the
truth.  It's for Deirdre's sake, I couldn't leave it any longer.  I
want her found.  Michael...?"

"Oh, all right, woman, I'll answer any questions they want.  I never
said I wouldn't, did I?"

There was something like a bull on a tether in the way Michael MacArthy
swung his black-curled head.  For a flash of a second there was even a
tiny fraction of shamefaced apology as he looked down into his wife's
face and the rising bruise across her cheek.  Whatever had been in his
look was gone, however, as he raised his head again to look directly at
Jane, with a narrow-eyed hostility which he seemed to be trying to
mask.

"I was only trying to protect the girl, if she's got herself into some
trouble!  Can I be blamed for that?  So what is it you want to ask
me?"

"I'd like you to come down to the station and give us a full
statement."

"Then I will, for all the good it'll do.  I haven't seen her any more
than my wife has.  But I'll come now and get it over with, if that's
what you're asking."

"Good.  Sergeant Ryan will show you to the car.  Mrs MacArthy, do you
think I could see Deirdre's room?  And did you manage to find me that
photograph?"

"Yes, I did, it's the one she had taken at school.  I'll fetch it after
I've showed you her room..."

There was nothing much to be gleaned from Deirdre's room.

A poster on the wall of a current pop star, and another smaller one of
Patrick Swayze.  A bag with school-books sticking out of it, wedged
into the small space between the dressing-table and the bed; a
hairbrush and comb set at random on the otherwise empty dressing-table
top.  A small wardrobe held a couple of cotton dresses and her school
uniform.  A teddy bear, old and battered and one-eyed, sat neatly at
the head of the bed on top of a faded patchwork cover... Jane studied
the room, then let Ruth MacArthy lead her out again and shut the door
behind her.  All the doors up here were shut and one of them had "Shaun
and Mina and Patrick' stuck on to it in crayoned and cut-out letters.

Mrs MacArthy put her finger to her lips as they passed that, and the
baby which had let out a cry earlier couldn't be heard now..

"Deirdre did that for the children's door .  . . They're all sleeping,
if you'll come down softly?  And I'll fetch you that photograph now."

Jane followed her downstairs and through into what must be the family
sitting-room.  It was shabbily furnished but clean and tidy, a playpen
stacked full of bright toys in one corner, a giant television set with
a video on the shelf beneath it in another.  The video looked new and
the most elaborately expensive model.  Tucked away behind a settee
there was a brand new sounds system too, still only half unpacked from
its box.  There must be money coming into the house from somewhere...

Jane had her eyes guilelessly on Ruth MacArthy as the other woman
turned back to her with a photograph in her hand.

"It's this year's and it's a good likeness..."

It was the standard school portrait, set into an oval of cardboard and
showing a shy-looking girl with a round face, dark eyes, light-brown
hair falling in a curly cascade to her shoulders.  She was in school
uniform, white shirt and neatly-tied striped tie, with the silvery
gleam of a small medallion pulled out to lie on top of it.  "You don't
mind if I keep this?"  Jane asked.  "I'll get some copies made to
circulate."

"Yes, keep it.  That's her St Christopher medal round her neck, she
always wears it..  Ruth MacArthy's mouth was suddenly tightly buttoned
as if she was holding back tears, but when she put a hand to her cheek
she gave a small instinctive wince as her fingers touched the bruise.

It gave Jane the lead she wanted.

"You know you don't have to put up with domestic violence, don't you?

There are places you and the children could go "Oh no, I wouldn't leave
him!  Michael's not a bad man, Miss

- Sergeant - you mustn't think so!  Tonight was just... he'll never
raise a hand to the children, and not to me either in the usual way!"

"Really?"  Ruth MacArthy's mutinous expression showed Jane she wasn't
going to get anywhere, but it had been worth trying.  "When you say
"the children", do you mean Jimmy and Deirdre as well?"

"He'll discipline Jimmy if he needs it.  Deirdre's never' She broke
off, her eyes sliding away, and when they came back to Jane they were
defensive.  "There's times a teenage girl will need a smack, but he'd
never give her more than a small one!  And not often, it was only the
once - I mean, there's never been more than once or twice, and they
were always on as good terms as ever after.  You asked me that before,
this afternoon, and I told you no!"

"I'd forgotten.  Right, thank you for the photograph, and we'll do what
we can.  Oh - does Deirdre have a passport?"

"No... They just had a general one when they went on a school day-trip
last year.  She's never had one of her own.  You don't think...?"

"I'm just covering everything," Jane said reassuringly.  She paused as
she turned towards the door.  "Don't forget, if you ever do need
anywhere for you and the children-" "I won't.  And please don't keep
Michael long.  He hasn't had his tea yet!"

For all her worn and frightened appearance, Ruth MacArthy could bite
back quite sharply when she chose.  "We won't keep him any longer than
we need," Jane replied politely, and let herself be ushered out.  Past
the kitchen.  It wasn't big enough to hold a large freezer, anyway.

.

. Michael MacArthy was waiting in the car, in an apparently bored
silence, to be taken to the station.

"We didn't get anywhere with him, did we?"  she asked Steve much later,
tapping the tape of the interview against her finger with weary
exasperation.  "Is he very clever, or very stupid?  Or sly mixed with
stupid?  There's something he's covering!"

"I agree.  And if it's anything else he'd be stupid to conceal it,
wouldn't he - when he must be able to see what we're going to suspect
him of."

"That's just it, isn't it?  He doesn't seem to realise that we might
suspect him of Deirdre's murder!  I can't think of any approach I
missed, can you?"

"No, you're good."  He said it without flattery, merely as a straight
statement.  "Leave it for tonight?  Show me a pub where we can get a
drink?"  He glanced at his watch.  "Hen, that'd have to be somewhere
with a late licence by now.  Do you have such things out here?"

"On a Friday night, yes, but they're full of disco-ing yuppies, so I
think I'd rather give that a miss.  Is it really that late?

You won't have found somewhere to stay!"

"No, but I expect there is a bed in the Section House.  Or someone can
point me at a B and B where the owner keeps late hours.  unless you're
offering me a piece of your floor?"

"Sorry, can't I'm afraid.  My flat-mate's also my landlady and I can't
lend out her floor unasked."  It made a good enough excuse not to let
him get any ideas.  She'd found him easy to work with tonight; his mind
moved with the same quickness as her own.  He was watching her now,
sprawled at his ease, a roughening of stubble shadowing his chin and
making him look more like a villain than a villain-catcher.

"No husband and no full-time boyfriend you're living with either?  You
said "landlady"," he added, as she raised an eyebrow.

"Someone I was at university with, who happens to live down here.

She's as careerist as I am."  That should make things clear.  "Do you
always ask so many direct questions?"

"When I want to know.  The next one wasn't going to be, "Are you a
lesbian?"  I've got beyond those teenage tricks!"

"So I should hope.  It wouldn't be your business if I was, anyway,
would it?"  And then she was caught into a sudden laugh, almost a
choke.  "Though there'd be a lot of people "A lot of people what?"

"A lot of people desperately disappointed if my flat-mate was!  Nothing
- a private joke."  What had made her laugh was the sudden vision of
Matty's pining cohort of admirers.  "Why should you think I ought to be
living with a man, just as a matter of interest?"

"All right, it was a stupid thing to say.  Just a way of finding out,
that's all!"  He raised a hand as if to defend himself, grinning, not a
whit disturbed.  "I'd be bound to want to, wouldn't I?  Considering the
packaging!"

"If that's meant to be a compliment, I'll tell you your packaging isn't
too bad either.  But I never mix work and play.

Now we've got that cleared up, shall we leave it there?  I wish to hell
we'd got Michael MacArthy cleared up," she added, brooding back on to
tonight's interview.  "Half the time it felt like trying to drill a
hole into a block of wood!"

"Tomorrow may give us something."  They both began to move.  They had
come back into the interview room to clear it after they had let
Michael MacArthy go, and Steve reached out his hand to pick up the tape
recorder.  "I'll take this back to the equipment room and log it back
in.  Yes, I can find the way!"

"I'd have thought you could by now.  You've been thrown in at the deep
end ever since you arrived, and you seem to have survived!  We're not
always this busy.  Like everywhere else, it goes in phases."

"And you did warn me the provinces aren't necessarily the place for a
quiet life."  He said it with an easy grin, his eyes lingering on her
again, in a way which made her gather up the tape and her notes with a
determined briskness.

"I'm just going to file these, and then I'm going home!"

She wasn't Steve Ryan's nursemaid, and had no inclination to behave
like one, so she wouldn't show any more concern about where he was
going to sleep.  Let him sort that out with the duty sergeants.

Over the weekend they arranged to get out the fliers carrying Deirdre's
picture and description and "Have you seen this girl?"

They talked to Crayshaw's Saturday staff who said Deirdre had seemed
exactly the same as usual, quiet and willing.  The Saturday manager
said she had paid Deirdre out of the safe at her going-home time, and
she supposed the girl had left the office straight after that.  She
couldn't be absolutely sure because a client had come in just then, and
Deirdre would have gone out at the back, via the car park.  She had
been surprised when Deirdre hadn't turned up the following Saturday,
and might have rung her home number to see if she was ill, but she had
been busy and let the chance slip past.  She might have asked Mr
Crayshaw what to do about it if he'd been there, but he was out all
that day playing in a golf tournament with his son.  He was expected in
today, but not until later.  The only thing which differed from Mr
Crayshaw's own account was that Deirdre had worked in the office for
five months, not "three or four'.

Jane gathered that Deirdre had been liked by the other staff but no one
had known her particularly well.  She left them to buzz in muted
excitement and round-eyed concern, promising they'd report anything
they thought of.

At the bus station, next, Jane learned that the driver who covered
Deirdre's regular route home had gone away on holiday three days
earlier.

And Michael MacArthy had no previous record anywhere, according to the
Central Computer.

Who had Deirdre been out with on that last Friday night?

Not Shelley, who had been at a swimming gala.  Not a boyfriend Shelley
appeared to know about, because she had shaken her head and then burst
into tears and been beyond further questioning; Jane had had to let Mrs
Cura lead her away.

Shelley had already said she "couldn't remember' what they had talked
about on the Saturday lunch-time, but it wasn't any plan for Deirdre to
run away... There was no pub, club, or teenage disco which could
remember seeing a girl resembling Deirdre's photograph on the Friday
night, when Jane and Steve tried all the ones she could think of within
the city limits.

"We've got three people who say she was out that night, and half a
hundred who saw no sign of her," Jane remarked sourly, pulling off a
shoe to rub her aching foot.

"So she went somewhere private.  Or somewhere outside the city, by
car.

At least I'm getting an orientation tour; I reckon I know my way round
pretty well by now."  Steve cocked an eyebrow at her.  "Back to the
office?"

"May as well.  I'll write all this up.  Let's hope the posters bring
something in over the next few days."

"Show me somewhere we can have something to eat tonight on me?"

"Thanks but no thanks.  I've got things to do at home.  Try Mike, he
knows all the best haunts.  Oh no, he's off this weekend.  Well, ask
around."

"Are you really going to refuse to socialise with me outside working
hours?"

"I don't socialise, I just work and sleep.  No, sorry, I'm not just
giving you a stand-off.  I really do have things to do tonight.  And
you'll see quite enough of me, if we're going to be trudging through
this case together."

"And the others.  Anything else you're working on, that I'm supposed to
help you with until I find my feet," he reminded her.

"Oh, yes.  Well I'd say you'll be sent out on your own pretty quickly,
or with one of the DCs.  You seem to be pretty quick to fit in!"  She
had already seen him in easy conversation with several people around
the station.  His silence made her turn her head to look at him across
the car in which they were sitting, and she studied his expression.

"Oh no, you're not going to play little boy lost!  With what I've seen
of you since yesterday, that won't wash!"

"I was afraid it wouldn't, but you can't say I don't try."

"And a bit too bloody quick off the mark, too!"  But she was unable to
keep from laughing.  Damn the man, he really was attractive - better
than she'd seen for some time.  Amusing, quick, up-front but with an
air of hidden depths, interesting and making it obvious he was
interested.  No, she would not fall into that trap, just for a pair of
quizzical grey eyes, a sexy grin, and a body which moved like a cat.

"Go and set tongues wagging by cutting a swathe through the uniform
girls, if you must have company!"  she told him.

"I thought the civilian secretaries looked more promising, myself.

Unless they're all married or spoken for!"

"Goodness, do you draw the line?  No, forget I said that!  And just
don't make waves; otherwise I won't enquire what you're getting up
to!

Now, didn't we say we were heading back to the office?"

Sparring with him was more amusing than it ought to have been, but she
would stick to work, thanks.  Reputations could end up in tatters all
too easily around any station, and Morland would love to have his
prejudices justified.  Jane spent the rest of the afternoon at her
desk, and went home for the evening to wash her hair.

* * Sunday brought them nothing.  They looked through what they'd got
so far, and went out to talk to a student who'd been roughed up, but
refused to make a formal complaint.  He was gay, Jane assessed.  They
came back to an office which seemed preternaturally quiet.  Jane busied
them both by taking Steve through the current files.  He was percipient
and quick to catch on, she found.  Well, she would have expected that,
from what she'd seen of him to date... How long would he be with them,
she wondered - and then was annoyed with herself for wondering.  OK, so
she liked him, his rebel-streak included; that still didn't mean she
was going to succumb to his suggestion that she might help him,
tomorrow, in his hunt for a flat or a room.  Nor would she take him up
on the casual suggestion (again) that she should show him a place where
they could both eat tonight.  No socialising - and ignore his amused,
rueful look, and her own hastily suppressed feeling of regret.  Working
hours were the only time she was going to spend with Steve Ryan, and if
her Monday off in lieu of the weekend seemed suddenly to yawn with a
boring emptiness, maybe something in the Deirdre case would break, to
call her back in.

Nothing did.  There was no instant response to the posters,
strategically placed around the city by Monday morning; no one came
forward to say they'd seen her, or anyone looking like her.  It was as
if, on the night before her disappearance and on the Saturday evening
itself, Deirdre MacArthy had moved through other people's lives as
invisibly as a ghost.

It wasn't until Thursday that the body of a girl was found, in a ditch
next to a lay-by on one of the side-roads leading out towards the
coast.

Chapter 6

"She must have been dumped from a car, but there aren't any relevant
tyre tracks," the SOCO told Jane.  He was in his thirties and
practical-looking: since the Scene-of-Crimes-Officer job had been
civilianised all sorts of people had come into it, but they all had the
same air of detached competence.  "I shouldn't come too close if I were
you.  The pathologist reckoned she's been dead at least a couple of
weeks."

"The pathologist's already been and gone?  That was quick."

"He lives in one of the villages near here and they caught him on his
morning off."  The SOCO picked up something with tweezers and dropped
it into a small plastic bag.  "Be finished here in a minute."

"Is she still identifiable?"

"Oh yes, she's not that far gone, and her face hasn't been damaged."

He turned his head to look up at Jane.  "You've got someone missing?

Well, have a look when I'm through.  We've covered the immediate area,
but I'm just getting samples of the dust and threads off her clothes
for forensic.  The body's been kept somewhere dry before she was
wrapped up in the black plastic sacks.  Brought out here some time
before the rain on Tuesday, though, as the ground's dry underneath
her.

It's lucky we're not having a wet summer, it makes the timing easier to
pinpoint."

"Is she wearing a St Christopher medal?  On a chain round her neck?"

"Haven't seen one.  She's young - does that fit?  But no jewellery at
all.  Half a mo, I'll look again, but the dog didn't disturb anything
much.  . . No, nothing round her neck, or fallen in amongst her
clothes.  All right, you can see her now, and then we'll get her bagged
up and taken in."

The body had been found by a Mrs Harcourt who had stopped her car in
everyday innocence to let her corgi out for a pee.  She was back at the
police station now, white and shocked.

Jane stepped across the taped barrier and moved carefully down the
steep incline of rough grass and tangled weeds.  A sickeningly-sweet
stench made her hold her breath as she bent down to look at the face
surrounded by brown curly hair.

Yes, it was recognisably Deirdre, even with the sunken cheeks and the
half-closed eyes; a bony travesty of the girl in the photograph, but
her none the less.  In contrast to the sunken face, her body had begun
to bloat under the white blouse and short pink skirt.  But the face
looked almost tranquil - apart from a heavy dent surrounded by dark
bruising above one temple.

"The pathologist thought that blow on the head could be what killed
her," the SOCO said, "not that they ever like being definite until
they've had the body in for full examination.  You can see there aren't
any strangulation marks, anyway.  And she's still got her knickers
on.

Seen enough?  At least she hasn't been slashed about like the other
one, He glanced up at Jane's exclamation and added, "The Dover girl?

You haven't had a report circulated on her yet?  Well, she was only
found two days ago, though she'd been dead longer than this one."

"Dumped like this one?"  Jane asked sharply.

"No, found in the cellar of a half derelict factory between Dover and
Folkestone.  She'd been there a few weeks, to judge by the state of
her.  Hands and feet tied before death, knife slashes in her clothes as
well as on her face and body, but she had been strangled as well as
cut.  They're pulling in known sex-offenders, I heard, though they
don't know of anyone with that particular MO.  She'd been pretty
thoroughly roughed up.  Have you finished here?"

"Yes.  Thanks.  And thanks for the info about the other girl."  Two
girls, that put a different complexion on things, and she'd have to get
on to Dover fast for their report.  Different, or the same
perpetrator?

The ambulance men came clumping down as Jane withdrew;

a lot of moving feet in regulation wellingtons, manoeuvres with a
stretcher and a body-bag.  A young constable set to guard the taped
area turned his eyes away with a forced casualness in an attempt not to
look as queasy as he felt, apparently absorbed in studying a fluffy
white cloud high above, almost as if he expected a clue to appear from
it in skywriting.  Jane didn't let her breath out until she reached her
car, and even then the sweetness of decay seemed to linger in her
nostrils.

At least two weeks dead... The autopsy would tell them more, but it
seemed her fears had been right.  Deirdre had been dead all along.

And so had another girl, only a few miles away, left in a cellar with
multiple knife slashes.  A coincidence, or a double killing?

In Deirdre's case, it appeared someone had kept the body hidden and
then - when her absence became public?  - when it was obvious a search
was beginning?  - had brought it out here to get rid of it somewhere
public and anonymous.  Had not even tried to bury it, just dumped it
rapidly, wrapped up to look like any other unwanted rubbish.

Jane drove steadily back into the city, trying to concentrate on the
road.  A young girl, quiet and ordinary, who kept an old teddy bear on
her bed and drew coloured letters for her little brothers and sister
.

. . It was no use to let judgement be clouded by anger; this was just
another case, to be worked on like a jigsaw puzzle, each small piece
needing to be found and identified and fitted into place.

By afternoon she had rung Dover with an urgent request for a copy of
the written report on their murder case, and had made promises to pass
over information on Deirdre in return.  And by the following morning a
lot of other practical things had been organised, too: space had been
made for an Incident Room, a VDU was in place and a card carrousel,
maps and photographs and lists of Deirdre's last known movements had
gone up on the walls, and there were specially manned telephones in
situ.

Someone in public relations was seeing to the press, including the
local television station, because Mrs Harcourt had told a friend who
had told another friend who had known someone who was a TV
reporter...

Dover was still managing to keep a press clampdown on their murder, but
it was unlikely to be long before that leaked out too and set up a
baying in the local papers; possibly even the nationals, unless they
had too many juicy news stories in other parts of the country to
distract them.  Ruth and Michael MacArthy had been to the morgue to
identify the dead girl, and had been seen briefly on the morning news,
both of them in tears.  There had been shots of the school too, and an
attempt to interview some of the pupils going in until the headteacher
had stepped in to stop it.

DCI Morland had dropped into the Incident Room but had soon gone away
again, and it was Dan Crowe who addressed the assorted company pulled
in to work on the case.

"Right, we're waiting for the autopsy report which should be in today I
hope - but we do know we've got a body."  He pointed to the
photographs.  "That's our victim, and that's what she looked like when
she was found.  DS Perry's been in charge of things so far, and she'll
go on organising the legwork along with DS Ryan - you all know Sergeant
Ryan by now, don't you?  They'll both be reporting to me, and I'll pass
things on up to the DCI and Superintendent Annerley.  So - Sergeant
Perry?"

Jane took up a position at the front of the room and glanced at Dan
Crowe, waiting to start on his nod.  "OK.  What the DI didn't tell you
was that Dover's got a body too.  Also a young girl, almost certainly
killed some days before ours.  They may or may not be connected.  Until
we can be certain, it's been decided that we're going to pursue our own
enquiries as if they're separate incidents.  There's enough that isn't
the same and that's the way we're playing it.  Now, to tell you what's
been done so far, we started out by investigating Deirdre MacArthy as a
missing person..."

She ran through everything they knew, what questions had been asked,
who made up the cast of characters.  "What we need to find is anyone
who saw Deirdre after she left work that evening," she summed up.

"And, of course, we need to identify this A.N. Other she's supposed to
have been out with the previous evening.  She may have arranged to meet
him again the following day.  If he exists at all.  We want a house-to
house in Watt Street and on the Ribden Road estate, to find out if
anyone at all saw her on the Saturday evening.  So far the last
sighting of her was at Crayshaw's office just before she left work.  We
also want anything known about the stepfather's movements, for obvious
reasons.  Yes?"

"Would his wife cover for him?"

"It's hard to tell.  So far I've had to conclude no, not if she
actually knew he'd harmed the girl.  I think she'd defend him against
anything else, but not that.  She did collude in covering up Deirdre's
absence in the beginning, but she seems genuinely to believe it wasn't
anything to do with her husband.  We've had him in a second time, as
I've said.  And we've gone over his car with a fine-tooth comb.  We
still got nothing.  Guv?"

"I got no more out of him than the sergeants did on the first interview
- except an admission that he did give the girl a smacking on the
Friday night.  Otherwise, just a lot of noise and angry innocence, and
a lot of alibis for any time of the day I cared to mention.  Too many,
if you ask me, and he was sweating blood by the time I'd finished!  But
nothing we could hold him on."

"If it's a sex attack, are we going to look at known offenders?"

"We won't know until we get the autopsy report," Jane answered the
questioner.  "She was found fully clothed.  That would make it
unusual.

When the report arrives, if there's any mention of signs of rape or
attempted, we'll certainly want to look at anyone local with a record
of sex offences.  However, for the moment, we particularly want to
establish three things.  Where and when Deirdre was last seen.  Where
she went on the Friday night, and with whom.  And where her body could
have been hidden after she was killed, and before it was dumped.  An
empty house or a lock-up?  A car boot for the whole time?  Some
derelict building?  There has to be someone, somewhere, who noticed
something unusual: let's try to find that someone!"

"Sergeant Perry?"  It was the uniform girl, Rachel Welsh, who had put
up a hesitant hand.  "Are we assuming the murd the perpetrator's
someone local?  I mean, if she was kept somewhere after she was killed,
and then dumped, it would have to be someone local, wouldn't it?"

"That's how it looks.  If it was a casual pick-up by someone passing
through - offering her a lift, say - they'd have to come back to dump
her.  We don't know that someone didn't do that, of course.  A lot of
people are very mobile nowadays.  Dover, by the way, know their girl
was killed where she was found.

That's one of the differences between the cases.  Now' Jane looked
round.  "Any more questions from anyone?  OK, that's all we've got for
now.  Guv?"

"You all know what to do, so let's get on with it," Dan Crowe said,
bringing things to a close.  "Anything you find out, bring it back here
to be collated.  Thanks, everyone!"

Kenny drifted over as the team was leaving.  "You said this morning you
wanted to ask me something about Crayshaw's?"  he asked, raising an
eyebrow.

"It was just something which made me wonder.  Background stuff.

The Crayshaws - well off?  Happily married?  All that?"

"Mrs Crayshaw's wealthy in her own right.  She put her money into the
business but has plenty left over.  I can't remember which family she
comes from; something countyish .  . .

They won't be short of a bob or two whether the property market's high
or low, and the kids go to private schools.  That's all I can tell you
about them, really."

"Hen.  It wasn't that important, just a detail.  Oh, you won't forget
to see if your snouts have anything on where Michael MacArthy might be
getting extra cash from, will you?"

"This "legacy" he tried to persuade the guy he'd inherited?  That stuff
in his house isn't listed as stolen, but someone's certainly been
paying him off for something!  I'm on it, and Mike and Gary are
listening out too."

The first day wound its way through.  Jane and Steve went to Crayshaw's
again, where Mr Crayshaw was absent, the staff subdued, the office
manager defensive.

"Mr Crayshaw's had summer flu all week, and this isn't going to make
him feel any better, is it?  I really can't see why anybody thinks it's
anything to do with us, just because he was kind enough to give a young
girl a job.  I didn't even know her myself, as I don't work weekends!

And I'm sorry if you think I'm unsympathetic, but the local press is
going to blow it out of all proportion, and give us a bad name!"

"Funny how some people react," Steve said drily as they left the estate
agent's with a short list of empty properties, various sets of keys,
and the bristling assurance that no one would have had access to them
anyway, but since a phone call to the Crayshaw home had confirmed they
should be handed over, here they were.  "Did it strike you that she was
angrier because Mrs Crayshaw had been in this morning than she was
about anything else?"

"She doesn't like her employer's wife interfering, certainly.  But
otherwise .  . . oh, she's probably scared, like the rest of them.

It's a reminder of being at risk, isn't it?"  The office manager had
been young, and good looking in a rather over made up way, and her
hardness had definitely struck Jane as being put on.

"I'll be as surprised as she is if we do find Deirdre's body was
stashed in one of these," she added as they approached the first
property on their list.  "It'd be a lot too obvious, wouldn't it?  But
we still need to rule them out."

There was nothing to be found in any of the empty Crayshaw
properties.

Nothing amongst bare rooms, or rooms left partially furnished, or rooms
with violent-patterned carpets and garish wallpaper.

"Would you buy anything from someone with that kind of taste?"  Jane
asked Steve at one point, gazing in appalled fascination at an
artificial stone inglenook decorated with sea shells.  Nothing in
cellars or attics, and no sign that anyone had recently cleaned any
empty room too thoroughly either.

Jane hadn't thought there would be; it was merely a place to start.

The first rule of detection: cover all the bases, see what it isn't,
see what you're left with.

The MacArthy house had already been searched, politely but thoroughly,
with the explanation that the police were merely looking for any clue
Deirdre might have left concerning her private life.  They had drawn a
blank, with no diary or note to be found amongst Deirdre's things.

The autopsy report, commendably quick, arrived as the day was ending.

Jane ran through it, frowning, picking her way through the medical
details, then handed it to Steve.

"No bruising to thighs or stomach, no signs of forced sexual congress,"
he read out, flipping through.  "Not a virgin, however.

Not pregnant.  Not strangled.  Not asphyxiated.  It's giving us mainly
nots, isn't it?  Death caused by a blow to the anterior
something-or-other causing internal bleeding to the brain, administered
in an upward direction... a heavy instrument, probably metal, with a
sharp corner on it.  Difficult to strike upwards with something
heavy."

"Just after that it says, query wound caused by fall."

"She fell and hit her head?  But someone else must have been there...

Had probably been having sexual intercourse regularly, but not
immediately before death.  Hadn't eaten for several hours before death,
estimated date... yes, that fits in with when she disappeared.  Pooling
of blood shows the body was kept in a folded position after death.

So.

What have we got that we didn't have before?  That it wasn't a rape,
though it may have been an intended one except she died first.  That'
"That I'll need to talk to Shelley again!  Deirdre's not supposed to
have had a regular boyfriend.  But according to this..."

"She either did, or it was long-term abuse.  She probably wouldn't have
told even her best friend if it was that - they usually don't, from
what I've read.  Are we getting Michael MacArthy even more squarely in
the frame?  No point in questioning him again yet, though."

"Comparing this with the Dover case, the only thing that's the same is
that neither of them were raped.  I suppose you could call it a common
factor.  And they've decided the other girl was also killed by a blow,
after being slashed before and afterwards, and then strangled as well
for good measure... I wonder.  If it is the same guy, could he have
been interrupted when he was with Deirdre?  Didn't have time to do any
more to her, simply shoved her in the boot of his car, say, and left
her there for several days?  I wish the forensic report on the samples
the SOCO took from her clothes had come in.  It might give us some clue
as to where the body was kept!"

"You're turning away from Michael MacArthy again?"

"No, just keeping my options open."  It would be all too easy to let
her dislike of Michael MacArthy colour her thinking.  And there was a
part of her which said he was too obvious against the other part which
told her that murder, in the main, often did come down to the obvious
suspect.  "They know who the Dover girl was now, by the way.  Eighteen
and living in digs, looking for work.  Not reported missing because her
landlady thought she "might have found a chambermaid job or
something".

There doesn't seem to be any connection with Deirdre or with any of the
MacArthys.  No, we'll have to go on treating the cases as separate."

Jane sighed, a frustrated gust of air.  "What we need is a sighting!"

"But we haven't got one, and it's packing up time for today."

Steve came to his feet and reached out a hand to pull Jane to hers.

"The collators haven't got anything more for us, so it's time to drop
it for tonight, right?  You know what they say -don't take your cases
personally, and don't take them home with you?"

"I'm not a rookie," Jane said drily.

"I didn't say you were."

"But that I was taking this one personally?  I'm not.  Shall we go out
and eat?  Or have you got something else planned?"

"No, and I was just going to suggest it."  He didn't make a point out
of her change of heart, either.  Jane knew it had been an impulse; they
had been together all day, why should the evening matter?  "What do you
fancy?"  he asked.  "Pizza?  Italian?

Indian?  Chinese?  One thing I have noticed about this city, it's got a
fair variety of places to eat!"

"Thai," she said, grinning, because it was one he hadn't mentioned.

"It's only just down the road and it's not expensive!

No, seriously, if you don't fancy it, pizza's fine by me."

"Stop imagining I might only have commonplace tastes, or I'll insist we
drive to the coast and look for a winkle stall!"

They went to the Thai restaurant, and ate cracked crab and ginger in
the dim interior with its small, silent, oriental waiters.  They didn't
talk about the case, though they did slide into shop - which district
she had worked in in the Met, what had made her choose police work when
she might have been a lawyer instead.  She challenged him to describe
his childhood, so that she could see if the child was father to the
man.  He gave her an easy thumbnail sketch of football played around
the concrete pile of a block of council flats, the automatic
"borrowing" of any unattended bike to see who could do the highest
wheelie on it, a pilfering ring to see who could lift most out of the
local corner shop... Winter days which started well before dawn because
his father's work as a meat-porter started at four a.m but the
advantage of getting taken to afternoon dog races when his father got
home at two.

"When you weren't at school?"

"Before I was old enough to go.  Watching the greyhounds and hearing
about their racing form is one of my earliest memories."  He grinned at
her.  "It occurs to me, if you'd grown up where I did we'd probably
have sat next to each other in infant school.  At least in mine they
always insisted on putting us alphabetically by surname, so P and R
would have been together.  I'd have been the one pinching your crayons
and pulling your hair.  What's the joke?"

"The thought of you in my first school.  You wouldn't exactly have
fitted.  It was all-female, and full of very small Saudi princesses."

She saw his eyebrows lift, and knew she'd have to explain.  "My father
was seconded to Riyadh at the time as a military adviser.  And after
that we were in Sweden because he was doing something for the UN, and
then after a brief spell in Italy on NATO liaison we moved to
Germany.

We were quite a while there because it was a senior posting.  We did
move around quite a bit."

"A travelling childhood.  Did you end up in a posh boardingschool?"

"No, I went to international schools wherever we were.  As a result I
seemed to take half my classes in French as a first language, but
that's another story.  It was my little sister who drew the
boarding-school straw, once she was eleven or so.

She's ten years younger than me and approaching A levels."

And flew out to New Zealand only for the long summer holidays, spending
other vacations with their mother's numerous Scottish relatives.  Jane
was guiltily aware that she hadn't seen Chloe for innumerable months,
but the age gap between them did yawn.  "Do you have brothers and
sisters?"

"Several, all married, and all of them keep giving me nieces and
nephews, whose birthdays I always forget."  He leaned back, watching
her curiously.  "You know, after seeing you work, I'm more and more
mystified that you didn't stay with the Met - where all the ambitious
ones are?  What happened, did you get on the wrong side of someone?"

"All right, if you really want to know, I just got tired of the hidden
agenda!  You know, the one which says women are all right in the
Domestic Violence Unit, or in Rape Crisis, or just about OK in
collating if they can get their pretty little heads round the
computers, but not in real CID work!  Not in undercover, unless of
course you happen to want to use one as a decoy - nor, heaven forbid,
in any of the special units.  All right, you may well raise an eyebrow
considering I shifted myself out of the Met only to end up with our
present not-sobeloved DCI!"

"Far be it from me to point out the obvious."  But he was giving her a
wicked grin, fair enough when she had let her own wry exasperation
sound clearly.  "You actually thought it would be better in the
provinces?  Why?  Less competition?"

"No, simpler than that.  There was a female DCI in charge then - well,
the rest is history."  She pulled a face.  At least he hadn't tried to
deny that the force did operate on a system of male brotherhood which
guarded itself against female inclusion in every petty way it could.

"What are you going to say," she challenged, "that all that men's
locker-room stuff is perfectly fair, because what women really want out
of life is to get married and raise children, so there's no actual
point in promoting them?  Don't even start on that hoary old myth!"

"I've known some very good married lady cops," he said mildly, and put
up a hand as if defending himself.  "Don't shoot at me, I'm not the
enemy!  I won't even call you a raging feminist'

"No, don't: I'm a humanist  She began to calm down, and gave him a
grin.  "You asked..."

"I did.  What special unit in the Met would you like to have got
into?

Drvgs?  Armed Response?  Counter-terrorist?  - oh no, they're still
deciding whether SO 13's going to stay with us or go over entirely to
MI5, aren't they, so no openings there.  What would you have fancied,
given the chance?"

"None of them particularly.  I'd just like to have known I could join
them, without being blocked.  Other than that, I'm happy getting my
head down in CID - but with the chance of being taken seriously!  Come
on, you know perfectly well how it works!"

"I suppose so.  I've never had to think about it."

"No, you wouldn't!"  She gave him a resigned look, half-humorous, aware
that she didn't really want to quarrel with him.  "So what about you?

Any particular ambitions?"

"Staying out of disciplinary hearings."  He grinned at her as if the
thought didn't actually trouble him much, then added, "Working on the
ground - not getting lumbered with too much paperwork - not landing up
behind a desk.  Can't say I'm too likely to get promoted behind a desk,
that's for sure!  Carry your bags, ma'am, when you're made a
Superintendent?"

"Thank you, Sergeant, I'll remember the offer when I get that far."

Her eyes met his amused ones.  "Very little bothers you, does it?"

"Oh, some things.  You know, when you were being so militant just now,
I could really see you as a daughter of the army!  What rank did you
say your father was?"

"I didn't.  Anyway I'm not at all like him.  I'm supposed to look
exactly like my mother did when young.  But she was no slouch either,
she can knock spots off most people when it comes to getting things
done her way!"  Jane grinned, then glanced up, suddenly aware of
someone hovering not too distantly.  The place had nearly emptied, only
themselves and a couple in the corner left, and a lurking waiter was
trying not to look hopeful that he could soon close.  "Oh, it's late,
isn't it?

I'll split'

"No you won't, this one's on me.  You can do the next one," Steve
added, "so you can stop looking as if it's male chauvinism!"

He was laughing at her.  Jane decided not to argue, since he was
brandishing a wallet full of notes and she only had a small amount of
cash with her, and a credit card would have meant a lot of fiddling
around.  And she wasn't unwilling that there should be a "next time',
or an excuse for it.  What was happening to her sensible principles?

Out in the dark night air, among the smells of summer and street dust,
they strolled through the patches of light from uncurtained windows and
decoratively antique street lamps, moving in an easy silence towards
the street where they had left both cars.  A scattering of stars could
be seen high up between the buildings, and the dryness of the night
caught Jane in a reminder.  Rain rare enough this year so that the SOCO
had been sure Deirdre MacArthy's body had been dumped before Tuesday.

. . The thought sobered her to an infinitesimal sigh, and she glanced
at the man beside her.

"It's a weird job we do, isn't it?  We spend most of our time seeing
human nature at its worst.  But we're told, and trained, to switch
off.

D'you ever feel it's not so easy to do that and stay human too - that
one day you might end up with no feelings at all?"

"Who doesn't?  No, I'll put it another way.  Anyone who doesn't carry
that kind of concern could be heading for psychopathology.  Keeping the
balance takes practice.  So they say."  He turned his head towards
her.

"You know what your voice reminds me of?  Cut glass - that really good,
fancy kind."

"It does not!"

"Oh yes - when you're not deliberately toning it down!

There's no need to bristle, it's not a criticism.  I like it.

Wouldn't do you any good under deep cover, though," he added
mischievously.  "But then, neither would the cut-glass looks, much too
hard to disguise!"

"Whereas you could go anywhere and do anything?  Are you by any chance
being classist now, as well as sexist?"

"No, just appreciative."  His hand brushed her arm, a casual move, but
a sudden warning about where his thoughts might be heading.  Towards a
pleasant end to a pleasant evening... A wistful twinge reminded her of
sexual starvation, but bed was not going to be the final item on
tonight's menu.  Definitely, absolutely not.  Even though she had to
crush a treacherous thought which said that was a pity and a waste.

"Thanks for tonight.  I've enjoyed it," she said with deliberately calm
friendliness as they reached her car.  "By the way, I've never asked
you, how did you get your bullet?  The one you've been recovering
from?"

"Oh, that."  He paused, his eyes catching the light as he studied
her.

"It's actually rather a different story.  I shot someone rather than
getting shot.  A security van heist was going down, and we'd been
warned, so we were carrying.  Unfortunately the man I got was the one
who wasn't tooled up.  There's no argument about whether he was one of
the villains, but they're still trying to decide whether I jumped in
too fast.  Shocked?"

"No, of course not, it happens.  That was what you meant about
disciplinary hearings?  You're threatened with one?"

Perhaps that was why Dan Crowe had reacted so grumpily to the new
arrival: he must know about it, and probably didn't like the idea of
their force being used as a dumping-ground for someone else's
mistakes.

"So you've been on a suspension rather than a convalescence?"

"Yes.  I think they must have got tired of arguing about it, since they
sent me down here for this temporary posting - out of sight out of
mind?  The guy didn't die, anyway, I only winged him rather badly.  So,
anyway, here I am - which does have its advantages..."

Maybe he'd had to confess in case they moved on to a state of intimacy
where he'd have a lack of scars to explain.  Jane kept her face
deadpan, despite a flicker of amusement.  "I'll keep mum," she
assured him, then added sweetly, "Unless you were hoping I would
mention to the civilian secretaries that you're not an invalid after
all?  Let me know if you've got a particular favourite into whose
shell-like you want me to drop an innocent word.  Goodnight, Steve.

Sleep well, and thanks again for this evening!"

"You're more than welcome."  He sketched her a salute as she opened her
car door, his expression suggesting he was accepting defeat
quizzically.

If only temporarily.

As she drove away he was still standing there beside his own car, and
gave her an amused and mocking wave.

Chapter 7

Shelley had been in a constant flood of tears ever since Deirdre's body
had been found.  She had also, according to her mother, been refusing
to speak at all.  "I've tried to get her to talk, it seemed the best
way," Mrs Cura told Jane worriedly; but even Jane's most gentle
questioning had elicited nothing but tightly closed lips, and then
another collapse into tears.  There was nothing to be learned from her
on whether Deirdre had actually had a boyfriend, or even (very
carefully) on whether she had ever mentioned "that sort of trouble at
home" - though there had been a very sharp-eyed look from Mrs Cura
after that question, and a tightlipped promise to see if she could get
any more out of her daughter.  That was where it had to be left.  It
was frustrating, when there was something about Shelley which made Jane
suspect she did know something.  Surely there had been the beginnings
of a sharp shake of the head at the question about sexual abuse?  But
it was impossible to force an answer out of the child.  Why wouldn't
Shelley help?

The forensic report came in, but that gave them little that was
helpful.  There were no fingerprints on the black plastic sacks, which
were standard issue.  The body had been kept somewhere dry.  There were
some threads of sacking on Deirdre's clothes, also dry earth and traces
of chemical fertiliser dust.  There had been a small piece of straw or
"treated vegetable fibre" in her hair; an inch-long yellow strip with
rough ends, it was sent with the report, in a small sealed plastic
bag.

"There's an old barn in the woods behind the Ribden estate!"  Kenny
said, snapping his fingers.  But a search team sent up there, found the
barn no longer had any doors, and was used all the time as a play-area
by the local children.  There was nowhere inside it that a body could
have lain without being found.  The MacArthy house possessed no garden
shed which might have held chemical fertiliser, and neither did any of
its neighbours.

"I still think a car boot's the most likely."  Kenny again.  "I keep an
old sack in mine, for putting under the wheels if I'm bogged down
somewhere.  You could find garden fertiliser in a boot if someone had
been buying it sometime, and it'd explain the body's folded-up
position, too, wouldn't it?"

"Yes.  But what car, is what we want to know!  And wouldn't there be
something else - a trace of oil, rubber-dust from the spare wheel,
anything.  . .?  Sorry," Jane said, knowing her voice had been too
impatient.  "It's still a good suggestion, and I'm grateful for any
input you can give.  Steve, what did the guy say about my going to see
Mr Crayshaw at his home?  I know Morland won't like it, but Crayshaw's
still away from work, and there are a few more things I'd like to ask
him!"

"The DI says OK, but handle with care.  I told him we would

- extreme caution for the local nob!"

"Let's go, then - you'll come?  It'll look better with two of us, and
you can see what you think of him, too."

She wasn't ruling Anthony Crayshaw out completely: even respectable
Rotary Clubbers and personal friends of the Chief Super could have
their weaknesses.  And things to hide.  Not that she could quite see
Anthony Crayshaw hitting a young girl on the head - hitting anyone .

.

. Her remembered impression brought out a softness about him under the
hearty bluster.

"We'll just say we're checking Deirdre's times of work again," she told
Steve as they drove up the hill towards the smart southern end of the
city.  "It's worth taking another look at him - though I certainly
wouldn't dare ask if I can examine the boot of his car.  Not without
very strong grounds, anyway!"

"Or search his garden shed, if he's got one?  I wonder what he's
suffering from to keep him away from work this long?

Summer flu, did his office manager say?"

"Yes, but I'm hoping he'll be out of bed by now."  They pulled up
outside the house Jane had been looking for.  "Hen, not as large as I'd
have expected him to have, though perhaps it's described as "a gem".

Get those beams - genuine Tudor?  And it all looks very just-so,
doesn't it?"

But in the best of taste.  Set back from the road with a
prettily-paved, rose-bushed frontgarden - and no front hedge, perhaps
to show it off- the Crayshaw house had the restrained elegance of
something very well maintained, looking superior even to its neighbours
in the quiet residential road.  A double-garage had been added to one
side, but was built in muted, rose-tinted old brick so as not to spoil
the overall effect.  The garage doors were open with one car visible in
the shadows within and another, an expensive and sporty-looking model,
standing on the tarmac area which lay in front.

"Here we go, then."

She had almost expected the front door to be opened by a maid.  It
wasn't: to Jane's discreet pressure on a small white bell-push the
finely carved wood swung back to reveal against the dark interior a
figure whose well-cut skirt and silk blouse instantly said "couture".

Grey-blonde hair, short and casually upswept but obviously cut by a top
stylist; an aquiline face discreetly made up to show off high
cheekbones; piercing and rather bad tempered hazel eyes, slightly
narrow-set and with a line graven between the brows.

"Mrs Crayshaw?"  Jane asked, guessing.

"Yes?"

"Good morning, I'm so sorry to disturb you..."

She introduced herself, and then Steve, and stated their business.  For
a swift moment she felt an inclination to glance at Steve as if to say,
"All right, I'm using my cut-glass voice, but this is the kind of
occasion when it helps.  It did, too.  Mrs

Crayshaw cast her a sharply sizing-up look but appeared marginally less
inclined to take exception to their arrival.  "So you want to see my
husband about this ghastly business of the girl he used to employ?" 
she said in one of those nasal county voices which seemed designed to
carry halfway across a grouse moor.  "Yes, all right.  I suppose you
wouldn't bother us if it wasn't important.  Though I'm sure he won't be
able to tell you anything!  You'd better come in.  He isn't up and
about yet because he's still convalescing from this damned flu-bug, but
I'll see if he'll come downstairs."

"Oh dear, I really am sorry to disturb him," Jane said again, opting
for sounding hesitantly charming.  "We really wouldn't have bothered
you, except that I need to confirm a few details."

"Anything we can do to help, of course.  Wait here, then.  I'll see if
he'll come down in his dressing-gown.  Presumably you don't actually
want him to go anywhere."

There was the distinct inference that people like the Crayshaws didn't
get asked to go anywhere by the police, helpful though they were
prepared to be as public-minded citizens.  She had ushered them into a
sitting-room - spotlessly tidy save for one newspaper flung across a
chintz-covered chair - and left them.  French windows looked out on a
garden which was surprisingly small for this kind of property, reaching
only about the depth of the house before it ended in a tall clipped
hedge.  The garden area was paved again, with tubs of flowers.  The
Crayshaws didn't apparently believe in having anything as troublesome
as a lawn.  Jane looked at Steve, who raised an eyebrow and then
glanced round the room thoughtfully.

"Not your average cluttered home," he murmured.  "Childless?"

"Kids away at boarding-school, I think Kenny said."  The only
photograph on display showed Mrs Crayshaw in sporting gear with a large
fish on the end of a line, with a background of water and misty
hills.

It was, almost predictably, in an antique silver frame.  "Maybe they're
untidier and more comfortable somewhere else," she suggested, keeping
her voice as low as his.  There were no sounds of Mrs Crayshaw
returning yet, but the walls seemed thick enough to supply
sound-proofing.  "She seems to have found our arrival bearable."

"Once she realised we weren't evangelists or double-glazing reps,"
Steve said, his lips quirking in a brief grin.  "They're taking their
time, aren't they?"

"They're the kind of people who do.  No, she is.  She's rather a
different kettle of fish from - I think they're coming!"

Mr Crayshaw did look ill, though he had partially dressed himself in
honour of the call: he wore trousers under the paisley silk
dressing-gown he was sporting.  He looked pale, with a greenish tinge,
as he followed his wife into the room, and there was an unhealthy
dullness in his eyes too.

Nevertheless he tried for the heartiness with which he had greeted Jane
before.

"Virginia tells me you've got some more details you'd like me to clear
up.  Of course, if there's anything at all we can do in this dreadful
business... It's been on the news now, and in the local paper.  What a
terrible thing!  How can I help?"

"Sit down, Tony.  They know you're convalescent.  And I'm sure there
isn't much we can say, so let's keep it as short as we can, shall
we?"

Virginia Crayshaw's drawl somehow managed to sound impatient too.  Did
she always address her husband as if he were a recalcitrant child, Jane
wondered?  There might have been affection in the way she perched on
the arm of his chair, but it wasn't very visible.

Jane launched into a series of polite questions regarding Mr Crayshaw's
memories of Deirdre; and a request to be told again exactly when he had
last seen her (he couldn't remember), whether he knew if she had any
friends (no, he didn't), whether she ever dealt with the agency's
customers (no, never).

Eventually she had run out of possible queries, and began to wind
things up.

"That's all?"  He made to rise, but his wife's arm pressed him back
into his chair.  "Yes, well, only too glad to have been of help.  My
goodness, it's quite unnerving being questioned by the police!  No,
only a joke, of course!"

"I'm only sorry to have had to disturb you."

"Yes, well, I don't suppose you'll need to again."  Virginia Crayshaw's
drawl wasn't quite rude, though it came close.

"No, don't get up, Tony.  I'll see them out.  Honestly, men don't have
the sense they were born with, do they?"  she said in Jane's direction
- the first sign of a friendly comment she had shown, and delivered
with a sudden and surprising smile.  It made her look distinctly more
attractive.  She ushered them back into the hallway.  "I'm sorry we
couldn't be much help, but of course, Tony hardly saw the girl except
in passing.  Employees aren't the sort of people one actually knows!"

"Mrs Crayshaw, if you wouldn't mind one last question, do you go into
the office yourself?"

"No, it's my husband's occupation, not mine.  I've looked in
occasionally - but I couldn't even have told you which one the girl
was.  That's it, then.  Goodbye, Sergeant - what was it?

Perry?  I'll remember the name."

She didn't dignify Steve with a farewell, obviously having seen his
silent presence in the background as relegating him to a minor role.

Jane glanced at him as they went back down the paved front path, and
saw an amused gleam in his eye.

"One tough lady!  What did you want me to notice - apart from the fact
that they don't have a potting-shed in the garden to hide a body in?

No countrified places of concealment at all, in fact."

"Oh, anything which might have suggested he could have fancied the
girl," Jane answered his question.  "It was a small hope, anyway.  ..

and he wouldn't have been likely to give anything away with his wife
there.  He was too sick to see if anything special made him nervous,
besides, wasn't he."

"Or too nervous to do anything other than look sick.  With that kind of
wife he's probably got a mistress on the side, and lives in terror that
the harpy's going to find out.  I'd lay money on his office manager,
the one who was so protective about him, remember?"

"Goodness, yes, could be.  I hadn't thought of that."  Jane took the
idea in.  "Yes, that could be a possibility.  And it would explain why
having us rootling around his business asking questions makes him
uncomfortable, too.  It doesn't get us any further with Deirdre, in
fact it rather rules him out, but then I wasn't seriously considering
him as a candidate.  Just plodding through every possible lead.

"Hen.  And getting your name remembered."

"She did make a point of that, didn't she?  To pass on to the Chief
Super's wife, no doubt, next time the four of them get together!"  Jane
spoke ruefully, but without any serious worry: she'd had Dan Crowe's OK
for the visit, after all.  And she was only doing her job, on a murder
enquiry.

Another name to strike out, though: the visit had revealed a certain
amount about Anthony Crayshaw (and some guesswork) but not that he was
a likely murderer.  Back to looking and hunting and asking, then.

Door-to-doors had produced nothing so far.  Michael MacArthy couldn't
be proven to have done anything - besides lie.  Somehow, and sometime
soon, they would find the thread which unravelled everything, though,
wouldn't they?

Walking back into the station with Steve behind her, Jane was
unprepared for the tall, elegant figure which suddenly obtruded itself
into her line of sight.  As fair as she, but six foot two of
well-tailored muscle, apparently concluding a conversation with one of
the uniform inspectors.  Then, his blue eyes lighting up at the sight
of her, and, "Janey!"  delivered in ringing tones as he waited for her
to come up to him.  "I hoped I might run into you!"

"Dennis?"  She let him give her a smacking kiss on the cheek, and had
already reached up automatically to give him one in return before she
remembered where she was.  "Good God, what are you doing here?  And how
did you know I was down here?"

"Word filters back.  You didn't know I'd left the army, I suppose.  Did
it six months ago, and joined Special Branch instead."

"You're Special Branch?"  Wonders would never cease.  "Oh, this is
Steve Ryan, one of my co-sergeants," she added as his eyes went past
her with a sudden look of interest.  "Steve, this is Dennis Dalkeith, a
very old friend of mine."

"We've met before.  In fact I was just going to ask you what you were
doing in such bad company!"  Dennis said cheerfully, reaching across to
shake Steve by the hand.  "Is everybody deserting London for this neck
of the woods?  When we last saw each other you were around the
Docklands area.  When did you switch?"

"Recently," Steve said easily, while Jane was still trying to absorb
the fact that the two men knew each other.  He gave Jane a quizzical
glance and added, "If I'd known the kind of welcome some people rate
even in the middle of a police station, I'd have come down armed with
an introduction..."

"I've known Dennis all my life, in fact we're cousins of some sort,"
Jane said hastily, annoyed to feel heat in her face and know it for a
blush.  "Look, let's not stand around nattering in the corridor'

"No, I was just going to say, I've finished chatting to the people I
came to see for the moment, and it's coming up to lunch-time.  Why
don't you both come out for a pie and a pint?"

"No reason why not."  It was Steve who answered while Jane was still
opening her mouth.  "You can tell us what Special Branch wants with our
humble services, too.  Or is it hush-hush?"

It was just what Jane had been about to ask.  "No secret, I'm just
doing a preliminary vet for the protection of some foreign royal,"
Dennis said cheerfully.  "You've got one arriving here, but not for
another month - and only for the day.  That's what I'm here for.  But
let's go and look for a pub - Janey?"

"Yes, OK.  Just give me a minute to dump some stuff and I'll be with
you!"

The Incident Room had nothing to hold her back, and she joined the two
men a moment later.  They walked up the road and round the corner to
the Sea Rose - the more civilised of the nearby pubs and not quite the
closest, therefore less likely to harbour anyone else from the
station.

The Sea Rose had done itself up lately to attract smart custom and had
turned its back half into a bistro.  Dennis looked round it with
amiable appreciation, bought Jane a shandy without asking her what she
wanted, and plonked it down in front of her saying with a grin, "There
you are, lovey, your usual sarsaparilla!"  Steve looked at her sidelong
with a raised eyebrow, but it was an old family joke.  The pub wasn't
full and they had a quiet corner to themselves, with the three
Ploughmans they had ordered due to arrive in front of them at any
minute.

"I was telling Steve while we were waiting for you that you and I used
to share a bath when we were three," Dennis said, grinning at Jane.

"Funny how something like that stays with you!"

"I was three and you were five.  Seriously, Dennis, if you're going to
produce embarrassing memories I shall pour this drink down your
neck!"

Jane pretended to frown at him, but was very pleased to see him.  "Come
on, start catching me up.  When did you leave the army?  And why?  I
thought you were firmly settled in it, for good!"

"It's less interesting than it was in your father's day.  Too full of
cut-backs and joint policing operations.  I decided on a change.  By
the way, it was Henry who told me where you'd moved to - you know,
Henry?  Legal-eagle Henry?  Hangdog and pining Henry, last seen-" "Not
when I last saw him.  He was in a temper.  Excuse us," Jane said
quickly to Steve, abruptly aware of his attentive listening, "we'll be
through exchanging news in a minute!

Leaving other things aside, Dennis - you, in Special Branch?  It's just
bodyguarding, basically, isn't it?"

"Oh, it has its interesting aspects.  And I knew all the right people
to get into it!"  Luckily Dennis seemed prepared to leave the subject
of Jane's former boyfriend alone; or perhaps he felt he had already
embarrassed her enough in front of a colleague.  To make sure, she kept
him on the subject of his Special Branch duties.

"When you said your V.I.P would be here "only for the day", did you
mean you'd be here then, too?"

"Yes, but I'll be on escort duty.  One of the young Spanish royals is
hopping over to attend a society wedding in your cathedral - and, while
here, dutifully opening a Spanish Studies Centre at your university.

I'm to be the official security presence to escort the princelet to and
fro while he's on our soil.  I've just come down today to make my
polite number with your uniformed people.  Letting them know when we'll
be arriving and leaving and all that."  Dennis stretched, shifting his
broad shoulders comfortably.  He cast Jane a quizzical look.  "Do I
detect an air of disappointment?  What were you hoping for, a crowned
head with one of our own royals along for company, and a full-blown
walkabout to keep you busy?

Sorry, but apart from asking your traffic department to clear a road
from one end of your city to the other through the Saturday jams so
that he isn't late for the wedding, I doubt if you'll even know we've
been here!"

"Sounds fine to me if you're going to be Traffic's problem not ours.  I
still think it's a waste of your talents to quit on the army!"  Jane
added, returning to her earlier attack and giving Dennis a reproachful
frown.  "Oh, I've no doubt Special Branch was glad enough to recruit
you - what with your army record, and of course, the famous Dalkeith
charm - so useful for keeping high-ups sweet!  But you, just doing
endless V.I.P handholding?  Honestly, Dennis!  Don't tell me you won't
end up bored out of your mind!  Or have you picked up some brainless
aristocratic girlfriend who's talked you into settling down?"

"Not currently.  I'm looking round for a suitable candidate,
though...

You remember that exotic brunette I had in tow last time we met?"  he
said to Steve, with a sudden reminiscent gleam in his eye.  "When you
were on the watch for villains in the Docklands Development area, and I
got under your feet?"

"Yes, do fill me in on how you two met!"

"There was some fancy do going on in one of the new buildings."  It was
Steve who answered for both of them, coming into the conversation at
last.  "And there was I, on a stake-out because we'd had a tip-off
about something that might be going down in the next building, when I
ran into this character in the full black-and-white penguin suit, right
where he shouldn't be.  Furthermore he was wandering around with some
hint on his arm who was stoned out of her mind.  I was more than
tempted to take both parties in and demand to know who her supplier
was.  Anyway... We unsnarled that, and since my villains plainly
weren't going to show with so many people tramping about'

"We repaired to sink a few jars together.  More than a few, I seem to
remember.  I'd got rid of Annabella by then - boring girl, if
stunning.

By the time we'd finished we were drinking in places we shouldn't have
been as law-abiding citizens, let alone as law enforcers!"

Dennis grinned happily.  Jane was well aware that there must be more to
the story; also that she wasn't going to be told.

Both men had fallen silent with an exchange of expressions which
suggested a veil being drawn.  Before she could let this demonstration
of male solidarity irritate her, Dennis was speaking again, and making
a swoop on her plate.  "Janey, if you're not going to eat your pickled
onion, I will.  Does anyone want another round?  No?  Come on, then,
tell me how life's treating you both down here!"  They all had to get
back before too long; Dennis still had some details to see to before he
returned to London, and there was duty to summon the others.  It was a
cheerful threesome, however, which arrived back at the station.

"Pity you can't stay for the evening, or you could have seen Matty."

"I know, but tell her I send her my undying love, and that I'm as
always eternally her slave!  Ah, if only she'd have me, I'd lead a
blameless life..  ."  Dennis produced a theatrical sigh, a grin, the
sketch of a wave, and then he left them.  Jane tried to pull herself
together into a suitably official mood of sobriety, but glanced at
Steve before it took hold of her entirely.

"Just for the record, I don't get addressed as "Janey" by anyone
else!"

"Would I dare?"

"Not if you're interested in survival.  Dennis isn't the idiot he likes
to pretend to be, but you probably know that."

"Yes, I'd already sussed that he's a long way from being a chinless
ex-guardsman."

"He wasn't in the guards, he served in the twenty-first, just to be
technical.  And to be accurate and fair, the guards don't deserve that
reputation; they're bloody good fighters.  Sorry

." She gave a sudden grin.  "Automatic defensiveness!"

"Daughter of the army," he said mockingly.  "So the dashing Major
Dalkeith is your cousin Dennis, is he?  Well, well..."

"A kind of cousin, yes.  But, look, "No names, no pack-drill, my lips
are sealed!  Come on, let's go and see if the collators have got
anything new for us."

He was already pushing the Incident Room door open.  At the moment they
practically lived in there instead of CID.  As Jane followed him in,
Rachel Welsh looked round quickly from the phone she was manning and
raised an eager finger.

"Yes, hold on a minute, would you, sir."  She shifted the microphone
away from her mouth and spoke urgently.  "Sergeant Perry, I think we've
got a sighting!  For the Friday evening -Yes, sir, if you could just
give me that again?"

Jane moved quickly to pick up the extra headset.  Even before it had
reached her ear, she saw the WPC's face begin to fall.  Then the girl's
voice politely cut across the quavery elderly tones which sounded in
her ear.

"I'm afraid that's the week after she went missing, sir, though it's
very good of you to ring us.  If you're sure about the date... Yes.

Yes, we were asking about the Friday before.  No, that's all right, and
thank you for taking the trouble to call!"

Another blank, after the sudden leap of hope.  Just an old man sure
he'd seen the girl outside the disco - well after she must have been
dead.

Why were there no callers who had actually seen her?

Deirdre MacArthy must have been somewhere: why could no one tell them
where?

Chapter 8

"You really like this guy Steve, don't you?"

Matty's face was upside-down from where Jane was lying, and gave the
effect of hanging over her with the ceiling lightshade as a halo.

Constant fitness was a requirement for the job, and since Jane hadn't
made it to a gym recently she was running through her own special
routine, a mixture of yoga and callisthenics.  At the moment that had
her arching her back muscles off the sitting-room carpet, then raising
both legs very, very slowly.  "All right," she said, on a difficult
breath.

"Suppose I do?  He doesn't hassle me - phew!  - which I like.  But at
the same time he makes it clear - phew!  - that he's ready, willing and
able..  ."  Distinctly able, she would lay a fair bet.  "And - phew!

he's quiet, but in that lazily dangerous sort of way, if you know what
I mean.  And he's funny - funny humorous, not peculiar - and we strike
sparks off each other.

He's nobody's fool, either!"

"He does seem to have got you magnetised."

"No he hasn't.  I didn't say that.  Blast, now I've lost my rhythm!"

"Along with your cool," Matty said with a chucKle, her eyes amused.

"You can stop laughing, it isn't funny!"  Jane abandoned the straight
leg-lifts and put her hands behind her head to begin, determinedly, on
sit-up twists instead.  "The trouble is he's so damned fanciable!  And
just when' She didn't bother to finish the sentence.  It was beginning
to feel like a long time.  Since Henry, in London, who might have had
his stuffily conventional moments, but had been surprisingly good in
bed.

"The question is, dear girl, are you going to do anything about you and
Steve?"

"I can't, can I?  I've always said, no way, no mixing it with work.

Far too many pitfalls for the ambitious career-girl.  And people always
find out, even if they're not supposed to.  Oh damn the man, I've only
known him five minutes!  But then, to quote a joke in bad taste, love's
like murder, you either know who straight away or you may never find
out."  A joke in very bad taste, considering another week had gone by
and the Deirdre case was still stuck down a deep hole .  . . No, she
wasn't going to carry work home with her.  "Not that we're talking
about love in this case," Jane said with exasperation, "just damned
bloody violent sexual attraction, that's what!"

"But you also like him," Matty pointed out.

"And I also have him on the forbidden list!"

"Or why else would you need to do such vigorous press-ups?"  Matty was
still sounding amused, if sympathetic too.  "Hen, I think I should meet
this Steve!  Ask him to dinner and I'll vet him for you!"

"What, and have yourself called out halfway through the evening leaving
us alone together in far too inviting circumstances?  Oh no!"  Jane sat
up again with a snort, and settled herself to do some nice calming deep
breathing.  "I shall ... simply... be my usual cool, calm, and utterly
controlled self... Dennis likes him, I could tell.  Utterly different
types, but they'd obviously hit it off like a bomb.  Mind you, men...

It's funny they should have met, isn't it?  Met in the Met.  Oh God,
I'm not going to start making corny jokes now, am I?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't have seen Dennis while he was here.  If I could
have had a brother - well, a white brother - it'd be him."

"Don't tell him that, you'll break his heart.  No, it's all right, I
know the messages he sends you aren't meant to be serious.

He's been a brother-on-loan to both of us, hasn't he?  In between the
acres of time when we don't see him at all.  You won't get the chance
to see him next time, either, he'll be too busy shepherding his royal
about.  Oh dear, I should have remembered to ask him if he'd seen
Chloe," Jane added guiltily, but absently.  "Remind me that I will
write to my little sister, will you?  I really don't seem to have seen
much of her since she was four, and even then she was always in the
charge of the all pair, the one time we had one.  She had a Marine
Sergeant as a nanny for a while after that, I can't imagine what that
must have done to her consciousness!"

"Made her fancy Marines for ever afterwards, maybe," Matty suggested
flippantly.  "What a worry for your mama!  Jane..."

"Men?  Is something up?  You look serious."

"Well, if you've finished burning off your excess energy, there's
something I might ask you."  Matty tilted her head on one side, her
deep brown eyes unusually troubled.  "It's difficult ethically, that's
the problem.  Suppose I were to ask you to talk to someone
unofficially, could you?"

"Possibly.  Probably?  Can you tell me more about it?"

"It's a student I've got in as a patient.  He's been badly beaten

"We had one recently who'd been roughed up and wouldn't make an
official complaint.  Art student, probably gay - is yours?"

"No, I wouldn't say so, and mine's at the university, not the Art
College.  And he's been more than roughed up.  Nasty head injuries,
that's why he landed up with me.  He's post-operative now and
conscious, and I don't think there's anything wrong with his memory.

But he's been into drugs.  We're having to give him substitutes so's to
keep him stable while his head heals."  She frowned.  "He definitely
doesn't want to talk to the police, and a friend brought him in, so
your lot were never involved.  I'm stuck in this bind.  I think you
ought to be involved, but he's my patient, so I can't go against what
he wants.  He's pretty scared, though, so I just wondered..."

"If I could come and visit him off the record and see if I can get him
to talk?"

"Something like that.  Otherwise, supposing it happens again after I
let him out, only worse next time?"

"If he's been in trouble for not paying his drug supplier, and he still
can't pay up?  Yes, I see."  Jane nibbled her finger.

"It's not an easy one.  If it turns out there's a pusher in the
university - or a pusher with a heavy getting to the Uni students - and
I hear about it, then I'll have to pass it on.  In fact even from what
you've told me I'm going to have to pass a nod and a wink in the right
direction.  I won't say where I got it from; I can call it a rUmour.

But if I talk to this student off the record and he tells me something
important, I'm going to have a job not making it official.  I'm sorry,
love, but you see how I'm fixed, don't you?  I'm not really the best
person to ask."

"Will you think about it, though?  I'm sorry to bother you when I know
how busy you are."

"Stuck in a rut more than busy, as far as my murder case is
concerned.

And don't worry, I can see your ethical dilemma and I won't jump any
guns.  How long can I brew it?  I mean, is he due for discharge?"

"I'd say he'll be with us for at least another couple of weeks.

He was quite badly hurt."

They agreed that Jane would think the problem over, and Matty would let
her know if anything changed.  They didn't go back to the subject of
Jane's troublesome hormones, either (thankfully), since Matty was
bleeped by the hospital before there was any chance of them drifting
back to it - though next morning, when Jane left in her usual rush for
work, she received a slanted glance and a teasing, "Keep on with the
deep breathing!"

She would.  It was just proximity, after all, and a temptation to be
resisted with exasperated humour.  She had the question Matty had set
her to mull over, a quiet word to pass on about the drug scene, and the
fraud figures to get back to in any quiet moment.  There had been an
inquest on Deirdre, opened and adjourned.  Her family wouldn't be
allowed to bury her yet; that must be hard... Dover hadn't got any
further with their case, either.  With the murder enquiries at a
frustrating standstill, Dan Crowe elected to send Steve off to see a
known fence with Mike, trying to track down some of the Herne Bay
smash-and-grab loot.  There had been another break-in, too, to add to
Jane's list, and she was beginning to see a pattern in them, enough to
ask the uniform patrols to keep an eye out in certain directions.

It was half past one before she looked in at the Incident Room again,
to flip through the card carrousel and see that one new report had come
in.  The bus driver on Deirdre's normal home-going route was back from
his holiday.  He did remember Deirdre since he lived on the Ribden Road
estate himself, and could recall that she had not taken his bus on that
last Saturday night.  He had noticed it particularly because she
usually sat at the front and chatted to him.

It was something, if only another negative sighting.  Deirdre hadn't
caught the bus home after work.  That must mean what - that she was
meeting someone, or had been offered a lift?

The internal phone buzzed beside her and she reached for it.  "Incident
Room internal line, DS Perry here.  Yes, sorry, I was in the CID room a
moment ago but now I'm here.  What?

Who?  Somebody called Crayshaw?  Asking for me by name?

Yes, I'll come.  Ask him very politely to wait in an interview room, I
know who it is!"

Anthony Crayshaw?  Coming to the station in person and asking
especially for her?

It wasn't Anthony Crayshaw.  This was a slighter, finer version, just
as tall but narrower all over, and with a distinct family
resemblance.

He was very young - seventeen, perhaps.  He stood tensely in the
interview room as if barely noticing the uniformed PC who waited
inexpressively by the door.  The boy's hands were balled into fists,
while the eyes - brown where Anthony Crayshaw's were blue - were dark
pools of grief.  Jane made a rapid guess before he even spoke, though
his words came out quicKly and jerkily as soon as she came in and
identified herself.

"I've just heard about Deirdre.  I'm David Crayshaw.  I - I didn't
know...Nobody told me..."

"You haven't seen any news bulletins?"  Jane asked drily, looking into
the agonised young face.

"I've been away, on a school trip!  We only got back last night, and if
Shelley hadn't come today and found me, "Shelley?"  So Shelley knew
him.  "You've got some information for us, haven't you?"  she told the
agonised boy.  "We'd better ring your parents.  That's Anthony and
Virginia Crayshaw, isn't it?"

"Yes, but... please don't ring them.  They don't... I'd rather ...

Do you have to?"

"It depends.  How old are you?"

"Seventeen and a half.  . ."  Adding "a half' showed just how young he
was.  "Please, couldn't I talk to you privately first?"

"All right.  But at some stage I'll have to let them know you're
here."

She glanced at the constable, then moved to ask him quietly to buzz the
CID room.  If either the DI or Kenny Barnes was in, could he ask one of
them to join her?  It was Kenny who came, a moment later, murmuring,
"The guy's gone out..."

"OK, you'll do.  David, this is DC Barnes.  And this is David Crayshaw,
who has come to tell us something.  David, I have to caution you that
you have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say may be
taken down and used in evidence.  Do you understand?"  Jane said, since
he was over seventeen and old enough for the statutory warning.  She
added quicKly as she saw his frozen horror, "That's just something I
have to say for formality's sake, all right?  Now, what is it you want
to tell me?"

"You want to talk to people who saw Deirdre before' He broke off,
gulping.  "I... I took her out on the Friday evening before I went
away.  Shelley says she hasn't been seen since the day after, I didn't
know, I swear I didn't!"

"And when did you go away?"

"Monday the eighteenth.  We've been in Norway studying fiords for four
weeks.  It was a special geography field trip.  I couldn't even send
her a postcard."  There was something infinitely forlorn in the way he
said that, before he swallowed and went on bleakly.  "She... wouldn't
have got it even if I had, would she?  Shelley told me that - that.

"That Deirdre was probably murdered the weekend she went missing.  I'd
like your movements during that weekend, please - since you didn't go
abroad until the Monday."

She saw it hit him, and could only judge his reaction as genuine.

Unless he was a brilliant actor He pulled himself together with an
obvious effort.

"I was at school all Saturday morning.  We had a meeting about travel
arrangements for Monday," he began, swallowing, his adam's apple
jumping.  "Then' "Wait a moment, please.  Which school?"

"Kent College.  It's not all boarders, about half of us are day
boys."

It was up on the north side of the city, near the university; the
Crayshaws hadn't sent their son away, then, only to a private day
school within the city's bounds.

"Right.  Go on."

"Saturday afternoon I was with my mother.  Then I went back to school
for the concert.  Then I went back with a friend to spend the night at
his house.  He'd broken his ankle so he couldn't come on the trip, and
we were sorting out all the notes he wanted me to take for him.  . ."

He broke off and added carefully, "His name's Giles Robertson, I expect
you'll want to know."

"Thank you.  I'd like his address too, please."

He gave it, his face paler than ever if that were possible.  When she
nodded to him to go on, he swallowed again, and said, "I went home from
Giles's at midday on Sunday.  We had lunch "You and your parents?"

"Yes.  And then we .  . . sat around reading the Sunday papers, I
think.  Unless my father was gardening.  No, he wasn't, I remember,
because he had the radio on to listen to a play... Then I packed.  And
went to bed.  We went off early on Monday, on a coach.  And I got back
late last night..."

And his parents hadn't mentioned Deirdre to him.  No...

Jane had already guessed they knew nothing about the connection.

"Employees aren't the sort of people one knows', Mrs Crayshaw had said;
and no doubt that was supposed to go for her son too.  Jane let it pass
without comment, for now.

"And today, what?"

"I went to school.  Shelley found me in the lunch-hour.  I saw her
hanging about outside.  She's... a friend - Deirdre's friend - and she
slipped out of school to find me.  After she'd told me," he said,
blinking hard, "I thought I'd better come straight down here.  I mean,
if there's been an... an appeal to know where Deirdre was, and..."

"Yes."  She wasn't going to give him time for emotion.  "Could we come
to your relationship with Deirdre, now, please?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Did you take her out regularly, or just on that Friday evening?"

"Regularly," he said faintly.  "I met her first in Dad's office.

We've been going out together for three months.  Only, you "Yes?"  Jane
prompted as he broke off.

"My parents don't know about it.  They wouldn't approve.

Hers wouldn't either, they wouldn't approve of me any more than mine
would of her."  He said that defiantly, almost as if it was a point of
principle.  "So we used to meet in secret.  I'd leave her notes in a
phone box we'd agreed on, taped under the shelf.  And she'd send me
notes back."  His hands balled themselves into fists with the tension
of grief.  "How could anyone harm her?  She was so sweet and quiet and
real!  I loved her..."

"Did you have a physical relationship?"  Jane saw his flush at her cool
question, and added drily, "Let's forget for the moment that she was
under age.  Did you?"

"Yes..."

"And where did you go?"

"We went out in my car.  I'd like to have taken her to ordinary places
in town, but we had to make sure no one saw us," he said, making a plea
out of it.  "It really was her family as much as mine.  She's Catholic
and her parents are strict with her..  ."  Jane saw him realise that he
had used the present tense, and what that realisation did to him.  He
was intelligent, she had noted; intelligent enough to have given a
careful record of his movements when she asked for them, and to realise
why he was being asked, even against his emotional turmoil.  There was
a moment's pause, then he spoke again with a dull flatness.  "You
wanted to know where we went.

Blean Woods sometimes... The other woods near Chartham ... just places
where no one would see us, and we could be together!"

Young lovers, with their secret to add intensity.  "How often did you
go out together?"  Jane asked him, keeping her voice formal.

"It was usually Fridays.  There was a school club she could pretend to
be at.  Sometimes I could get away on a Sunday, and if I could I'd
leave a note in Dad's estate office, somewhere she'd know to look."

"I see.  And where did you go on that particular Friday?"

"Just out to the woods.  We were late back, though, because I got a
puncture.  I was worried about that, her parents would have been
angry.

It wasn't that night, was it?"  he asked with sudden painful
entreaty.

"After I dropped her near home?  It wasn't - I took her as near as
she'd let me.  And Shelley said..."

"Deirdre spent Saturday doing her usual part-time job in your father's
office.  Whatever happened to her was after that.  We heard she got
into trouble for coming home late the night before and for refusing to
explain where she'd been.  Did she ever talk to you much about her
family?  Her stepfather, for instance?"

"She said he had a temper, and that he used to get drunk and hit her
mother sometimes."  He added, firing up, "If I thought he'd ever hit
Deirdre..."

"What would you have done?  She was an under-age girl, with whom you
were having an illicit affair."

"It wasn't just an affair, I loved her!  She wasn't like anyone else.

Just because she came from a poor home."  He broke off again, looking
somewhere between defiant and sick, and there were actual tears in the
corners of his eyes.  "I did love her.  And she loved me.  I can't
believe she's dead, that someone - And I didn't even know!"

Hadn't he?  His face made it appear believable.  Every inch of his
story could be checked, and would be, but it didn't seem as if he would
have had time... Not unless he had managed to contrive alibis more
carefully than she could believe.  Jane watched his face, and picked up
on an earlier point.

"You say you drive a car?  Your own?"

"Yes .  . . I was given it for my seventeenth birthday.  I haven't got
it at the moment, my father's using it.  His was stolen while I was
away."

"Really?  I must see if we've got a report of it."

"You will have.  He said the traffic police found it miles away, burnt
out.  If you want my car, would you be able to get it without telling
my father why - I suppose it doesn't matter now.

Except that I couldn't stand what - It'll be my mother, really, not
him.  I just couldn't stand it if she starts saying...

I suppose I have to tell them, don't I?"

"Yes, you do," Jane told him, picking her way through that jumbled
outburst.  "They'll need to know.  Particularly since we'll want to
talk to you again.  Now then, David, is there anything else at all that
you want to tell us?"

"No.  Except that whoever... hurt her ought to be damned to burn in
hell.  And if she was I mean..."

"She wasn't raped.  The autopsy confirms that."  Let him have that; one
less horror for him to dwell on.  "But it also told us she'd been
sexually involved with someone, and now we know it was you."  Jane
looked at the desolate young face in front of her, and decided to call
a halt.  There seemed nothing more she could gain from him - for the
moment.  "I think you should go home now, David, and talk to your
parents.  We'll be in touch when we want to see you again.  You know
we'll have to check all the facts you've given us, don't you?  So I'd
like you to warn your parents that we'll need to contact your school.

Oh, and next time I see you, I'll want you to make an official
statement, and sign it.  We won't bother about that formality today.

All right?"

"Yes "Then you can go now.  I'll have you shown out."

When he had gone, Kenny raised an eyebrow at her.  He had sat silently
by to one side of the table, and the notebook open in front of him was
covered with his rapid scribble.  "When he makes his official statement
we can compare it with what you've taken down today," Jane told him.

"Then we can see if there are any significant discrepancies.  What did
you think, genuine?"

"He came forward on his own bat and as soon as he heard.  A right
little Romeo and Juliet situation, wasn't it?"

"Except that one thing she didn't do was commit suicide."

Jane set a finger against her lip and let out a sigh.  "Well, we've
found the missing boyfriend, but it doesn't seem to have got us any
further, does it?  If he's told us the truth..."

"We know where she was on the Friday evening.  We'll probably get a
break now and hear from someone who saw her after work on the
Saturday."  Kenny sounded chirpily optimistic.

"Get one break and the others sort!"

"I hope so.  All we'd really had till today is the usual nutters
wanting to confess and getting their facts wrong.  And you know what
they say, the longer it goes on the harder it gets."

"If you don't mind my saying so, I'm a bit surprised you let him out on
his own and didn't send him back in a squad car."

"I wanted him to have time by himself to think."  She'd believed him,
and she also hadn't wanted Mrs Crayshaw offended by a squad car on her
doorstep.  Moral cowardice, perhaps.  "We know where to find him; he
won't be going anywhere except home.  Can you get what he told us typed
up straight away?"  she asked Kenny.  "I want it ready for when we have
him back, and I'll want the guy to see him next time, if only to keep
the DCI from... No, forget that bit!"

"Forgotten, Sarge.  You know, my money's still on Michael MacArthy even
more, now.  He's got a history of violence, right?  So how about this:
he found out about the posh boyfriend, hit the girl again in a rage and
too hard this time, found he'd killed her so had to do a cover-up?

Once we've found out where he kept the body hidden, we'll have him!"

"Maybe," Jane said.  But she had grilled Michael MacArthy, and so had
the guy.  Was the man really so much cleverer than the brute he
seemed?

"Well, I reckon we'll see," she told Kenny, smiling at him to show she
was going to share his optimism.  "It's either going to be Michael
MacArthy or someone we haven't found yet, I'd guess.  And murder's more
often than not domestic - a lousy comment on family life, that, isn't
it!  - so you're probably right.  We'll have to check David Crayshaw's
statement down to the last inch, but after that..  ."  She paused, then
went on, her voice hard.

"I'll tell you one thing, if it was that poor child's stepfather, I'm
going to get him - and tied up so tight that the CPS has a watertight
case against him!"

 The Dover Immigration Officer in the Arrivals booth held out his hand
for the woman's passport, and she handed it up to him through her open
car window.  The small folder showed she was Mary Waldstein, a British
subject but resident in the Netherlands.  He glanced at it briefly,
then handed it back and casually waved her on, indifferent to just one
more arrival on the early morning ferry.  No doubt his replacement
would be just as indifferent when Mrs Waldstein returned this evening
from her day trip to Britain, irreproachable in her quietly smart
clothes and her air of respectability.

He would have no idea that his country had been entertaining the Widow,
known and wanted all across Europe.

Mrs Waldstein, who was also the Widow, smiled pleasantly as she
received the return of her false papers, uttering a pleasant good
morning as she let out the clutch.  Her voice was soft and educated,
her English faultless.  It had, after all, been her first language.  It
was only later, with Gerhard, that she had learned to speak German like
a native, adopting it as her main tongue, using it as her first
preference.  She felt herself more German than English nowadays.

England.  She shrugged off a faint sense of unease almost before it
came to her.  Who could remember or recognise her, anyway?  Nobody.

Certainly there was no need to let her thoughts drift into the distant
past, to a girl from a dull Midlands home who went to a dull school
which took it for granted she would not be clever enough to do anything
of interest, so left her to kick her heels in aimless frustration...

The only lesson that place had taught her was how, chameleon-like, to
feign stupidity and mediocrity.

A more valuable lesson than they knew, since the practice showed her
she could readily mimic anything: accents, voices, manners...

Her thoughts came abruptly back to the present as she entered the
stream of traffic mounting the hill which curved away from the sea and
followed the signposts which would take her inland.  She had work to
do: plans and details needing her full concentration.

Out of all the contracts her group had taken on in the past months,
this one merited extra careful planning.  No quick in and out this
time, even though that was their usual pattern.  For this one, they
must be there in advance, already established.  So the Dutchman (who,
for all his occasional nasty habits, could be trusted with this) had
been sent over to look round quietly; to check if there were houses to
rent, while she and Simeon worked on what they would need.  On the
Dutchman's return Simeon had come over to lay the next piece of
groundwork.

His false papers were ready by then, hers shortly afterwards: they were
to be "Mr and Mrs Frederick Waldstein', he an American architect
working in Europe, she a British national who was simply his wife.

Simeon had telephoned last night to say he had already found the two
houses they needed, and had arranged the rental of one of them, to
start in a week's time.  Today, Mr Frederick Waldstein would visit the
university to admire its modern design and extensive campus.  This
evening, he and his wife would be returning to Holland together on the
evening ferry -with vital information to exchange, decisions to
finalise.

The Widow glanced ahead at the secondary road she had taken out of
Dover, following Simeon's instructions.  She began to look out for the
signpost he had specified.  A left turn into a minor road.  .. yes,
here it was.  She turned into it and soon came to a fork, where she
took the even narrower side-road.  The house she sought was set a mile
distant from the nearest village, standing on its own behind a belt of
trees.  She found it easily after winding along the narrow lane.  Good:
it was only five miles from their main objective, but nicely
isolated.

It had also lain empty for some time and the agent who had shown Simeon
round had seemed discouraged about the idea that it would be let in the
near future.  She saw that a telephone line ran to the house, but
Simeon had established that it was disconnected.  They knew how to fix
it, but on balance, better not in case it was noticed.  A large barn
next to the house allowed room for two cars.  Also good.

It had not occurred to the agent that Mr Frederick Waldstein might be
someone who would make a wax impression of house-keys even as he
wandered round holding them in his hand.  The copies he had
subsequently arranged were now concealed just inside the empty barn.

Letting herself into the house itself the Widow saw that it was barely
furnished.  No matter, what was here would do; this place was only an
emergency bolt-hole which should stay looking empty from the outside.

There was a petrol generator in a locked outhouse in case they needed
lights, Simeon had said.  That too would be better left unused, in case
some passing farmer or villager was made curious by a glimpse of light
through the trees.  There was a full Calorgas tank to service the
cooker in the kitchen.  Yes, it would all do very well.

It was time to move on.  This time for a more official inspection, with
keys she would collect from a different letting agency.  Mrs
Waldstein's identity would be clearly established.  The dark blue
Citroen had acquired a splash of country mud from a puddle near the
barn, and she wiped that off to leave the surface gleaming.  Then she
was negotiating the short bumpy track again; pausing only to close a
leaning gate.  She turned smoothly into the lane, then back to the main
road.

The tall, fretted towers of the cathedral pointed the way.  The massive
building was clearly visible across the flat landscape, reaching high
above its surrounding buildings.  As she drove into the city itself'
into narrow streets curling round the pedestrianised centre, the
cathedral became unexpectedly lost again, mere glimpses of soaring grey
stonework appearing occasionally through gaps or above ruddily tiled
roofs.

"Mary Waldstein" found a car park, consulted a streetmap in the booklet
she had bought on the ferry, and headed for the street Simeon had
named, where the estate agents Markham and Riley were located.

Fifteen minutes later Mrs Waldstein had the keys to a small house
within the city itself on which "Mr Waldstein" had already paid a
holding deposit.

"My husband's not with me today, he's too busy.  But I wanted to see
the house for myself What luck that he could find us something so
quickly!  No, you don't need to accompany me, thank you.  I'll drop the
keys back as soon as I've looked.  And we'll pick them up again next
week when we actually move."

Markham and Riley seemed to feel it necessary to reassure her that she
would find the house in excellent condition: it was only empty because
the owners didn't want to let it to students for fear of the damage
they might cause.  But the street wasn't noisy, in spite of being very
central.  However, they did have other properties on their books in
case she should change her mind... She smiled again politely to cut off
the sales patter, hiding her impatience and promising to return the
keys after lunch.

The street itself was tucked in amongst the back ways of the centre; a
quiet residential oasis of small terraced and semidetached houses.  She
guessed the road's other residents to be young working couples, some
students (one house, shabbier than the others, had stickers on its
windows) - the kind of fluid, incurious population where new neighbours
went mainly unnoticed.

The house, when she let herself in, appeared respectably furnished, and
had a convenient rear exit through the small garden, leading on to a
footpath by the river.  Yes, this would do very satisfactorily as a
place for Mr and Mrs Waldstein to take up their quiet residence.  And
who would suspect that people taking on such a house for three months
would actually require it for only two weeks -just until one particular
day?

Now she could go out for a stroll, to orientate herself looking like
any other visitor.

The city fitted with what she had already seen from the map: small and
centralised, in size barely larger than some market towns.  Part of it
lay within the remains of a high encircling wall, with newer
residential areas extending beyond until they petered out in
surrounding farmland.  The pedestrianised centre comprised the old High
Street, wide and straight with the giant towers of an old city gate at
one end.  A bridge, barely recognisable as such except that it gave a
brief glimpse of water with beamed houses alongside, formed part of the
same wide thoroughfare.  Mary Waldstein strolled, paused, strolled
on.

Narrow side streets fanned off here and there; one, barely wide enough
for more than a bicycle, gave a glimpse of a highly ornamented stone
gateway at its far end, leading into the cathedral precincts.  She
turned her steps that way as if casually, pausing for a moment to
glance back along the main thoroughfare.  It was June, tourist season,
the city's visitors forming a sea of bobbing heads all along the wide
street.

Back there, up the hill which lay beyond the looming arch of the
ancient city gate, would lie the university and its campus: modern
buildings surrounded by woodland and open fields.

Simeon would be up there now, mapping out the place in his head.  Later
a final choice would be made: where was the best and most vulnerable
point for action?  Up at the university, or down here, at the
cathedral?

Anyone watching might have supposed Mary Waldstein to be particularly
interested in cathedral architecture.  She spent some considerable time
studying the main doorway which led out into the precincts, and
inspected with interest how open this side of the cathedral was.  It
was laid out to grass and paths in the main, with a row of tall,
narrow, pastel-painted houses closing off one side.  Two of these
houses had been turned into the Cathedral Gift Shop.

Inside the cathedral itself where her steps led her a few moments
later, Mrs Waldstein seemed less interested in the beauty of the
soaring arches than in the many doors which led outside again - to the
cloisters and chapter house; to and through the Thomas a Becket Chapel,
down a flight of steps, and thence to the famous King's School which
provided the choir for the cathedral; down into the crypt and out
through the door which led outside from there...

At last she turned back through the main body of the cathedral, and
went out the way she had entered.  She paused again to make a further
study of the porched south-west doorway, the one most generally used.

Finally she seemed to have seen enough, and strolled away, by a
different route, up a path through the precincts which led to the
Queningate.

This took her to the top of the town.  The ring road surrounding the
grey flint city walls was busy - and uninteresting, it seemed.  She cut
away from it and took the next right turn to lead her back towards the
centre.  Soon she was near the cathedral precincts again, she realised,
though this time outside them: they were rendered invisible to her from
here by a street of shops backed up against their surrounding wall.

She began to walk down, then saw a coffee shop in a side street.  It
was commonplace, with plate glass, small indoor tables, tea or coffee
offered in plain white cups and sold along with cardboardlooking
pastries.  In this street cars were allowed to pass on their way round
to the top of the town.  It seemed a good place to pause for a while
and sit over a cup of coffee with her tourist guide book open on her
knee, and the street immediately outside to look over.

She took a seat at an empty table and was brought her order.

A handbill pinned up on one wall, its curling edges suggesting it had
been fixed there for some time, asked for information about a missing
teenage girl.  She turned her eyes away indifferently and gazed out
through the wide window.  A young policeman in uniform had paused to
give directions to a passerby, and a tiny curl of scorn stirred in her
mind.  If he knew who sat within twenty feet of him.  . . But the
English were so insular that the Widow's reputation probably had not
even reached them.  Well, it would before long...

She watched while someone else came up to the helmeted constable,
standing hidden behind him for a moment.  Then a movement brought her
into view, and at the same time she turned full face.

The Widow froze, disbelief hammering like a blow through her brain.

The Brigadier's wife...

It wasn't possible.  But the memory, vivid, almost hallucinatory, came
roaring out of the past - that face, that slim figure, that short sweep
of blonde hair falling across the forehead...

It couldn't be so.  It was almost thirteen years ago!  The woman
wouldn't even look like that now.  It must be a chance likeness - or
her imagination!  She found she was automatically shading her face with
her hand - but beneath it her eyes were fixed on the girl across the
road, who moved a little, asking the constable another question.  Then
she raised her eyebrows, smiled, prepared to move briskly away.  Now
she looked younger than the Brigadier's wife had been, even then; only
by a few years, perhaps, but it was definitely a more youthful version
of the same face.  Yet it was still that face, shockingly recognisable,
too clear to mistake; her gestures and movements catching the echo
too.

Who?

The older daughter?  The one she had disliked so much, though secretly,
for her easy social manner, for the attention she could always command
without even trying, for her endless friends?

The young woman outside had gone - no, she was just a bit further down
the street, and leaning in through the window of a police patrol car.

Familiarly.  Then she pulled open the back door and stepped in, as if
that was familiar too.

Could it be the daughter?  She must be about the right age ... Gone
now, driven away.  But what was she doing here?  She might well be
living in England now, why not - but in this county, this city?

A trap... No, reason reasserted itself nobody could know that much, or
have enough inside information for a trap to be set.  They had been too
careful.

But this was no random likeness either.  The Widow could already feel
it in her nerve-ends; against all probability, the sense of
recognition.  And recognition could go two ways.

Even the slightest risk was unacceptable.  Nothing could be left to
chance now, when a safe invisibility was vital to the success of the
contract!

The Widow's mind was suddenly working again, ice-cool and steady.  She
must act on the supposition that there was an ill coincidence, and the
girl actually lived here.  That meant everything would have to be
replanned...

The girl had gone off in a car, so it should be safe enough for the
Widow to walk back along the pedestrianised main street, amid the
covering crowds.

Mary Waldstein strolled back the way she had come, with the same
apparent interest in all around her.  Behind that, however, her brain
was clicking rapidly through the things to be done.  She could make no
radical alteration to her appearance, since it had already been
established with the estate agents...

Her first task must be setting someone to discover exactly who this
girl was.  Just in case there had, after all, been a mistake.

A trick of the light.  Though the Widow was sure she had been right, it
was necessary to check.  And at the same time, find out how much danger
the girl might represent to the Widow's plans.

She would send Arne.

And when he had found out the information she sought, she would know
how best to deal with this new contingency.

Chapter 9

"Thanks for the lift, fellas!  There's nothing much going on down in
town today, is there: here's hoping your shift goes on being quiet!"

Jane gave the patrol which had brought her back a cheerful wave as they
left her in front of the police station and departed to continue their
tour round.  She made for the front entrance, since it was a quicker
way in than going round the back.  She was without her own car because
she had lent it to Steve, his being temporarily out of commission.

(What was the use of having a posh engine in his old jalopy if it
didn't always go?

Just something to boast about, presumably.  Men!) Something, oddly, was
making her feel as if a goose had walked over her ....... No, it was
nothing; or more probably the constant background nag of wondering if
they were ever going to get anywhere with the Deirdre murder.  David
Crayshaw's information had filled in a hole, but it had done little
else.

The DCI had leapt into action himself on hearing the Crayshaws were
further involved.  No one lower in rank than a DI should have
interviewed David - "Tact, Sergeant Perry!"  he had said with
annoyance.  "I really can't imagine why you didn't call me in as soon
as the boy presented himself, if Inspector Crowe was unavailable!

There are ways of handling these things!"  Dan Crowe had been
despatched to re-interview David in his own home but Morland had stated
his intention of taking David's official statement himself.  At the
Crayshaws' convenience, of course, since it would mean their calling at
the station .  . . Well, let him get on with it, she thought, since
there was small danger he'd take over the whole case once he discovered
that Deirdre MacArthy was in no way important to the Crayshaws
senior.

Only to their son.  And no doubt with his parents' (at least his
mother's) outraged shock and disapproval, now that the young people's
friendship had been discovered.

All the things David had said had already been checked and confirmed:
no solution there...

Jane paused to let various members of the public emerge from the
station entrance, and switched her mind resolutely back to the
shop-owner she had just been down to see.  His case offered little help
to her other burglary investigations.

The door of his shop showed signs that someone had tried to force it
overnight, but he thought it was only kids after cigarettes.  And since
they hadn't actually managed to break in, he had reported the incident
only to get the repair done on the insurance.  It had certainly looked
amateur and showed no match with the MO of the other break-ins on her
list.  Those seemed to have come to a stop for the moment, which
suggested that her instructions to the night-duty patrols might be
having an .......

Jane's train of thought was broken by catching the sound of her own
name as she came through the outer door.  That loud drawl asking at the
desk for "your Detective-Sergeant Perry" was surely familiar?  Virginia
Crayshaw was at the reception counter with David in tow.  It was almost
a week since Jane had last seen the boy, but he was still looking pale,
with dark lines under his eyes.  It must be today that his parents had
found it convenient for their appointment with Morland.  And the DCI
must have been hanging about in readiness, since he appeared now like a
jack-out-of-a-box, beginning a flutter of apology and obeisance which
plainly annoyed Virginia Crayshaw even more thoroughly than she was
already.  At that moment Mrs Crayshaw turned her head and saw Jane, and
she promptly switched her attention, ignoring the DCI.

"Oh, there you are, Detective-Sergeant Perry!  Is this going to take
long?  David ought to be back at school, if he'll just pull himself
together!"

"I'll be handling this case myself now," the DCI put in rapidly.

Virginia Crayshaw turned to regard him as if he were an overactive
species of insect.  "I thought the gel was the one in charge of all
this?"  she enquired rudely.  "For goodness sake, we've already had
that other detective.  Do we really have to deal with so many people
and say everything three times?"

"Sergeant Perry merely handles the routine aspects, "Well that's all
this is, isn't it?  Oh well, I suppose if we're not going right to the
top, it doesn't matter which of the Indians we speak to!"  A faint but
visible flush spread up across DCI Morland's bald pate, as she swung
round on Jane again.  "But you stay!  David's already talked to you,
and he must be tired of repeating himself!"

The DCI was ruffling up as he came back into the conversation, and if
the stiffness of a voice could kill, someone - Jane, undoubtedly, from
the poisonous glance he threw her would have a lance straight through
the heart.  "I'm sure no repetition will be necessary once David's
statement has been properly recorded, and in your presence," he said.

"But Sergeant Perry can remain, if you wish!  I suggest my office.

Will your husband be joining us?"

"No, I told him not to bother.  It's not as if David's in trouble

- except for some silly association, about which he should have known
better!"  The dismissiveness of her tone was so cruel that Jane almost
winced, but the boy just stood numbly by.

Mrs Crayshaw fixed DCI Morland with a disbelieving eye and adding
scathingly, "Good God, you're not going to suggest he has to have his
father here?  What is this place, the last bastion of male supremacy?

If so, I really must have a word with Priscilla Gray about it - your
Chief Superintendent's wife.  Now, could we please get on with it?"

She allowed the DCI to lead the way upstairs to his own office - no
ordinary interview room for the Crayshaws, apparently - and Jane
trailed along behind, as she had been instrvcted.  A tremor of
amusement was catching at her behind her carefully deadpan face, though
to find Morland's obvious discomfiture funny was undoubtedly unwise.

Once they were seated he took the boy through the typed notes of his
previous interview, now transferred to a statement form.  Virginia
Crayshaw lapsed into an impatient silence, her aggression merely
channelled into a sharply scornful, "No, indeed we did not!"  when
David confirmed that his parents had known nothing about his friendship
with Deirdre.

Glancing covertly at Virginia Crayshaw, Jane wondered if the woman knew
how rude she had sounded ever since her arrival at the station.

Probably she did, and didn't care.  She might at least show a grain of
sympathy for her son...

One young and tragically sad boy.  His answers were practically
monosyllabic.  It seemed unlikely that his air of acute misery could be
feigned.  No murderer?  Surely not.

Besides, every account of his movements tallied, and all his time,
except those few hours spent with Deirdre on the Friday night, had been
vouched for by others.

DCI Morland reached the point of asking David to read through his
statement thoroughly, then sign it on each page.  The boy did as he was
asked, listlessly, while his mother shifted irritably in her chair
behind him.  The DCI cast her a glance.

"Thank you, Mrs Crayshaw, and as you see, that didn't take long.  We
simply had to" Yes, yes, all right!  That's all, then, is it?  What
about you, Sergeant Perry?  Is there any other routine matter you want
to ask about, so that we can be sure all this is thoroughly
finished?"

"Just a couple of things."  Jane knew she was being rash when DCI
Morland was beginning to puff himself up like a pouter-pigeon, but Mrs
Crayshaw had given her an opening.

There was an omission Jane had made which had only just occurred to
her.  There was also something minor but puzzling which had come up
when she checked her notes, so she might as well go the whole hog and
cover that as well.  "David, did Deirdre give you anything that Friday
night?  A keepsake, maybe, for while you were away?"

"No.  No, she didn't.  We never..  ."  He broke off with a glance at
his mother and away again, but Jane could guess the rest of the bleak
little sentence: they never exchanged presents for fear of their being
noticed.

He hadn't been given the missing St Christopher medal, then.  "Thank
you," she told the boy, and then raised her next question.  "I was told
by someone that Mr Crayshaw was out playing in a golf tournament with
his son on the Saturday after Deirdre disappeared.  That must be a
mistake, I suppose?

Considering that David was abroad?"

"David has a fourteen-year-old brother.  He's retarded and lives in a
home."  Virginia Crayshaw's voice was suddenly very crisp - but she
recovered herself quickly, and went on with something like her usual
scornful drawl.  "Very thorough of you, Sergeant, but that would have
been our younger son Jeremy.  Mind you," she added with a curl of her
lip, ""golf tournament" is an exaggerated term for the simple game they
would have been playing.  But then Tony's no golfer anyway!"  She came
to her feet in a neat angry movement, a touch of colour in her
cheeks.

"Now that really is all, I imagine?  Oh, David's car - we drove here in
it, since you made that request to search it or something.  It's parked
on your forecourt with the keys inside.  Presumably someone downstairs
is capable of calling us a taxi home!"

"I don't think we really need to look at David's car, since everything
seems to be perfectly satisfactory," Morland began, looking piqued, and
glancing at Jane to show she must be responsible for this unnecessary
detail.  "Really, Sergeant, there's no call for that in the
circumstances."

"No, do search it, by all means.  After all I've bothered to bring
it!"

Mrs Crayshaw had interrupted him before he could finish.  "I can't
imagine what you think you might find in it, and anyway Tony's been
driving it since his was stolen by some wretched joy-riding vandals.

But do by all means look at the thing, then we can be finished with all
of this and forget it!  I assume you'll deliver it back to us in one
piece.  David, come along.  We've spent enough time here!  Oh, and
Inspector whoever-you-are," she added nastily, "try not to get this
bloody car stolen.  I've presumed it won't be, since it's parked right
outside your door!"

She swept out of the room with the boy in her wake, making it clear she
didn't care to be escorted from the station.  Jane would have liked to
make her own escape by following her, but she had not yet been
dismissed so she simply got to her feet.  An unexpected sympathy for
the DCI after Virginia Crayshaw's verbal onslaughts prompted her rashly
into speech.

"She's a rather difficult woman, isn't she, Sir?"

"Mrs Crayshaw is a valued member of the local community!"

DCI Morland snapped.  "And you really must learn not to put yourself
forward with unnecessary and intrusive questions, Sergeant, when I'm
conducting an interview!  Your behaviour in front of senior officers
Oh, go away.  I really have no patience with you!"

"Sir!"  Jane came to attention with a positively new-recruit smartness
but a bitter taste in her mouth.  She wheeled out of his office at her
best march.  Serve her right for thinking of the man for just one
moment as a fellow human being.  Dan Crowe would have responded to her
comment with a rueful beetle of his eyebrows; even Superintendent
Annerley might have cleared his throat and agreed deadpan that some
members of the public were less easy to deal with than others.  But not
Morland, oh no.  She should have been wary enough to expect that he
would take his bruised dignity out on her.  He probably would again,
once he had thought up some further reprimand

Oh, forget it.  He wasn't worth the energy!

She made her way downstairs.  So the Crayshaws had another son .  . .

and one his mother plainly didn't like mentioned.  Poor David, if all
his mother's expectations rested doubly on his shoulders for that
reason.  To be fair, maybe poor Virginia Crayshaw, too: how could Jane
know what pain lay behind that abrasive and dismissive manner?

She wasn't exactly likeable, though.  Or motherly.  Her attitude to
David's heartbreak seemed as harsh as a punishment.  No, not even that
- it was more as if she simply didn't believe in it.  As if Deirdre's
death was no more than some inconvenience to be lived through, and its
touch on the lives of the Crayshaw family merely an impertinence.

Even Michael MacArthy seemed more human than that unless of course...

"Talking to yourself?"  Steve said behind her.  "Or just swearing under
your breath?"  He came up cheerfully beside her, and pretended a look
of meek apology.  "If it's about your wheels, they're back.  Oh, and
look, about the dent in the nearside wing-" "What?"

"Gotcha.  No, it's all right, there isn't one.  I was just getting my
own back for that nasty remark you made this morning about men being in
love with their cars.  I've treated yours with every propriety, I
promise, and thanks for the loan!"  He dangled her keys in front of her
and dropped them into her outstretched hand.  "What are you brooding
about?  Has something new come up on the murder scene while I've been
out hunting villains?"

"Nothing at all, but since we're into the subject of cars, we've got
David Crayshaw's in now for examination.  Not that there's likely to be
anything to find in it."  The boy had certainly voiced no objection to
having it searched.  David's car was another place where the St
Christopher medal might, innocently, be lost.  The absence of Deirdre's
only piece of jewellery was still their only tentative clue: find that,
Jane thought - unless it did turn up under a seat in David's car - and
it could lead them to where her body had been kept.  "Oh blast, there
was one more thing I wanted to know from the Crayshaws!  Exactly when
Mr C's car was actually stolen, as opposed to reported.  Just in
case..."

"In case the boy was using that rather than his own car on the Saturday
night?  A bit convenient that it was nicked and burned out
afterwards?

I thought you'd just about ruled the boy out, though?"

"I have.  Almost.  Almost definitely.  If everything else wasn't
producing such a frustrating blank... Oh well, back to all the other
blanks on our books!  The guy hasn't managed to track down the perp for
that smash-and-grab so far, did you hear?"

"But they've nabbed the arsonist, so that's one under the department's
belt.  Caught in the act with a can of petrol and several oily rags, so
he had no choice but to cough.  To all of them, I gather.  He said he
"just likes fires!"."

Steve held open the door for her and they both passed into the CID
room.  Kenny was behind his desk, the room otherwise empty.  "Hear
you've got the fire-merchant, well done!"  Jane told him.  "Where's
Mike?  Out?"

"Canteen having an early lunch.  And Gary's in court.  Likely to be a
long hang-about, too.  He's rung to say the case before his seems to be
dragging on."  Going into court to give evidence always seemed to take
up an inordinate amount of time, as well as all too often ending up
with some judge deciding to put a villain back on the streets "for lack
of evidence.  And that was when the Crown Prosecution Service had let
them get even that far.  Sometimes all the effort they put into
catching criminals seemed singularly pointless, when society appeared
bent on weighting things in favour of the villains.  Jane pulled a face
in sympathy for Gary's plight, and then remembered there was something
she had wanted to ask the guy - whether they should wind down the
house-to-house queries about Deirdre, or plod on with them, since
nothing had come of them so far.  His cubby-hole office was empty so
she would have to catch him later.  She was abruptly aware that Kenny
was looking up at her with a query.

Yeah, sorry, what?"

"That rumour you heard about a drug scene at the university

- have you got any more on it?  Sergeant Clay was asking."

"Nothing more than the bare bones I gave him.  Sorry."

"I'll pass that back if I see him, shall I?"

"Thanks..."

That was one more thing she hadn't managed to solve yet: the question
Matty had asked her.  How far could she risk going, unofficially?

Since she was a long way from being Morland's favourite person - and
double that after the interview just now - she would really be sticking
her neck out if she took too independent a line and then things went
wrong.

She glanced across at Steve with the sudden realisation that he might
be the one to ask.  If there was a way round the rules he'd know it,
and he knew how to keep mum, too.  Yes, she would ask him, next time
she got him alone.

"Oh, there was another message for you, Sarge, sorry!"

Kenny again, stretching a little, shifting on his chair.  "Let me just
get it right.  Inspector Grainger says, Major Dalkeith says, hi."  On
the phone.  That's it.  Sounds a bit mysterious, doesn't it?  Now wait
a minute, Major Dalkeith, isn't he the one who...?"

"My cousin," Jane said firmly, cursing Dennis and well aware from
Kenny's expression that word had gone thoroughly round of their
affectionate greeting in full public view.  If there were comments,
they certainly wouldn't stop if the idiot was going to start sending
her messages via senior officers.  "I'm sure you know - since there are
never any secrets in a cop-shop - that he's Special Branch.  He happens
to be a relative of mine as well.

We grew up together and I hadn't seen him for ages.  OK?

Just in case there are any other rumours going round!"

"Rumours, Sarge?  In a place full of detectives?  Never!"

"That'll be the day!"

Kenny gave her a grin.  He was one of the easiest of people to work
with, too pragmatic to care who gave him orders as long as he was
allowed to get on with things in his own way.

Which was usually slow but steady.  Yes, I did hear it was a Special
Branch visit," he added.  "Some foreign royal coming next month, isn't
it?  Three weeks' time?  Just when I'm off on leave.

We're taking the kids out of school early to go camping in Dorset!"

"Sooner you than me, but we'll try to keep things quiet so you don't
miss your holiday!"  Jane knew it was the first year for ages that
Kenny had managed to swing a summer break, instead of having to wait
for a quieter time of the year when the city was less crowded and,
therefore, less prone to crime.  "No, it's all right, I don't think
they'd bother to put on extra security patrols for this visit!  It's
not as if there's going to be a street procession and all the
pickpockets out-" -" n The ringing of the phone interrupted her.  She
picked it up before Steve could reach for it.  "DS Perry, CID room.

Yes, OK, give me the details and I'll take them down."

A house break-in; CID presence requested, please, if anyone was
available.  It had to take precedence, even though Jane had been
debating with herself whether to go to the Incident Room and simply nag
some answer out of the meagre collected facts.  She could delegate, of
course... No, she would take this one herself, and fish Mike out of his
early lunch to go with her.  He was probably only flirting with the
canteen staff anyway.

"Tell the gov this is where I am when he gets back from wherever he
is!"  she told Steve, and handed him the scribbled details.  "Tell him
I've got Mike with me as well.  Oh, and see that someone does look at
David Crayshaw's car, will you?  It's a specialist job, but somebody
ought to be at it!"

She couldn't spend all her time on Deirdre.  It might be the most major
case she had got, but already other things had to intervene so that it
was like juggling, keeping all the balls in the air.  Hercule Poirot
never had that problem, she thought wryly.  He was allowed to sit still
and "exercise the little grey cells".

She soon found herself exercised in a different way.  They had barely
arrived, in a road of detached modern houses tucked away at the back of
the St Stephens area, when a running figure darted out from behind a
hedge with a uniformed copper in hot pursuit.  Jane leapt out of one
side of her car, Mike out of the other to offer a flanking movement as
the figure sped towards them, swerved, and fled past Jane to dive down
the side path of a house.  "Get round and cut him off!"  she yelled to
Mike, and saw the uniform change direction too as she set off fleetly
after their quarry.  He had made a bad choice, she saw, as she spotted
him trying to hurl himself at a high fence at the far end of a
well-kept garden.  They believed in good, tall, solid fencing around
here and there was no convenient rear gate, either.  If she could get
to him before he managed to scrabble his way right up and over, she
would have him by the legs at least

Mike got to him just before she did, his gangly form appearing over the
side-fence near the end and his long legs taking him speedily the rest
of the way.  The uniformed copper arrived over the opposite side-fence
just as Mike was pulling their quarry down.  There was one vicious
attempt to kick him off, but an expert twist from Mike had the young
man down on the ground with the DC's knee across his thighs and one arm
wrenched up behind him in a disabling armlock.

"He was hiding in an outside lean-to.  We reckon he's the perp who did
the break-in, then the householder came back and she must've disturbed
him without knowing.  He got out the back and hid..."

The uniformed copper was out of breath as he proffered the
explanation.

He pulled his handcuffs off his belt and passed them down to Mike, who
clipped them in place after yanking the second arm backwards to join
the first.  He kept a knee across their captive's thighs with a
threatening growl as another kick was attempted.  "I suppose he's your
collar now," the young constable added, looking a touch aggrieved.

"No, you would have got him in another minute."  Uniform always seemed
to think CID was out to grab all the kudos.

Half of another uniformed figure appeared, puffing, above the fence
from which they had just yanked their prisoner, to prove Jane's
point.

"Or you can share it between you," she added, in case Mike was feeling
hard done by.  "Let him up, Mike, and let's see who we've got!  Well,
well.  If it isn't the person who had all those alibis last time we had
him down at the station!

And a nice little record for petty pilfering too.  You've landed
yourself in it good and proper this time, haven't you, Darren!"

"Prove it," the young man snarled defiantly, trying to shake the rat's
tails of dirty yellow hair out of his eyes.

"That bag you left in the lean-to's going to prove it," the uniform the
other side of the fence told him, adding, "With a pair of rubber gloves
lying on top of it, too, which will have your prints all over them!

You had to leave in too much of a hurry, didn't you?"

"All right, read him his rights and take him away.  We'll follow you
with this bag and gloves when I've had a word with the householder.  It
looks like everyone's lucky day - except Darren's!"

Taking over the mopping-up operations, Jane hoped the uniformed boys
wouldn't take it amiss when they found CID monopolising Darren on his
arrival at the station.  Because it did sound very like the MO of that
string of minor burglaries she'd been looking into, and about which
Darren Smith had been questioned before.  He had obviously changed his
time of day, because there had been a regular trickle of mid-evening
break-ins before, in houses where the owners had gone out for the
evening.

The change of timing could be because she had noticed a pattern and had
instructed the patrols to make themselves obvious at certain times in
certain streets.  It would really be a turn-up for the book if she was
right, and he could hardly rig an alibi this time.

She would stick to her guarantee that uniform could have the credit for
the collar, but it did look as if her cleanup rate might suddenly have
taken a turn for the better.

If it could just take a turn for the better over Deirdre too...

As soon as she walked into the station she knew by a buzz that
something had happened.  It was the sergeant in the charge-room who
told her, when she went there first with the evidence for him to log
in.

"DI Crowe's in the Incident Room and he wants you in there as soon as
you're back.  There's another dead girl.  Another body."

Chapter 10

"Tied up, slashed up, dumped from a car.  They found her quite quickly
this time.  She was in a skip."

"Where?  On our patch?"

"No, Deal."  Dan Crowe fixed a marker into the map on the wall and drew
a red circle round it.  "Three of them we've got now... It's a
multiple, isn't it?  And a nutter.  Bloody fucking hell."

Jane looked at the pattern made by the markers: a triangle with the
city at its apex.  Two near the sea, one inland, but all within twenty
miles of each other.  "What's the exact MO this time?"  she asked.

"What I said.  Tied and slashed like the Dover girl, folded up and
dumped out of a car like our girl.  Must have been.  The skip was on
waste land next to a site where they're building some new houses.  Must
have been dumped at night.  The ground's all churned up anyway with
tyre tracks from the builders' machinery," Dan Crowe added
disgustedly.

"We haven't got much more than that yet.  They just let us know
straight away because they knew we'd got one too.  Foreign girl this
time.  Elise something.  Plenty of identification on her."

"Can we be sure it's not a copycat?  There's been plenty in the local
press."

"And they'll all be baying after us for sure, with this one!  No, it
isn't a copycat.  One thing they did tell us, her face is marked same
as the Dover girl.  Two vertical slashes on each cheek."  That was a
detail which had been carefully kept out of the press.  The DI glanced
at Jane.  Yes, I know, not the same as ours, but we're going to have to
reckon he was interrupted with our girl.  We'll be coordinating all
three from now on.  It'd be too much of a coincidence if we had two men
who liked killing young girls running loose in one area, wouldn't it?

So let's just pray we can get this fucking nutter before he does it
again!"

He was being unusually loquacious, for him.  Had he got a daughter?  A
ten-year-old girl, Jane remembered, as well as two boys, one older and
one younger.  She gazed at the map again.  Three points, that close
together.  Yes, it did look as if they'd got what was every police
force's nightmare - a multiple, irrational, motiveless killer.  Someone
all the harder to track because he had no particular connection with
his victims, so might strike anywhere.  He - yes, it was surely a
man.

Somehow women didn't seem to go in for reasonless murder... or when
they very occasionally did, the victims weren't of their own sex.

The new information made a nonsense out of all the careful checking
they had been doing over Deirdre.  There was a different aspect to
things now.  . . What they had achieved wasn't a complete waste,
however: there were valuable facts there, eliminations.  Besides, the
killer might just as well be based here as at Dover or Deal.  Or
somewhere within easy reach of all three.  It certainly made sense for
the different divisions to coordinate and pass as much knowledge to and
fro as possible.

Work in the Incident Room was stepped up again, as what came in over
the next couple of days gave them a clearer picture of the new
victim.

Elise Ducherain; French; nineteen; over here to learn English.  In fact
she had only just arrived.

She had been dead for four days by the time she was found.

Her body had been wrapped up in blue plastic sheeting before it was
dumped in the skip, but showed the same knife slashes and strangulation
marks as the Dover girl.  There were no immediate signs of rape.  Her
torn clothes and a small patchwork handbag had been bundled up in the
plastic wrapping with her, the handbag making identification easy since
it contained her passport.  She was blonde, green-eyed, petite, and had
been at least moderately pretty.  There was no indication of where she
had been killed, but it was estimated that she had been dumped very
shortly afterwards.

The facts went into the computer, and on to a new set of collators'
cards which had been widened to include details of all three
killings.

Jane set herself to study all of them and to check for comparisons.

She was engaged in that in a quiet corner of the Incident Room,
glancing up occasionally with frowning concentration at the three sets
of details which' Rachel Welsh was now reorganising into sections on
the wall, when Steve hove up behind her.

"Thought you'd be in here... Well done about your burglar.

I hear Darren Smith's going to plead to all sixteen, on the advice of
his brief!"

"Men, yes, I heard.  It's good, isn't it?  Oh, did someone take David
Crayshaw's car back?"  Deirdre's missing St Christopher had not been in
it; there had been one long, curly brown hair in the crease of the back
seat, but that was all.  If it had been in the boot - but that was an
irrelevance now, anyway.

"The car's been returned."  He seemed to be hovering, but while she was
still wondering why, he pulled out the chair next to her and sat
down.

His head close to hers, he spoke with a deliberate quietness.  "Look,
can we get certain things straight?

There's something going on which certainly wasn't my idea, and-"
"What?

Hang on a minute.  Rachel, leave a space so that we can put lines
between the three girls if we find anywhere they connect, will you?  I
want to go down to Deal and see the new girl's body for myself, I
should think the guy will OK it!"  she added, her attention returning
to Steve.  "It might be interesting to have a proper look at what she
had with her, too.  She didn't know anybody over here, by the way.

I've talked to the Police

Judiciaire in her home town and they were quite sure of that.

Apparently her parents said'

Yes, all right, but can we talk about this other thing first?"

Steve glanced round, but both the WPC and the civilian currently
manning the telephone had their attention elsewhere.

"Jane.  Listen.  Humpty-Dumpty's come up with the fact that I was made
up to sergeant before you were.  So he's decided I'm technically in
charge under the DI.  He had me in and told me it should have been that
way all along.  I told him it wasn't' Jane had been staring at him.

"Don't stick your neck out," she interrupted, tight-lipped, but with
the beginnings of a seethe inside her.  "He's... even right, I
suppose."

"Is he hell!  I'm only here on a temporary posting, for Christ's
sake!

You know damn well he's just doing this as a move against you!  What
have you done to him lately?  Besides being a woman, of course!"

She had been there to watch while Virginia Crayshaw treated him like an
annoying underling, and had even been foolish enough to show she'd
noticed.  It seemed a long time ago, though it was only two days.  This
was obviously Morland's petty revenge.  Jane had been treated as Dan
Crowe's senior sergeant ever since Vern's departure, and now the DCI
was stepping in to decree a demotion.  A minor one maybe since he was
unable to manage anything better, but... She looked at Steve dumbly,
but with a spark in her eye.  However, since she had made no answer, he
was going on.

"Anyway I'm just warning you, but it wasn't my idea, and it is not
going to happen if I have anything to do with it.  Fair do's, and I'm
not going to have that stupid bastard playing out his hang-ups through
me!  So I went to the guy-" You shouldn't have.  You're senior, so
that's that."

"No it bloody well isn't!  Would I care?  Come on, seriously!  I was
told to work to you from the moment I arrived, which was clear enough,
and no sweat off my nose!  You're local, I'm not.  You were already in
place, I'm the new boy.  If you came on to my patch, now..  ."  He
grinned at her, then sobered, looking tough.  "I wouldn't be passing
this on except that you've got a right to know what's being said - and
to keep your head down until it's over, if you're wise!  The guy's up
there with HumptyDumpty now, and having the devil of a row.  You can
hear raised voices even through closed doors.  The Super's name is
being bandied about, I rather think!"

She could see now why he was keeping his voice low.  "The guy's going
out on a limb for me?  Wow," she said, her own voice equally quiet.

But grateful.  And a little surprised, too, although Dan Crowe had
always been a good boss to work for, and a fair one.

"I think it was an explosion waiting to happen, don't you?

And if you just chance to be the detonator... well, like I said, keep
your head down!'

Yes, it won't make me any more popular in certain quarters, will it?

But thanks for the warning.  And for - oh, not just letting it ride."

"Are you crazy?  I'm after your body, my girl, not your rank given half
a chance!"  He said that deliberately, if even more softly, and with a
wicked gleam in his eye.  It was the most outright declaration of
intent he had made yet, and, she thought, was said more to defuse her
gratitude than to be taken seriously.  It had the effect of making her
laugh, anyway.

"Let's say I owe you one, but not that one, in case you should think
otherwise!"

"I don't.  And you don't.  I don't play by those sort of rules!"  He
meant what he said, too, she could see, and was a little put out by her
answer.  "If I can't get what I want by charm alone..."

"Then you go elsewhere.  Bye bye!  No, seriously, I am grateful

- and you won't be the most popular person around either, will you!"

"Suits me," he said with careless cynicism.  He must have the reactions
of a cat, as she had noticed before, because WPC Rachel Welsh had
hardly moved into an orbit which might be within earshot when he was
flipping over one of the collators' cards, and let his voice drift up
to a normal level.  "So we're looking for any possible link between the
three victims, right?

Catholics?  What was the Dover girl, do we know?"

"No, but Elise Ducherain was a French Protestant anyway.

My Police Judiciaire contact happened to mention it.  She was a regular
churchgoer and the local minister, or whatever they call them over
there, apparently came in with the parents.

That poor child was away from home for the first time, and she'd only
just got here..."

The only pattern at the moment was that the three were all young
girls.

There didn't seem to be anything else to tie them together; just three
random victims.

No one sent for Jane when she finally emerged from the Incident Room.

No one mentioned a change in the power structure of the department,
either, though the guy was in his office flipping through some files.

He glanced up at Jane through his open door but took no further notice
of her than to give an acknowledging grunt.  He must have won... She
was too wise to try thanking him.  It was better, as Steve had said, to
keep her head down and look as if she didn't know anything.

When she tapped on his door it was solely to ask permission to go and
visit the Deal Incident Room on a bit of liaison, and take a look at
Elise Ducherain's body while she was down there.

"Good idea.  You can go now and take the rest of this afternoon.

I'll give them a ring to say you're on your way."  His prompt answer
made her suspect he thought it was a good thing for her to be somewhere
else while things cooled off, though he covered it by adding, "Saves us
having to wait for the rest of their info if you go and look at
everything first hand!  Try to get something on what their full autopsy
report's going to say.

And see what they've got coming in from forensic.  Oh, and bring back
the photos they promised us, since they haven't turned up yet!"

"Right, Guv.  Could I take Sergeant Ryan with me?  Or do you need him
here?"

"Both of you go.  I can't see anything here to make either of you
indispensable.  Gary!"  he yelled in the direction of the chunky young
DC who was in the CID room for once instead of out doing legwork.

"Come in here and explain this one to me, will you?  Go on, then,
Sergeant, on your way!"

Jane gave the quiet Gary a smile as she passed him, and went to dig
Steve out and tell him they were going on a trip to the coast.  Maybe
it was just as well for both of them to be out of the building for the
rest of the afternoon.  Flattering to think that two of the men she
worked with had dug their heels in over Morland's campaign against
her.

Whatever Steve's stated motives, it was far more likely that his rebel
streak had surfaced against petty bureaucracy.  And he was probably
right in thinking that the guy's reaction had been an explosion waiting
to happen.  All the same, the knowledge that she had backing was a
comfort, and an acknowledgement that she had been doing her job.

They went in Steve's car - mended again - since he had opted to do the
driving.  They took the road out through the villages before circling
to swing south; a pretty run, passing through village streets of beamed
cottages, alternating with the tall poled greenery of hop fields
nestling up to the road.  Deal, when they reached it, had neatly pretty
houses along its flat sea-front, looking for all the world like an
advertisement for Quality Street chocolates.  After that they had to
backtrack into less decorative areas, and after several wrong turnings
and a pause to ask directions - which made it fortunate, as Steve said
with amusement, that they weren't in a marked police car, or where
would the public's faith be?  - they finally found their destination;
the building site where this latest body had been found.  A temporary
Incident Room had been set up next to it, in a mobile.

Work was at a halt on this side of the building site probably
unwillingly, Jane guessed, to judge from the sour look of a foreman in
a hard hat who was wandering about.

Trailing marker-ribbons were tacked up in relevant places, while some
overalled coppers were doing another search of the ground.

They found a Chief Inspector Rivers from Dover in charge in the
Incident Room, which showed the same proliferation of tacked up maps,
notes and photos as theirs did, though here with a different victim.

Yes, we had a call to say you were coming down," the Chief Inspector
said, welcoming them in.  You want to see how much of what we've got
ties in with yours?  Our girl's body is at the mortuary in Dover: we've
passed the word on that you'll be going there next.  Nasty business,
all of it, isn't it?  I've got my men doing another search to see if
they can find the weapon, but I'm not holding out any hopes.  Come and
have a look round, and I'll tell you our end of things as we go."

The skip was back in its original place, though it was only when it had
been moved to be emptied that the body had been found the sudden
glimpse of pale human feet protruding from a blue bundle as it was
tipped with the other rubbish into a hole marked for infill.  The man
doing the tipping had promptly pulled back all the levers to stop the
cascade, and yelled for his nearest mates to call the foreman.  "Lucky
he was sharp-eyed or she'd have been under a heap of broken bricks and
gone," Chief Inspector Rivers said, adding, "she was about halfway down
in the skip, and they don't empty them until they're full right to the
top."

"How did he get her in there?"  Jane asked, knowing the "he" would be
taken as she'd meant it - the killer.  She looked at the size of the
skip, measuring it with her eyes.  A dead body, even of a slight girl,
would be an inert weight.  "He'd have to be strong.

That's quite a lift."

"We've got a theory about that.  A plank propped up to the side of the
skip, and a wheelbarrow.  There were plenty of both about.  With the
girl folded up as she was, and bundled up in the plastic sheeting, it's
probably the only feasible way he could have done it.  Then he threw an
old door down on top of her, we think, and that protected the body from
getting battered by all the other stuff which was put on top
afterwards.  Then -we suppose - he moved the plank away and got back in
his car and drove off.

Bastard," the Chief Inspector added expressionlessly.  "The building
site isn't fenced off, as you can see.  There are only three houses
going up, and the contractors didn't think the expense against the cost
of pilfering was worth it.  We've had all the men from the site in, of
course, but they're all in the clear.  Either our murderous friend is
local and knows the area, or he simply drove up this road because it
looked promisingly empty, then saw the skip as a handy place of
concealment."

"Does the plastic sheeting come from here, too?"  Steve asked, looking
round thoughtfully.

Chief Inspector Rivers shook his head.  "He must have brought her here
already in it, we think.  It's standard stuff that builders use, but
definitely not from this site, according to the foreman.  All theirs
are yellow from a particular supplier.  This was a blue one so he must
have got it from somewhere else.

It's obviously old and well used, too, with any number of different
prints on it.  We're following it up, of course, but..."

His shrug suggested there wasn't much hope to he had there: anyone who
wanted to could probably pick up a discarded sheet like that almost
anywhere.  With Deirdre it had been black plastic sacks, Jane
thought.

He was clever enough, this man, to use things which were commonplace
and untraceable.

Except in the case of the Dover girl, left to lie where she had been
killed, he also seemed able to find places to commit his murders which
were untraceable too.  So far.  There was no point in asking Chief
Inspector Rivers if his men had found any empty or derelict house with
tell-tale bloodstains in it: he would have said so if they had.

There was other information, though, some of it new enough not to have
been passed on yet.  They knew Elise must only just have arrived in
England; a Hovercraft ticket from Boulogne to Dover was found in her
bag, with a date stamped on it which fitted the estimated day she
died.

She had been coming to attend a summer language course at Ramsgate but
had never reached it.  They also knew that she had asked at the
Hovercraft enquiry desk how to get to Ramsgate from Dover and that she
had subsequently been seen out on the open road trying to hitch a
lift.

Seen, merely; no one was admitting to having picked her up.

A nineteen-year-old girl should have had more sense than to be thumbing
lifts on her own.

"It's something, anyway," Chief Inspector Rivers said.  "We're hoping
we might find someone who actually saw her getting into a car or a
lorry.  She certainly never arrived at the school in Ramsgate: they
just thought she must have decided not to come after all.  So it looks
as if that's how she met our killer.  Your girl wasn't hitching, I
suppose?"

"Not that we've heard or been able to establish.  She wouldn't have, I
think: she wasn't going far."  Or not that they knew.  "We haven't had
any report of her being seen hitching," Jane amended.

"Have you seen enough?  That's all we've got for now except for her
body, which you'll find at the mortuary, as I said.  The wounds look as
if they came from the same knife used on the Dover girl, or certainly
something similar.  That's one reason why I don't hold out much hope of
finding it here ...

Unless he keeps a set of them."  His voice was level, and trying hard
to be dispassionate, Jane thought.  He added, "He's a real bastard,
this one, as you'll see when you look at the body.

Elise's clothes and possessions are still with our forensic people.

You can call there after the mortuary.  It's upstairs in the same
building, and anyone will tell you how to find it."

He handed over the packet of photographs Dan Crowe had been asking for,
and then Jane and Steve left him.  Jane promised to pass on anything
they learned in the Deirdre investigation, and then they were on their
way.  The next call promised to be the least pleasant... but had to be
done.  And if it was possible to coax answers out of a pathologist who
had found no time yet to send in a written report, that had to be done,
too.

The pathologist was in fact absent, having apparently been called
away.

A mortuary assistant took them into the emptiness of white tiles,
glaring strip lights, and long working-tables from which Jane had to
make an effort not to avert her eyes, although they were scrubbed and
vacant at the moment.  The air was chilly and held a whiff of some
strong disinfectant.

Their white-overalled escort consulted a list and then produced both
Elise Ducherain and Catherine Jones - the Dover victim - out of the
cold store which took up the whole of one wall.  He slid the heavy
metal shelves out with as cheerful an indifference as if he was showing
off carcasses of beef.  A daily exposure to death must have a hardening
effect, and he flicked the sheets back with the same casualness, then
simply stood by, whistling through his teeth.

Jane was aware of Steve's silence behind her as she made herself stare
at the two corpses, then signed for the covering sheets to be
replaced.

She cleared her throat to ensure her voice sounded cool and official.

"Thanks.  I suppose it's no use asking if the full autopsy report
on...

on the new one's been done yet?"

"Ducherain?  I wouldn't know.  The doc'll send everything in when she's
finished writing it all up, I expect.  All I do is work here!"  he
said, with a pointed glance at the clock as if it was approaching his
going-home time.

"Right, then we won't keep you.  Forensic's upstairs, we've been
told.

If you'll just point us the way?"

"Up two flights of stairs, first right, second left.  Don't know if
you'll find anyone's still there, though," he said, with little
interest, and was watching the hands of the clock and picking his teeth
as they withdrew.

Forensic seemed less absorbed in time-keeping and felt more like a
police department in spite of being a lab manned by white coats.  One
of these stopped what he was doing to come and greet them.  "The
Ducherain girl?  I can show you most of her things, though we haven't
finished all the tests on her clothes yet.  Come through to the
office."  He led them into a small and cluttered room and pushed
various police and medical manuals aside from the top of a desk.  "Have
a look at what was in her bag while I fetch some of her clothing.

We've gone over this lot thoroughly already, so you can touch if you
want to!"

He fished a patchwork leather bag from a box and tipped its contents
out on to the cleared space on the desk.  Jane studied the small
array.

A handkerchief with an E embroidered on one corner.  A maroon EEC
passport, new looking, with no stamps in it - they rarely bothered on
the ferries nowadays for European nationals - containing the details
they already knew, plus the standard photograph which had caught the
girl looking solemn and slightly anxious.  A crumpled Hovercraft
ticket; a half-smoked packet of cigarettes and a matchbook; a lipstick
in a plastic cover with a French maker's name on it; an unopened tube
of peppermints, also French.  A purse with French money in one side of
it and English in the other.

"She had forty pounds with her.  She shouldn't have needed to hitch,"
Steve said dispassionately.

"She just chose to save the fare, I suppose.  Those are English
cigarettes, I wonder when she bought them?"  Jane stretched out her
hand to pick them up, then lifted the small matchbook instead to study
it with a frown.  "These are Dutch.  See the writing?  She wasn't on a
Dutch boat, was she?  No, by the ticket it was an English one.  I
wonder why Dutch matches?"

"Probably bought them on board.  I expect what they have there is
multinational.  The kid didn't carry much around with her, did she?

Perhaps everything else is packed away in her luggage.  She was
supposed to be coming for six weeks, wasn't she?"

"Where is the rest of her luggage?  Somewhere here I suppose."

"No, it's missing," the forensic officer said, reappearing in the
doorway with something bundled over his arm.  "We asked for everything,
but this is all we got.  There certainly was a suitcase, because she
was seen hitching with it, but it hasn't turned up.  An oversight, if
someone's still got it.  Though it would be easy enough to dispose of
after the killing, I suppose.

There's always the sea.  Here, these are some of the clothes she was
wearing.  Some of the slashes went right through, as you can see from
the bloodstains, and some didn't.  It was a long narrow blade.  That's
a puncture wound, there, and another two here.  This is a piece of her
knickers, the top edge.  There aren't any semen stains that we've found
yet, which is a pity, because if there were we could send that away for
a DNA profile.  Gets his kicks this way but can't manage the other is a
possible guess.  All the bloodstains so far match with hers, so that's
not going to help you either.  The finger-marks on her throat suggest
leather gloves, we think.  Oh, here's a bit of rope she was bound with
- the blood on that's hers too."

He had spread out the tattered remnants for them to see, his voice
perfectly factual as he delivered his chilling list.

Perhaps that was the only way of handling the job.  Jane pushed away
the memory of what she had seen downstairs, but found herself
swallowing hard before she spoke.

"She was still tied up when she was found, wasn't she?  Was the other
one, Catherine Jones?  Sorry, we've had the report but just at this
minute I can't remember."

"Um, let me think.  No.  No, we didn't have any rope from that one.

They said she had been tied, but there wasn't anything still there.

That's the one we thought had been done more slowly - stains in her
clothing from different times, that kind of thing."  His voice was
still unemotional.  "This death looks to have been much quicker.  So,
is there anything else you want to ask?  I think I've given you
everything we've got, bar the full test results which I'm afraid I
can't-" "No, that's fine, thank you."  Jane glanced briefly at Steve,
who made a motion of agreement.  "Thanks for your time.  It was nice of
you to let us come and bother you."

"No problem - glad if I've been of help.  What we usually get is phone
calls saying Where the hell is that report, what on earth have you been
doing, we needed it yesterday, so it's a nice change to have someone
actually come in and see what we've got to contend with!"  The forensic
officer gave Jane a pleasant, crooked grin.  "See you again, maybe!"

It wasn't the best thing he could have said, with its echo of a future,
similar occasion.  Nevertheless, Jane managed a smile, and to thank him
again with an added, "I'll remember in future about the phone calls!"

She and Steve went down the stairs and out into the fresh air, and she
was gulping an unusually large amount of it into her lungs when she
felt him seize her elbow.

"Come on, we're going for a drink!  There must be somewhere due to
open..  ."  She saw him glance at his watch and then remember.  "Blow
me, I still get caught by the change in the licensing laws!  All right,
then, there's bound to be somewhere near here that's open all day!"

"Should be.  You drink, I'll drive, if you like"No, you have a large
one, and I'll have a coffee, if you insist on being picky.  Or we'll
both have one and then something to soak it up.  No one's desperate for
us to get back, and by now we're basically off duty!"

He was looking grim-faced, so Jane didn't argue.  He drove through the
town until he found somewhere large and noisy.  A loud celebration
party at one end of the public bar was just beginning; there was also a
juke box blaring out a steady stream of old Elvis hits, with two games
machines adding a whining and bleeping background.  Glancing at Steve
as he downed a whisky - a single, rather surprisingly if he was feeling
the way she was - Jane wondered whether, if he had been on his own
familiar ground, he would have gone in search of a strip club and spent
the rest of the evening whooping it up in the broadest possible
company.  At least the noise of the pub made rational conversation
impossible.

She thought she had pulled herself together by the time she had downed
the large brandy he had planted in front of her without asking.  And a
second smaller one while he had a beer.  She even began, as they
finally came out of the pub, "They might find that luggage..."

"Not now, OK?  There must be a McDonald's in this town, so let's go and
look for it.  I quite fancy a large bun.  And some junk-food chips, of
course."

Neither of them referred further to any aspect of the case, while he
dragged her all round the centre of the town in search of the familiar
logo; not then, and not when they were seated at a small round plastic
table with polystyrene cartons in front of them.  It was quite a lot
later by the time they finally started back, the summer light dusking
down.  Leaning back in the passenger seat, Jane reminded herself that
as Steve had said, no one was desperate for them to get back.  So the
road from Dover was just as good as any other place to be.

Work tomorrow, more routine.  Morland to be avoided perhaps definitely
- and the next section of the fraud file to be fitted in, and those
burglaries.  . . No, those were solved, of course they were: Darren
Smith.  Well, the shop break-ins, then.  And there was something else
she had planned to do, only it had vanished from her mind at this
moment.  Steve was a good driver, as lazily accomplished at that as he
was at everything else...

Abruptly he pulled over into a lay-by and killed the engine.  She
turned to look at him in surprise, with a flatly steady question.

"Why are we stopping?"

Chapter 11

"Because you've been getting whiter and more detached for the past
hour!  Yes, I know I jumped on you earlier for mentioning the case at
all, but I was wrong, OK?  Let it out, we both need to!"

"Or I need to?  Being a woman and the frailer sex?"

"Oh, climb off that bloody wagon just for once, can't you?"  His voice
was rough but he reached over to pick up her hand, wrapping his tightly
round it.  "Stop being a professional all the time.

There's such a thing as trying too hard!  And I need a hand to hold, if
you want to know.  Who wouldn't who was even barely human, after-" "You
managed to stuff your face with food, God knows how!"  she retorted, in
a sudden scathing burst of anger.  "`Let's go and find a McDonald's, I
fancy a bun` - Jesus Christ!"

"So I turn to junk food; is that a crime?  Yes, I did see you pushing
your chips round on your plate in a ladylike fashion.

D'you think mine weren't choking me?  But I'm driving, aren't I, so fat
chance of just going out and getting pissed out of my mind!"

"Which is the answer to everything, I suppose!"

"Go on, yell at me.  At least that's better than - You won't cure
anything by going on like the Frost Queen with a splinter of ice in her
heart, or whatever that story was!  She ended up frozen right through,
as I remember it."  That he of all people should come up with a poetic
image out of a fairy-tale caught her with a faint surprise, but he was
already going on, with a jeer.  "No mere male is supposed to tell you
how to behave, and you've got to prove you're tougher than the lot of
us?"

"Is that how I seemed?"  Suddenly her anger was receding and the warmth
of his hand in hers was setting off all the other reactions she had
been so rigidly denying.  "I wouldn't mind going out and getting pissed
out of my mind myself if you want to know!  It isn't - I can't..."

"It's the worst case I've ever had to look at too.  Jesus.  I've seen
some of the things that people do, but those two bodies could make you
wonder what kind of animal, "Yeah."  Jane swallowed hard.  "Oh Christ,
Steve.  The faces most of all... and then the Ducherain girl's
clothes.

He made no answer in words, but took his hand away from hers and leaned
over to flick open the clip of her seat-belt, then pulled her close
against him with his arms wrapping right round her.  She could sense
that he needed the comfort much as she did.  She held him just as
tightly, sliding her arms round his waist under his jacket, fitting
herself against him Letting his warmth and closeness blot out
thought.

There was a deep shiver inside her which had little to do with
sexuality, more an urgent need to be close to another human being and
feel herself alive.

if they had been somewhere else than in a car, in a lay-by beside a
main road, that kind of desperate longing and hunger for forgetfulness
might have led them anywhere.  She knew when he turned his head after
several moments and began to kiss her.  Hard, mouths finding each other
instinctively, hands moving... It was he who pulled away first,
breathing heavily and with a ruflled frustration; but also with an
entirely practical gleam of regretful amusement in his eyes.

"Not the moment..."

Relaxation of tension sent her into a shaky laugh.  "No, we'd look a
pair of right nanas if a patrol car came by and stopped to see who we
were!  What shall I say... `Feeling better?`" "Better?"  His snort said
a great many things, and so did his uncomfortable shift in the seat,
but there was humour as well as acknowledgement in his face.  "Let's
just say you pack as much punch as I thought you would... Mutual?  No,
don't answer that, since this really isn't the moment!  Just get back
to your own side of the car and put your seat-belt back on!"  She did,
with a chuckle, but sobering as he turned the key to start the engine
and glanced in the wing-mirror to check for an empty road.  He was
right: this wasn't the time or the place.

But at least the shared closeness had cured that shut-off feeling, and
she could allow herself to think again.

They travelled on in a silence only broken by his switching on the
radio for background music, and were coming into the outskirts of the
city when she turned her head to look at him.

"If you drive round by the hospital, you could drop me there.  I'm too
bushed to get my car tonight, so I'll leave it at the station and walk
to work in the morning.  Why the startled look?"

"You're bushed enough to want to go to a hospital?"

"No!  Sorry, I suppose you didn't know - my flat's right beside it.

I'm not falling to pieces.  Sorry if I made you think so!"  She added,
"Take a right at the next lights and we can go up the back way.  It's a
short cut."

He followed her directions, and then pulled up outside the block she
pointed out.  She hesitated very briefly, covering her pause by
gathering her things together.  Then she asked, "D'you want to come
in?

I could find you a coffee-" "I'd like that.  But not tonight,
unfortunately.  I've just remembered I'm on a promise for a card-game
the sergeants' pool, you know?"

She knew about the weekly card-game which went on into the small hours
- and also that "sergeants" in this case ignored anyone of that rank
who happened to be female.  She didn't bother to make an acid
comment.

He was offering her a regretful shrug, his hands spread wide.

"OK, no problem, it was just a thought!"

She was already swinging her legs out of the car.  And heard him say
behind her, "Raincheck for a better time, OK?"

"Sure," Jane agreed lightly, coming to her feet.  "See you tomorrow,
then.  Enjoy your game!"

She was inside the apartment block's entrance before her sense of
humour began to re-surface, with an exasperated but acknowledging
thought: He's right, it's no time to start a relationship when every
bloody uniform sergeant is going to make assumptions if he doesn't turn
up at the card-game when he was last seen with me!  All that, and
Morland waiting to pounce?  With that bunch of gossips at the station
all too ready to speculate?  It would be the ultimate in bad timing!

She stumped up the stairs, knowing that it was even more annoying to be
aware that she had checked from the car windows and seen that none of
the flat's lights were burning.  So had known Matty must conveniently
be out...

She took herself to bed in the empty flat, tossed for a while, then
slept.  Unexpectedly without dreams of gaping wounds.

Sometime during the night she surfaced to hear Matty coming in, the
bleeper sounding, Matty going out again.  At the moment they were
having a spell of seeing nothing of each other, both intensely busy and
never somehow coinciding.  Waking finally to morning, Jane found
Deirdre rising immediately into her conscious thoughts.  And with her,
a stubborn but oddly definite feeling which said, No, that one's
different.  There may be things about it which look the same, but the
Deirdre case is different!

Like but unlike.  Maybe, in spite of everything, too unlike?  That was
something no one else seemed even to be considering now.  So thinking
that way wasn't likely to get her very far.

Except that it gave her the urge to go on following up her own
investigations, quietly, in her own time if necessary, just to prove to
herself that she had covered every possibility.  She left Matty a note
saying, Will see you when I see you???  We're out of eggs, I'll buy
some!  Maybe milk too, since what was in the fridge seemed to be well
past its sell-by date.  Then she walked down to the nick, feeling the
freshness of a blowy morning which had brought various seagulls this
far inland to toss themselves on the high breezes, or perch on
roof-ridges looking, with their fierce curved beaks, somehow sinisterly
displaced.

There were facts to be given to the Incident Room so that they could be
entered under Elise Ducherain.  Jane had already been working there for
half an hour by the time Steve put in an appearance, looking heavy-eyed
and frowsty.

"Morning, but don't say it too loud "I wouldn't dream of being so
unkind."

"I won, anyway.  John Clay still owes me a fiver, just in case he comes
in search of me!  You look as if you got a lot more sleep than I did,"
he added, managing to make it sound part-grouch, but adding a look of
appreciation.

He looked over her shoulder at the notepad where she had been
scribbling various comments and a lot of question marks, so she shared
her thinking.

"I was wondering if Elise Ducherain could have picked someone up on the
Hovercraft over from France.  We could be looking for someone who comes
from further afield, if he travels quite often... But then that doesn't
fit in with her hitching, does it?  Unless... supposing it was a ferry
worker?  She might have accepted a lift from him because she'd already
talked to him on board, so thought he seemed safe?"

"Could be, and certainly worth passing back in case they haven't had
the same idea.  If she was standing there with her thumb out, though,
why do you think she wouldn't have accepted a lift from just anyone?"

"My Police Judiciaire contact described her as a "respectable girl",
that's all.  So you'd think she'd be a bit careful about choosing a
respectable lift?  Maybe not.  I just thought, Dover, and someone last
seen on the road to Ramsgate from Dover ... None of that fits with
Deirdre, though."

"Unless it's a ferry worker who lives on our patch?"

"Yes, that's an idea!  I expect there are some who do.  They needn't
necessarily live right beside the job!  Will you put that to the guy?

Oh, I've told him that it'll be you who'll give him a written report of
yesterday, OK?  Since I'm getting all the facts entered in here!"

She well knew how much he hated paperwork.  But was feeling in no mind
to take the job over from him, when she had already given Dan Crowe a
verbal summing-up while some people were still dragging themselves in
late and hung-over.

Luckily no Morland planning meeting had been scheduled for this
morning, since he only insisted on them once a week.

There had been no summons from upstairs, either; in fact, Dan Crowe was
behaving as if life was in its usual state of normality.  The storm
about Jane's status had perhaps passed over, or was dying out in a
frustrated rumble upstairs .

Steve shot her a faintly martyred look for her brisk efficiency, winced
as if moving his eyes was unwise, and took himself off in the direction
of the CID room.

Dan Crowe looked in a little later to say that a ferry worker living
locally sounded like the first bright idea anyone had had, and added
that he'd been on to the ferry companies for a list of their
employees.

All the companies, not just the one which ran the Hovercraft Elise had
taken.  "You're the one who can jabber away in French, so get on to our
opposite numbers in Boulogne and Calais to see if they've by any chance
had any similar cases," he said, and added with an approving growl,
"Good thinking!"

"Thanks, Guv, but should I check with Dover first, to see if they've
already done all that?"

"They haven't, from what I've heard.  And if a few personnel managers
can get off their arses and send us those lists, we might have
something constructive to be doing!"

There certainly seemed little else for the Deirdre Incident Room to get
on with.  A depressing lack of information had already meant a
winding-down to minimum manning - before the Elise Ducherain case had
woken things up again.  Jane made her phone calls, but found neither
Boulogne nor Calais had anything to offer her.  They seemed grateful to
be alerted.  She exchanged pleasantries with her opposite numbers
across lines as clear as if they were next door and then rang off.

Nothing else to try, as the guy had said, until those lists came
in...

Except maybe an opportunity for a follow-up of her own, to tie up some
loose ends while things were quiet.

Other CID work offered Jane the chance to go out for a while.  She took
that option mid-morning and, an hour later, came back by a route which
would bring her past the Crayshaw estate agency.

She was counting on the idea that Anthony Crayshaw would normally go
out to lunch.  He did, emerging to walk away briskly in the opposite
direction just as Jane was approaching on foot.  That was highly
convenient of him.  There would definitely be repercussions if word got
back to Morland that Jane had been "bothering" the Crayshaws again.

She had decided to pump the agency's office manager instead.

The girl was there in the showroom, behind a desk with "Tracy Pargeter"
written in neat capitals on a sign in front of her.  There were no
customers in at the moment and she looked up with a bright smile at
Jane's arrival, plainly not recognising her immediately.

"Good afternoon, can I help you?"

"Not with a property, I'm afraid," Jane said, smiling at her.

"It's Detective-Sergeant Perry again - remember?"

"Oh yes.  I'm afraid none of the staff has thought of anything more
they can tell you.  I did say to everyone that they were to get in
touch with you if they did!"

"I really only popped in to warn you that the tabloids may start
bothering you," Jane said, giving the girl a smile.  It was a fair
enough warning, after all: there was no hope that the national press
would fail to make the tie-up between the three cases and start to
rehash everything in gory detail.  The Deal case had made the local TV
news with a fairly brief, "girl's body found..  ."  but the Kent
weeKlies had it this morning, bringing the fading Dover story back into
prominence along with it.  Any minute now some sharp-eyed reporter
would come up with Deirdre's name and the three cases would be publicly
linked, making anyone who had known any of the three girls fair game
for a "personal comment'.

"Oh, oh, I see."  Tracy was round-eyed.  She came to her feet in a
sudden hurry.  "Jill, will you take over here for the moment?

I just want a private word with the sergeant."

She ushered Jane into the rear area.  Into Mr Crayshaw's private
office, in fact.  She shut the door firmly behind them and turned to
look at Jane, appealing to her in a hushed voice and with horrified
anxiety, the words tumbling out of her.

"They won't start writing about poor David, will they?  That would be
awful!  Mr Crayshaw would be so upset if'

"We certainly shall't give out anything with David's name in it," Jane
said reassuringly, knowing it to be true.  It was interesting that
Tracy knew about David and Deirdre... She was given the reason a second
later.

"Mr Crayshaw confided in me," Tracy said, looking slightly pink.  "He's
very fond of his boys, and - Oh, you don't really think the papers are
going to start writing about it again, do you?  Or, have you caught the
murderer, is that it?  I suppose if you've got him, that's a relief,
anyway!  Who was it?  Or aren't you allowed to say?"

"Sorry, I'm not allowed to give out any information at this stage.  I
just wanted to warn you that you might get bothered by reporters."

Jane gave a sympathetic smile.  Then she added, as if suddenly
remembering, "Oh, there is a small detail you might be able to help me
with, to save me coming back and bothering Mr Crayshaw.  It's not about
Deirdre.  Just a bit of paperwork I need to clear up!  About his stolen
car.  I know when he reported it, and I know when it was found.  I just
don't seem to have a note of when he actually missed it.  Would you
know?"

"Yes, I do!  It was taken during the night of May the twenty-ninth
Friday.  It had gone by Saturday morning.  I remember because Tony said
on the Saturday that it was annoying, since he only really likes
driving his own car, but at least David's was sitting there in the
garage for him to use."  Producing the information with helpful
triumph, Tracy didn't seem to notice that she had used her employer's
Christian name.  Or perhaps she did, since the pink in her cheeks
suddenly deepened.

When she spoke again it was with a sudden air of defiance.  "All right,
I told you last time that I didn't work on Saturdays, so now you're
wondering why - Well, Tony comes to see me on Saturday nights.  We're
in love.  And if it wasn't for his bloody wife... She just uses the
fact that the money's hers to keep him under her thumb, that's all!  If
he tried for a divorce she'd demand her money back out of the business,
and then it would go under!  And besides that, he's so fond of the
boys..."

Her face was crumpling, the careful make-up threatening to smudge with
overflowing tears.

"Look, why don't you sit down?"  Jane said quickly.  "It's all right,
I'm not going to shout a private conversation around the town!"

"I wouldn't care if you did!"  Tracy dabbed at her eyes with a tissue,
her voice miserable.  And bitter.  She added at once, "No, I don't mean
that.  It'd only hurt Tony... He's such a wonderful man!  Really kind
and thoughtful.  He never forgets when it's someone's birthday, and he
brings his home-grown vegetables in for all the staff!  And he's really
sweet with Jeremy.  He doesn't try to hide the fact that he's got a
Downs Syndrome son, not like that bitch!  It was her who insisted
Jeremy had to be sent away to live in a home.  She wasn't going to
spend the extra time and attention he needs, was she!  Or let people
see him - she'd rather pretend he didn't exist!  Not like Tony.  Look-"
She dived round the desk to pull open a drawer and produced a
photograph out of it, holding it out for Jane to see.  A small posed
portrait of a smiling-faced boy with an over-wide grin, small round
eyes set on a slant, a wide head.  "You see?  He keeps this beside him
- and he goes to visit Jeremy regularly!

That cow doesn't.  She goes off and plays golf instead!  Tony doesn't
deserve a wife like that!"

"So he comes to see you, and gets what happiness he can out of that."

It was an inadequate comment, but Jane tried to make it sound
comfortingly sympathetic.  "At least you have your Saturday nights.

All of them, I hope..."

"It's been bloody difficult lately.  I think she's got him on a string
again," Tracy said bitterly - but at least picking up Jane's lead.

"That Saturday, the thirtieth, was the last time he managed to get
away!  And even then I had the curse... And besides, he was - Oh, it
doesn't matter, and I know I shouldn't be talking about him
particularly not to you."

"Why particularly not to me?  Detectives are discreet.  Anyway, let's
say I'm on my lunch-hour, and off duty.  It dawns on me," Jane said,
mildly thoughtful, "that it must have been really uncomfortable for him
when I turned up asking for details about a Saturday evening, and what
time he locked up and who was there and all that."

"The last time that girl Deirdre was here, you mean?  He was with me
that night, if that's what you're asking!"  Tracy said with a sudden
sharpness.  "I can tell you exactly when, too!  He came at eight and
left at two the next morning!"

"I wasn't asking," Jane said, smiling pacifically to defuse the other
girl's abrupt (and perfectly justified) suspicion, but noting the times
in her head.

"Sorry.  . . I know Tony was really upset about that girl going
missing, and worried that you'd think he might be involved, just
because he employed her.  Particularly after you found her body," Tracy
added with a shiver.

"Difficult for him to provide an alibi when he had to keep you a
secret," Jane agreed, adding, "I shouldn't worry about it, because if
he was with you until two in the morning he certainly has got an alibi,
hasn't he?  If he'd needed one!

Forgive my asking, but - well, in view of what I've seen of his wife,
how does he manage to arrive home so late without questions being
asked?"

"He tells her he's been playing poker.  She doesn't like the people
he'd be doing that with, so she wouldn't be likely to ask them.  His
friends wouldn't tell on him even if she did," Tracy said promptly,
with a curl of scorn.  She added, "They have separate bedrooms anyway,
he told me so.  It's only a marriage in name!  He wouldn't stay with
her at all if she couldn't blackmail him with her bloody money - and
because of David, until he's through school

"It's a tough old life, isn't it?"  Jane said, aiming to bring things
to a close, since she had got what she wanted.  And more.  A
confirmation of Steve's guess about Anthony Crayshaw and his office
manager: trust a male copper to catch the scent of sex in the air!

"I'm glad we've talked," she told Tracy, "and thanks for helping me
about the car: I didn't really want to bother Mr Crayshaw again when it
was only a routine question, and now you've cleared that up I can-" The
sudden opening of the door made Tracy jump, and Jane look round.  She
saw something she could have done without right now - Anthony Crayshaw
himself, returning with a plastic-wrapped sandwich in his hand.  He
stopped dead, turning remarkably white at the sight of her.

Tracy provided a diversion.  She swept towards him, pulled him inside
the room, half shut the door again behind him, hissed, "Tony, I've told
her!"  and then fled, shutting the door with a thump behind her.  He
stood there helplessly staring at Jane, and then found his voice, with
some apparent difficulty.

"Sergeant-?"

When in doubt, brazen it out.  "Sorry to be lurking in your office in
your absence," Jane said pleasantly, "and I've only looked in as I was
passing, to have a word with your office manager.  Another girl's body
has been found, and since we're now assuming all three to be linked,
you may find yourselves being pestered by reporters."

"How nice of you to warn us!"  He had regained control of himself, and
if his pallor had been that of rage, her explanation sent him back into
friendly heartiness.  Almost real.  "Another girl?  How dreadful.  Oh,
that one in this morning's paper?  That is quite appalling.  I'm not
surprised Miss Pargeter seemed upset."

"It means we're likely to start getting national coverage, I'm afraid,
so... I'm here in an unofficial capacity, actually."

"Yes I see, and that's very kind of you.  Very kind."  He was looking
so inordinately grateful that she might have felt guilty: he was
thinking of David, she guessed abruptly.  It was a surprise when he
went on quicKly, "I think I know what Miss Pargeter - Tracy - told
you.

That she and I - that she's my mistress?  I'm sure you understand how
difficult it would be if my wife found out."

"She won't find out from me.  Thank you for being so frank.

Miss Pargeter gave me the information unsolicited," Jane added, being
deliberately formal, and with the clear knowledge that she was aiming
to cover her rear.  The man wasn't a suspect now, after all... It was
only an outside chance that had ever made him one, and she could put
him thoroughly in the clear after today.  He had an alibi from Tracy
for the Saturday night, and then from his wife and son all through
Sunday.

"It was really very awkward having to answer questions in front of
Virginia."  He seemed eager to explain.  "I hope I didn't seem evasive,
but I was continually afraid you'd ask for my movements!  I spent the
whole evening that poor girl disappeared with Tracy - Miss Pargeter and
didn't leave her to drive home until the early hours, so it would have
been extraordinarily awkward if I'd had to-" "Give us quite different
names to check up with?"  Jane said drily.  She remembered immediately
that it behoved her to be particularly polite; the spectre of an
outraged Morland hovered.

"Thank you, Mr Crayshaw, I do understand.  And I certainly don't need
to take up any more of your time now."

"If Virginia found out about my little affair it would be quite
disastrous.  Her feelings .  . . and our boys .  . . It's difficult
enough that Virginia's a light sleeper and always wakes up when I get
into bed, she's grumbled about that more than once!  You must think it
stupid of me to take the risk of damaging my family.  My only excuse is
that Miss Pargeter's an extremely attractive girl and, "I'm not a
judge, Mr Crayshaw.  Just a member of your local CID quietly getting on
with her job.  Which I must get back to now."  She had to stop him
somehow, since he appeared pathetically eager to give her all the
details of his private life.  And to make her see things from his point
of view.  It was noticeably different from Tracy's.  "I'll show myself
out," Jane finished, "please don't let me take up any more of your
time!"

He insisted on escorting her just the same, shaking her fulsomely by
the hand on the doorstep.  Definitely a man with a bad conscience .

.

. Not a conscience for murder, though, merely for adultery.

Also a man who looked on the edge of falling apart.  Perhaps that was
natural with both his very private life, and his son, involved.

Was it the thought of David which was bothering him?

From suspicion (or even knowledge) rather than just concern for the
boy's obvious misery?  No, that wouldn't work... The very outside
chance that David had killed Deirdre by mistake, then used his father's
car not his own to take the body somewhere to hide, had to be
discounted.  Mr Crayshaw had by all accounts been using his own car
that weekend.  And for his own very private purposes.  With every
minute of his time accounted for, too; he had gone from his mistress's
bed to his wife's.  . . Not separate bedrooms, clearly, whatever he had
told Tracy!

Jane had a few more small facts to put in her own personal, unoffIcial
file on Deirdre, but that was it.  Just a few more details, to make
sure to her own satisfaction that she had covered them.  Other than
that, she was suddenly aware that she'd had too much of other people's
private lives.  Two people had chosen to confide in her, one with
encouragement, one not.  She had a marginal sympathy for Tracy (who, to
put it bluntly, was a mug) but no mind at all to play kindly Agony
Auntie to Mr Anthony Crayshaw for his "little affair" on Saturday
nights when he was supposed to be playing poker.

She went back to the station and to routine matters.  Later in the
afternoon she caught up with Steve who was looking healthier by now,
almost back to his usual self.  He glanced up with a welcoming grin
when she walked in to find him at his desk in the CID room.

"Just the person I'd like to see, and for more reasons than one!"  he
said cheerfully.  "First things first... What would you recommend I do
about this tip-off we've had on a landlord possibly running a Social
Services fraud?  It seems to have landed up in my in-tray."

"That one?  It was an anonymous call and could be spite.

Even if it's genuine it doesn't sound like much, does it?  Just one
family house with two spare rooms?  Social Security has its own
investigators anyway: I'd say either file it, or pass it over to them
with our compliments!"

"OK.  That was more or less what I thought.  I just wanted to know if
you had a usual drill round here!"

"That's usually shoving it on to someone else's desk while they're not
looking.  Then when it's been round a few times... No, we do pass them
on when we get a minute, and if they haven't got lost in transit!"  She
grinned at him.  "No thanks, I don't want it on mine.  Try Kenny's!"

"Done.  What a nice effIcient system.  Now, next - oh, before I get to
that, how about tonight for the meal you owe me?  You remember - that
agreement we had in your favourite Thai restaurant, that it was your
turn next?"

"Oh dear, it'll have to be another raincheck, I'm all tied up with
friends tonight!  Remind me some other time, and one day I'll stand you
a lunch."

His expression indicated he knew perfectly well she was back in her
strong-minded mode, and granting no quarter.

But also showed an amused but definite intention to find his way round
it.  "Pity," he said.  "Particularly when I was going to suggest that I
wouldn't hold you to its being your turn to pay, because we could spend
my winnings instead!  Oh well, I might as well just hand you your
latest telephone message, then - a further communication from the
dashing Major Dalkeith!"

"Dennis?  What did he say this time?  If it's just "Hi!  again, "No,
this time he's left a phone number for you to call him back," Steve
said amiably, and handed her the torn-off corner of a piece of
much-used scrap paper.  "Here you are - along with your tattered
reputation, since it landed up with me via about three different
people!"

Jane cast her eyes up to heaven, but had no time for a tart answer,
since Dan Crowe emerged from his offIce at that moment.  He was in
search of someone to go and look something up in Records, whose
internal line was engaged too long for his patience.  He elected Steve
for the job, so Jane was left to her own devices.

She wondered what Dennis wanted of her.  Probably nothing at all
urgent, but she would ring him when she got home tonight, and find
out.

chapter 12

Dennis didn't seem to want anything vital, just a family chat.  "I
forgot to get your private number off you when I was down," he said
when she got him at her second try, "and your place won't give out that
kind of information over the phone, even to the likes of me.  Fair
enough, I suppose, how could they know you'd want them to?  And them's
the rules!  Got time for a natter?"

"All evening if you like."

Her evening yawned emptily, with nothing more promising in view than
the telly or a book.  So did tomorrow, the start of a non-duty weekend
unless something vital in the murder investigations occurred to call
her back in.  "If you were hoping to speak to Matty as well," she told
Dennis, "you won't get the chance, I'm afraid - I haven't seen her
myself for days!  We just communicate by notes.  I leave her one, she
leaves me one.

Hers starts, "nDon't buy eggs, I did, look in cupboard!"  So that means
we've now got twice as many as necessary, since I'd already been to the
shops... Still, at least it solves my menu for the next couple of days,
and one thing I can cook is omelettes!"  Dennis's chuckle sounded in
her ear, and she went on, "The trouble is I can't read the other half
of what she's put.

Honestly, I thought it was only GPs who took special lessons in writing
illegibly!"

"Try it on me in case I can guess."

"OK, let's see.  I've got it right here.  It looks like, "Have you
-something something - the dragon."  And then another word which could
be... "question"?  Or "guesting"?  As a message it does leave rather a
lot to be desired, doesn't it?"

"Have you fed the dragon, question mark?  Have you fed the dragon in
question?  Have you got a dragon?"  Dennis asked, as if the enquiry was
a perfectly serious one.

"Idiot, where would I keep it?  In the fridge?  It's no good, I'll just
have to wait for a translation until Matty actually comes in!  I reckon
she must have been doing a lot of long sessions in the operating
theatre, because her writing never used to be that bad.  And I hope
she's actually getting some sleep when I'm not here," Jane added, "she
certainly doesn't seem to be spending much time in her own bed at
night!"

"And you don't feel that could be for other and more interesting
reasons?"

"You know Matty, and she's still just the same - eyes down on work and
no more than a sweet, kind, but evasive smile for the legion of
admirers!  But do tell me something," Jane added on a dulcet enquiry.

"Why do you take it for granted that "other reasons" would be more
interesting than her career?  Is your sex life more interesting to you
than your career?"

"I refuse to be drawn into one of your fights," Dennis said
comfortably.  He went on, "All the same, I shall definitely come down
some time to take you both out and remind you there's more to life than
work!  Don't think I'd missed the fact that all you're doing with a
free evening is talking to me!"

"And relaxing.  Give us a chance!  I've got my feet up as I talk!"

Jane said truthfully, stretching them out to regard them critically and
wondering absently whether to paint her toenails.

If she could be bothered.  "Some of us," she went on with the receiver
cradled against her ear, "do quite a lot of work, you know!  Rather
than swarming around being nice to VIPs!

Seriously, it would be great if you paid us a visit.  Always supposing
you can spare time from the likes of Arabella!"

"Annabella," he corrected.  "And I was on duty then.  I was supposed to
be looking after her.  Her Daddy's a South American millionaire, and
there'd been kidnap threats.  Not just an idle swan, see?  Anyway, tell
me how you've been occupying yourself in the last couple of weeks?  Any
interesting cases to keep you busy?"

She wasn't going to talk about the murders: let there be at least one
evening when they weren't on her mind.  "Just the general morass of
police work," she said instead.  "The odd burglar burgling, a few old
ladies trampled to death in the sales, you know the kind of thing!  And
just to show you how mundane my life can be, this afternoon I acted as
interpreter when a student came in wanting something and didn't seem to
know any English.  Or, at least, just enough to say very slowly,
"Someone - speak - German?"  when he arrived at the desk!  So they rang
round to discover if there was anyone who spoke German, and landed up
with me.  Then the lad insisted on seeing my warrant-card before he'd
talk to me - I think his parents must have told him never to talk to
strangers, even in a cop-shop!  - and all it turned out to be was that
he'd found a twenty-pound note lying in the street, and wanted to hand
it in like an honest citizen."

"A very honest citizen!"

"Yeah.  He seemed like a nice lad - earnest type, with thick glasses.

He went away happy, and the twenty will probably land up in the charity
box.  Since I can't imagine anyone will come in with proof of
ownership!"  Jane chuckled.  "Oh, by the way, about your escort trip
two weeks tomorrow, right?"

"Yes?"

"Just thought I'd warn you.  Don't bring your royal down by the M2-A2
route, because we've just had word that they're starting emergency
roadworks around then; so it'll be all cues and chicanes!"

"It's all right, we were going to helicopter him in from London with an
offIcial car waiting at your end, but they've changed all that now
anyway.  They're going to send him in by a military plane and land at
Manston - the other side of you.  It was decided at that end that
they'd rather keep him out of main airports in case some Basque
Separatist had smuggled himself in as a baggage handler.  That lot have
been stirring recently."

"They don't seriously think ETA's going to try something here?"  Jane
asked.

"No.  I don't think so.  It's just that the Spanish king made some
fairly tactless remarks against Basque separatism not long ago, so any
relation of his is being given an extra guard.  I can't think they'll
try anything off their own turf- and anyway ETA's such a bunch of known
faces, and they're all being watched like hawks."  He sounded
comfortably certain - though, being Dennis, he went on jokingly.

"Worried that you're going to find small dark men with heavy
moustaches, thick accents, and bombs in their pockets turning up on
your territory for the princeling's visit?  It's all right, nobody like
that will be allowed near your patch!"

"Be serious.  It's me you're talking to!"

"So it is.  And I meant what I said, it's all right, we aren't
anticipating any trouble!  A minor royal on the briefest possible
visit?  No way!"

That was reassuring - particularly since he himself would be the first
in line if someone did throw a bomb.  Jane opened her mouth to tell him
with cousinly affection that she was glad to hear it, for his sake, but
he had already switched to another subject.

"Tell me, how are you getting on with my friend Steve Ryan?"

"He's an easy guy to work with," Jane said lightly.  "A good
colleague-" "And a bit of a lad.  Popular with the women, is rather the
impression I got in London.  Mind you, I'll never understand women's
tastes!"

"Fishing, Dennis dear?  I said, he's a colleague.  Just one of the
guys!  So if you had it in your head to think I needed a warning'

"Goodness no.  What me, try to run interference on your life?"  His
voice was extremely innocent.  Then he spoiled it with a laughing
addition.  "I've never understood your preferences anyway, have I?

Henry!  I'm not sure I wouldn't rather see you with an East End copper
with a roving eye than a stuffed shirt'

"Shut that!  You can lay off all comments on my private life, Dalkeith,
got it?"

"Yes, ma'am.  Shall we talk about something else, then?"

He was always aware when his teasing went over the edge, and they
conversed quite happily on other subjects until they both ran out of
steam.  They parted on his renewed promise to come down on a purely
social visit some time after his escort-duty trip; and with his usual
brotherly, "Take care!"

"I will, I do.  You as well!  If I'm around somewhere when you pass by
with the prince, I'll give you a surreptitious wave!"  It was unlikely
she would be; uniform would be in charge of seeing that the prince
arrived at the right place in the university in the morning, then
clearing his way down to the cathedral for the two o'clock wedding.

Jane would probably be somewhere else doing CID work; business as
usual.  She gave a grin as she left the phone and went to switch on the
television.

Talking to Dennis always cheered her up.

She had missed the late news and there was nothing much on bar the
continuation of a highly unlikely mini-series, so she took a book to
bed with her, keeping an ear open for Matty.  But had heard nothing
before she dropped into sleep.  In the morning, though, she found a
heap of clothes on the bathroom floor as if someone had flopped out of
them in a state of exhaustion, and a damp towel which hadn't been there
last night.

Matty's bedroom door was shut.  Jane scratched on it very lightly, then
eased it open to peep in.  Well, she was here, anyway, if dead to the
world... All Jane could actually see was the top of a black frizz
sticking out above the bedclothes, and the outline of long limbs.

Sleeping the sleep of the just, and definitely not to be disturbed!

She picked up the mysterious note again as she went back towards the
kitchen.  Have you fed the dragon?  No, the dragon can feed itself.

Have you, something something, the dragon something...

Suddenly she could see what it meant.  Damn and damn, no, she hadn't,
she'd forgotten all about it!

Have you thought yet about the drugs question?  Matty's patient, the
student with head injuries!

Was it too late?  No, it couldn't be, or she wouldn't still be
asking.

Jane knew she had forgotten it when David Crayshaw turned up; and then
Matty's problem had gone out of her head completely when Elise
Ducherain's body had been found...

and ever since.  Christ, eleven days!

But still just in time - as long as the student wasn't threatening to
discharge himself.

She'd thought of asking Steve's advice.  OK, she'd go in this morning
and catch him: he was CID Sergeant on duty this weekend, so he'd be
there.  She could surely get him alone for a minute or two.  She
showered, then dressed quickly, glancing at her bedside clock.  She'd
slept in, but in a way that meant a better chance of catching him in an
idle moment...

As she drove in to the back of the station she saw a television camera
set up outside the front entrance with a young woman talking animatedly
into its lens.  The press had jumped in, then.  Just as well she'd
fitted in her Crayshaw visit yesterday ... She found Steve in the
Incident Room gazing thoughtfully at the information on the walls, and
he looked round at her with a raised eyebrow.

"You're a glutton for punishment.  You're supposed to be off!  Or did
you decide to come in so that you can see exactly what the press
statement's going to be?"

"I saw the cameras outside.  There's going to be a release from here,
then?"

"Yes, now it's hit the national news.  You didn't see the bulletin this
morning?"

No, she hadn't.  "Who's doing the statement from here," Jane asked,
"the press liaison offIcer?"

"The Super will, I think.  And let's hope he asks them politely not to
get under the police's feet ... It's going to be bad enough when they
find out how little we've got to go on!"

Like most working coppers he thought of press intrusion as mainly a
nuisance - bar a grudging admission that publicity sometimes brought in
information.  It was only the upper echelons who seemed to like the
chance to appear on camera and get their names and faces known.  Jane
gave him a wry look to betoken her agreement, then glanced round at the
couple of PCs who were working in here before she looked back at
Steve.

"Any chance of a private word?  In the canteen over a cup of coffee,
maybe?  If you're in the middle of something I can wait."

"Now's as good a time as any."  He paused to tell the others where he
could be found, then led the way.  The canteen held only a few people
at this time in the morning and Jane picked a table in one corner,
remote enough to be undisturbed by any arrivals.  When they were
sitting down Steve looked at her questioningly, obviously alerted by
her desire for privacy and wondering where it was leading.

"It isn't another Humpty-Dumpty problem, is it?"

"No, he seems to be lying doggo at the moment, though I expect he's
rushing around in small circles over the press release," Jane added
with a chuckle, at the vision of the DCI trying to make sure that only
the right things were said to -and about - the right people.

"So - what's bugging you?"

"I want some advice.  I suppose it is Humpty-Dumpty-related, come to
that, given that his attitude makes it harder for me to put a foot out
of line."  She ran through the information for him quickly - the
student brought to hospital with head injuries, Matty's certainty that
the boy had been on drugs, his plainly frightened refusal to say what
had caused his injuries.  "He won't talk, and ethically she can't make
him.  He was pretty badly hurt.

She asked me if I could try to get something out of him unoffIcially.

You see the problem?  If I get information, and then I can't pass it
on?"

"Hen.  If you can't persuade him - then your doctor friend's in schtuck
for breaking confidentiality?"

"Right!  It's going to look bad enough if anyone finds out afterwards
that I knew something and didn't say, isn't it?  I did pass "a rumour"
to John Clay about drugs in the university, as a floater... If the
police had been called in at the start, when the boy was found
semi-conscious, it wouldn't be a problem, but he was just loaded into a
car by his friends and dumped in Casualty, I gathered.  And the friends
took off without giving any names.  Casualty was busy; it was an
emergency; we weren't informed because that isn't the hospital's
job...

All this was ten days or so ago," Jane added, with a distinct twinge of
guilt, "but we've had so much else on-" "He's still in the hospital,
though?"

"Yes.  Yes, I'm sure he is."

"So he can be visited.  Purely unoffIcially.  Would you like me to give
it a go?"

"I didn't mean I wanted to push it off on to you.  I just wanted some
advice!"

"Easier for me.  I'm temporary here, no one's putting me in the firing
line, I can cut corners and look blank about it afterwards."  He
sounded practical.  "Let's see.  This weekend?  Yes, why not?  You said
he was convalescent by now and that you'd got to decide quickly before
he was discharged.  Seriously, I'll handle it, if you want!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, why not?  All I can do is try.  And, like I said," he added with
easy cynicism, "[don't have anything to lose!  Can you get your doctor
friend to take me in and point me in the right direction, so that I can
be - oh, a hospital visitor, or something?  I'm not sure about today,
tomorrow would be easier."

"Tomorrow might be better anyway.  I've got to talk to Matty and she
was asleep when I left.  She works heavy hours."

They left it that she would talk to Matty and phone through with
Sunday's hospital visiting times.  Steve's reaction to the problem
still gave Jane doubts because she was landing him in it instead of
herself, but he said it was no sweat.  She decided not to wait to hear
what the press release was going to be, after that -just in case Matty
was called from her bed and vanished again - and took herself back home
and found Matty still asleep.  She woke at noon to emerge from her room
like a somnambulist, taking several minutes to get her eyes properly
open.

"Oh, hi, stranger..  ."  She blinked at Jane and yawned.  "Yes, it is
you, not a blur!  Bless you if you've been keeping quiet for my sake,
though I'm not sure I'd have heard!"

"Heavy night?"

"Just six hours in theatre.  No one should ever give a sixteenyear-old
a motor bike."  There was a bitter note in her voice for a second, but
she visibly shook off its cause, and managed a smile.  "Haven't seen
you practically for ever.  You been busy too?

Oh - I left you a note."

"Yeah, and I'm sorry I never got back to you on that one, but it's in
hand now!  Are you awake enough to hear?"

"Give me a minute and some strong coffee and I will be!"

Matty yawned again as she made for the kitchen, and asked over her
shoulder, "How's your murder?  Have you cracked it?"

"My murder's now three murders and about to be all over the press.

Let's not talk about it, though, OK?  You have too much on your own
plate to need to hear what's been on mine!"

"Jane followed her into the kitchen.  "I'll tell you something cheerful
while you're waking up.  Oh, you're not going to get bleeped and have
to rush away, are you?"

"No, I am definitely off duty, and from now until tomorrow!

Touch wood and all being well' Despairing of finding any wood in their
plastic-laminated kitchen to go with her heartfelt plea, Matty
compromised with a rapid tap on her own forehead.

"Right, then.  Dennis is on a promise to come down and take us both out
- you'd better be free then, come hell and high water!  Probably in
about three weeks' time.  He says he feels our lives need
lightening."

"Oh, lovely!  Bless the man.  Do we have any bread?  I do fancy real
toast instead of canteen leather... Angel, is that proper ground coffee
you're getting out of the cupboard?"

Once she was settled over an extremely dark cup of Douwe Egberts, Jane
put it to Matty about her student patient.

"Steve's offered to try and pump him.  I won't go into the ins and
outs, but he suggested doing it and I said yes.  So, is tomorrow OK?

And is there a time when the boy won't be likely to have any other
visitors?"

"He doesn't have any, so that's easy.  His parents come from up north,
I think - and he wouldn't have them contacted, anyway."

"He's still just as scared then?"

"Still frightened to death and trying not to show it.  And it's to do
with leaving hospital, too.  When my consultant started talking about
discharge dates the other day, he practically shrank into his
pillows.

Thanks, Jane."

"I'm sorry it's taken so long.  Anyway, you'll have to thank Steve, not
me.  He said, can you take him in under the guise of a hospital
visitor, or something?"

"Can do, if we can fix a time.  So I'm going to meet your Steve!"

Matty added on a grin, looking up at Jane with a quizzical
expression.

"That I shall find interesting..."

"Don't start!  You're merely going to meet one Steven Ryan, rank not to
be mentioned.  You stop grinning, girl, and keep your trap shut, or
I'll take that coffee away from you!"  Matty cradled her hands in
instant protection around her mug and folded her lips tightly shut
though not without a muffled laugh coming through them.  Jane spared
her another mockthreatening look, and then turned to the more serious
matter of fixing a time when Matty could introduce Steve to her
patient.

When Jane rang through to tell him, later, she made it sound casual in
case switchboard was listening in.  "Main hospital, Devlin Ward.  Three
o'clock Sunday if you can make it, and ask for Dr Ingle, OK?"

"Will do.  Do you want to know what's happening here?"

"Something interesting about the press release?"

"Better than that.  Two things at once, and quite a break.

They think they've found the house where Elise Ducherain was killed an
empty furnished one, up for rent, and not far from the building site.

They're matching up bloodstains now.  Some repairs were going on there
and it looks as if that's where the blue plastic sheeting came from."

"Great!  When will we hear more?"

"Soon as they have anything, but you haven't heard the second one
yet.

There's a definite report from a lorry driver that he saw Elise getting
into a dark-coloured car on the road to Ramsgate.  One male driver, he
thinks, but from the high cab he couldn't be sure.  And he didn't get
the number, either, says he was too far away.  Still, it's better than
anything we've had on either of the others, isn't it?  And don't rush
in," he added, "stick with your time off, we may get more tomorrow!"

"I'll come in tomorrow lunch-time, anyway."

They had agreed on that this morning, at her suggestion: her presence
would make it simpler for him to get away.  She rang off, thinking
triumphantly, a break!  Someone had seen Elise Ducherain.

Things might be starting to move.

Arne had done his job, and done it intelligently so that it was
confirmed without mistake.  The Widow knew what she had to contend with
now.

The young woman she had seen had been the Rees-Perry girl.

Jane.  Calling herself merely Perry now, but the names were too similar
for error.  And the guess the Widow had made, after considering how
familiarly the Rees-Perry girl had spoken to the police - a suspicion
which had made her give Arne that as a place to start - was confirmed
too: she was a policewoman herself nowadays.  A Detective Sergeant, and
stationed right there... Arne had seen her warrant card, so the
identification was complete.

It threw everything out.  Only Simeon, now, could take up residence in
the house in the city.  His "wife" could only arrive at the last
minute.  It was fortunate that the Widow had already walked the chosen
ground, since she wanted no one else to take this coup and the credit
for it.  It had to be hers.  But the ReesPerry girl was standing like a
block across her way.

The block would have to be disposed of But with care, and the right
timing.

Could it even be turned to advantage?

There might be a way of doing that; a method which would kill two birds
with one stone.

She had already told Arne to continue watching.  The identity he had
adopted would carry no suspicion, and he could provide all the
necessary information.

A few almost forgotten old scores moved gently in the Widow's
consciousness.  They could be added to the present problem and its
solution.

She bit down on her anger, and almost smiled as she began to set her
mind carefully to the best method to be used.

Yes...

chapter 13

When Steve came back into the Incident Room late on Sunday afternoon he
was wearing a very blank expression maybe because he had been warned
Morland was in the room.

The DCI was making a point of finding out how things were going, and
doing it while ignoring Jane's presence entirely.  Not so with Steve,
she saw, when Morland turned round to greet the sergeant heartily with
a deliberate, "Ah, Sergeant Ryan, you can show me what we've been
doing!"

He then proceeded to talk exclusively to Steve with a discussion on how
the press was being handled, and the need that everyone should be
reminded that all press enquiries must be referred upstairs.  And that
was said as pointedly as if he thought Jane might rush out in search of
limelight .

What did he think she might do, she thought sarcastically?

Put on a spangled tutu and do a little dance for the nearest camera?

If the man wanted to be childish...

When he'd gone she raised a questioning eyebrow at Steve, and got a
brief gesture of one hand held out palm-down with a balancing
movement.

Maybe; could be getting Matty's student's confidence, but not sure
yet.

They still weren't alone so he didn't offer more.  It was done without
his usual smile, though; in fact he seemed abstracted.  And when he
came over to where Jane was sitting a moment or two later he didn't
make any amused comment under his breath on Morland's behaviour,
either.

Jane raised the subject softly herself.

"At least you're not in the doghouse, I'm glad to see..."

"Men?  Oh, yeah.  Got anything else in on the bloodstains in that
house?"

"Not so far."

"You may as well go home, then.  No point in your knocking yourself out
on your free weekend.  Go away and relax, no one's going to pay you any
extra for being here."  He sounded remarkably like Dan Crowe for a
minute.  "Go on, then, shoo!"  He did smile at her this time, with a
gleam of his usual humour.

The following day he should have been off duty, and should have missed
Morland's interminable morning planning meeting, moved now to Mondays
from Thursdays.  However, when Jane arrived in carefully dutiful time
for it, she saw Steve was there, having apparently chosen to change his
duty.  Or perhaps had been asked to do so.  The meeting was shorter
than usual, because the lists from the ferry companies had arrived at
last, and Dan Crowe wanted to use as many of his staff as possible to
start checking through them before anything else came up.

"All right, everyone take a page and mark down anyone who's on our
patch," the DI said when they were back downstairs.  He added, "They're
doing the same thing at Dover, having taken the idea on board, with a
particular look at anyone who's local to Deal.  When we've found out
who we've got, they'll all have to be called on and interviewed.

Strictly in pairs, and if we use some of the woodentops to help, no two
women together, got it?"

"Yes, Guv."

It was a reasonable precaution in the circumstances, and not one to
raise Jane's hackles.  She bent over her page, but found just one local
name - and a female at that - which made her lift her head.  "Are we
looking at men only, or both sexes?"  she asked.  "Oh, and... will they
have included new employees, the casuals they take on for the
summer?"

"I asked for the lot.  And we'll talk to both sexes, but in the case of
the women just show them all the victims' photos and ask if they've
seen them.  They might have, with chummy, or have noticed someone who
makes a habit of picking up young female passengers, and be able to
point the finger.  You never know."

The final list was a short one.  Four men with addresses in the city
itself: one cook, one purser, two stewards.  It appeared the
car-handlers and crewmen didn't choose to live this far inland.  There
was a first offIcer living in Herne Bay and a catering assistant in
Sturry with "bar staff" in brackets after his name.  Three women's
names turned up but they were all down as very recent employees
students, probably, taking on summer jobs stewardessing the minute
their exams were over, to earn money to keep themselves during the long
vacation.  There was no one at all on the local list who would have
been working on the Hovercraft on which Elise Ducherain had
travelled.

"We'll talk to them all, anyway," Dan Crowe decreed.  "When you can
find them.  Nobody thought to include a list of their working shifts.

If any one of them was coming off duty at a time which fits with the
Ducherain girl's arrival, I want him invited in for an interview to
help with our enquiries.  Oh, and if you get trailed by any reporters,
dodge!  I don't want anybody jumping any guns, it's bad enough having
them on our necks with all that "Seaside Maniac", and "Police Baffled",
garbage!"

"Who's got the harman?"  Jane asked, and Steve put up a hand.  "I was
just thinking... that matchbook?  I suppose it isn't all that relevant,
butt "I'll bear it in mind."

"The headlines weren't as bad as I was expecting," Kenny commented,
when he and Jane started off.  She had given him the nod to join her,
since Steve was paired up with Gary.  "At least they haven't started
weighing in with "Is no one safe?"  or "Where were the police?"

"Maybe they're saving that for the later editions.  Anyway, where would
they expect us to be?  This lot wasn't exactly predictable!"

"It's a pity they're right about us being baffled.  We haven't had a
sniff about our girl, have we?"  Kenny gave a sigh.

"Looked a lot simpler when we just had to find her, didn't it?

And when everything pointed at Michael MacArthy.  I still think there
was a lot there to finger him - like why he lied when we wanted to know
where she was!  We seem to have lost sight of that now it's all tied
together."

"Yes, the same thought's occurred to me once or twice."  She wondered
if he, as well as she, had that undefined feeling that Deirdre's case
was different, that if they didn't treat her as such they might miss
something.  "I still wouldn't mind finding out the reason for that
one... and the reason why Deirdre vanished between work and home!  Off
a public street with people around.  She wouldn't have accepted a lift
from just anyone, would she, when she was only going home and there was
a perfectly good bus route?  We know she left the offIce as usual at
six.  So, why"."

"A stranger asking the way, and she said, OK, I'll show you?"

"She's never sounded as if she was that foolish.  A bit naive, maybe,
and not what you'd call street-wise - but not up to getting into a
stranger's car!  I can't see that.  It would have to be someone she
knew."  They were coming to the first of the addresses on their list,
so had to concentrate on work in hand, not alternative theories.

Now wasn't the time for the owner of the first address either: he was
out.  A knowledgeable neighbour said if they wanted George he was due
back around six this evening, but if they wanted his wife she'd be home
at lunch-time after she'd picked up the kids from nursery school.

Their second call netted a steward who was sleeping off his last shift,
lived at home with his mum, and had been to-and-fro-ing on one of the
large car ferries at the time Elise ucherain arrived in England; in
fact it was clear that he would have been mid-channel at the time she
was seen getting into an anonymous dark-coloured car.  There didn't
seem to be any reason at all for him to have known Deirdre, either.

"At least if they're on the boats they can tell you exactly where they
were," Kenny commented.

"And we can check it and see whether it tallies, too.  Though I rather
think it will, with that one.  OK, next?"

Two of the recently employed stewardesses shared the same address, and
one of them was at home.  As Jane had thought, they were students
working for the summer.  This one was a very pretty Finn who was doing
an exchange degree at the university.

"No, I don't know any of these girls," she said with apology in her
only faintly accented English.  "Except I saw that one's picture in the
paper?  And that one - wasn't there a notice up about her in town, a
few weeks ago?"  She had pointed out Catherine Jones and Deirdre
MacArthy.  "I'm sorry I can't help, but I've only worked for the
company a week!  My friend, too.  When she comes off, shall I ask her
if there's anything she remembers?"

"Thanks, that would be a help.  But she needn't get in touch with us
unless she remembers anything definite."  It would be highly unlikely,
given the dates; Elise had died more than a week ago.

"Anything at all that could be helpful," Jane added, giving a brief
outline of what that might be.  "And while I'm here, can I advise you
to take care about how you travel home, and who you're with "Oh yes, I
already know to be extremely cautious!"  The girl spoke grimly, and
with a firmness which showed she meant it.  "The one which was in the
paper - that would make all of us be careful!"

"As long as they stick to it," Kenny said glumly as they came away.  He
cheered up to add, "I should think that one will, though, she looked
like a bright girl!"

"Yes, but while I don't want to start a panic, it seems worth giving a
warning..  ."  Against a possible next time.  Though, please God, they
would solve it without there being a next time.  "Where next - the
third stewardess, isn't it?"

It was, but she was away working a shift too, and according to her
boyfriend who shared the same address, had also only worked on the
ferries for ten days.  That pinpointed her first day of employment as
the day after Elise had been murdered.  The boyfriend was on crutches
with one leg in plaster, which ruled out any tenuous possibility that
he might have been driving a car near Dover on the relevant day.

Jane and Kenny left him with the same message: to get in touch if
anything at all occurred to the girl which might be helpful to the
police.  It had to be phrased carefully so as not to look as if they
were starting a witch-hunt against ferry employees.  The press would
really love that.

Jane drew another line across their list.  "OK, that's all for now.  We
can't get hold of George the cook until this evening."

She turned to Kenny.  "How are the holiday plans?  Did you manage to
get hold of that extra tent you were trying to borrow?"

Yes, I did, and that's going to give us a bit more space.  And a few
less fights, too, about who's got their feet on top of whose head!"

Kenny said with paternal thankfulness.  "The boys can have one tent to
themselves now and the girls another, and Val and I can have a bit of
peace!  Friday week - I can't wait!"

"Well, send us all a postcard of Durdle Dor or whatever the place is
called!"

"Oh I'll do better than that, I'll bring you back a stick of rock,
shall I, Sarge?"  he said cheerfully.

If the murder investigations here produced as many blanks as they had
so far, he certainly wouldn't be likely to get his leave cancelled.

Jane hoped not, since Kenny deserved his break.  Things would be
focused much more on the Dover and Deal end.  She let her mind drift
back on to the total lack of progress they always seemed to meet over
Deirdre, the absence of any connection... Unless one of the other CID
teams had come up with something which would offer a link.

When the others came back, their results were much the same as hers and
Kenny's: one or two of the local names uncontacted yet, the others
found and crossed off the list.  The harman in Sturry had, like Jane
and Kenny's steward, been in midchannel when Elise would have been
arriving at Dover.

The first officer who lived in Herne Bay had been on a shiftbreak
today.  Found pottering in his garden, he was in his fifties and coming
up to retirement, was concerned to be helpful if he could, but could
show that he had definitely been on a turn-around at Ostend at the
relevant time.  The second steward hadn't been tracked down yet but was
likely to be at his home tomorrow.  And the purser didn't live at the
given city address any more; his house was being rented by an American
architect who had just moved into it.

"Pleasant bloke called Waldstein, but he'd never met the owner so he
referred us back to the agent he's renting from," Steve explained.  "It
appears our purser and his wife have moved to France.  They couldn't
sell the house on the present market so they decided to rent it out.

They went two months ago."

He added, "I rang the ferry company to query it."

"And did they explain why they couldn't pull their fingers out to give
us the right information in the first place?"  Dan Crowe asked on a
growl.

"Computer error - they claim.  They've given me the man's French
address now, if that's any use to us.  Though if he's been living over
there for the last couple of months..."

"Don't cross him off, give the French address to Jane and she can do
one of her links with the other side to get him checked.  All right?"

Yes, Guv," Jane agreed, as he glanced her way.

"Nobody's found anyone else so far who looks worth checking?"

Heads were shaken all round.  "All right, fit in the return calls for
the ones you've missed when you can - and remember what I said, two of
you; no solo visits!  Meantime, Kenny, I want you and Gary over at the
Jet Service Station at Fordwich.  Life goes on, murders or no murders,
and they had an attempted hold-up last night with a sawn-off.  The
night attendant had the sense to stay behind his bullet-proof window
and press the panic button, but they think they'll have got the guy on
video.  So go and see!"

There was a return call to be made on George the cook in the evening.

Jane took Kenny with her again: it put them both over hours but this
was their baby.  They found a big, gentlelooking man with a jolly
manner; another one who could be given a clean bill, too.  Once again,
he could prove he had been at sea, "doing my fry-ups for the lorry
drivers'.

"They're all going to be blanks, I guess," Jane said dispiritedly, when
they left awash with the cups of strong tea which had been pressed on
them.

"Cheer up, Sarge, the ferry idea was a good one and worth trying,
anyway.  And it could still be someone off the boats who isn't on our
patch!"  Kenny seemed to feel she needed consoling.

George's small children had been rapidly banished to play next door so
that he and his wife could savour the full gravity of a visit from the
police, and it was obvious that their enquiries would be thoroughly
gossiped over by the entire street.

Kenny added now, "People don't half like to chat about the case now
it's made all the papers, don't they?  Still, once people start
talking, you never know if we might get word that someone's spotted
something, somewhere!"

"And at least we're being seen to be doing our job and leaving no
stones unturned."  Jane smiled at him.  "Thanks for the optimistic
pep-talk!  Let's get off home, shall we, so your wife doesn't have to
complain too much about how late you are for your tea!  I think George
would have offered us one of his fry-ups at the drop of a hat!"

As they paused to cross the flow of traffic and get back into the
police station yard, Jane caught sight of a half-familiar face.  Oh
dear, not that German student again... What could he want now?  More
lost money to be handed in by Honest Johann?  Thank goodness, it
appeared he was only there by chance, since he suddenly began to move
away.

Kenny went off home, but Jane decided to look in and file a rapid
confirmation that one more ferry worker had been seen and could be
crossed off.  She had expected the Incident Room to be dark, since it
officially closed for the night when the evening shift came on, so she
was surprised to find everything still lit and Steve leaning over the
collators' table talking to one of the WPCs who sometimes worked
there.

And WPC Laidlaw was thoroughly enjoying his proximity, Jane noted
drily, seeing the way the girl was gazing up at him.  When Jane spoke,
she looked round guiltily, as if she had been far too absorbed to hear
the door open.

"Something new and interesting to keep you late?"

"No, just the eliminations from today's interviews.  Melanie was kind
enough to offer to come through and log it all in," Steve said, giving
the WPC a smile.  He glanced at his watch.  "Hen, I've got to be off.

There's a friend I want to visit in hospital tonight.  Thanks again for
dealing with that for me, Melanie!"

"That's all right, Sergeant."  The WPC cast him another adoring look
and gave a little wriggle of her shoulders.  Steve gave her an amiable
grin and went away.  WPC Laidlaw's eyefluttering might have prompted
Jane to warn the WPC not to make an idiot of herself while on duty, but
she resisted the temptation, particularly since the behaviour of
uniformed constables wasn't part of her remit.  She took a quick glance
at the information which was being logged in instead, added her own to
it, and decided to head for home.

Or would have done if an impulse hadn't changed her mind just as she
was getting into her car.  The local paper lying on the back seat
reminded her there was a film she had vaguely thought she might like to
see.  Its late show would be starting shortly, so she left her car
where it was and walked to the cinema.  It was only two streets away.

If she had to go on her own, so be it; a light comedy would at least
offer relief from thinking about work all the time.  Matty would
probably be out again, so she might just as well go to a movie as a
distraction.

The German student she had nicknamed Honest Johann had apparently
fancied the same film, because she bumped into him in the foyer
afterwards, and he offered her a grave smile and a shy, "Guten
Abend!"

Goodness knows what he would have made of a comedy which was all
quick-fire dialogue, and no subtitles.  She didn't stop to ask him, but
gave him a brief friendly smile in return and walked quickly away.

 Chapter 14

"Another two days of blank nothing from our end," Jane said, resting
her chin on her hands at the kitchen table and answering Matty's
tentative query as to what was getting her down.  "I had what seemed to
be a good idea, but it obviously wasn't."

Deal had come up with some hopeful clues about their murder, but
Deirdre's still floated undefined.  If there was nothing new by the end
of the week, Jane decided suddenly, she would go to the guy and ask if
they could back-track.  She looked at Matty across a breakfast they
were sharing, rare recently, and made herself smile.  "Take no notice
of me.  I'm just feeling frustrated by life, that's all!  How about
you?  You're looking pensive.  How's your druggie patient?"

"Steve hasn't told you?"

"I haven't had a chance to ask.  I've been belting around on some
mugging cases, and chasing identification of an attempted blagger who
tried to hold up a filling station.  Steve's made a breakthrough with
your boy, then?"

"I expect he's being ultra discreet," Matty said.  Yes, he got the boy
to talk.  About all sorts of stuff in the end.  He's very...

patient, isn't he?  And good at getting someone's confidence, too."

"He seems to have managed it remarkably quickly, as well.

But he's sorted it?  I'm glad!"

"It isn't quite fixed yet.  He's still got to do a deal, he said.

But I expect he'll manage it."

"So," Jane gave Matty a look across the marmalade, "what did you think
of him, then?  Steve?  You did say you were curious!"

"He seems like a very nice guy."  Matty got up as she spoke, apparently
in search of the milk since she fetched it and put it down on the
table.

"And did you see what I meant about him being fanciable?

Not," Jane added drily, "that I've seen much of him for the last few
days to find him anything!"

"As I said, I think your Steve seems like a very nice guy.  So go for
it, give him a bit more encouragement.  Listen, do you want me to do a
big shop at the supermarket?"

"You're actually off duty?  Wonders will never cease!"

"I've got three whole days.  Hard to believe, isn't it?  And by the
time I go back, my consultant will have discharged that boy as fit to
go home, so all that will be over."  Matty moved absently round the
kitchen and paused to stare out of the window.  "I was wondering
actually whether to go away for a couple of days, make it a complete
break.  Go and sit beside the sea or something."

"Not London and the bright lights?"

"I don't feel much like that.  You sound as if you think the seaside's
a bad idea?  Oh - your murderer.  Is that what you were thinking?"

"It hadn't entered my head, but now you say it, I suppose I'd advise
you to be extra careful anywhere round here."  The newspapers were
keeping the story whipped up by raising a flap about all seaside
resorts, warning tourists about strangers.

Your job can get even nastier than mine.  At least I get to save a
few."  Matty sounded unusually depressed for a moment, then made an
obvious attempt to shake herself back into lightness.  "You know, I
think you're right.  I will go to London for a couple of days!  There
are various people I can look up, and it'll make a change, won't it?"

"Make sure you add Dennis to your list of people to look up.  I'll give
you his number."  It obviously would do Matty some good to get right
away, from the way she was looking, let alone the hours she had worked
lately.  "If you're not here when I get back tonight I'll know you've
done a flit, then," Jane said cheerfully, getting to her feet.

Taking herself off down to work after passing on Dennis's phone number,
Jane wondered why Steve hadn't even tried to slip a word to her about
his success with the boy in hospital.

True, they hadn't seen each other for more than a few moments at a time
in the last few days.  Matty was probably right, and he was taking
extra care that there shouldn't be any suspicion of a trail leading
back to Jane.  And in that he was probably wise, all things considered,
with Morland endlessly in search of reasons to find fault with her.

Any deal would be off if Morland thought she had anything to do with
the case.

She went into the CID room to find Steve already closeted with Dan
Crowe in the guy's small office, visible through the door's glass panel
and talking earnestly.  Mike was at his desk and she asked with
deliberate casualness, and a flick of her head towards the inner
office, "Any idea what's going down?"

"Dunno, Sarge.  By the way, someone's come forward to give us the name
of that sawn-off perp.  Uniform's out collecting him now.  His
brother-in-law fingered him."

"Such family feeling!"

Yeah, no love lost.  Lucky we know the perp got rid of the gun.

Could've been nasty if picking him up had turned into a siege
situation!"

Yes, that's all we need, with the press on our heels already!"

Luckily the nationals had mainly moved off now from this less
interesting case, and were keeping their stringers at Deal.

There were at least things to photograph there, such as a house with
bloodstains in it.  The rope Elise had been tied with turned out to
have come from there; a piece of washing-line.  They had even found the
weapon, a kitchen knife with a tiny trace of blood still on it,
obviously only cursorily washed before it was returned to the drawer in
which it usually lived.

And there had been a partial fingerprint on the knife handle: that was
the biggest breakthrough.

It seemed the murderer had taken what he could find, rather than
carrying his deadly necessities with him.  Or had been aware that he
would find exactly what he needed in that house?

Either that, or he had taken Elise there on some excuse and then
improvised.  He must have known the house was empty, so had been sure
it would be a safe place to go after he had picked Elise up in the late
afternoon.  Why hadn't he simply left her there, as he had left the
Dover girl?  That was probably a clue someone was following up, too.

Dan Crowe's office door opened and he and Steve came out together.

"I'll have to see if we can go along with that," Dan Crowe was saying,
"but it sounds like the kind of deal we might cut, if he gives us
enough names!  I'll go upstairs now and see if I can clear it.  You're
absolutely sure he isn't going to do a runner?"

"Too scared.  He's convinced they're only waiting for him to come
out.

And I gave it him fairly, that I might not be able to swing it.  Also
that we'd still have the robbery to charge him with even if he didn't
give us the names."

"But names are what we want off him, so let's hope everyone agrees.

Well done.  I won't ask you where you got your tip-off.

Nothing like getting two things cleared up at once, though!"

Dan Crowe went off out of the room, looking pleased and giving Jane and
Mike an acknowledging nod as he passed.

Jane raised a querying eyebrow at Steve.

"Two things cleared up?"

"That Herne Bay smash-and-grab.  The one which happened the day I
arrived?  Somehow I seem to have managed to run into our mysterious
perp for that, who as far as we could see had never tried to get rid of
the stuff but had just vanished into the ground..."

"Where did you find him?"  Mike asked - with interest, since he had
been one of the people trailing round possible fences in search of the
stolen jewellery.

"In a hospital bed, would you believe?  It was an amateur job by a kid
desperate for money.  Well, not exactly kid, he's twenty.  I'd better
not give you the rest until the guy's cleared things.  Let's just say
it has connections with that rumour about a drug scene at the
university.  The boy wants to make a deal, so the guy's going higher up
on it."

"Sounds like a double success for you, then.  Great!"  That Matty's
patient might also have been involved in the Herne Bay robbery hadn't
occurred to Jane, even in her wildest dreams.  A student in despair for
money to pay his drug debts, and not even knowing how to get rid of the
stuff - well, it made sense.  He must have landed in hospital before he
could do more than begin to try to sell what he'd taken.  And no doubt
his supplier wouldn't touch hot goods offered instead of cash.

"We'd better give you everything out of the dead-end file, Sarge, at
this rate," Mike said cheerfully, grinning at Steve.

"Let's see, there's-" "No thanks!  I'm probably all out of lucky
chances, anyway!"  He was summoned upstairs shortly afterwards, and
when he came down again, Jane heard that a deal was being processed:
the name of the main drug supplier and his heavies in exchange for a
recommendation for probation for the smash-andgrab, and a place in a
drug rehabilitation unit.  Far from picking on Steve's unconventional
method of doing things, the DCI was making a point of showing how
pleased he was with the result - as Jane could see for herself when he
came down later to visit the Incident Room.

"I'm glad to see we're getting results on something at last," he
commented pointedly, "instead of following up time-wasting ideas!"  It
was more than clear that he was referring to the check on the local
ferry workers.  He frowned pointedly in Jane's direction, trying to
look as if he had only just noticed her.  "Sergeant Perry, there's been
a complaint call which is an obvious one for a woman officer to
handle.

The nurses' hostel?

Shouldn't you be handling it?"

"I sent DC Lockley to look into it, sir.  I thought they might feel
more reassured by a male officer."

"Oh dear, please don't try to think.  Reassuring these nervous nurses
is quite obviously something for a woman's touch!  I suggest you go
along there now, and take one of the WPCs with you."

"If that's what you'd like me to do, sir," Jane said with proper
deference, and making sure it didn't come out between clenched teeth.

Jane left the room, seething gently.  If Morland couldn't officially
demote her, he was obviously going back to his technique of sidelining
her into cases he classed as requiring a "woman's touch"... and that
didn't include murder, even the murder of young women.

She requested, without expression, a WPC to accompany her on the DCI's
say-so, and was rather glad to find she'd got Rachel Welsh.  The girl
had been proving herself as highly intelligent when she worked in the
Incident Room, showing a shy helpfulness as well as a capacity to think
- and a capacity to ignore admiring glances in the direction of her
bust from the males around the station, too.

"We're going to look into a report of a Peeping Tom," she told Rachel
as they set off.  "I suppose you could call it all part of a
detective's day!"

Rachel Welsh grinned shyly at Jane's dry comment.  "I'd like to get
into CID.  I know it's too early, when I'm only just out of basic
training, but it is what I'd like to do in the end!"

"Is it?  I'll have to be honest with you, you can go further quicker in
uniform!"

"As a woman.  I know, that's what my Dad says, and he's in the force at
Rainham.  But you chose CID just the same, didn't you, Sergeant?"

"Yes, I did.  It was always what I wanted to do."  She cast the girl a
sidelong smile.  "Though it's in for my sins", I sometimes think!  No,
it's still the most interesting part of police work to me.  Is your
father in CID?"

"No, he's always preferred uniform."

"Well, you stick with your ambitions, if you know that's what you
want!

Now, this Peeping Tom: let's hope it's just understandable nerves, but
we obviously can't ignore it in case it leads on to something
nastier.

I sent DC Lockley up to give some male reassurance.  Rachel, was that a
snort I just heard?"

"Sorry, Sergeant."

"Well, yes, but I suggest we don't go into DC Lockley's liking for the
girls, because he is a good detective as well, you know!"

The nurses' hostel was at the far end of the same road as the hospital,
and a moment later Jane was pulling up outside.  It was a large and
once-elegant Edwardian town house set behind a thick hedge of high
laurel bushes.  Mike Lockley's car was parked outside.  And when Jane
rang for admittance she found him talking to a slender, attractive girl
in the hallway, with every evidence that he was enjoying the
conversation.

"The complaint was from a new nurse who sleeps on the first floor,
Sarge," he told Jane.  "She thought she saw someone hiding in the
bushes at the front just by the ground-floor windows.  I've done a
check for footprints or any other signs, but there aren't any.  Oh,
this is Jenny - Nurse Makepeace."

"It was just Lydia panicking," Nurse Jenny Makepeace said, giving Jane
an apologetic smile.  "Anyway, if there had been anyone there, a whole
group of us would have gone out and given the guy what for!"

"A bit rash," Jane said reprovingly, but the girl shook her head with a
grin.

"Not really.  We've all got good muscles from lifting!  By the time
you've moved a few heavy orthopaedic patients around ... He'd have
learned not to try and spy on nurses undressing, I can tell you!"

"Not very advisable.  It's always better to call us than to try rough
justice.  Seriously."  Jane smiled at the girl but made her words
forceful; then she turned back to Mike.  "DC Lockley, have you got all
the details, and talked to the girl in question, and everything?"  He
nodded meekly, though Lydia, whoever she was, had apparently retreated
back to her upstairs room.  And he had been completing matters by
chatting up the prettiest nurse he could find, Jane guessed.

"It's all right, I'm not checking up on you," she told him when they
were outside, "it was just that the DCI wanted me to put in an
appearance for public relations.  So Constable Welsh and I will just
make a point of looking at the bushes, and the garden round the back as
well, OK?  I expect you did that?"

Yes, Sarge, I did a good tour round.  Oh, and I checked that they've
got good locks on all those downstairs windows, too."

"Good.  OK, then, you can go and write up the complaint and what came
of it while we finish up here."  And he'd have made a note of Jenny
Makepeace's phone number if she knew Mike.

The hostel garden inspected again and a visible presence shown, Jane
could return to the station.  As she re-entered it with Rachel beside
her, she felt something in the air again -that buzz, that sense that
something had happened.  Last time, it had been the discovery of
another body... Please God, not that!  Jane sped to the Incident Room
without waiting for anyone to tell her.  She flung open the door - and
saw bright faces turning towards her, grins, the whole place on a
high.

"They've got him, Sarge!"  Kenny called to her across the room.

"Where?  And who?"  Jane asked urgently.

Steve was grinning broadly as he answered her.  "I've only just got in
myself and heard.  Deal - a local man - small builder and repairman.

He was doing some work on the house the day before, that's how he knew
it was empty!  The guy's gone straight down there to sit in on the
interrogation, but the man's fingerprint matches with the partial on
the knife, so they've got him!  That's it!"

Relief was sweeping round the whole room.  Now to tie him in with the
other killings .  . . but it had to be so, didn't it?

Deal had found the man they were all looking for, incontrovertibly.  It
was over.

Chapter 15

"Look, about the boy in hospital - I'm getting all the credit, which
seems unfair.  I'd share it with you, but' "No, for heaven's sake keep
mum or you'll wreck the whole thing!

Humpty-Dumpty's up on his wall again and you'd be just asking him to
find a snag!"

They were in one corner of the Incident Room, emptied now of everyone
else.  Jane looked at Steve and raised her eyebrows expressively; he
gave her a half-hearted grin in return, but he had no need to feel
guilty, she thought.  He was the one who had got the student to talk,
after all.  "Don't give it another thought!"  she assured him.

"Well, OK, I won't, since the whole thing's going to take a while and
we don't want anyone running interference.  Oh when I went back to see
the boy at the hospital and give him the news, I was told Dr Ingle's
away on leave

"Don't worry, I'll pass it on when she comes back.  When I saw her this
morning she'd decided to shoot off up to London for a couple of days,
but she'll be back on Saturday.  Steve, this Deal guy they've got for
Elise's murder - will they be able to connect him with Deirdre?  I
still think-" "Like you said, we'll see.  Builders move around.  We may
find he's done repair jobs over this way - even on the Ribden Road
estate, maybe!  Or Crayshaws could have used him for a cheap repair on
a house they were selling.  Anyway, when the guy gets back, we'll hear
a bit more about it!"

Steve got up and moved away.  He didn't say - as Jane had thought he
might "Let's go out for that dinner tonight and celebrate!"  In fact he
wandered off towards the door, looking back only to say, "Don't hang
around too long, it's going home time!"  And gave her a brief,
friendly, but abstracted smile before leaving the room.

It was a bit like seeing the same guy but with an inner light switched
off.  The identifiable light of sexual interest, Jane thought drily.

And just when... No, she would refrain from thinking it was
inconvenient of him not to be in the mood, just when Matty was away,
the flat was empty, and there was a result on the murders to
celebrate.

Oh, damn, and just when she'd felt a strong inclination - rash as it
was - to take a chance for once...

Anyway for all she knew he had probably given up on the difficult and
opted for the easy instead - WPC Melanie Laidlaw, for instance.  Well,
if that was his taste.  . . Jane flicked the carousel in front of her
round with an irritable finger, forced herself into rueful humour, and
thought firmly, Just as well!

Stay switched off, Steve Ryan, and find your amusements elsewhere!

The murder cases were solved at last.  That was a positive thought to
take home with her, to the empty flat which showed by its untidiness
that Matty had packed up and left in a hurry.  It was the first time
Matty had stirred from base since Jane had lived here, and it felt
quite strange to have the flat entirely to herself with the knowledge
that the door wouldn't open, and a bleeper wouldn't make its shrill
presence felt in the middle of the night.  It was even - ridiculously
slightly creepy.  Reaction, Jane decided, deliberately resisting an
urge to draw all the curtains.  That was all it was, a tooabrupt
descent from having the murders as a constant nag in the back of her
mind, to the flat calm of knowing it was over.  She stopped pottering
restlessly and took herself off to have a long hot bath.

They probably would find the Deal builder had done some work on the
Ribden Road estate or for Crayshaws - to make

Deirdre know him by sight and innocently accept a lift from him on her
way home from work.  The MO for the killing was only different because
- oh, because of any number of reasons...

The next morning papers had "DEMON SLASHER FOUND!"

(the Sun) and a more cautious, "Man Helping Police with Enquiries' (the
Independent), both of them carrying the almost obligatory picture of
someone with a blanket over his head being hustled into or out of a car
by police.  It wasn't until the afternoon that the satisfaction around
the station started to be replaced by murmurs, raised eyebrows, looks
of disbelief.  By that time Dan Crowe was back, looking weary and
grim-faced; he appeared in the CID room doorway half an hour later with
a snapped instruction.

"Sergeant Perry, Sergeant Ryan, all DCs - where's DC Lockley?"

"Out, Guv.  He's on a-" "Never mind.  He can hear it later.  Incident
Room, all of you!"

"Christ, don't say it's not a true bill after all?"  Kenny muttered
behind Jane as he followed her.  "It has to be, doesn't it?  With that
partial on the knife...?"

"It looks as if they've got the wrong man," Dan Crowe said grimly to
the assembled company.  "It seemed clear enough: well, it wasn't.

They're letting him go."

"What about the knife?"

"And the print?  They said for definite it was his."

"Shut up and listen!"  Dan Crowe commanded above the immediate buzz.

"It'll sound like a farrago to you, it did to me when I first heard it,
but this is how it goes.  This Ron Taylor admits he was at the house
the day before.  Claims he used a knife out of the drawer to cut the
crusts off his lunch-time sandwich because he had toothache - shut up,
I said!  - and nicked his finger while he was cutting.  Rinsed the
knife but maybe didn't do it very well.  Packed up mid-afternoon and
went home, didn't go near the place again because he'd finished the
job.  But he did leave a piece of blue plastic sheeting behind ... He
gave the key back to the agent - that's confirmed.  Mind you, the front
door lock's the sort anyone could open with a credit-card.  The point
is, the next afternoon he spent in a dentist's chair having an abscess
drained, his eldest son took him there because he was in too much pain
to drive, waited for him, took him home again, and he was at home from
then on, with all his relatives to prove it!"

"But what about-?"

"I haven't finished!  If we hadn't got all that, forensic says: first,
that's not the knife which was used on the Ducherain girl.

Doesn't match the wounds.  Neither does any other knife found in the
house.  Second: the trace of blood on the knife at the house is Ron
Taylor's, and isn't the same group as the Ducherain girl's.  Oh, and
Ron Taylor drives a white van, his wife's got a red Skoda, and nobody
around him has a dark-coloured car to fit the description we've got.

Any other questions about why they've let him go?"

"We're back to square one, then," somebody said flatly.

"Right back."  Dan Crowe said it disgustedly.

"There isn't a hope that-?"

"No, there isn't.  Not one bloody fucking hope!  Just one frightened
little man who cut his crusts off because he had the toothache, and was
shitting bricks when he found out what he was being accused of!  Oh,
and another thing: he didn't come forward when he read about the
bloodstained house in the paper because "he didn't want to be
involved"!  He won't ever make that mistake again with information the
police might want," Dan Crowe said grimly, and added, "All right, you
all know now: we're back where we were and starting again!

Sergeant Perry?"

Yes, Guv," Jane said, coming to his side as he beckoned her over.

"Keep the department ticking over, I'm going home to bed!

We were up all night grilling that' He broke off without finding the
word he was looking for, his weary and disgusted shrug saying it all.

"OK, Guv."

"And just when we thought we'd got him..  ."  He sighed, beetled his
brows at her, and left, shouldering his way through the disappointed
figures drifting out of the room.

"Back to square one," Steve echoed quietly beside Jane.

"Shit!"

Yeah."

"So, what now?  We've done everything we can from our end, haven't
we?"

Steve glanced round the Incident Room.  "Hope for the next break, I
suppose... Oh, Kenny, did you and Gary manage to have a quiet word with
the African student who bought a gold chain off my boy?  And tell him
there wouldn't be any charges but we wanted it back?"

He moved away.  Other things to be done - there were always other
things.  And still no answers for the Deirdre case.

Dan Crowe was back on Friday morning, growly, but no more so than
usual.  Jane gauged his mood, then decided now was as good a time as
any.  She tapped on his open door.

"Could I have a word, Guv?"

"Feel free."  He watched her as she came in and shut the door.  "All
right, what?"

"Deirdre MacArthy.  I know we've been lining her up with the other
victims, but I'm still not sure.  Could we go back on it?  Look at her
case individually again?"

"What do you want to do that we haven't done?"

That wasn't a no, anyway.  "Target Michael MacArthy again," Jane
said.

"Go back to the fact that he lied in the beginning!  We all felt he was
hiding something.  Maybe he's cleverer than we've all given him credit
for?  If he did have something to do with Deirdre's death," she went on
quickly, "he'll be feeling safe right now - sure he's got away with it
because all the papers are making the tie-up between all three murders
- so now's the time we might get something.  He won't be looking over
his shoulder."

"How do you want to handle it?"

"Follow him around?  See if there's anywhere at all he goes.

A lock-up we don't know about?  An empty house he's got the key to, a
barn, anything?  If he killed Deirdre, he has to have somewhere he
could have left the body.  Before the heat came on and made him go out
and dump it.  Kenny said something at the beginning: "Maybe he found
out about the posh boyfriend and lost his temper and hit the girl too
hard."  And I thought then - we all did - that he might have been at
the girl sexually.  Maybe she found the courage to say she wouldn't
play any more, threatened to tell, and he killed her for that?  If he
turned up to meet her after work in his car, that would explain why no
one saw her after she left Crayshaw's."

"All right, you've made your point.  And it's worth trying.

Who can we put on to follow him that he hasn't seen?"

"Gary?  Or Mike, but Gary's less noticeable."

"Gary it is.  And Mike can spell him; let's do it properly!  We'll give
it a try and see if anything comes out of it.  Is Gary out there now?

Send him in, then, and we'll clear him from everything else, for the
moment!"

Once he'd decided to go for it, he set it up quickly: Michael MacArthy
to be shadowed unobtrusively until further notice.  Jane knew they were
unlikely to keep it up for long if nothing came of it... but it was a
start!  And at least the guy hadn't shrugged off her ideas.  Time was
passing, and if there was anything to find it had better be found
soon.

Before any further evidence might be disposed of.

Time was approaching too for Dennis's escort duty with his Spanish
royal, she remembered absently - a week tomorrow.

Well, she wasn't likely to be anywhere near his itinerary that day,
though she had heard some chat amongst uniform about who was going to
draw point duty at the university and who in the cathedral precincts.

Some of the WPCs were hoping for the cathedral so that they could see
the society bride in all her finery and watch the elegantly-clad guests
going in.

Jane was on doubled-up duties so as to leave Gary and Mike with clear
schedules; something she didn't mind at all if it meant Michael
MacArthy was being tailed.  She thought Steve might comment on her
idea, but he was abstracted - he had found someone else to play with,
she decided drily - though Kenny was approving.  "Good idea, Sarge," he
offered, "better than sticking with everyone else's dead-ends, and we
know for a fact he's a violent bastard, don't we?  No, I don't mind
going out to talk to that pub landlord instead of Mike.  Give it
here!"

Nothing new was coming in from Dover or Deal: after their frustrating
near miss they were back on the ground too, plodding for more
clues...

"Hi, friend!"  Jane greeted Matty, knowing she'd been home since last
night, because there'd been a bag and scarf flung down on the sofa, but
it had been so late that Jane had crawled directly into bed.  "Can't
stop to ask you properly how you enjoyed yourself.  Hope you had a good
time, though?"

"It was OK.  I came back yesterday morning.  You're looking bright."

"Not really, I'm just suffering from natural optimism!"

Matty herself was looking less than bright, Jane thought: slightly less
tired than she'd been before she went away, but unusually moody, for
her.  If she still had the blues for some reason it was a pity there
wasn't time to stop and talk.

Jane braked sharply from her rather too rapid exit from the
parking-space behind the flats to avoid a cyclist who had stopped to
inspect his tyres.  Somehow it just had to be Honest Johann again, her
German student.  He must have digs near here, since she had seen him
several times when she was leaving in the mornings.  She'd glimpsed him
once or twice in the evenings, too.  His repeated presence made it seem
almost as if he was haunting her... She gave a shrug and forgot him.

Who was on today?  Not Steve: it was his off-day - and he'd gone pretty
smartish last night, too.  Which indicated something or other.  Like
she'd missed her chance?  Well, she was too occupied with other things
to remember - much - that life was duller without his easy sparring.

Just her and Kenny in CID today, then, ready to take on anything which
might come up.  And the guy, if he decided to come in.

Mid-morning, it happened.  Jane had nipped down to the canteen for a
cup of better coffee than the machine offered, and was only halfway
back through the CID room door when Kenny was giving her a thumbs-up.

"The guy's looking for you.  Bingo!  Michael MacArthy took his wife and
all the children down to Mass, but then he didn't stay.  Gary picked up
on him when he slipped out again, and he's just phoned through.  There
is a lock-up!  Tucked away round the back of Wincheap, and our man let
himself in with a key!"

"Jane!  Come on!"  The guy was there, and in a hurry.  "Kenny, you stay
here and mind the store, we're taking a couple of uniforms with us.

Let's go and nail that bastard at his secret address he didn't tell us
about, and see how he explains that."

They picked up Gary and approached quietly: two cars, though it only
needed one to block the cul-de-sac.  "He's still in there," the young
DC said.  "It's quite a size, goes back a bit.

No rear exit, though, I've checked.  Looks as if it might have been one
of those old chapels or something.  Not much sign of use, but it had a
stout padlock on those double-doors, and there's a second lock as
well.

He's parked his car well away round the corner."

"Is he in there on his own?"  Dan Crowe asked as he studied the
shabby-looking building.  Nobody actually lived down here: there was a
small warehouse plainly used for storage, a padlocked metal gate
leading nowhere with an old notice tacked on to it saying "DC
Automotive Parts', and a newlooking office block which took up most of
the other side of the cul-de-sac.

"I didn't see anyone else, and the doors were padlocked from the
outside when he let himself in," Gary answered.

"Right, let's go in and get him, then."

The padlock had been removed, but the second lock had plainly been
clicked in again after entry.  Dan Crowe pointed silently to where he
wanted the uniforms to stand, then banged on the wood of the doors,
sending a few flakes of old paint scattering.

Nothing, only stillness from within.

The DI banged again.  "Mr MacArthy?  It's the police.  We want a
word!"

His voice must have carried clearly, but there was still nothing.  "We
know you're in there, Mr MacArthy," Dan Crowe said patiently at the
lack of response.  "Are you going to open this door?"

An innocent man would have, surely, with some of his ready Irish
excuses tripping off his tongue.  Jane could almost feel the man
standing the other side of the door, with that wary, bullnecked
stance.

A pause, then Dan Crowe muttered, "All right, we've got grounds!"  and
raised his voice again.  "If you won't open this door, Mr MacArthy, we
will!"  and he signed to the constable who was standing ready, equipped
with a heavy sledgehammer.

The wood round the lock splintered on the second smash.  As the other
constable's shoulder pushed the doors rapidly inwards there was the
harsh brilliance of strip lighting, the shape of a pale-coloured car up
on blocks with its bonnet open, a surprising workshop tidiness.  Then
in an abrupt flurry of movement Michael MacArthy came charging out in a
rush, a large spanner gripped and swinging in one hand.

His attempt to break through did him no good at all.  He went down on
the ground hard, tripped by a swung foot, and was rapidly disarmed.

"Doesn't look as if he wants to talk to us!"  Dan Crowe was saying
within a few very short moments, breathlessly but with satisfaction.

He regarded the figure which was being sat on heavily.  "Resisting with
intent... Well, we can hold him on that for a start.  And let's have a
quick shufty at what we've got here, because it looks like a right
interesting little set-up to me!"

You can't have me for working on a car for a friend-" a muffled voice
began from the ground, angry, but with a belated attempt at
innocence.

The protest ended in a grunt as someone sat on him harder, and Michael
MacArthy let out a painful-sounding cough against the dusty tarmac
under his face.

"Can't we, though?  Gary, what does this look like to you?"

The DI and Gary exchanged a very interested look as they both regarded
what was clearly a working repair shop.  And an extraordinarily
secretive one.  Dan Crowe obviously remembered Jane just then, because
he turned to give her a look of approval.  You were right.  We'll shut
this place up and get a proper SOCO team to go over it before we touch
anything.

Let's see what else they can find!  All right, take him in, he's got a
lot of questions to answer!"

Not least, about the body of a girl which might have been hidden here,
in a place to which Michael MacArthy had very private access.

Chapter 16

After a total going-over by a SOCO team, there was frustratingly
nothing to show that Deirdre's body had ever been in Michael MacArthy's
secret workshop.  No traces of her hair.  No sacks which could be
matched to the threads on her clothes.  No corner with straw and grains
of chemical fertiliser dust in it.  In fact the place was clean
altogether, well swept, the far end of it a remarkably tidy array of
workbenches and tools.  Machine-oil, and metal filings... if forensic
had found those on Deirdre's body it would be an open-and-shut case.

But they hadn't.

It didn't necessarily mean she hadn't been there.  There had been time
enough for all traces to have been removed.  If Michael MacArthy had
been clever enough.  And he certainly wasn't as stupid as he had once
seemed.

They had plenty of other reasons to hold him.  The car he'd been
working on was stolen; no question.  He had been in the middle of
filing off its engine and chassis numbers.  Its original number plates
were tucked away under a workbench, along with a variety of others.

There was also equipment for respraying, a selection of wing-mirrors,
various other items for giving a car a different trim.  The question
was answered now as to where he'd been getting his extra income - by
altering stolen cars.

"And we'll hope to get some other names off him!"  Dan Crowe said with
satisfaction.  "He's not in this alone, that I will bet.  Who stood him
the equipment for that workshop, for a start?  There were some good
tools in there!  Who brings the cars in, and who takes them off him
again when he's done his bit?

It all sounds very like that ring we had a sniff of before -the one
Vern heard a whisper of from his snout!  I've had Gary on the listen
since, though we haven't had enough to go on to follow up until
now..."

"How about Deirdre, Guv?"

"Yes, it's all right, I haven't forgotten that side of it.  That
comment of his, about her being "hot for it like all bitches"?  He had
been at her or after her, I reckon.  And particularly with that rage he
showed about what he called her "fancy boyfriend"!"

"That part of the interview with Michael MacArthy could have been
sick-making if it hadn't been part of Jane's professional job: the
leering and plainly sexual fury he'd shown - with little attempt to put
on his earlier pretence of grief over his fourteen-year-old
stepdaughter.

He had bitten down on his fit of anger sharply, though, with " a sudden
dip of his head, his eyes veiled, a whine coming into his voice as he
claimed it was "only that the girl had brought the polis's attention
down on him, God rest her poor little soul', which was more sick-making
than ever.

At least they could keep him banged up, and work on him almost
indefinitely, with the other things he had already been charged with.

No duty solicitor had a hope of getting him bail.

Ruth MacArthy had to be approached again, to see if they could budge
her on all those alibis as to where her husband had been, and when.

And there was a distinct slide of her eyes - even with a sharp denial
at the open suggestion that Michael MacArthy might have been sexually
interested in Deirdre.  Known but unadmitted, maybe... The
circumstantial evidence was mounting up against him.

"Line it up like this," Jane tried out on Kenny, when she came back
from another session with Michael MacArthy on Monday afternoon.  "He
picks the girl up after work - never mind for the moment if Ruth
MacArthy insists he was at home - and takes her to that lock-up.  Maybe
he has before... She resists him because she's in love with David.

Maybe she even tells him so.  Yes, why not, if he was on at her to say
where she was when she came in late on Friday night?  He'd already
belted her for that, hadn't he?  So this time he takes a spanner to
her.  That wound on her head, the one that killed her?  They said it
was probably caused by something metal.  Or maybe he just goes for her
with a fist and she falls... There's enough metal things in that
workshop she could have fallen against!"

"And he cleans the place up after, which is why the SOCOs didn't find
any traces."

"The guy thinks he wasn't the only one using that workshop

- though he hasn't got any names out of him yet - so where did he put
her?"

"In the boot of one of the stolen cars?"

"No good, if someone else is working on them too.  But at least we know
he would have had the use of another car when it came to dumping the
body!"  Jane added.  "So it doesn't matter that we got a negative when
we took his machine to pieces."

"Alternative scenario for you, Sarge.  Same as what you said at the
beginning, he picks her up and takes her to the workshop.

Tries it on, but this time she says no - and that if he doesn't leave
her alone from now on she'll tell about the lock-up and what goes on
there.  Gives him an even better motive for doing her in, doesn't
it?"

"Yes!  He needn't have killed her by accident; it could have been by
design.  Good one!  But where did he put her afterwards?"

"We'll get it sweated out of him," Kenny said comfortingly.  "Or you
and the guy will, between you!  Good thing you stuck to your guns about
him.  Everyone round the station knows it was down to you!"

It seemed she had quite a faction of backers against the Morland
technique.  She should be careful of that, though, grateful as she was;
a station taking overt sides wasn't the best way to keep things running
smoothly.  "Thanks," she said lightly, and added deliberately, "I think
the DCI's pleased with what we're doing, too.  Oh, has there been
anything more from Chief Inspector Rivers at Dover to say if they've
got anything else on their two girls?"

There hadn't been any new leads.  They were perhaps even beginning to
despair of finding any, with time going by and no results to show.

No new revelations came from Michael MacArthy either, as the rest of
Monday wound through to its close.  Nothing on Tuesday either, though
he made a brief appearance in court on the charge of handling stolen
property (and attacking police in pursuit of their duty) to keep within
the statutory thirty-six hours.  He was duly remanded in custody.

"We'll get him!"  Dan Crowe said grimly.  "And I'd have had him in
court on the murder, too, if what we'd got wasn't all circumstantial!

Go out and see that wife of his again.  See if you can't shift her
thinking!  Tell her he'll be going inside anyway.

Maybe that'll crack her, if she's just scared of what he might do to
her!"

Coming back from that unproductive visit - Ruth MacArthy was obviously
troubled, but wouldn't be budged - Jane drove into the station yard to
find Steve had drawn in just ahead of her.  He walked over as she got
out of her car and gave her a brief smile.

He leaned a hand on the roof of her Renault, apparently wanting to
chat.

"Sounds as if you were right all along about Michael MacArthy.  And
this does seem to be a month for solving two things at once, doesn't
it?"

"Not for sure, he's still wriggling on the murder.  How's the one with
the boy?  All lined up and no snags?"

"Seems so.  Rainham have got the big supplier, he came from their
patch.  Jane..."

Yes?"

"I wouldn't normally ask."  He pulled a wry face.  "No way!

But I've heard on the grapevine that I may be posted back to

London pretty soon.  So .  . . how many favours do you owe me?"

"Quite a few, I reckon.  You want to call them in?  OK, what can I
do?"

Yeah.  Well."  He stopped, ran his hand across his hair, looked
thoroughly confused.  "Christ, this is difficult!  It's not the sort of
thing I'd normally ask anyone..."

"So you said, so stop being mysterious and spit it out!  After all,
what are friends for?"

"Quite.  Listen, it's Matty.  Matty Ingle."  He said that as if Jane
might not know who Matty was without the surname.

"I've - well, you're going to say, don't be stupid, you've only known
her ten days... Light's dawning, eh?  All right.  I've fallen for her
pretty hard.  I wouldn't usually ask for help, and I'm feeling a right
idiot as I speak, because'

"Because you don't usually have any difficulty getting attention when
you want it?  Sorry.  But I can't help you with Matty, I'm afraid,"
Jane said, swallowing surprise.  "First, I'm not her keeper, and
second, I hate to break it to you, but she's notoriously fireproof.  I
mean people keep falling for her all the time, they have ever since
I've known her!"

"I can see why they would," Steve said - and without any kind of gleam
of humour in his face.  Oh dear, oh dear.  "But this - Oh Christ, could
you stop looking at me as if I was some kind of errant schoolboy?  It's
bad enough to feel like one, for the first time since I was about
fourteen!"

"Sorry.  I guess I'm just suffering from surprise.  Maybe I would have
said you were fireproof too," Jane added lightly.  She bit back other
comments.  "I don't honestly see what I can do, and that's not to say I
wouldn't if I could!"

"The thing is, I could have sworn... It's not conceit, but you know how
you can feel if a spark goes both ways?"  All at once he had the grace
to give her a rueful grin.  "That was different, though, wasn't it?

You gave me a pretty clear warning as to where I stood, and I just took
up the challenge - for fun, both of us?  This thing with Matty... She
just knocked me out.  And I'd have sworn there was something there for
her too!"

"Then she'd have told you.  She's a very direct person and she knows
her own mind."  That was what had happened before, on the rare
occasions when Matty had let someone sweep into her life .  . . But
would she have told him?  This time?

Possibly not.  Out of a misguided idea "I could have played it slowly
if it wasn't for this business of getting posted back to London," Steve
was saying, explaining, putting himself on the line in a way Jane was
sure was totally uncharacteristic of him.  As too the look of
bewilderment - and the appeal for help.  "But as things stand - she
won't even see me any more, and God knows I've tried!  It's like - oh,
I don't know, as if there's something getting in the way!"

"Maybe her career," Jane said drily.  "Had you thought of that?"  And
better he should think of that, rather than whatever else might be
going on in Matty's head.  "She's pretty keen on it!

A fact which, if you've noticed anything at all about her besides her
face, you presumably know!"

"I do, and what did you think I was aiming to do?  Try and chain her to
a sink?  I'm not that stupid, so don't you be!"  He caught himself up
on that, tried the wryest of grins.  "Sorry.  You can sound pretty
acid!  Particularly when it comes to that bandwagon of yours... All
right, don't tell me, it's Matty's too!

She's just rather - gentler about it.  We did talk a lot over coffee,
each time after I'd seen her student... Anyway, you can't help,
right?

I suppose I just had this mad idea that you were close to her, so you
could maybe find out..."

"As I said, I'm not her keeper.  What's between you can only be between
you.  I can say, keep trying - but that's about it, I'm afraid!  Um
sorry, but do you mind if I go in now?  I've got some more Michael
MacArthy stuff to process."

"Sorry.  I shouldn't have started this at all, should I?  And, well,
thanks for not raking me down further than I am already."

Steve, consulting her as an Agony Auntie?  Anthony Crayshaw and his
Tracy had been bad enough!  Jane took herself rapidly into the station
before the sheer unlikeliness of life could seize her entirely.  And
tried not to think that she and Matty had never been in competition
before.  Well, they weren't now.  Plainly, no contest.  But it would
also do Steve Ryan no harm at all to come up against one of life's real
impossibilities - as Matty had always so gently and quietly been
towards those she didn't want!

But what if she did want Steve, and was simply being unbearably
scrupulous?  Because of those conversations on the subject she and Jane
had had.  What if that was the reason for her moodiness over the last
ten days?

There was absolutely no possibility that Jane could think about all
that just now; she had far too much else to do.  She'd have to think
about it later...

She did, but only to conclude that she couldn't leave Matty a note
saying, "I don't want Steve, he's yours if you do!"  as if he was some
kind of trinket they'd been fighting over.  Besides, she might have her
facts all wrong.  Maybe when she wasn't crawling in late after another
session with Michael MacArthy ...

He was on the edge of cracking about the motor thefts, but he was still
all whines, tears and angry protestations about Deirdre.

False as hell, he had definitely had his eye - if not his hands on the
girl.  And probably worse.  The guy was certainly going for that.  If
they only had just one more thing to pin on him; one piece of concrete
proof.

Wednesday.  Thursday morning... They would let him stew today, Dan
Crowe decreed; ignore him totally.  He had broken at last about the
car-theft ring and given them names: his associates were being picked
up, when and where they could be found.  There had been a London
villain running the operation and word had been passed on.  But about
Deirdre, Michael MacArthy was still wriggling, twisting and turning
like an eel.  So let him have a day to himself to wonder what else the
police might have found out.

Jane felt it was a bit like being able to draw a breath of clean air to
be simply moving ordinarily between CID and the rest of the station
again, even for one day.  It actually felt no hardship to attend
Morland's obligatory morning planning meeting, switched back again to
Thursday this week.  He was quite subdued, and didn't even try to send
Jane off on any lowly chores.  And she was around to be offered an
amiable comment by Inspector Grainger that "Major Dalkeith will be
passing through this Saturday!"  Dennis, goodness yes, that was this
week too; in fact the day after tomorrow.  With all this going on, Jane
had forgotten about it completely.

Today she could occupy herself with ordinary CID calls.

One came in during the late afternoon which took her out to Harbledown,
a village so close to the edge of the city that it was almost part of
it, but still retained its own small, decorative, village main
street.

The caller had asked for her particularly, and it turned out to be a
nervous elderly lady who wanted advice on security.  A uniformed
sergeant could have done the job just as well, but the old lady
obviously preferred to let another woman look round her home.  Jane
took her time over it, gave the standard advice on window-locks and
door chains, and accepted a companionable cup of tea.  It wasn't what
could be called an urgent call, but it was pleasant to be out in the
villagey atmosphere, and to be shown a small and pretty garden with
flowers and runner-beans, in the summer afternoon.

As Jane drove away she felt a vague prickling along the back of her
neck.  An atavistic sensation of being watched... It was nothing; a
glance round showed only parked cars along the village street and
someone consulting a bus timetable pinned to a lamppost.  She must be
getting imaginative.  All that intensive questioning of Michael
MacArthy might well set anyone's nerves on edge.

If they could just find where he had kept Deirdre's body...

Jane was driving between the two roundabouts which carried the main
road to the city proper when something caught the corner of her eye and
made her slow and look again.  She had passed this way many times
without noticing, but now she found her attention caught by the rows of
green plots, each with its little shed.  Allotments for keen
gardeners.

People who wanted to grow their own runner-beans like the little lady
she had just been to visit, but hadn't the space at home .

Allotments?  The gardens at the Ribden Road estate were meagre, and who
would be more likely to want to grow vegetables than a man with a lot
of mouths to feed?  They hadn't - no, of course they hadn't; there were
far too many of them!  - looked at every allotment shed when they had
been searching for somewhere which might have held Deirdre's body.

Jane swung quickly to the side of the road to get out of the way of the
traffic which had slowed behind her, then pulled out again and drove on
to the next roundabout.  She swung round it and turned back along the
other side of the dual track.  There must be a way in to those
allotments along here, surely?

An opening wide enough for a car led down from the side of the road,
and ended at a gate.  The gate had a chain loosely round it, but
apparently only for show.  Parking in the entry way, Jane pushed the
gate open and walked down to the burgeoning field.  Various people were
scattered about, each to his or her own plot.  And every shed which was
near enough to see - of varying sizes and types, some stout, some
tumbledown - had a padlock on it.  Jane approached the man nearest to
her, who was concentratedly stripping what looked like withered pea
pods off a vine.

He was hardly the jolly gardener type, in fact he was thin and
lugubrious-looking and viewed her arrival sidelong with a great deal of
doubt.

"Evening!"  she said pleasantly.  "I wonder if you'd mind telling me,
do you each own your own allotment?  I mean, do people buy them?  I
hadn't really noticed they were here before, but I was wondering..."

"Council," he said briefly, stripping another line of dead peas.

"Sorry?"

"Council owns them.  We rent them.  There's a waiting list, though, if
you want one."

The look he gave her suggested he didn't think she was the gardening
type.  Which was actually true.  Jane tried to look crestfallen.  "Oh
dear, is there?  And are these the only ones?"

"There's another lot behind Abernathy Road, between that and the
farm.

You won't get one of those, either; take you a good five years!  Well,
unless you know someone who's giving one up and they let you fiddle
it.

That's done!  If you know the right people in the rents department to
get yourself jumped up on the list," he said, his expression showing a
distinct lack of faith in council honesty.  Then he added sourly,
"There used to be more, but they've sold off the land for housing,
haven't they?  Just the two left now, this one and Abernathy Road.

Mind you, for all the care some people take with theirs... still, you
won't get one!"

Yes, I see.  But the council has a list of tenants, you said?  And I
could at least ask."

"Ask all you want.  Putting the rent up's all they're good for," he
told her with a sniff.  "That all?  "Cause I want to get on."

"Sorry, don't let me stop you!  It looks as if everyone works very
hard," Jane said pleasantly, letting her eyes drift round the field.

"And most people have a shed, I see, and all well locked up!"

"Have to, don't you?  Some people'll nick anything.  Seeds, griddlers,
anything they can get their hands on.  And it's what I said, some work
hard, some don't!  Like a few courgettes?"  he asked unexpectedly, and
with a glare which dared her to refuse.

"Well - thank you.  That's very nice of you.  Are you sure?"

"I've got more than I need.  They've grown well this year, spite of the
dry.  Not like this lot - blight, this is!"  He left the plant which
had been occupying him and moved crabwise to swoop down on some
unidentifiable growth, coming up with a handful of plump, shiny
courgettes which he held out to her.

"Here, then."

"Can I buy them off you?"

You'll have them as a gift or nothing!"

"All right, then, thank you very much indeed.  And thanks for telling
me that it's the council I should ask about an allotment - even if I
won't get one!"

He made a noise which sounded very like "humph!"  as she walked away,
possessed of her unexpected gift of vegetables.

Cross-grained he might be, but he was also generous - and
informative.

Jane's mind was racing.  If Michael MacArthy was on the council list as
having an allotment... Damn, it was too late today to ask.  The council
offices would be shut by now.  First thing tomorrow morning, though,
she would make it a priority to find out.

There was that prickle, briefly, on the back of her neck again as she
backed her car carefully out of the small turning, a car having stopped
politely to make way for her.  She waved her thanks at the shadowy
outline of the driver within, and swung back on to the road, to head
back the way she had come, then negotiate the first roundabout again to
get herself into the right direction.  The dark grey car which had
stopped for her, and was now just behind her, luckily seemed to want to
do the same manoeuvre.

Tomorrow morning she could find out if her sudden and illuminating idea
was a good one.  It was an outside chance -but why not?  Michael
MacArthy might be relying on its being such an ordinary thing that it
would escape notice.  Was he cunning enough for that?  Yes.  Yes, maybe
. . . A pity she couldn't check it tonight.  She could go and ask Ruth
MacArthy, of course.  But better not!  Ruth MacArthy might be
uncertain, but she was also hostile.

If Jane couldn't get on to the council tonight, she might just as well
go straight home: the guy had told her to do that after her call,
anyway.  Frustrating it might be not to be able to follow up her sudden
idea at once, but there was nothing more she could do tonight.

She stowed her car in the parking area round the back and ran lightly
up the two flights of stairs to the flat.  Theirs was the only one on
the top floor this side.  She let herself in, juggling courgettes and
key.  It was nice of the man, but how did you cook the things,
anyway?

She was hopeless in the kitchen... She probably ought to be more
interested but for her food was simply food.

It was a pity he hadn't pressed a lettuce on her instead.  She could
have coped with that rather more easily.  Imagining the reaction she'd
have got if she'd asked for a swap made her chuckle.  Oh dear, no way
.

. . but he had given her the information she wanted!

And she couldn't follow it up until morning.  Stop thinking about it,
then.  Have a shower, change into jeans, do some ironing even, to stop
the restless feeling that there was some thought nudging in the
recesses of her memory...

It was beginning to get dark outside by the time Matty came in.  She
paused at the sight of Jane curled up on the sofa with a book on her
knee, but then gave a smile and came forward to look down over her
shoulder.

"That's one of mine, isn't it?  I thought I recognised the cover!

You, poring over a cookery book, and a vegetarian one at that?

How the world changes!"

"It's the only one I can find with an entry for courgettes, since I've
got some and I haven't a clue what to do with them!"

"Slice them, dip them in seasoned flour, and fry them in butter.

They're nicer if you leave them to marinade in lemon juice first."

"Don't give me words like marinade, I'm lost!  I'll just leave it to
you, with your odd areas of expertise!  And how you ever have the time,
when half of these say "preparation time one hour, cooking time two
hours"!"  Jane snapped the book shut and cast a grin upwards.  The
smile she got in return seemed mechanical, and Matty was turning
away.

"Hey, Matty?  Since e're both here at the same time for once and not
rushing in different directions, are you going to tell me why you've
had the blues for the last ten days?  I know I haven't been in much,
but I can still spot when you're trying to hide something!"

"Oh, it's nothing - only work stuff, you know."

"Is it?  Because," Jane said lightly, "I've had a lovelorn swam of
yours drooping all over me.  Nothing new in that, but - Yes, that is
it, isn't it?  From that look on your face?  Now tell me straight, is
he being a nuisance, or are you just being bloody scrupulous?  And
quite unnecessarily, too!"

"Jane..."

You're an idiot!"  Jane came to her feet, since somehow it seemed
easier to press her point if she could move around.

"Standing there looking bloody guilty!  Steve, right?  Just because I
said I fancied him?  Well I did, momentarily.  He's fun.  Simple,
unserious fun!"  Not entirely true; she might have fancied him rather
more seriously if other things had been equal.  But she had to convince
Matty otherwise.  "Maybe I even blew it up a bit because it was
impossible!"  she said cheerfully, pulling a deliberately wicked
face.

"Oh, you know what I mean.

Something you don't really want, but because it's there in front of you
and quite out of the question, it's amusing to dangle?  But to think I
might mind because he's gone and tripped over his toes about you-" You
don't?  I thought'

"No way.  He and I were having a nice little flirtation, like ships
that pass in the night.  I have to tell you he's gone down hard over
you.  You've thrown him right off balance!  And that's fine - if you
happen to want him.  Even if you don't, and you're just doing the
guilty bit because he made a pass at you and you thought he was
mine!"

Yes, I did.  I mean..."

You want him, or you don't?  Go on, put it in the clear!

Because if he's just being a pest, I might even give him a
talking-to!"

"No, don't do that!  I do..  ."  Matty gave a tremulous grin.  "It's
crazy, isn't it?  I mean, he's not even someone I'd say was my type!

The wrong colour, for a start!  But somehow this time, You fell for
what Dennis called "an East End copper with a roving eye"?"

Matty gave a husky chucKle.  Her face was so much brighter than it had
been a few moments ago that it was a transformation.  "A roving eye?

Well, that's no revelation.  Steve said that himself.  Anyway I've
roved myself when I felt like it, and so have you!  Do you realise
Jane, why are you looking out of the window?"

"Sorry, I just keep getting bugged by a feeling down the back of my
neck.  Maybe there's a draught."  Jane reached up to pull the top
window shut against the darkness outside, and turned round to lean
against the windowsill.  No, she would not move, and give way to the
creepy feeling that there was someone out there.  You started to say,
"Do you realise?"

What?  That Steve's a nice enough guy to send you into a tizzy for
once?  Yeah, he's OK - quite a good bloke, and I've liked working with
him.  He told me he may be going back to London soon, so-" Yes, I
know.

But London's not far!"  Matty said with a dancing grin.  "No, what I
was going to say was: Do you realise, I actually thought you were
reading a recipe book because you were getting domestic ideas?"

"Good God.  The incredible conclusions you can draw just because I'm
landed with some home-grown vegetables' Jane broke off abruptly, frozen
into her position by the window, her face very still.  Her thoughts
were suddenly flying.  "Oh my

God... Yes, I'm sure, I'm sure that's - Christ, why did I let that go
by me?"

"What is it?  What's the matter?"

"Something I've remembered!  I'm sure that's what... I'm going to have
to go down to the station, right now, and look it all up, to see if I
ever wrote that bit down!  And see if there's any possible time!"  She
was moving, in a rush; snatching up the cardigan she had thrown over
the back of a chair; reaching an urgent hand to the side-table where
she had dropped her bag and car keys.  "If I'm right - There could be a
window in the timing, too, if more than one person's lying!"

You're going back to the station now?  This late?"

"A police station never sleeps.  And I wouldn't be able to either,
until I've sorted this one out.  Sorry, love-" she flung a smile at
Matty, "but I think I may have had a clue in my hand all this time,
only I never bloody noticed it!  I can't do anything about one half of
it until morning, but I can go back and recheck the other half
tonight!"

She was out into the flat's small hallway as she spoke, pulling open
the front door, banging it shut behind her.

Why hadn't she spotted that piece of information?  Because it hadn't
seemed relevant, that's why.

But now, suddenly, it did.

Chapter 17

"Hold on a minute and I'll go and look.  She was doing something late
last night so she may have overslept," Matty said into the phone.  She
put the receiver down on its side and went to open Jane's bedroom
door.

Picking up the receiver again, she told the station switchboard, "No,
she isn't here.  I should think she must be on her way down to you.

OK.  No, that's all right!"

A moment later, in the kitchen, she followed an impulse and stood on
tiptoe to lean across the worktop and peer down through the window at
the parking area behind the flats.  That was funny, Jane's car was
there in its usual place.  Maybe it wouldn't start, and she'd walked
down - and gone via a garage rather than coming up again to phone.  She
must have gone out early, though, since Matty hadn't heard her leave.

An early start after a late night?  Well, after the excitement she'd
shown when she rushed out, perhaps that did make sense.  And she was
probably hanging about at a garage now trying to argue them into
treating the repair of her car as a matter of urgency!

Fifteen minutes later Matty let herself out of the flat.  And then
rapidly back again, making for the telephone.  Who to call

.? And surely, oh surely it had to be nothing?  A moment later, and
with thankfulness, she heard a familiar voice on the line which sent
her into immediate speech.

"Steve?  Yes, it's Matty.  I'm sorry.  I didn't know who else to ask
for.  Listen, I had a call from the station a short while ago asking
for Jane.  Is she there now?"  A pause, and then, You're sure she
hasn't come in?  Oh... Look, I've just - I've just found her car keys
on the stairs.  And her jacket - the cardigan she had with her when she
left last night.  Yes.  Yes!  No, I haven't seen her since then, she
went out in a hurry saying she'd thought of something she wanted to
check!  What?  No, it was about half past ten.  Her car's here.  But
her keys were lying on the stairs when I went out just now, and her
jacket a bit further down!  What?  Where was she going?  To the
station, I think.  Yes, I can hold on."

He was back in what must have been only a few seconds but seemed much
longer.  "Can you stay there?  I'm coming up.  And look, don't panic,
but - just in case, have you left those things where they were?  Or
have you already picked them up?"

"No, I left them.  Well, I picked the keys up, but I put them back down
again after I saw the jacket' It had been an instinct, a tremor of
fear.

"Good.  Could you go and make sure no one else touches them?  It's just
a precaution... I'll be up there straight away."

He rang off.  Matty made a second rapid call, through to the ward on an
excuse that she wasn't well.  The houseman would have to stand in for
her.  Then she went out to the stairs to stand guard, her heart giving
an uncomfortable thud as she stared down at the woollen jacket bunched
against the wall halfway down.  Jane might have dropped that without
noticing - but her keys, lying here higher up?  Those she would have
missed as soon as she got to the car, and come back.

Steve came hurrying up the stairs.  Another young man was in his
wake.

"Hi.  This is DC Peters, Dr Ingle, Sergeant Perry's flatmate.  You say
Jane's car's here, Matty?  Where, parked round the back somewhere?

Gary, you know her number plate, will you go down and have a quick
check?  Hang on a minute..  ."  He wrinkled his nose, turned back,
looked at the other man, took a few steps back down the stairs.  "Gary,
do you smell something?  Just faintly?  Just about here, near the
jacket..."

Both men leaned down towards the woollen garment.  They exchanged a
glance, then Steve straightened up again, signed to the DC to go on
with his check of the car, and looked up at Matty.

"These things are exactly where you found them?"  He gave her a sudden
smile, though it had a grim edge to it.  "Sorry, I sound pretty formal,
don't I?"

"Steve, something's happened to her, hasn't it?"

"Well she isn't where she ought to be, that's all we can say at the
moment!  Can you tell me everything again, exactly, from the
beginning?"

By the time she was halfway through the DC had come back up the stairs
and was standing by.  "It must have been about half past ten last night
- quarter past, half past, I'm not sure.  She said she'd had a sudden
idea she wanted to check!  I said, "What this late?"  and she said, "I
won't sleep anyway until I've sorted this out" - something about people
lying?  And then she went off in a hurry!  To the station, I thought'

"Can I use your phone?  Gary, stay here and keep an eye on
everything.

We won't pick those things up just yet."

"There's something else down in the hall, Sarge.  I didn't touch it and
it was over in a dark corner, but I think it's Sergeant Perry's."

They all three went down.  The DC flashed the beam of a small torch
into the corner.  To show Jane's small leather pochette - in which she
kept her house keys and her warrant-card and any other small thing she
might want in a hurry.

Back upstairs, Steve made a rapid call.  Matty was very still beside
him.  Keys, jacket, and bag... She looked up to find he had finished,
and was saying to her with an odd gentleness, "Can I take a look at her
room?"

"Sure.  It's here ... It's never very tidy.  But she does make her bed,
and when I looked to see if she was still asleep this morning I thought
she must just have gone out early!  She didn't, though, did she?  She
went out last night and then..."

"Would you have heard her drive away?  Last night?"

"From here?  No, I wouldn't, you don't hear cars from up here.  And she
never got that far, did she?"

"Two ways of looking at it," he said, gently again.  "She went out but
not to the station, because she didn't sign in there last night and got
as far as the stairs on her way back.

Though in view of the way the things are scattered, the other version
looks more likely.  Someone caught her on the stairs going out.  Matty,
would you recognise the smell of chloroform?"

"Yes, of course, though it's not exactly used round hospitals
nowadays."  She stared at him, her eyes wide with horrified distress.

"That's what-?  I didn't notice!  But then I'm so used to hospital
smells!"

"And maybe you didn't walk down as far as the jacket before you phoned
us.  Could you come and have a sniff now, without touching, and tell me
what you think?"

It was definitely there, a faint miasma in the air, when you stood
close to the jacket.  She could catch it now, that sweet sicKly
smell.

Chloroform, or something very like it.

"A lot of people are going to be turning up in a minute," Steve told
her gravely.  "Can you stick around?  We need every scrap of
information we can get on this!"

"Steve, what's happened to her?  Is it something she's been working
on?

Why would someone...?"

"I don't know.  But I'd dearly like to know what the piece of
information was she'd suddenly thought of!"  he said.  And added
grimly, "And whether someone else had sussed she might have it, too!"

Chapter 18

Jane woke slowly and muzzily.  She had some memory of surfacing briefly
once before... with cool air touching her, a vague and disorientating
sense that the world wasn't the way up it should be, the murmur of
voices .  . .?  One of them a woman's?

No, probably not, since it was all as misty as a dream.

Something across her face a second time... was that a dream too?

Though she had that horrible taste in her mouth again...

She tried to move, in response to daylight which was coming from
somewhere.  And couldn't.

The pull against her wrists and anKles shocked her into full
consciousness.

She was flat on her back on what seemed to be a bed.  A hard one.  An
iron bedstead - the chipped black curve of it came within her sight as
she turned her eyes upwards.

Christ, it hurt to move her eyes - it was like having a bad hangover!

And she was thirsty... Why couldn't she move her arms?

Because her wrists were tied, one to each side of the bed with her arms
pinioned along its sides.  And she couldn't move her feet because her
ankles were tied together and then lashed on to the end rail of the
bed.

She had wet herself.  She could feel it - smell it, too, now she came
to think about it: a faint nose-wrinkling tang of stale urine soaking
through her jeans.

She could turn her head, and did, towards the source of the light.  A
curtainless window with open sky outside it.  Daylight.

The sky a very pale blue.  Nothing else.  If she could see only sky she
must be in an upstairs room.  A cautious turn of her head in the other
direction seemed to suggest that the room she was in was very bare;
just a pale and rather grubby wallpaper, no furniture within her
eyeline... She was in an empty house, which had just this iron bedstead
left behind in it?  Or maybe just this room was empty-?

A painful lift of her head showed her there was no one else in the room
with her.

Actually she could probably lift her shoulders too, just a fraction, if
she tried really hard...

It was Friday, the tenth of July.  It had to be, she couldn't have been
unconscious long enough for it to be any other day.  She knew the
year.

She knew her own name.  She...

Abruptly she stopped struggling, trying to ward off the terrible
coldness which had started inside her as soon as she realised she was
tied.  Tied like Catherine Jones.  Like Elise Ducherain.  Like Deirdre
would probably have been if she hadn't fallen somehow and got killed
first... And, oh Christ, Jane had been wrong, so wrong, because if the
man had turned up on her own doorstep, the three cases must be
connected after all... Where had she been that had made him afraid she
was getting too close to him?  Harbledown?  That was where she had
first had that sensation of being watched ...

Was he somehow connected with the old lady she had gone to visit?

Had he persuaded her to ask for Jane particularly, in all innocence, so
that he could follow her home afterwards and wait for the right
moment?

It had to be something like that, to make him turn up on the stairs to
her flat.  He had been barring her way, so she had stopped her rushed
exit to ask him who he was looking for.  Another minute, and he would
probably have rung the doorbell.

And got both of them, herself and Matty.

She tried not to shiver.  Tried not to let her imagination run riot.

He had trapped her so easily, she hadn't been even fractionally on
guard!  That pad suddenly coming across her nose and mouth...

She could remember the man clearly now.  He had been neutral looking
with smooth brown hair, an ordinary face... He had been wearing a plain
business suit, and when he responded to her question by asking her to
check an address he had been given - his hand going to his pocket there
had been a very slight foreign accent to give a guttural note to his
soft voice... A foreigner.  So maybe it was something to do with the
ferries after all.  Maybe the killer did work on them!

His name left off their lists because he wasn't English?  But lived
here just the same, and was afraid they might get round to him soon?

Or perhaps he just chose to strike at one of the people who were
looking for him, as a way of showing his superiority...

She could congratulate herself that she was thinking clearly

- despite her headache - rather than panicking.  It would be so very
easy to panic.  Horribly easy.  It didn't help much to realise that
because she wasn't gagged, that meant there couldn't be anyone to hear
her if she screamed for help.  It didn't help either to be so thirsty A
movement somewhere set every one of her muscles tensing, and she
screwed her head round quickly as far as it would go, trying to see a
door.  It must be just out of view to her right, behind her, because
she heard it open.  And then she saw him, as he came into her
eyeline.

Yes, she remembered him, from that brief meeting on the stairs.  Not
from anywhere else, though... and he looked so thoroughly
respectable!

Not like someone who would ever dream of tying anyone up.  But so had
Dr Crippen looked respectable, she reminded herself grimly; and very
determinedly made herself meet, without flinching, the eyes which
seemed to be politely regarding her.

"So, you're awake?  Please forgive me for not being on hand sooner, but
you seemed to be dreaming so comfortably!"

"I'm not at all comfortable.  And I'm very thirsty!"

"But yes, of course.  I have some water here for you, you see?"

She had thought somehow that he would hold it just out of reach and
enjoy watching her yearn for it.  Instead he came forward and very
carefully lifted her head, to give her several gulps from the glass he
held in his other hand.

Hands in thin leather gloves.

"The finger-marks on her throat suggest leather gloves, we think-" She
remembered the forensic officer talking about Elise Ducherain.

That memory should have brought the panic back.  Instead, surprisingly
and strengtheningly, it seemed to draw her training into focus.  "Thank
you," she said coolly as he removed the glass.  "And now could you
untie me, please, because I also need the toilet!"

"Oh no, I'm afraid I can't possibly do that.  Such a small discomfort,
but I'm afraid it's one you must tolerate.  While you're my guest."

That he did enjoy... She could see it by the small gleam in his eyes.

"Your guest?  Do you always keep your guests tied up?"

"Yes, unfortunately it seems necessary.  Otherwise they may become very
wicked and try to run away!"

"Suppose I promised I wouldn't run away if you'd just let me..."

He was shaking his head reproachfully at her as he interrupted her.

"Please - no lies!  And you are lying with your face, too, because I
know that you really want to be angry and afraid!  And if you don't
behave as I wish... well, I shall have to punish you, won't I?"

There was something incredibly chilling in the sheer politeness of his
voice.  He was a real crazy, talking to her as if they were just
exchanging mild courtesies.  What did all the training manuals say
about handling crazies?  Talk to them.

Try to keep them calm.  Try to gain their confidence.  But he was
already calm, unbearably so - on the surface, at least.

"What is it you want with me?"  Jane asked, trying for a tone as polite
as his, and out of a dry throat.

"But, my dear young lady, I have told you, haven't I?  You're my
guest.

For... two days, I think.  Yes, that should do it.  After that...

Well, we shall see how you behave, shall we?"

He studied her, smiling.  With something so bland in it that it set up
a deep shiver inside her.  When she didn't, couldn't, answer, he said
and with the faintest touch of disappointment, in words which all at
once intensified the shiver - "You are not quite as young as my last
two guests... such a pity!  But one must take what offers.  Now, is
there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable?"

"If you won't untie me, then no.  Thank you.  At least, these ropes
round my wrists and ankles - are they ropes?  - they're awfully
tight..

. Please, don't shake your head like thatShe managed to put a little
wobble in her voice, "Couldn't you loosen them a bit?  They hurt!"

"Naughty girl," he said mildly.  "You really must not try these
tricks!"  He reached a hand out towards her and saw a flinch she
couldn't prevent.  One, she saw, that gave him pleasure.  He paused for
a moment, then drew his hand back - with a flicker of regret.  "No...

Well, I must leave you for the moment.

There are other things with which I must busy myself!  Please, feel at
home!"

He moved out of her sight again, and she heard the door close.

Please, feel at home - Oh God, dear God, she wasn't going to survive
this!  She was going to die.  And horribly, the way Catherine Jones and
Elise Ducherain had died.  My last two guests.  And now her .  . . Oh
God, if you're up there, do something, please?  It was the only
desperate thought in her head for a moment, as terror took her and
shook her to the foundations.  If he really means two days, let them be
looking for me, looking everywhere, let them find me - And before, not
afterwards.  Let someone realise quicKly that she was missing and not
assume she was just out following up a lead when she didn't appear for
work.  Let them be looking!

Even terror didn't have to last.  She could take a grip on herself
after a moment, make herself think.  Don't warn him that people would
be looking for her.  Don't show fear either because that seemed to set
him off... How about anger?  Well, she could try it.  Shout at him and
make demands.  He might want to see her break so standing up to him
might hold things back... There was that bit about punishing her,
though, so she would be taking a risk.  What could be greater than the
risk of lying here, waiting for him to produce the knife he hadn't
shown yet?  No, keep those thoughts out, and all the chilling
memories!

Maybe she should just talk to him, politely, calmly, as if being tied
up was utterly normal?

Try both...

She was alone for a long time.  At least it felt like it.  Long enough
to need every thought in her head to distract her.  She might as
well.

. . Thinking was better than knowing how much he would enjoy the fact
that she had soiled herself too, now.  The only thing she could do
about that was ignore it.  She kept flexing whatever parts of her she
could, to try to keep her circulation going.  Just in case she ever did
get free.  She tried pulling at her bonds in every possible way, but
had no success at shifting them.  She tried to twist herself round so
she could see her watch, too, since she could feel it was still there
on her wrist - but she didn't manage that, either, only gave herself a
crick in the neck attempting it.

Think.

Realise that he had said, two guests .  . . Not three.  Not Deirdre?

She could still be right about Deirdre.  The theory she'd come up with
could still be valid.  She worked on it in her head, slowly and
carefully.  She was quite sure that was what had been said to her early
on in the investigation: a small thing, but a discrepancy.  Was it
possible?  If only she had been able to track down that one last piece
of information...

She switched her thoughts back to the present.  What could she glean
about the man who was holding her?  What nationality was he?  The
guttural accent and the precise way of speaking could be German.  Or
Dutch.  Should she try him in another language?  No, better if he
wasn't aware... It would certainly be better to seem stupid rather than
intelligent.  Suppose he actually lived the other side of the Channel
he might not work on the ferries, but used them frequently, perhaps as
a traveller in something.  That would fit with his appearance.  It
would also explain why they hadn't been able to find him.  If he used
the ferries to go to and fro, they would link him with Dover and fit
with the two other victims, even if not Deirdre...

Her jailer was coming back again; her straining ears heard him this
time before he arrived.  She caught a light tread along a
passageway...

with a slight echo suggesting an uncarpeted floor.

Then the sound of the opening door.  And then he was beside her
again.

He held a large piece of crusty bread in his hand, spread liberally
with something.  He had apparently been calmly lunching somewhere else
in the house.  Probably downstairs.

He gazed at her with, she thought, a touch of annoyance.

"You haven't called out.  So I have to come to see if all is well with
you!"

Had he been hoping for terrified screams?  "I was almost asleep," Jane
said, feigning a yawn.

"You are so comfortable?"

"No, of course I'm not."  Try a touch of anger now, and don't give him
a reason to tighten her bonds still further.  She had actually managed
to wriggle a very slight loosening on one wrist - though nowhere near
getting her free.  "I told you these ropes hurt!"  she said crossly.

"And I'm hungry as well as thirsty now - and you're eating, I see!

Fine treatment for a guest.  Don't I get some?"

There was a flicker in his eyes in response to her irate tone.

But he gave a sniff as he stood beside her, and a look of satisfaction
at what he could smell, his eyes lingering down her body.  "Not so
comfortable, I think... You're hungry?  Shall I give you a piece of
this?"

He took something out of his pocket, and there was a click.  And a
blade flicked out, long and thin, a gleam of light shining along it.

He saw the involuntary widening of her eyes, the freeze of her
muscles.

And then used the knife to slice a corner off his bread - speared it
casually on the point of the blade held it out to her mouth... "Here
you are!"

It was only a tiny piece but it almost choked her, with that blade in
her view.  And he knew it.  He closed the knife and slid it back into
his pocket.  And smiled at her.  He said silkily, "I suppose you would
also like a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, I'd absolutely love one!"

"Oh dear, I'm afraid it would be much too hot, and too difficult to
give you, too.  But some more water?"

He must have set that down somewhere when he came in.

He produced it now - half a glassful, slightly warm, rusty looking.

But at least drinkable - if she could forget the gloved hand supporting
the back of her head.  "I couldn't possibly let you suffer from
thirst.

People can die of lack of water, more than lack of food, do you
know?"

"Yes, I'd heard that."  Make conversation.  Jesus Christ, what about,
famine and water shortages?  You haven't told me where you're from Oh,
I'm not allowed to ask?  Why not?

After all, you know where I live!"

"You ask too many questions!"  he muttered - but he said it in Dutch,
and watched her eyes carefully as he spoke, so that she had to hide the
leap of comprehension in them, forcing herself to look as puzzled as
possible.  "Ah, you don't understand?"  he said with satisfaction,
switching back to English.  "Well, then..  ."  He reverted to Dutch
again.  "I was born in a small lowland town you would never have heard
of, because like all the English, you are very ignorant, aren't you?"

She was out of practice with the language, but she could pick it
out...

She made her answer half cross, half fretful.  "If you'd talk so I
could understand you..."

"It would not be so satisfactory," he said, again in Dutch.

Pleased to have found a way to torment her.  "I wonder, shall I hurt
you now?  Or later?"

It was even harder not to show comprehension of that bit.

"Can I have another drink?"  Jane asked quickly, opening her eyes at
him wide, looking pleading.

"No, you have had enough.  After all I can't let you go to the toilet,
can I?  And I'm sure you don't like..."

He was back to English again.  And satisfied, thank God, by the
cringing look of embarrassment she deliberately showed him.  But for
how long would he be satisfied?  When would he start, how long did he
like to take?  And why did she care, anyway, since she couldn't get
away and he was going to do it in the end...?

Letting the fear come was a mistake: being unable to avoid letting him
see it was a worse mistake.  A gleam came into his face and his hand
moved towards his pocket... But then there was a peculiar annoyance,
regret, a kind of fretfulness which made him look like a sulky child.

Jane took her chance and shouted at him with a sudden burst of
rudeness.  "I really do want to go to sleep now if I've got to go on
lying down!  You won't give me anything and you won't untie me, so why
don't you just go away?"  And she held her breath...

He gave her a nasty look, but he did go, fast, and slamming the door
behind him.  There was no sound of his retreating footsteps for a
moment.  . . Then she heard him move away.  She found her breath coming
out in a gasp.  She was abruptly bathed in sweat, as well as that other
clammy wetness.

It had worked that time.

God knows how or why, or whether the same kind of thing would work
again Concentrate again.  On anything - anything - which might keep
terror at bay.

She didn't make a sound.  If he wanted to hear her screaming, he would
be disappointed.  If he wanted her to disintegrate, she could make it a
battle of wills, that at least!

She went persistently back to her thoughts.  He was Dutch; she had
solved that question at least.  He plainly had killed Catherine and
Elise.  And had gone back across the Channel after each time,
maybe...

That Dutch matchbook in Elise's bag had been a clue after all.  Perhaps
he had given it to her when she asked him for a light.  Jane must find
out everything she could about him; use the fact that he thought he
could torment her by speaking Dutch, unaware that she could understand
him.

Only, why go to that trouble?  She would never be able to pass it on.

He was going to kill her.  Slowly...

Training came to her aid, to steady her before nightmare fears could
engulf her.  Rigidly and with stubborn determination, she made herself
use the time to go over the Deirdre case yet again.  Every detail.  She
could be right... If only she was where she could find that last piece
of the jigsaw!

No, she would not think in terms of if only...

The Dutchman stayed away from her for what must have been a couple of
hours.  That at least was a relief.  She couldn't tell what the time
was, only by watching the sky and guessing.

She grew so weary that she almost did sleep... which seemed
unbelievable in the circumstances.  She must actually have come to the
edge of dropping off, because she flinched into wakefulness at the
opening of the door.

And he had someone with him.

She couldn't take that in at first.  It didn't make any sense!  The
other person was a woman.  Walking in ahead of him.

Staring at Jane.  She wrinkled her nose at the smell, then turned her
head to glance at the Dutch jailer standing just behind her.  Then she
looked at Jane again.

She was thin, brown-haired, most of her hair hidden by a scarf.  Any
age from thirty to forty.  Pale eyed.  Somehow vaguely familiar... No,
she was no one Jane could recall seeing before.

After a watchful, considering moment, the woman spoke in German.

"So, you've recovered enough from a double dose to be awake now!"

"I don't understand you

"Oh yes you do, bitch!"  A hand snaked out with incredible swiftness to
deliver a vicious slap across Jane's cheek.  While her head was still
ringing with it, she heard the woman say, "We both know you speak
German, don't we?  So I choose the language!"  She leaned closer to
stare deliberately into Jane's face.  "And you and I both know you're
not stupid, either, so don't try any clever-girl tricks!"

She seemed to be waiting... for what?  "I - I'm a bit out of
practice..

." Jane began in German, hesitantly, deliberately unfluent.

"I said, don't try your clever-girl tricks!  Not on me, I'd know all
about them, wouldn't I?"  For a moment Jane thought she was going to
receive another slap.  Instead the woman turned her head and spoke
coolly to the man behind her.  "If she gets too clever, gag her!"  She
turned back to Jane, watching her, narrow eyed.  Absently, she rubbed
one hand against the side of the other as if something there itched,
while she stared at Jane.  She was still somehow waiting.  What was it
she was expecting?

Never mind what it was: she was plainly in command of the Dutchman by
the way she spoke to him, and that knowledge sent Jane rushing into
words.  And in the language she had been ordered to speak, to be sure
of the woman understanding her.

"Why have you brought me here?  Why are you letting this man-" "Because
you were in my way!"  The answer came before Jane had finished her
question.  For a moment she thought she was about to get another slap,
but the woman seemed to restrain herself, shrugged, and added, "And you
make a very good distraction for your fellow police pigs!  Apart from
that, you're of no interest to me at all.  You can lie there and think
about that, now that I've seen you're still safely with us!"  And she
began to turn away, snapping an order to the Dutchman that he must
remember not to show any lights up here after dark.  It must be mid or
late afternoon now... And the woman appeared to be about to leave, so
that Jane summoned everything she'd got to try for a desperate
appeal.

"Please!  You can't just let him - Please, at least answer me, I don't
even know what's going on!  If you thought I did, if you'd thought I'd
found out something, I swear I haven't!  But people will be looking for
me right now, so if you, "How your German does improve when you want
something!"  the woman said, with a kind of satisfied mockery.  She
added, You're imploring me not to leave you with him?  I'm afraid
you're right, he does have some nasty habits.  But he has been very
good lately, and restrained himself.  And since I want you alive, he'll
go on doing so!"

There was a sharp warning in that, delivered over her shoulder to the
man behind her.  And it made Jane's heart leap.  But also made her push
on - however rash it was - because she was a policewoman after all, and
if things had suddenly turned themselves upside down, she had a vital
need to know.

"Why do you want me alive?  At least tell me that!  If I'm being kept
here, at least I have the right'

You have no rights at all.  Only some small usefulness... if I should
need a hostage.  And I may not.  Particularly since you make such a
good distraction, to keep all your friends busy and looking in all the
wrong directions!  Now I have no more time for you."  This time the
woman did turn away with finality, moving towards the door, taking the
Dutchman with her.  And speaking to him low, answering some expression
she had perhaps seen on his face.  Jane's straining ears could only
catch the beginning of it as the two of them went out of the room.

It sounded like, Yes, all right, you can have her afterwards, but she
stays alive and unhurt for now!"  And then, "No, I won't be coming
back, so if you haven't heard from me by tomorrow night..."

The words Jane was trying so hard to hear faded, his less clear mutter
covering them.  Jane was left with one hope to cling on to, but a
chilling certainty as well: "You can have her afterwards..."

No, don't let the fear gag her throat.  Concentrate instead on the
knowledge that he'd been ordered to keep her alive for now!  Alive and
unhurt - in case she was needed as a hostage ...

The picture had changed, this wasn't about the murders at all!

But the Dutchman was surely - it was all muddling together, she had to
sort it out!

The woman - A German.  And a leader of some sort.

Terrorists.

Terrorists with something to do before tomorrow night.

The Spanish prince's visit!  The one about which Dennis had spoken so
cheerfully, saying, "We're not expecting any trouble!"

Not from Germans, anyway, or Dutch.  They would be watching out for
Basques - for ETA.  Did they know?  That they had a different kind of
terrorist cell right there on their patch?

Because if Jane was the only one who knew...

Why did she feel that they had taken her particularly?  That the woman
had... expected Jane to know her?

Surely not?  She could have passed that woman in the street and never
looked at her twice.  So why?  No, they'd just wanted a hostage, and a
police hostage at that.

And they had a man in their terrorist cell who liked killing women,
slowly, tying them up and torturing them first.  What had Elise and
Catherine been, then?  Try-outs?  Experiments?

Lying tied to a bed at least gave time for thought.  A lot of
thought.

A gradual fitting together, to come up with an even more interesting
picture.  It was surprising to be able to think quietly and sanely
about the whole thing, but what else was there to do?

If he didn't come back she would start screaming to fetch him back.

Knowing this time that he had strict orders to keep her alive until
tomorrow night.

He came, at last, and just before Jane had got that far.  He was
wearing his sulky expression.  A madman, in some part of himself
usually kept secret, but a madman under bonds.  Jane could afford to
try almost anything now.

"So your boss has gone?"  she needled.  "And she won't let you play
your games?  D'you know what I've guessed?  She doesn't know about your
last two, does she?  Those young girls you butchered right in this
district?  What happened, couldn't you resist it?  I'd say she'd think
you'd been very stupid, very stupid indeed to draw that kind of
attention right where she's in the middle of an operation!  And when
she finds out' "Shut up!  You be quiet!  You can be gagged."

"No, don't, I'll choke."  She had got to him, but a gag was just what
she didn't want!  "I mean it," she said quickly, imploringly, as he
pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.  "I have... have asthma.  If
you gag me, I'll choke and die.  Then you won't have a hostage!  I
won't mention the girls you killed, I won't, honestly!"

"You won't last long enough to tell the Widow anything!"  he spat at
her, in Dutch, with anger in his face.  The handkerchief was returned
to his pocket, which made Jane breathe a prayer of thankfulness.  He
was gnawing his lip, glaring at her, his previous bland politeness gone
- but he switched back to English to say nastily, "I came to see if you
wanted water again, but now you won't get it!"

"And if I die of thirst?  No - no, all right, We'll talk about
something else.  Look, why don't you let me go?  Please?  I'll just go
and not say anything, I won't tell anyone about you - or I'll speak up
for you, say you were only doing things under orders."

You're getting afraid now?"  That did please him.  And almost brought
him back to smoothness.  "But, my dear girl, of course I can't let you
go!  You are' he uttered some word in Dutch which Jane didn't
understand.  A bland obscenity, perhaps.

"I wish you wouldn't talk to me in your language, you know I can't
understand you.  Won't you at least tell me what I'm a hostage for?"

"For a death," he said in Dutch, smiling at her.  Sure that he was
causing her bewildered, frustrated expression.  "For a carefully
planned and very advantageous death.  And do you want to know where?

Why, at a very holy place, of course.  The Widow is an excellent shot;
and your people will be far too stupid to prevent it!"  He switched
back to English, looking at her with gleaming satisfaction.  "There you
are, then.  Now you know!"

She did.  Just what she had wanted!  Only, she had to get away to tell
someone .  . . She gave a deliberate small sob, moving her head around
on the pillow.

"I don't know.  Why do you have to be so unkind?  You don't have to be
so mean to me... And won't you loosen these ropes a little, please?

I've been here for so long..."

It was the wrong thing!  It set him licking his lips as he looked at
her; he even muttered, Yes, you are so nearly ready!

Now I wonder, perhaps, just a little...?"

His hand was moving to his pocket.  The one from which he had produced
the flick-knife before.  Jane turned her pretended tears into an angry
glare, her heart giving a desperate lurch as she tried to sound
aggressive.

You keep your hands off me, you bastard!  She said she wanted me alive
- your boss, that woman!  I heard her!  And she said you weren't to
hurt me."

"Temper, temper!  I think you do need a little disciplining now."  And
it was there, in his hand, that vicious shining blade appearing with a
click.  "Just a little game?  A little map for the future perhaps?  A
small token..."

"No, you keep away from me, you ape!"

It wasn't going to work.  She tried desperately hard not to flinch as
one of his hands reached for her cheek, his eyes watching her steadily
as he stretched the skin out between his fingers.  Very slowly,
watching her eyes all the time, he brought the knife closer.  And she
felt the scratch of its tip... Once, in a line down her cheek.  A
second time, in parallel...

She could remember only too well the gaping wounds on the faces of two
dead girls.  And thought for a moment he was going to slash deeper
follow the path he had traced with a pain much harder to bear.  Or
maybe move on to the other cheek, as he turned her face with his
hand...

Perhaps her palpable fear satisfied him.  For now.  He stood back
abruptly, giving her a curling smile.  And then, in a rapid, casual
slash, the tip of the knife moved from her knee to her ankle, its
sharpness catching in the denim of her jeans to make a split in them
she could feel, but not penetrating through to her skin...

"For the moment," he murmured softly, blandly.  And the blade clicked
back into its sheath.

"No, Sir, there's nothing," Steve said.  His face held an expression of
acute and weary frustration, echoed by every other face in the room.

"Not a lead anywhere - and we've got absolutely everyone on it!"

"Nothing at all, since that report from the neighbour opposite of
seeing a young woman being carried into a car?  And she hasn't been
able to come up with any description of the man she saw doing it?"

"She still says it was too dark to see, and she wouldn't have noticed
anything at all if she hadn't pulled the curtain aside to look outside
for the cat.  At the time she didn't think twice about it except to
suppose the girl must be drunk or ill."

It was Dan Crowe who answered Superintendent Annerley.

"Can't give us anything on the car, either, except she thinks it was
dark grey.  But as it was dark with only the streetlamps, she might be
mistaken!"

"And she didn't get the number, of course.  Or see the direction the
car took, when it reached the end of the road.  Yes, you don't have to
remind me, I haven't forgotten!"  Superintendent Annerley didn't say
it, but they all knew what he meant - it was a "dark" car Elise
Ducherain had been seen getting into, when she was last sighted.  "No
one's found anything in Sergeant Perry's notes which might take us
anywhere?  And Dr Ingle has remembered nothing more?  What about that
car-theft ring - you've jumped on everyone you can find from that?

Just in case it's some kind of revenge from those boys for the Michael
MacArthy business?"

Yes, Sir.  We've covered everything in sight!"

"All right, then.  Keep everyone on it - and I do mean all available
staff.  Anything else can wait."

That was already happening.  Everything else - from now until they
could find the missing Detective Sergeant - had already gone way down
the list.

But with no whisper of a result.  And nothing to go on.

Nothing at all.

Chapter 19

She had to get free.

Not just for her life.  For other people's lives, too.

He had been back, and had gone again.  Jane had pretended to be asleep
... Lying barely breathing, but trying to make her breath normal;
trying not to remember she was thirsty again; trying not to feel a
creep of fear that her skin might at any moment feel the knife blade.

She had lain very, very still, feeling him watching her .  . . and had
heard him mutter something to himself in Dutch as his footsteps
retreated to the door.  She couldn't catch what it was, only that it
sounded discontented.

Her cheek stung.  So did her wrists, where the ropes had rubbed them
raw.  There was an ache in her anKles, too, though her socks had
protected those from the worst.  She had pulled, and wriggled, and
achieved what minor loosening she could... Never enough.  And now the
sky she was watching had dimmed, darkened.  It was worse being
surrounded by blackness.  And she was so tired!

Tired enough to drift into real sleep, on her before she had time to
fight against it.  Perhaps it was the drug she had been forced to
inhale yesterday... She only knew that when she jerked awake she could
see objects in the room again, a misty greying, outlines growing
clearer by the minute.  Dawn!

She had to get free.  And she had to get free quicKly - soon, before
the day moved on.  There had to be a way!

The rope which attached her bound ankles to the bed could be slid along
the rail - she had already discovered that.  But only so far, until it
came up against the end of the frame.  How far could she shift her
whole self to one side of the bed?  If she could wriggle away from the
side where the binding of her wrist was just marginally looser...

She found she could get herself almost to one edge of the thin
mattress.  The shift in her weight made the light bed frame seem very
slightly unstable.  Maybe if she rocked She felt the legs on the empty
side leave the floor just a fraction, and clunk back down again.  And
lay very still all at once... in case he had heard.

What help would it be to tip the bed over, though?  She would still be
tied to it.

Suppose she could get it to go over with a real crash - and then when
he came rushing in, as he surely would, she was lying underneath it
choking?  She'd already given him that story of having asthma...

Supposing she was twitching and choking and giving every indication of
turning blue, wouldn't he have to try and revive her?  Considering that
the woman he called "the Widow" wanted her alive?  Suppose that in
order to revive Jane, he had to cut her loose...?

It was the only thing she could try.  She had to pray that he was
asleep himself now - wouldn't he be?  - so wouldn't hear the noise she
made while she was attempting it.  She gave a tentative heave.  Clunk
the legs fell back to the floor.  No, she'd have to risk everything and
try to do it fast, work much harder than that, ignore the pain of the
raw skin of her wrist as she pulled away from it... Heave - clunk.

Heave, harder.  Heave again...

The bed went over on her fifth attempt.  It crashed against the bare
floor loudly enough to wake anyone; with an agonising pull on her arms
and legs, wrists and ankles, too, as she hung from the frame.  She felt
a stifling sensation as the thin mattress wrapped itself over her.  She
began a choking, whooping sound, as noisily as possible, praying that
he was coming.  He must be, he had to be!

He was.  She heard the crash of the door, even against the noises she
was making.  Heard him swear, a yell in Dutch.  But she was well into
her act now, and getting so short of breath that she might really pass
out... It wasn't even difficult to go limp and make terrible dragging
sounds in her throat.  She felt his hands on her, pulling at her, as if
her sheer inertia prevented him from righting the bed.  And then,
abruptly, her ankles were away from the frame, and away from each other
as well, her legs tumbling apart.  He made some fumbling movements and
her wrists were free of the bed frame as well and he made a sudden
slash with the knife against the remaining ropes.  He was pulling her
out from the debris...

She had to lie still and inert, limp, letting a noise like croup come
out of her mouth, rolling her eyes up in their sockets.  But all the
time waiting, waiting - trying to gauge if her circulation was coming
back enough for her to be able to move properly.  If she simply
collapsed, all this would have been for nothing He was trying to rouse
her, shaking her, slapping at her face.  Then he dropped her in a
heap.

He moved away from her should she move now?  No, he was already back.

He was turning her over, muttering desperately to himself, rubbing her
arms and legs as if that might somehow revive her - and then there was
the sudden shock of cold water thrown into her face.

She let her eyes flutter open.  He was poised right above her.  And she
came up, in a rush, with all the force she could muster, crashing at
his face with the top of her head.

It sent him over backwards, but not for long.  He was swirling to his
feet as she came to hers.  She dropped into a crouch, horribly aware of
the ungainly stiffness of her body, the unsteadiness of her legs.  His
nose was beginning to drip blood, and he put up one hand to wipe it,
looked at the red smear on his fingers with shock... And then fury.

She didn't wait to see what else.  Just launched herself at him, stiff
fingers going for his eyes, knee aiming for his groin.

It didn't work well enough.  She was ready for a throw if he grabbed
her.  But he didn't.  He gave one furious grunt, but then swooped
sideways.  To come up with his knife.

There was satisfaction as well as the red glint of anger in his eyes.

Pleasure - almost delight.  And an inviting, weaving movement with the
knife which showed all too clearly that she was fighting for her life
now.  No matter what his orders were; if she failed now, she was going
to feel that blade in her flesh.  He was waiting for her to come at
him.  Inviting it.  Hoping for it.  She made a feint sideways as if
trying to reach the door.

He was there at once.  A feint the other way... She had to tempt him to
come to her; it was the only hope!  And she darted closer, gathered all
the saliva she could find in a dry mouth, and spat it directly into his
face.

He did come after her then as she retreated.  Furiously, and very
fast.

And not carefully enough!  She dipped her shoulder, caught his weight,
used it - and, with what felt like the last of her strength, sent him
flying over the top of her.

She heard a crack as he landed, but she was already whirling round,
unsteady, trying not to slip on a patch of wet floor.

He was lying against the upturned bed with his neck at a strange and
unnatural angle.  As if he had caught it on the frame as he fell.

He was lying very still.

She kept just as still, hearing her own breath coming in ragged
gasps.

But nothing else.

She wasn't going to go near him.  It could be a trick - the same trick
she had played on him.

The knife had flown out of his hand and lay against the wall.  It was
out of his reach, but... She moved to it as quickly as she could, never
taking her eyes off him, and kicked it to the far end of the room in a
swift unsteady sweep.

He didn't move...

His eyes were wide open.  And as she watched them, she knew they were
lifeless.  Glazing over.  Dead...

She thought about finding the piece of rope he had cut off her and
tying him up, just in case.  She thought about risking feeling for his
pulse.

She couldn't make her feet move.

She didn't know how long she stood there, watching what she knew was a
dead man.  It didn't seem real.  Just something to be stared at,
watchfully, without belief.

She had fought him for her life, and won...

Suddenly she could move again.  Every part of her ached, but she could
get out of the room.  She was free!  She tried to run along a short
corridor she had never seen outside the door, but could only move with
a slow stiffness on unsteady legs.  Down a staircase... There was
furniture down here, an old hatstand and a table in a hallway, even a
piece of threadbarelooking carpet... And a telephone!

She staggered to it, lifted the receiver off its old-fashioned black
frame.  Jiggled urgently when she got no dialling tone.

Nothing.  The instrument wasn't connected!

No phone here... All right.  The nearest house, then.  And she was only
too glad to get out of this one.  The front door was right in front of
her.  She pulled at it with desperate fingers until she realised she
hadn't turned the Yale lock.  Come on, steady down, be sensible - and
be quick!  She heard no other sounds in the house, but just in case She
could manage to run now.  As she came out into an open area, she saw a
barn, trees - all there in the strengthening light.  And a gate, to be
pulled open with weak fingers.  She glanced back at the house as she
tugged, waiting for a face at the window, a shout.  No, he was dead.

And no one else seemed to be there... He had been alone, then.  Anyone
else would have woken with the noise, wouldn't they?  Oh, stop thinking
all these unnecessary and irrational thoughts, get on!

She was out in a lane, out of sight of the windows, a hedge between her
and the house.  Thank God for that, anyway --She began to hurry along
the narrow tarmac, though it was scarcely hurry - only as fast as she
could make her aching legs go.  Where was the nearest house?

And what bloody time was it?

Her watch was still there on her wrist.  Hurting against rubbed, raw,
bleeding skin.  The sight of it made her wince.  But the sight of the
hands on her watch - it was five a.m. And that meant she was in time.

There had to be another house soon ... Should she have turned the other
way?

And then she saw it.  Not a house, but something so mundane she almost
started to laugh.  It stood there quietly in a lay-by at the side Of
the road, next to a bus shelter and beside the gate into a field.  A
nice, shiny, black and glass and silver, telephone box.

Just waiting for her to use it.  If it hadn't been vandalised.  It
hadn't.  It seemed to be in perfectly good working order.

So she did what seemed almost the most unreal thing of all; something
she had never actually done before.  She dialled 999.

"Emergency: which service?"  enquired a polite female voice, finally
answering after several rings.

"Police.  And it's urgent!"

"Would you give me your name, please, Madam, and your address and the
number you're calling from?"

Oh Christ.  "I'm Detective-Sergeant Perry.  I don't know where I am,
it's a country phone box... Wait a minute, the number."  She read it
off.  "Put me through now, it's urgent!"

"I'm sorry, Detective-Sergeant, but could you just give me your
address?"

"No, I couldn't.  Just put me straight through!  I don't care what your
rules are.  This isn't a hoax call!  I've been kidnapped, and I've just
got free, so get me through now!"

"Hold on, please, Madam."  What was the woman doing now?

Probably sitting there saying to a friend, "I've got a right funny one
here!"  How many people got murdered while they were waiting for a 999
call to be connected?  How many people ...

There was a click, then a male voice announcing that this was the
police.

Jane was suddenly almost too weak to speak.  "This is
Detective-Sergeant Perry," she managed - and then suddenly there was an
odd effect at the other end of the line.  Like all hell breaking
loose.

And then a familiar voice, snapping at her down the line.

"Who's there?  Jane?  Is that you?  Detective-Sergeant"Yes, it's me,
Guv.  I don't know where I am.  Can you come and find me..  .?"  Hell's
teeth, she wasn't going to fold up now and start to cry!  "Guv, this is
urgent.  There's a terrorist cell in the city!  They're after that
Spanish prince!  And it's today.

I'm not making this up.  They were holding me hostage.  I got free-"
"Are you safe where you are now?  Where are you?  If you don't know,
keep on holding the line."

"I'm in a phone box in some lane."  She gave the number again.  "I
don't know where that is... Yes, I'm safe, I think.  The other one said
she wasn't coming back."

She could hear a hubbub at the other end.  Voices, shouted
instructions.  Someone else came on the line - Steve?  - and said
rapidly, "Hang in there, we've traced you.  We're coming!"

And then a third voice, very calm, saying, "If you're sure you're safe,
stay where you are, Sergeant, and keep talking.  Someone's on the way
to you.  Are you all right?"

"More or less.  I just - I think I might go and hide behind a hedge, if
you don't mind, just in case..  ."  She thought it was the Super's
voice, though that seemed unlikely at five in the morning.  "It's a bit
exposed standing here..."

It felt it.  If the terrorist woman came driving along the lane, paying
another visit after all "Stay somewhere nearby and conceal yourself,"
the voice said, calmly again.  "There's a car on its way.  They'll find
you!"

She left the receiver to hang - somehow if it was the Super it seemed
rude to hang up on him - and only realised how irrational she was being
after she'd moved out of the box and got herself through the gate into
the nearby field.  She realised too how much she was shivering -..  She
leaned against the hedge, prickly as it was, simply glad that it was
high so she didn't need to crouch down.  If she did, she probably
wouldn't be able to get up again.  And she seemed to have chosen a
field with manure in it...

No, it was her.  She ought to be used to the way she stank, by now.

Was, really, that was why she'd forgotten.

She heard them coming before they arrived, the shrill scream of several
sirens.  Three cars pulled up one behind the other as she staggered out
from behind the hedge.  And saw horrified shock in faces as people came
spilling out of the cars.

Dan Crowe.  Steve.  Kenny ... Uniforms, from another car.

"Hallo... No, I'm all right!  Guv, there's a house just up the road.

There's a man in it, upstairs, but I think he's dead.  I think I killed
him.  Guv, did you get what I said about the terrorists?  There's one
still loose, maybe more.  The one I know about's a woman-" "I've passed
the word on, you can tell us the rest later.  Get her to hospital,
now!

And Sergeant Ryan, you and you, with me to the house, "I don't need to
go to hospital!  I'm all right!  Take me to the station, I've got to
tell - - ."  Someone was wrapping a blanket round her, and she tried to
shake it off.  "Special Branch need to know"They do, they'll have the
message by now!  And they can come and see you at the hospital for the
rest.  Come on, Jane.

You're out of here, fast!"

She was being pushed into the back of a car, with Kenny's arm round her
-..  Kenny?  She screwed her head round to look at him.  "You're
supposed to have gone on holiday.  Last night, wasn't it?  They
cancelled your leave?  I'm sorry, "Jesus Christ, Sarge, how could you
think I'd even want to go, with you missing?"

There was an explosive note in his voice.  It was unusual for him to
blaspheme, too: everyone else might, without thinking, but not Kenny.

Jane suddenly stopped trying to hang on to the threads of normality.

They'd found her.  She was safe..  - A deep shudder took hold of her.

"I'm afraid I pong a bit

"Think nothing of it.  What's a pong between friends?  You in front,
move it.  And get that siren back on" Casualty.  A nurse sliding her
clothes off carefully.  And then Matty suddenly there, in a rush,
stopping dead in the doorway.

"Jane, "I'm all right.  Why are you looking like that" Jane turned her
head as she spoke, and caught sight of a stranger in a mirror on the
wall.  Spiky sweat-darkened hair framing a dead-white face.  Deep black
circles under huge, feverish eyes.  And down one cheek, standing out
starKly against the pallor, two bloody parallel lines, scratched by the
sharp point of a knife...

So that was what everyone else had seen, when they found her by the
roadside.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said, politely but suddenly

- and then everything went into a blur all around her, and people were
having to hold her up.

She was an hour in Casualty.  And even then, after she had been
examined, washed, her wrists bandaged up, her cheek cleaned gently with
antiseptic, she was rushed off in a wheelchair to a small private room
with a blind across the door.  A nurse kept trying to persuade her to
get into bed, and didn't seem able to understand why she refused; in
the end she was allowed to stay out of it.  She was left alone with
Matty, who was being soothing.

"All right, honey, you don't have to get into bed, but at least sit in
the chair!  Here, put this on, I've brought it from home for you."

"That's yours."

"So what?  You don't own one" Matty pushed her into the silk wrap with
its bright flowers, and nudged her down into the armchair beside the
hospital bed.  "What do you think I should have brought you" she added
on a wobbly grin, "that tatty long T-shirt of yours with Snoopy on the
front" "Some proper clothes."

"Honey, you're here because you're still suffering from shock, all
right?  Come on, you ought to recognise it - think of the people you've
seen after car crashes, OK?  You really ought to have a mild
tranquilliser" Matty said, regarding her worriedly, "but since they
don't know whether that chloroform's right out of your system, She
broke off abruptly, then went on quicKly.  "No, Jane, sit still and at
least try and relax!  You've got some breakfast coming-" "I ought to be
at the station!  There are things I haven't told-" "You've got some
very important debriefers on their way to you right now.  So stop
worrying, honey, please?  And there's a message from your DI which I
was told to give you to stop you fretting.  "Tell her there's no
target" - whatever that means."  diflc Breakfast arrived just then, on
a tray handed in by a uniformed constable.  He gave her a tentative
grin before he disappeared again.

"Cripes, am I under guard" Jane said weakly.  She felt a sudden
returning shiver inside, but made a quick attempt to suppress it behind
flippancy.  "Oh, food, I'd quite forgotten about being hungry" And Dan
Crowe had sent her a message to say there was now no target.  She had
managed to stop what was due to happen.  That at least...

She found she couldn't eat much when it came to it, but did drink a lot
of tea.  Hot and sweet and suitable for shock.  Matty told her that the
Super himself had been up to the hospital to enquire after her.  "And
here's something I heard from Steve, which you may find cheering - even
your DCI Morland was up all night because you were missing" "He never
likes anything being displaced, he's a man for neat straight lines" No,
she shouldn't be unfair.  But Matty gave her a chuckle, as she perched
on the end of the bed, apparently delegated to stay with her.  That was
a secret relief: it stopped Jane having to think.

Not long afterwards a helicopter came clattering low overhead.

Normally it might have been Air Sea Rescue bringing a patient in, but
not this time, apparently.  Shortly, there was a polite tap on the
door.  It heralded what Jane recognised at once must be her official
debriefers.  Matty slipped out as they came in, with a backward grin
and wrinkle of her eyes at Jane.

The new arrivals were an older man in a neat three-piece suit, and a
younger one more casually dressed in slacks and hacking jacket.  Dan
Crowe accompanied them.  The older man had the quiet air of someone
very high up, but as Jane began to struggle to her feet feeling totally
underdressed in a bright silk wrapper, he smiled at her very pleasantly
and waved her down again.

"No, don't get up.  Who's going to bring us in some chairs?

Ah, here they are!  So, you're Detective-Sergeant Perry.  I hope you
won't object if I call you Jane" He didn't say who he was.  Top-brass
security, obviously as she had thought from the look of them.

"Right, Jane, could you tell us everything in your own words, from the
top" he asked, when they were all seated.  At least he and Dan Crowe
were: the taller, younger man seemed happier ignoring his chair and
leaning casually against the wall.

Jane ran through everything, as accurately as she could.

And as impersonally, when it came to the Dutchman.  She was listened to
with quiet concentration, and only the occasional question to break the
flow.  When she had finished, the older man stretched a little, and
glanced at the younger.

"Definitely the Spanish prince, Simon, wouldn't you say?

And no use asking why we hadn't had wind of it" "Someone was being
cleverer than we'd bargained for" the young man called Simon agreed.

"But not quite clever enough, thanks to our colleague here."  He gave
Jane a smile.  "And the one you dealt with - the nasty piece of work
you felt he'd been on a killing spree without his leader knowing about
it?  I'd have drawn the same conclusion myself."

"We're trying for a match on his fingerprints with some found at the
factory near Dover, but his MO shows it was pretty definitely him" Dan
Crowe put in.

"Yes.  Nasty.  Rash, too."  He dismissed the Dutchman and returned to
the most vital factor.  "This woman, the one in command ... I'd dearly
like to know exactly where she is now!  And who else is here with her,
too" "Sir."  His attention came back at once to Jane as she spoke.

"I think I know one other!  A German student, or posing as a student.

I'm not sure, but he could be one of them."

She explained about Honest Johann.  And received a look of increased
interest.  "Certainly worth putting on the list.  You got the
impression that he might have been following you about" "Yes, only I
didn't think twice about it at the time" Jane said apologetically.

"But it would explain why the woman knew I spoke German.  Only" she
added, trying to puzzle it out and hardly aware she was speaking aloud,
"not how he'd know he'd find me by asking at the station for someone
who spoke German!  Or why they particularly wanted me ... Except that
I'd almost swear she expected me to recognise her.  The way she looked
at me, and the way she said - Sorry, sir, I'm rambling."

"No, keep thinking.  You've been doing fine.  Thanks to you we've at
least got a description of this leader."  And Jane had been allowed to
see her clearly because she wasn't meant to survive... Had she seen her
before somewhere?  But where?

In London, when Jane was with the Met?

"A woman, and a German" the older man was saying thoughtfully.  "Who
have we got, Simon?  Anyone come to mind?  ETA connections - though not
necessarily, they may be going crossparty-" "Mary-Louise Scott" Jane
exclaimed, with light breaking over her mind from nowhere.  A distant
memory which had been nagging at her, a half-remembered likeness... She
saw all three heads turn to her sharply, and rushed on.  "That's who it
is!  I'd swear - she's not German at all.  It's Mary-Louise Scott!  I
haven't seen her for all of thirteen years, but-" She had everyone's
attention now, riveted on her.  "Sir, there was a girl called
Mary-Louise Scott who came out from England to work for us as an all
pair when we were in Germany.  She looked after my little sister.  Then
there was a bomb in the barracks and she disappeared straight
afterwards.  Then they found out she'd been involved - Sir, it is
her.

I'm sure it is" "Of course, you're Gordon Rees-Perry's daughter, aren't
you?  I noticed that in your file.  And he held the German command
then.

Well done, Sergeant.  You're absolutely sure" "Yes!  She must have
thought I'd recognise her.  I didn't" Jane added, the full irony of it
hitting her.  "I'd forgotten her completely!  If I'd just seen her
walking down the street I wouldn't have had a clue!  But she must have
supposed That's why she said I was getting in her way!  And it's only
now I've realised... And that mannerism of hers!  I noticed it without
thinking about it, but that makes me even more sure" "Mannerism?  Tell
us."

"Rubbing one hand against the side of the other.  I only remember it
because - well, I suppose that's not important."

"Everything is."

"She used to tell my little sister that she'd been born with an extra
little finger and had it surgically removed.  And that she could feel
it as if it was still there.  I don't suppose it was true, just one of
her stories!  But it frightened Chloe, so I remember it."  Jane spoke
quicKly.  And wonderingly.  "Mary-Louise Scott, a full-blown
terrorist?

I never liked her much, I thought she was dumb, but, "Not too dumb to
give the precise barrack layout to her boyfriend.  I remember that case
- before your time, Simon" the older man said.  "However, you may have
heard of her since!  But not recently... So that group's started being
active again, has it" "That raises a point, doesn't it" Simon said.

"If Mary-Louise Scott is around, then so is Gerhard Weber" "Yes, we
heard they'd stayed together, didn't we?  In fact that she'd married
him.  And if we've got Gerhard Weber, that suggests a bomb - whatever
this Dutch character may have said about a shooting."

"Sir" Jane said again, interrupting tentatively.  "If Mary-Louise Scott
married this Gerhard Weber, then I don't think he is around.  The
Dutchman referred to her as "the Widow".

So perhaps he's dead" Both men were staring at her as if she'd just
dropped a second bombshell.  "I mean" Jane said even more tentatively,
"he wouldn't have been calling her `the Widow` if her husband was still
alive, would he" "You're sure that's what he said?  He called her "the
Widow"" "Yes, he said it at least twice.  He used it as if it was some
kind of... title" She saw the look they exchanged, and asked, "Is it
important" "If Mary-Louise Weber, nee Scott, is the one they now call
the Widow - yes, it's extremely important.  What do you think, Simon,
possible" "Very possible indeed.  A contract.  That would be
interesting.  But can we trace her now?  That's the point."

The older man, the top brass, seemed suddenly to be aware of Jane's
bewilderment.  "`The Widow,`" he explained brisKly, "is the name of
something we've thought of as an organisation rather than an individual
- and we've been hearing about it rather a lot over the past few
months.  A whisper here, a whisper there.  Contract killers, moving
around Europe.  So if "the Widow" also means Mary-Louise Weber, it
makes a lot of sense!

Gerhard had fallen out of sight, but we didn't realise he had died...

She must have had plenty of expert training over the years.  And now
she's out to become a major hired assassin.  At least she hopes to be
... Yes, that would fit."

The two men went into a professional huddle, passing words to and fro,
assessing, communicating in half-sentences.  Jane looked at Dan Crowe
who had been sitting in silence apart from his one earlier remark.  He
was here to act as her back-up as her superior officer, she guessed,
while she was questioned.  He raised his eyebrows at her, then beetled
them, friendly and approving.  It seemed she had produced some
information of particular interest to security.  She wondered what
Dennis would be doing now, with his prince.  Explaining politely that
the visit had to be cancelled?  A glance at her watch showed it was
only nine o'clock - really?  - so perhaps the prince was being stopped
by urgent phone calls at this very moment.

The conversation between her two security debriefers suddenly caught
her attention.  "Isn't there a risk to the general public if we do
that" the younger one was saying.

"Acceptable risk if it means we can catch her?  She's aiming to do it
outside the cathedral, from the words which were used "a very holy
place"?  You'd hardly apply that to a university!  Suppose we don't
officially cancel, but send a car as if the prince was in it - How
close can vehicles get to the cathedral entrance" "Almost right up to
it.  But if we clear the area of the public, she won't get anywhere
near, and if we don't..."

"As I said, acceptable risk!  We're not talking about a bomb here.

A gun's the Widow's trademark.  I agree we should clear the school
grounds behind the cathedral.  I'm sure we can find some innocent way
of doing that, even on a Saturday afternoon!

Get the entire school gated, or something!  Then out front with the car
arriving, and marksmen in place - and a very sharp eye out for someone
of her description-" "Sir" Jane broke in.  And to hell with
interrupting top brass.

"Sir?  If you had me down there, I'd know her" She felt Dan Crowe stir
a little as if in protest, but went on quickly.  "I'm perfectly fit,
sir, and I'm a trained observer.  I'm the only person you've got who
could be sure of recognising her!  Even apart from her face, I'd
remember the way she moves.  Put me down there somewhere, and if she's
there, I'll see her" "I don't know.  It's a good offer, Sergeant, and
thank you.  But after what you've been through, "I'm perfectly fit,
sir.  And I know Mary-Louise Scott.  That's why she had me grabbed in
the first place!  Even though she was wrong and I wouldn't have
recognised her from when I was fifteen, I've seen her now!  So as long
as you put me where she can't spot me first..."

"Possible - yes... As long as she hasn't tried to contact that house
where you were held.  The phone's disconnected, isn't it?  A close
watch is being kept on the house too, I imagine?  We certainly asked
for that-" "It's being done" Dan Crowe interjected - slightly insulted,
Jane thought, that anyone should think it wasn't.  "And well out of
sight, too" "Good, so if anyone goes there we'll have them.  If she
doesn't ... You're volunteering, Sergeant?  It's your decision."

"Yes, sir, I'm volunteering" "Right, then" the older man said, with a
smile.  "We'd better start setting everything up."

Chapter 20

They were extremely efficient.

The wedding was at two o'clock.  Before one Jane was ensconced at the
front first floor window of a small, narrow private house next to the
Cathedral Gift Shop: the window protruded in a small bow and gave a
three-way view covering the whole of the precincts down to the porched
south-west door of the cathedral.  As a watching place, it was the
perfect choice.

There was some material pinned up across the window which from outside
looked innocently like some new kind of sunblind; from inside it wasn't
opaque at all but gave a clear sight out through it.  Jane looked at it
with interest and asked one of her escorts what it was.  He grinned and
said, "Dunno how they make it, but isn't science wonderful" He was the
cheerful one who had already been there when she arrived.  There was
also a quieter man who had brought her down here, and sat beside her
now with a radio in his hand into which he murmured from time to
time.

It had been made clear to Jane when she was handed into his nameless
charge that he was the one she was to answer to.  He was to be with her
at all times, and she was to do nothing at all without his say-so.

Though what she was expected to do was, solely and simply, look.

The owners of this house, and the small cosy sitting-room filled with
comfortable chintz in which they were now sitting, must have been
quietly persuaded elsewhere, because there was no sign of them.  The
front door had been opened rapidly so that Jane and her companion could
nter anonymously, as soon as the car which brought them arrived as near
as possible to the house's front door.  Jane was dressed in her own
clothes now, slacks and a shirt, but had been lent a slightly
over-large anorak and told to pull the hood up over her head before she
got out of the car.  Their entry had been quick, quiet, and apparently
casual, just a pair of ordinary Saturday visitors calling at someone's
home.

When Jane pulled the anorak hood back from her face, the cheerful one
had looked at her and joked, "Had a disagreement with a tiger" "No, it
was a drunk with a broken bottle, but he almost missed me, luckily.

They're only scratches" "Fighting drunks can be a bummer, can't they"
he agreed, giving her a grin.  Then he left the subject alone.  For
which she was grateful.

The words had kept turning up in her head all through the long morning:
I killed a man.  She'd had no choice, she'd been fighting for her life
. - - All the same the thought kept on recurring, as if she had to keep
acknowledging it rather than pretend it was an unreal and unlikely
dream.  I killed a man today.  She knew that later she would be called
in for the obligatory counselling, encouraged to talk about it to
someone specially trained to listen.  That happened to everyone who got
into that kind of situation... It was supposed to be a help.  And
probably was.  Anyway she'd have no choice about the counselling,
either: it was standard procedure.

For now, at least she could banish everything else with the knowledge
that she had work to do and must concentrate on it.  The precincts were
spread out in front of her, from the Christ Church Gate on her right to
the cathedral on her left.

This ringside seat would have felt exposed if she hadn't been assured
that nothing could be seen through the blind from the sunny openness
outside.  There would be other secret watchers out there; some up
behind the rooflines of the surrounding buildings, she guessed, armed
with rifles.  Security people would be mingling with the tourists
below, too.  She couldn't see which they might be, out of the small
colourful groups wandering about outside, consulting maps, taking
photographs of each other and the cathedral, putting queries to the
occasional cathedral official or tour guide dotted about... but if she
couldn't see anyone suspicious, neither would Mary-Louise Weber, nee
Scott.

Jane should have known those pale eyes.

She had worked with a police artist this morning, getting every detail
drawn in, changed, adjusted, until the portrait was as near as possible
to what she had seen.  Mary-Louise had been four years older than
herself, nineteen to Jane's fifteen in those days back in Germany.

That made her thirty-two now.  She had changed quite a lot from the
plump, sulky girl Jane remembered - but Jane kept her mind firmly on
the face she had seen last night.  Thin cheeks.  A slightly pointed
chin.  Brown hair, just visible under the concealing scarf.  It was an
anonymous face altogether apart from the pale eyes which could look
blue or grey or green, Jane thought, trying to give the artist an
impression of their shape so that he could get it right, trying to
remember the angle of the eyebrows...

Everyone would be looking out for her, the artist's final picture
thoroughly circulated.  If she came, someone would see her.  But Jane
was the one who had to fulfill her claim that she would know her.

"Here, coffee and sandwiches while you watch" the cheerful escort said,
appearing abruptly from somewhere else in the house with a tray and
steaming mugs.

"Oh, thanks."

"Ben" he offered amiably to Jane's hesitation.  "It's all right, he's
not Bill.  Answers to Charley, most of the time" He gave a grin in the
direction of the other escort, who was making a careful inspection down
below through a pair of powerful binoculars.  Then Ben took himself off
again, to whatever was his allotted task elsewhere in the house.

"Use these if there's someone you want to take a closer look at"
Charley said laconically, putting the binoculars down on the small
table between them.  He picked up one of the mugs of coffee and reached
for a sandwich.  "You've been given the timings, haven't you?  The
royal car is due to arrive at 13:45, so our shooter ought to have got
herself in place by then.  The wedding guests aren't being allowed to
park in the precincts, only the royal car and the bride's.  Everyone
else walks in.  The cathedral's being closed to the public for the
wedding, too, in fact they're turning them away right now and clearing
everyone else out, so at least we won't have to look for anyone
suddenly coming out.  She'll have to be here, somewhere, "No one can
get in through the cathedral entrances round the other side, either"
"No, there'll be vergers turning people away from those, too, and
locking the doors.  There'll also be some of us on the look-out.

She won't get through from that side.  And the royal car's due to stop
here.  That's always been the plan and we can rely on our terrorist
friends knowing that.  Since they've apparently been all too
well-informed about this visit altogether" He added, "Still, it wasn't
a secret that he was coming to this wedding, no one thought ETA's reach
stretched this far, that's all" He was getting quite chatty now they
were settled.  Even as Jane was thinking so, he returned to speak to
somebody through his radio, leaving her to her own devices.

If Mary-Louise, the Widow, did plan to come, maybe she had set her move
for later, when everyone came out of the ceremony.  Jane knew that had
been thought of too: if there was no sign of her here before the
service, the car would be tipped off, would drive very close to the
cathedral entrance instead of deliberately stopping a little way back
from it, and someone would hurry inside.  And Jane, and everyone else,
would go on watching If Mary-Louise was coming, she would have to
arrive looking like an innocent tourist through the Christ Church
Gate.

Or come from the far end - straight ahead from here - along the path
from the Queningate.  Those were the two places to watch.  Unless she
was already here ... There was no one Jane could see at the moment who
could be her.  Not alone, and not as part of a couple.  No one either
in the group over there clumped round a tour guide to listen to his
exposition.  Some of them - Jane could see, clearly, since they were
right in front of her - were looking disappointed, and were glancing
towards the cathedral as if they had just been told there was no entry
there this afternoon.

People were moving in and out of the entrances to the Gift Shop, below
and to the right.  Mary-Louise could be in there ...

except that someone would be watching there, too.

The vergers seemed to have cleared the last of the tourists out of the
cathedral now and someone had come out to fix very large white satin
bows to each side of the arch of the southwest door.

Two people, a girl and a man.  Jane picked up the binoculars to study
them quicKly - but neither was in the least suspicious and the girl was
certainly too young.  A single figure caught her eye further up the
path to be studied again - .

- No, nothing like.  That one, walking with a black stick which could
perhaps contain..  .?  No.  A lot too old, seen close up, and limping
away, too.  When would Mary-Louise come?

Perhaps she already knew things had gone wrong, and wouldn't come at
all.  But Charley's radio hadn't produced anything to suggest anyone
had been near the house out in the country.

The radio chattered something now, but as he listened it plainly wasn't
anything urgent.  Just something which made him say into it, "OK,
you're clear that side?  Nothing here yet."

A glance towards the Christ Church Gate showed a couple of uniformed
constables, chatting idly to each other as if nothing important was
happening, looking as if they were merely getting ready to take up
point duty for the arrival of the wedding guests.  As Jane watched, one
of them - a face she knew, and rather more senior than the constable's
uniform he was wearing - moved down this way unwinding an ornamental
rope, fixing it to the low iron poles which stood here and there and
cheerfully asking members of the public to keep behind it, please, so
as not to get in the way of the wedding guests who would be arriving
soon.  The other uniform moved over to ask people politely to stand
back on the other side, too.

Faces to study.  Anyone coming in through the gate was suspect - - Any
woman on her own or in a couple.  Anyone approaching down the
Queningate path.  And people were beginning to clump now, looking
interested, obviously deciding that the extra decorations on the
cathedral front, the activity, the promise of a bride, all suggested it
might be worth hanging around to watch.

No one who could have been Mary-Louise Weber.  Not so far.

Jane shook her head slightly at Charley beside her as he gave her a
questioning glance, his radio at the ready.

A drift of guests began to arrive, distinctive in the morningdress and
grey toppers of the men, the elegant silks and chiffons and elaborate
hats of the women.  Half past one ... They were all coming to take
their places now, high society en fete and in their glad rags, very
much the rich and upper crust and dressed for the occasion.  As more of
them came through, Jane raked the faces of the watching crowd.  This
window was so low for a first floor, with the little house's low
ceilings, that she could see everyone almost straight on, except if
they were directly below, and that she knew had been carefully covered
by placing some plainclothes "tourists' there.  Down at the south-west
door, vergers - if they were all vergers in those black cassocks - were
politely checking wedding invitations brandished in well-born hands.

Jane switched her eyes in the other direction, back towards the gate
again, raking the crowd.

Somewhere - she had to be somewhere - surely-?

Charley nudged her arm, and she looked rapidly where he pointed.  No,
the eyes were dark and too small.  A woman in a big red hat, one of the
wedding guests, drifted through Jane's vision.  Another elegant one,
with that smooth blonde hair peeping out from under the hat, her dress
a flutter of bright chiffons, her legs elegant in high heels.  The
matching bag which hung from a chain on her shoulder looked a little
too big for the outfit, but otherwise she was the picture of summer
wedding chic, as she turned her head a little under the curve of
scarlet straw.

Jane swung the glasses after her in a sudden rapid movement.  It
couldn't be ... Turn your head again, please, look round!  But she had
an invitation in her hand, the same square of white pasteboard as the
other guests.  And dressed like that, looking like that The movement of
her shoulders as she walked.  The casual glance from side to side.  The
slow turn of her head to look back as if idlyIt brought the woman's
face into focus through the glasses.  And Jane was sure - suddenly,
absolutely sure.

"She's there!  In among the wedding guests!  That's her, in the scarlet
hat and the multicoloured chiffon dress.  Down there by the door,
showing her invitation" Charley had the radio to his lips almost before
she had finished speaking.  "J's seen her.  In with the wedding
guests.

Yes!  Description - - ."  He gave it, rapidly, his eyes on the back of
the woman by the church doorway.  "Yes, J's sure."  He quirked an
eyebrow at Jane and she nodded sharply.  "No, by herself, far as we can
see ... But she's - yes, she's going in" It didn't make sense.  The
royal car wasn't even here yet.  If she'd hung back pretending she was
waiting for someone ...

Unless she meant to do it inside the cathedral?

Charley's radio was chattering back.  "Yes, she must be" he said into
it.  "All right, what do we do now?  What?  Yes, she's in there.  There
wasn't any way of stopping her.  No, it's a definite.

You're certain" he asked, looking at Jane.

"Yes.  Yes, I am!  Made up like that, and with blonde hair, but I had
the glasses up, and I saw her eyes.  That's definitely her" There was a
brief pause before the radio chattered again.

He had it too close to his ear for Jane to hear what was said.  He
looked at her as he listened, thoughtfully.  Then, "OK, if it's the
only thing to do.  And I agree, it is, we can't just - Right, I'll ask
her."

He moved the radio away from his face.  "We've got to get her out of
there without damage to anyone else" he said, his voice practical.

"They're asking if you'll go in, with me, and point her out, since I
only saw her back view.  Then we can move in on her quietly ... It's a
bit of a risk, for you, but are you game" "Yes, of course" "All
right.

But you don't move a muscle, take a step, do anything at all without my
say-so, is that clear" "Totally.  I'm a serving officer - and I do know
how to do what I'm told" "OK."  He smiled at her then, a sudden genuine
warmth before he put the radio back to his mouth.  "J's on for it.

We'll go in now, without waiting.  Get everything else lined up" She
saw him check a gun in a shoulder-holster as they stood up; a casual
but very practical movement.  Then they were running down the short
flight of stairs, out of the front door into the bright sunlit air, and
were moving quickly through the crowd waiting to see the arrival of the
bride.  He hadn't told Jane to pull up the anorak hood this time:
perhaps a hurrying hooded figure would have suggested a target to
someone's jumpy finger up above, she thought ... He flashed an
identification at one of the vergers as they got right within the
doorway's arch, and murmured something to him: the others were still
vetting the last straggle of guests.  At the quick wave of a hand, Jane
and her escort slipped past, into the curved glassed-in vestibule which
formed the inner entrance.  From there a clear view was visible through
to the nave, filled now with seated guests' backviews; heads and
shoulders, colourful and fancy hats.  They could hear the soft sound of
organ music filtering through, filling in time before the wedding
began.

"See anything that looks likely" "Not from here -. She could catch a
glimpse of an orange hat, but no scarlet one.

"We'll have to go right in, then.  Hood up."  He pulled it up.

"Look as casual as you can, as if we're somebody's - oh, chauffeurs or
something, trying to find the boss with a message" And he actually gave
her a grin as he pushed open the glass door.

There were rows of chairs set out all up the nave facing forwards to
the altar, other rows in the side aisles facing inwards - for less
important guests, perhaps, relegated to a slightly more out-of-the-way
position with the massive pillars spaced every so often giving an
interrupted view of the nave.  The cathedral's ambience wasn't stopping
the guests from chatting to each other as they waited, a hum of voices
rising against the soft background of the organ, heads nodding towards
each other.  Up above, grey stone rose with unbelievable grace, curving
to a distant height.  Charley's identification was flashed quicKly
again, within the palm of his hand, when someone moved towards them
with a questioning look as they slipped quietly through the central
entrance at the back.

Jane's searching eyes still saw no scarlet hat.  Charley indicated, and
they moved to the right side aisle, to walk very quietly up it through
the curious eyes of the people sitting this side.  Back again.  Round
to the other side

Halfway up the front row of the side seats in the left aisle, a
wide-brimmed scarlet hat lay on an empty seat.

"Damn" It came out well below his breath and he had his radio to his
mouth at once.  After jiggling its switch uselessly, he glanced up at
the pillars all round them in exasperation, then put the radio away
without any further attempt.  "Keep looking" he mouthed at Jane as they
moved quickly towards the place.

They were ignored by the couple in the seats next to it, who were busy
in some deep conversation.  Until Charley interrupted them, quickly but
very politely and with a very good imitation of puzzlement.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for the lady who I think was sitting here."

"Was there?  Oh yes!  I think she must have been feeling ill, she went
out - up that way, wasn't it, John?  Oh, fancy leaving her hat
behind!

Probably wanted to keep her place, I suppose.  We should get a nice
view from here" And a nice view down between the pillars to the glass
vestibule by the entrance, too.  Jane saw Charley take that in, even
before she gave a slight tug at his arm.  A clear sight of the entrance
doorway; just where Jane had been standing a few moments ago, with her
head uncovered, her face clearly visible.

Keeping her close behind him, Charley moved fast, in the direction the
seated guest had pointed.  Not back towards an obvious exit, but to the
steep stone steps which led to the upper level behind the altar, with
its choir-stalls and chapels.  "Where does this go" he asked quietly
but clearly over his shoulder.

"To the Quire and the upper chapels.  But you can get out this side,
through the Becket Chapel to the cloisters.  If she saw me that's what
she'll have done, I'd guess."  Jane pointed quickly as they reached a
stone landing in the middle of the upward steps: there was a choice of
direction here, since another flight led down to the side.  "Down this
way'

She was interrupted as someone dressed as a verger appeared

- one of the mock-vergers, perhaps, since he didn't query

Charley's instant and urgent question of, "Anyone come this way" "Yes,
a few moments ago, but it was only one of the guests feeling faint.

She said she wanted some fresh air, so I let her through-" "Right"
There was instant relief in Charley's face; the man had pointed
downwards, so at least their quarry wasn't loose somewhere up above
them in the area behind the altar.  "I suppose your radio's
black-spotted in here same as mine?

Never mind, stay there - and don't let anyone else get by you, either
in or out" He was already taking the downward steps, rapidly, with Jane
behind him.  They led directly to the Becket Chapel with its
ornamentation of black jagged swords fixed on the wall above a raised
altar ... Ironically in the present circumstances, a memorial to
assassination: it was here that Thomas a Becket had been hacked to
death by the murdering knights.  The door from there to the cloisters
stood open.  Charley reached it in one stride, and was immediately
waving at someone standing further along, who came at a run.

"Did she get through" "No - what?  She's out again?  We got your
message, but she hasn't come this way" "Damn!  Where else, then?  I've
just been told she came down those stairs" "The crypt" Jane said from
behind him, and looked back over her shoulder towards the other exit
from the Becket Chapel.  This one went inwards, beneath the main
cathedral's floor.  The crypt --- It was a place crammed with heavy
pillars, under the low dip of a curved ceiling, with endless small
chapels and places to hide.  "Wait, there's a way out down there,
too!

A door with a ramp, for the disabled.  It leads out-" Out to take you
to the east end of the cathedral, and round to the queningate.  An
ideal way of escape.  For once she was thankful that one of Morland's
ploys to occupy her time had been to send her on a liaison trip to the
cathedral to check that the old and the halt could be evacuated easily
in an emergency: The DCI did have some usefulness after all.  She was
interrupted before she had finished her sentence, however, by Charley's
colleague, who said swiftly, "Yes, we've got that door locked.

We've covered the ways in" And out -"Pass the word on to all units,
since your radio works out here" Charley was saying rapidly, "and get a
team in!  If she's down in the crypt, we've got her.  There's no other
way out of there" "Not to the outside."  He seemed to know the
cathedral layout.

"Just back into the aisle the other side, but we've got some of our men
on watch by the door just there-" "So she's probably already realised
that she won't get out that side.  And as she caught sight of us over
there, she most likely wouldn't have tried to risk that anyway..."

Charley's gun was in his hand as he stepped back into the Becket
Chapel; the other officer was already gabbling into his radio.  Charley
looked at Jane, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pointed.

"Over there - into the angle of that wall.  Stand still, keep quiet,
don't move, stay exactly there - OK" "Right."  She moved at once into
the protection of the corner.  And if he was afraid she might try any
false heroics he was wrong: she knew far too well not to get under the
experts' feet.  She saw his eyes go suddenly to the metal grille of
another door.  A notice marked it as a place for silent prayer.  He
eyed it watchfully, then came close to her to mouth very softly,
"What's in there" "Just a small chapel.  No way out" she mouthed
back.

"I'll keep my eye on that too while we wait for the team" he murmured,
and moved into a good position.

From there he could cover the crypt arch and the chapel doorway.  He
stood still, quietly watchful, as silent as Jane was, and as
unmoving.

The organ music had ceased up above.  Then it suddenly began again with
a loud joyful peal, a solemn trumpeting "Here Comes the Bride" Then it
stopped again, abruptly.  Then after a pause the same tune started
again, loudly and determinedly.  As if the organist had caught sight of
the bride and could see no reason to stop.  Jane glanced at Charley,
but he was concentrating fixedly on the two doorways.  Presumably the
security services had decided not to prevent the bride's arrival.

There was a loud scrape of chairs now to show that the congregation was
getting to its feet for her processional entry.

The ceremony was starting - in spite of what was going on here below.

The processional music was still only just getting into its full stride
when a file of very professional-looking characters in flak-jackets
came slipping in from the cloisters.  One of them conferred with
Charley for a moment.  The little chapel was rapidly checked, a wary
entry with guns at the ready, but it was empty.  Jane felt it almost
unreal to see armed men inside the great church - like an echo of
history ... They disappeared quicKly and silently into the crypt,
fanning out as they went in an efficient fashion which needed no spoken
order, and moving at a fast crouch.

The team - whoever they were, but obviously some highly experienced
Security Special Ops Unit - had arrived to take over.

Jane made no move, since Charley hadn't changed his instructions.  He
too remained still.  She tried to imagine what it was like in the
crypt, among its low but massive arches, secret corners, shadows ... On
a normal day the crypt would be full of people: tourists, devotees come
to pray or light candles in Our Lady Undercroft, school parties urged
to hush themselves while they looked at the museum.  Just as well none
of them were in there now.  Up above, with another scrape of chairs,
the congregation obviously sat down again, and the sound of a clerical
voice could be heard intoning.

Jane knew she was straining her ears for the muffled crack of
bullets.

Instead, a rousing hymn began from up above.

Then suddenly the flak-jackets reappeared.  In their midst, a prisoner
was being held firmly but impersonally between two tough-looking
characters, her arms caught up behind her in a double armlock.  Blonde,
beautifully made up, dressed in fluttering chiffon, but shoeless - and
unquestionably, MaryLouise Weber.

She gave no glance round as she was hustled past Jane.

There was just the glimpse of a set, almost scornful face, then she was
gone, hustled out through the door to the cloisters.  In her wake, a
couple of the men came by carrying the handbag on its chain, and a
handgun with a silencer.  Someone who was probably the commander paused
to give Charley a nod.

"She was all ready, but so were we, and she must have known she didn't
have a hope of shooting herself out of there once we came in.  She'd
have found out by then that all the exits were blocked."  His tone was
quiet and practical, and he didn't wait for an answering comment.

He glanced upwards as the hymn above drew to a close, to be followed by
yet another scrape and clatter as chairs were resumed by upper-class
bottoms, and there was something rueful in his expression - as if to
say how easily things could have been a cock-up.  Then he pulled a
resigned face, gave them both a friendly nod, and was off at a rapid
lope after his men.

"OK, come on" Charley said softly.  Giving Jane another of his smiles,
he held out a hand to her, and she came out of her corner.  She was
feeling suddenly a little shaky again around the legs.  She also felt
ridiculously like sending her good wishes winging up towards a bride
she would never meet - a bride who would probably never know that her
wedding ceremony had been intended to be the setting for murder.

As they came out into the cloisters, the sun was shining, brightening
the smoothness of the close-cropped grass in the centre to a vivid
green, sending gentle fingers in through the graceful arches and on to
the stone-paved floor where holy men had walked in meditation for
hundreds of years.  Jane drew in a gulp of air, breathing in the peace
of it.

Was today really over?

Yes, apparently, it was.

Chapter 21

She was allowed to go back to the flat, though there was a visible
police presence patrolling outside.  That gave her a faint shiver, with
the realisation that someone thought danger might still lurk.  An hour
later Dennis was let in, coming in rapidly and full of so much shock
and protectiveness that it somehow brought her to the edge of temper.

Fond of him as she was, she was quite glad when he had to go away again
before too long, back to London.

Later again, Steve came by - with noticeably friendly looks exchanged
between him and Matty - and told Jane what else had gone on.  They had
caught a man who arrived at the kidnap house in the country in the late
afternoon, with obvious intent - another of the terrorist cell.  And
there was a rueful comment from Steve, since he had actually recognised
the man - as the "American architect" he had met briefly when they were
doing their sweep of ferry workers' addresses in the city.  He was the
man who had rented the absent purser's house.  This did at least give
them another break, since that house had been raided now and certain
papers found in it.  The Anti-Terrorist Branch was dealing with all
that now.  They were sure that Honest Johann had been part of the cell,
though he had escaped across the Channel.  With all that, it was felt
Jane's police protection could safely be withdrawn.

Steve said little about the Dutchman, except to confirm that he was
dead.  Although there was no fingerprint match with the dozens found in
the Dover factory, there was a definite footprint match, and also a
hair sample forensic had come up with which made things conclusive.

When Steve left, it was with a grin at Jane, and a speech couched in
carefully lighthearted vein.

Praise all round for you, and you're definitely in with the top brass
after today!  One in the eye for Humpty-Dumpty, but we'll try not to
let him miss you too much while you're on leave!  The guy said to tell
you firmly that we can manage without you.  Oh, and Kenny said to tell
you he's going off on holiday tomorrow, and he definitely will bring
you back a stick of rock!"

In spite of the amused grin there was a look in his eyes which
suggested he knew - but was a lot too wise to say it just now - that
Jane must have been to hell and back over the past days.  He knew what
the nightmares would have been, after all: he too had seen Catherine
and Elise in the morgue.

She heard him murmuring to Matty out in the hall before he left, a soft
affectionate sound which gave Jane a brief stab of wistfulness.  She
stifled it quickly.  He and Matty - so what?

Two friends of hers who had taken one look at each other and been hit
by a thunderbolt, even though both of them were usually fireproof.  You
really couldn't argue with that!  Maybe it would even turn into
something permanent, which would be an interesting pairing.  Perhaps
good for both of them!

Jane had been told she was on sick leave.  She slept the clock half
round - though only with the aid of a sleeping pill.

It really would be extraordinarily inconvenient, she decided drily but
with deliberate humour, if she was going to go on feeling as if she was
allergic to lying down on beds.  But probably it would wear off soon.

When she eventually came round she noticed that even the Super had sent
her some flowers, under his personal signature.

There was a big bunch from everyone else at the station, as well, with
a card signed by absolutely everybody.

Finally and inexorably, her mind drifted back to Deirdre.

Deirdre could have been one of the Dutchman's victims, Jane's doubts
and the words he'd used notwithstanding.  All the same...

What she had got was all speculation.  Maybe she could should?  - just
leave it?

She knew she couldn't.  Professional conscience?  Or her own very
personal need to know?

Whichever, she couldn't leave it.  She had to follow it through.

Monday morning saw her in her car on her way to the council offices.  A
little careful make-up had dealt with the scratches on her cheek, and
they were already fading anyway.  A blouse with buttoned cuffs hid the
bandages on her wrists - just in case, she thought drily, she got
mistaken for a failed suicide -and she looked much like her normal
self, a plainclothes Detective Sergeant going about her business.  Her
warrant-card got her into the right office ahead of a slightly
resentful queue.

And her pleasantly apologetic claim of a routine enquiry gave her
access to the lists of council allotment tenants.

She ran through them quickly and carefully, finding the name she was
more than half expecting.  Not on the London Road Fields allotments,
but on the Abernathy Road list.

But that name only.  No one else who might interest her - no
alternative.

Could I have a photocopy of these lists?"

Yes, that's perfectly all right, Detective-Sergeant.  If you'll just
hang on a minute I'll get them done for you!"

Jane left with her copies, after giving a pleasant thank-you to the
clerk.  Outside, she pondered for a moment, then drove to the Abernathy
Road allotments.  No one was working there this weekday morning.  The
list had included a numbered chart of the plots.  The one she was
looking for was in a corner, right next to the hedge which separated
the allotments from the farm.  It was quite a large plot .  . . though
it had a neglected air.  What must once have been neat rows of
vegetables had been left to lie there and seed themselves.

Weeds were beginning to run riot between and across the rows.  It
looked as if it hadn't been worked for some weeks.

As if someone had suddenly lost interest in it.  Or hadn't had time or
inclination.  Or had been afraid to come here?

The plot did have a shed.  Quite a sizeable and solid one, compared
with some of the smaller and more rickety items she could see here and
there.  The shed she was looking at had no window, but it did have a
stout padlock through hasps on its door.

Some of the overgrown plants were tied up to stakes with raffia.  Which
could, undoubtedly, be the same material which had been found - or a
small piece had been found - in Deirdre's hair; and classified as
"treated vegetable fibre'.

Jane turned away and went back to her car, parked in the lane outside
the allotments' entrance; it was a kind of back alleyway running behind
the Abernathy Road houses.  Quite private, she would imagine, if anyone
came along there late at night.  It wasn't all that many steps from the
alleyway to the corner plot.  You could certainly carry someone...

Jane started her engine and drove down into the city this time, parking
in one of the car parks.  She paid her fee like a proper citizen: she
was officially on leave, after all.  She went to a stationers and
bought a lined A4 pad - and then took herself to the Reading Room of
the public library.

The big room was almost empty, just a couple of people at the tables
this early on a Monday, having a look at the daily papers.  Jane found
a private space away from everyone else and began to write, pausing to
suck the end of her pen now and again.  Then, after quite a while, she
sat back and slowly read through the list she had made.

The theory she had gone over and over in her head fitted together.

She sighed.  Then she copied out what she had written, more neatly and
without any of the crossings-out; then she gathered everything together
and left the library.

She met a startled glance as she let herself into the back of the
police station.  There was a brief surprised pause, then, "How are you,
Sarge?  We all thought you were-" "Yes, I'm officially on sick leave,
though I'm perfectly all right actually.  I've just popped in to fetch
something.  Oh, and thank everyone for the flowers, will you?  They're
lovely."

She escaped to the CID room.  She found what would have been her ideal
scenario: nobody there except Dan Crowe, in his office.

"You're not supposed to be in!"  was his prompt greeting, when she
walked across to stand in his open doorway.  "Go on, you can leave
Michael MacArthy to me."

Yes, I know I can, Guv.  But could you look at this?  It's - I had an
idea, just before I was snatched."

Without speaking, Jane handed him the tidy version of her written
sheets.  He took a look at what she had written at the top, then waved
her to shut the door and sit down.  Then he read concentratedly and in
silence until he reached the end.

"Hen.  So you followed this up today, did you?"

"I thought I'd better come to you with all of it, rather than Well, if
there hadn't been anything I needn't have bothered.  But'

"Yes, I see," he said, without waiting for her to finish.  He looked at
the papers again, thoughtfully.  "You're making out a good case.  Well,
a good possibility.  When did you think all this up?"

Mainly, when I was tied up with nothing to do but think," Jane told him
without emotion.  "The man who was holding me - the Dutchman - had said
two guests, so since I'd already had the other idea " Yes, I remember
what you said at the debriefing."  He tapped a finger against his mouth
for a moment, his eyes on the papers, thinking.  Then he got up
abruptly.  "All right.  You show me the place.  That first.  If I agree
with you we'll take it further.  Fair enough?"

"Fair enough, Guv.  You want to go there now?"

"No point in waiting, is there?"

She drove him to Abernathy Road, and showed him what she'd seen,
watching him assessing all of it with deliberate care.  He said,
looking round and with a slight air of disgust, "We should have checked
places like this at the start; what the hell was everyone doing?  There
may not be anything there now, and if I go looking for a warrant Wonder
if a warrant's needed?  It's not a dwelling place, though I suppose you
could call it a privately-owned place of storage... Let's say I haven't
got the book with me, shall we?"

"Break the lock?  It looks pretty strong."

"Ah, one thing I know which the idiots who put things like that on
don't seem to, is you don't have to break locks if they're fixed on to
wood.  You can just go round them!  And without leaving much trace,
too," he added, looking suddenly as if he was enjoying himself.  He
patted his pocket, then produced a screwdriver out of it.  "Lucky I
happen to carry this around with me ever since the filing cabinet
started jamming, isn't it?  So all we have to do is undo these nice
convenient screws on the hasp.  You mean to say you don't know that
one, Sergeant?  Only goes to show I've had more years to learn things
from burglars than you have!"

He seemed to be quite happy about effecting an unconventional entry.

Jane wondered with a sudden inner amusement what they'd both do if some
law-abiding citizen suddenly appeared and threatened to ring the
police.  It was an amusement which as rapidly died.  The guy was
probably just cutting down the risk of her being wrong.  But if she
wasn't...

He had the screws out, the hasp neatly off to let the padlock hang
free.  He glanced over his shoulder as if making sure there was still
nobody around, then swung the shed door wide.

There was a musty smell, as if the place hadn't been opened for some
while.  The light streaming in showed a dusty interior, with stacked
gardening tools nearest the front.

And a bag of chemical fertiliser, some of it spilt.  Some scattered
lengths of raffia.  A couple of black plastic sacks had been thrown
untidily down, as if they'd been brought here to use for garden
rubbish.

And in the corner, a large and also untidy pile of hessian sacks, the
sort whose threads could come loose...

Dan Crowe looked for a thoughtful moment.  Then he reached for a hoe
propped up near him.  Very gently, he moved the hessian sacks around a
little.

The corner of a small envelope appeared.

He leaned a long arm forward gingerly to pick it up.  The envelope was
small and square and fat, sealed, with something inside it; folded
paper, also something small and heavy which moved with a chink.  The
outside of the envelope had a stain on it, but also a name, clearly
printed.

DEIRDRE MACARTHY.  WEEK'S PAY - and a date, and an amount.

"She didn't even open her pay packet," he said quietly.

"If I'm right, she didn't have time."  Jane's voice was as quiet as
his.  "I should think it must have fallen out of her pocket while..

."

While she lay here.  "Guv, look," Jane said suddenly.

There's something else!"

Something was catching the light.  A gleam of silver.  Dan Crowe got a
handkerchief out, then reached down again to pick up whatever lay
there.  He came up with it showing against the clean white cotton.

A St Christopher medal on a broken chain.

Find that - Jane had always thought - and they'd know where Deirdre's
body had been kept...

Right.  "We've both seen these.  I'm going to keep this one out but put
the pay packet back.  Then we close the place up again and get a SOCO
team down to take a proper look."  Dan Crowe was suddenly businesslike
and sharply efficient.  He added, "I can take a fair guess they'll find
something, because if these were left you can bet a SOCO will come up
with something else too.  And forensic will find the fertiliser's a
match.  For now, we get this place locked up!"  And he stepped away,
pushing Jane out of his way, and pulled the door back to its closed
position, working quickly on the screws which held the hasp.

He would get someone down here to guard the shed pretty fast too, Jane
guessed.  Unobtrusively, maybe?  Or... could they guess, from the state
of the plants, that no one would come?

They were back at the station fast.  There seemed to be no suggestion
now that Jane was officially off duty.  The guy snapped, "Add what
we've got now to that list you showed me, quick as you can!  And then
What do you want, DC Lockley?"

"Er, this is the CID room, Guv!"

"Yes, but I don't want anyone else in it for the next ten minutes!"

Mike retreated after a startled glance at Jane.  A murmur outside the
door suggested he was telling someone else there was no entry, too.

Jane bent to her task, then looked across at the guy, who had his
office phone in his hand.  He said what looked through the glass like,
"Yes, sir, now, please!"  and then put the receiver back and came
out.

"Right, finished that?  Come on, then.  We're taking it up to
Superintendent Annerley.  Yes, you too, I've told him you're here!"

The Super greeted her with grave courtesy, and enquired how she was
before he sat down to read what she had previously offered Dan Crowe.

With, now, a neat addition to say what they had found.  He raised an
eyebrow as he got to the end and looked at Dan Crowe, but said merely,
"Can we justify the search?  I'd say you were probably right, but let's
get it done properly with the right papers.  And I'm not sure you
should have kept this medal out..  ."  He had it on the desk in front
of him.

"The other evidence is pretty conclusive, sir.  And forensic"Quite.  I
think you want me to handle this, am I right?  And it would certainly
seem better if I do so .  . . I'd say, a visit, straight away.  Will he
be there?"

"This evening would be a better bet, sir.  -Then we might be able to
count on finding them both."

"Yes, all right, agreed.  Sergeant Perry," he looked at Jane with a
grave smile, "after all the work you've done on this, I'd like to
include you.  Along with myself and DI Crowe.  Would that suit you?"

She was hardly going to say no.  She had been in on the beginning; she
had to be in on the end.  And since when did a Superintendent politely
ask a Detective Sergeant if the arrangements he wanted to make suited
her?

"Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir," Jane said.

Chapter 22

Four of them set off in the car that evening: Superintendent Annerley,
DI Crowe, Jane, and a uniformed sergeant acting as driver.  The
sergeant would probably be left outside, Jane guessed, to act as stolid
watch.

The paper she had given Dan Crowe to read - and later to the Super had
been headed, "Deirdre MacArthy - the Crayshaws?  She had laid it out as
a list, with conclusions, and it had read as follows.

1. Anthony Crayshaw rents an allotment (behind Abernathy Road) and it
has a locked shed on it which would be a possible place of concealment
for a body.  The plot shows previous care but has recently been
neglected.  He has never mentioned to us that he has such an
allotment.

(Note: we didn't ask, however.) The allotment is so placed that after
dark, someone could have carried a body on to it without being seen.

2. Anthony Crayshaw's car was (?) stolen, and later found burned out,
the theft not reported for two days on the excuse of its being the
weekend.  The dates fit with the dumping of Deirdre's body.  Possible
conclusion: the burnedout car is rather too convenient.

3. Anthony Crayshaw has an alibi for the night Deirdre disappeared, but
he has it from his mistress, Tracy Pargeter, who is plainly very much
in love with him.  Tracy offered me precise times rather too readily.

(?)She was telling me what she had been instructed to say?  Note: she
would undoubtedly believe him innocent and merely think he was afraid
of being involved in the enquiries.  Second note: Tracy Pargeter also
took care to tell me Anthony Crayshaw was with her the following
Saturday night.  (?)This fits with the dumping of Deirdre's body?

4. Deirdre MacArthy was seen by no one after leaving Crayshaw's office
on the night she is presumed to have died.

Considering that she would have walked along several public streets,
yet no one can remember seeing her at all, this could strongly suggest
that she never left the office building.

5. David Crayshaw was having an affair with Deirdre.

He was seen at his school on Saturday evening at 5.45 p.m. (Definite
and confirmed sighting.) However, he could have taken care to be seen,
and then left again, if he was planning to meet Deirdre.  (?at his
father's office after it closed?) 6. The concealment of Deirdre's body,
and its later dumping after David was safely away, could suggest a
deliberate cover-up.  Note: David could not have dumped the body.

7. Anthony Crayshaw is David's father.  If David had killed Deirdre
(?

and probably) by accident - his father is the most likely person he
would have turned to for help.

8. Anthony Crayshaw was the last person in Crayshaw's office that
Saturday night, and says he locked up after everyone had left.  So if
Deirdre was still there - and David was not - Anthony Crayshaw would
have been the last person to see her alive.

Later additions: A search of the shed on Anthony Crayshaw's allotment
shows it to contain all the things forensic found on Deirdre's
clothing; also black plastic sacks such as were found wrapping her body
when it was found in the ditch.  A further search turned up two things:
an unopened pay packet marked with Deirdre's name and the date she
disappeared, and a St Christopher medal on a broken chain.

Deirdre was stated by her mother to have worn a St Christopher all the
time, and this has not previously been found.

"What led you to look into allotments in the first place, Sergeant?"

Superintendent Annerley asked, his voice breaking the silence in the
car.

"It was something Tracy Pargeter told me, Sir.  She said, "Tony's
always bringing in his own home-grown vegetables for all the staff."  I
didn't realise until somebody gave me some off another allotment... I
mean I didn't remember what she'd said.  I was still looking for a
place for Michael MacArthy to have hidden a body.  But then when
Tracy's words came back to me, I also remembered that the Crayshaws
don't have a proper garden at their house, just a sort of patio with
tubs of flowers.  Nowhere where he could have been growing
vegetables.

So-" "So things started to add up.  I gather you think it was the boy,
David - an accident?"

"Well it has to be one or the other of them, Sir, doesn't it?

After what we found?"

Jane knew she didn't want it to be David.  Panic would have made him
cover it up.  Except, oh hell, he had acted the part far too well, with
that tragic face.  A tragedy he obviously felt genuinely.  But no, she
didn't want it to be David.

Better his father than him.  Anthony Crayshaw had certainly hidden the
body, and then dumped it, his burned-out car a convenient way of
avoiding a thorough check.

And he'd been away from work ill afterwards, too - even looking ill so
at least he must have a conscience.  Her enquiries about Deirdre must
have panicked him... She remembered thinking he didn't seem quite at
ease, that very first time.  And the way he had turned white when Tracy
said, "I've told her!"  The Super had said nothing more.  They were
approaching the beautifully-kept Crayshaw house now.  Palpable wealth
and a good social standing... And a young girl from a rough family on
the wrong side of town.  Perhaps - who knew?  - idly fancied by the
senior Crayshaw, as well as the junior.

Anthony Crayshaw opened the front door to their ring.  He was looking
more relaxed than he had when Jane had last seen him, and had a glass
of what looked like whisky in his hand but his eyes definitely
flickered to find a police delegation on his doorstep.  He tried for
heartiness, however, as he invited them in.

"Yes, of course, if there's something we can do for you Superintendent
Annerley, is it?  I'm sure we must have met!

And I do know your Sergeant Perry, of course, "Who is it, Tony?"  a
familiarly nasal drawl enquired - and then Virginia Crayshaw saw them
all being ushered in to where she lounged at ease in the sitting-room,
she too with a drink in her hand.  The french windows were half open on
to the garden, letting in a pleasant breeze.  Virginia Crayshaw raised
an eyebrow, not bothering to move from her chair.

"Good gracious, what now?  Or are you collecting for some police
charity?"

"Is your son at home?"  Superintendent Annerley asked, ignoring the
rudeness and glancing from one face to the other.  It was Virginia
Crayshaw who answered.

"Yes, he's upstairs in his room.  And presumably I can ask what you
want him for?  If it's just to tell him that you've finally caught the
man who did his little friend in - as this evening's paper suggests
then don't: he's been upset enough, and I want him to forget it!"

"I'd like to question your son further about the murder of Deirdre Ann
MacArthy," Superintendent Annerley said formally.  As Mrs Crayshaw
opened her mouth, he added with no change of expression, "Perhaps you'd
call him down?"

"Absolutely not!  I've said, I want him to forget it.  And he certainly
had nothing to do with any of that business, apart from, "We have some
evidence to the contrary now."  Superintendent Annerley put that in
smoothly and definitely, every inch the superior policeman on duty.

"We've found the place where Deirdre Ann MacArthy's body was
concealed.

So I must ask that both you, Anthony Crayshaw, and your son David, come
down to the station to help us with our enquiries."

Jane had been watching Anthony Crayshaw's face.  It had been steadily
disintegrating ever since Superintendent Annerley had got into his
stride - with grief, desperation, a sick knowledge... He stepped
forward quicKly now, swallowing, saying, "No!  Not David.  He hasn't
even the first idea.  It's only me you want-" "No it isn't."  Virginia
Crayshaw's voice interrupted him.  She sounded almost bored!  She
looked up at the Superintendent, though she still didn't bother to get
to her feet.  "Not him, Superintendent whoever you are.  And certainly
not David, all he did was carry on with the little trollop!  No, the
person you want is me."

An unlikely mother-tigress, defending her young?  And her mate?  The
Super seemed to draw that conclusion.  "Perhaps you'd explain that
statement, Mrs Crayshaw?"  he asked normally, but just, by an edge,
allowing his doubt to show."  Yes, I'd better, hadn't I, or you'll go
on jumping to all the wrong conclusions and arrest the wrong person!

Oh, sit down, since you're here.  And stop looking so bloody tragic,
Tony!

Honestly, you've been almost less use than a wet week ever since it
happened!  Superintendent Annerley, to put it bluntly, I killed Deirdre
Ann MacArthy or whatever the child's name was.  By accident.  I slapped
her, the stupid little thing fell over, and she hit her head on the
corner of the safe - the one in he upstairs office where she was
waiting expecting to meet my son.  He didn't even know anything about
the appointment.  I'd made it.  I thought at first that she'd just
knocked herself out, but I know my first aid, and she was dead.  There
you are, that's it!"

"Could you... elaborate?  But I must caution you, you have the right to
remain silent, but anything you say may be taken down and used in
evidence-" "Yes yes, there's enough of you here to act as witnesses,
and I'm not going to retract anything!  All right, then... no, Tony,
don't bother about a solicitor.  You can get hold of one later.  If I'm
going to say something incriminating I might as well go the whole hog,
since it's the truth!"  she added bad-temperedly.

She simply didn't care... No, perhaps she wouldn't, Jane thought.  She
was that type: once found out, she'd simply carry it off.  And as far
as she was concerned, Deirdre's death wasn't important - just one of
those inconvenient things one had to deal with sometimes...

I'll tell you now, and then again down at the station I suppose.  Why
don't you all sit down?  Now then.  I knew my son had got himself mixed
up with the little trollop because I found a love note from her in his
pocket.  And a few more too, when I searched!  One of her revoltingly
sentimental - and rather specific!  - little love letters also told me
where she expected David to leave his replies in the estate office
taped under the photocopier, if it interests you.  I imagined she'd be
only too pleased if she found something to say he could get away to
meet her "one last time after all" before he left on his trip.

And if you need to ask, I was far from pleased to find David had no
more taste than to get mixed up with a girl like that!"

Virginia Crayshaw's face showed nothing but distaste.  No remorse.

. . "Naturally that was my instant thought, to meet her and put a stop
to things at once.  And while David was just about to be out of the
way, so that things could cool off!  So I looked in at the office
during the morning, and while the little trollop was elsewhere on a
manufactured errand, I put a typed note in place for her.  Signed with
a D, of course, my son's squiggle isn't hard to forge.  I don't know
when she thought he'd put it there, but I relied on the fact that she's
stupid!"

And the note said `Oh... "Darling, hide in the upstairs office while my
Dad's locking up, and I'll come.  I have to see you!` She fell for it,
of course," Virginia Crayshaw said scornfully.

What was your motive in meeting the girl?"  Superintendent Annerley
asked.  "You could have spoken to your son instead, surely?"

Oh, David has a revoltingly sentimental streak.  Better done this way,
I thought.  Warn her off.  Buy her off, if necessary!  I thought she'd
probably go for money."

And did you offer?"

Later, Superintendent.  You wanted all of it, so do let me tell you in
my own way!  I'd arranged it quite carefully.  David would be at school
for the concert.  So after I'd driven him up there... Oh, and after
Tony had come home, and was having a shower ready to go off for his
evening with his little trollop.

Yes, I knew all about Miss Tracy Pargeter - always have!  As I was
saying.  I went down to the office and let myself in with my key, and
sure enough, there was the Deirdre girl, still upstairs waiting
patiently.  And rather disconcerted to find David's mother in front of
her instead of the boy she'd been seducing!  So I told her precisely
what I thought of her.  But she had the nerve..."

Please go on?"  the Superintendent said, as she paused.

The nasty little chit had the nerve to say David would never leave her,
and she wouldn't leave him either.  It was "lurve".  And she didn't
want money, only him.  Then she went all earnestly tremulous and said
she knew there was a lot of difference in their lives, but that didn't
matter!  And she wanted to appeal to my maternal feelings, since we
must both love him!"  Virginia Crayshaw broke off again, looking as if
the impertinence of that had to be incredible to anyone.

Poor Deirdre, to have believed that kind of appeal would have worked.

Poor naive little Deirdre.

So, there we were.  I lost my temper and gave the little trollop a
slap.  And she went down, as I said.  Pure accident -and you can bet
that will stand up in court!"

But concealing the body may not, Mrs Crayshaw.  I presume you realise
just how serious that is?"

I didn't want David involved.  He'd been silly, but he'd get over it.

Provided she wasn't found until well after he'd left for Norway, there
was always the chance that no one would ever know he'd been mixed up
with her at all!  If I'd known the young idiot would come and tell you,
as soon as he came back, and before I'd thought he'd even have heard'
She glanced at Jane briefly; almost, unbelievably, smiled, though it
was a mere rictus of her lips.  "He came and sought out your sergeant
here: a miscalculation on my part!  But as he could only say what he
knew, and I'd taken care he should never be anywhere out of my sight
every moment after he came back from Giles's and until he left on the
school coach - Well, he was being palpably truthful, wasn't he?  And
every word he said could be verified!"

Something like a small groan came out of Anthony Crayshaw's lips.  It
was like a protest at the carelessness of her tone - almost as if with
the unspoken words, "Don't you understand how much he's been hurt?"

Though perhaps that was Jane's imagination..  . Certainly it roused
nothing but impatience in Virginia Crayshaw, who barely turned her head
as she said, "Oh do shut up, Tony: if it wasn't enough having you
deciding to be ill, just over moving the little trollop's body!"

Perhaps we could come to that?"  the Super asked coolly and if he was
as repelled as Jane was by Virginia Crayshaw's habit of referring to
Deirdre as "the little trollop', he didn't show it.

Yes, all right!  I left the girl where she was until after dark.

I was hardly going to lug a body around in broad daylight, was I?

Tony had gone out for his night of nookie, so I simply came home, got
the keys to that shed of his since it seemed the most practical place
to put her, and waited until later to go back for the body.  Let's
see... I parked my car round the back, went in and got her - Oh, by the
way, I'd put the heater on so she wouldn't stiffen up, it seemed
practical!  And if you're going to ask how I carried her, it's really
not difficult for someone passably fit, in a fireman's lift!  I'm
reasonably strong: most people who go in for sports are, and I play a
lot of golf, and fish

Good for the strength in your arms, grappling a large salmon on the
line!"  Again that almost smile, a half-humorous and mocking glance at
the faces in front of her.  "I took her out and strapped her into the
front seat of my car."  She turned her head to Jane again, suddenly,
and spoke with a further edge of mockery.  "And my car's one you didn't
ask to look at, isn't it, Sergeant?  I do hope that was because you
didn't dare!"

It was because it hadn't occurred to her.  Though Jane wondered if she
would have dared... Yes, if she had thought it was relevant!

Please continue.  You put the girl's body in the front seat of your
car?"

And drove her to the allotments, I've already said that, haven't I?  I
put her in the shed under a pile of sacks, and came away."

And then?"

Then I told Tony when he came in," Virginia Crayshaw said coolly.

Mr Crayshaw, you confirm that?"

Go on, Tony, tell him!  David wasn't here, of course," Virginia
Crayshaw added, "so there was no chance of his overhearing anything!"

Yes.  Yes, she told me," Anthony Crayshaw managed.  He went on quickly,
"Virginia, you really ought to wait for a solicitor.  I can ring
James-"

No, don't, and when I want somebody I'll make it someone

a bit better than bloody James!  He's all right for insurance claims,
but not much else.  And if you're worried about your own skin, Tony,"
Virginia Crayshaw added nastily, "it's going to be a mess anyway, isn't
it?  Affect your standing with Rotary?  Oh dear, oh dear, d'you think
you'd better ask for a divorce?  Of course that would also mean you'd
be rather poorer!"

Virginia, sometimes you are appalling," Anthony Crayshaw said with
quiet dignity.  He added, as much in everyone else's direction as hers,
"There would be no question of my asking for a divorce.  And I'm as
culpable Oh for God's sake don't be noble!"  The woman seemed to be
uncrvshable.  Almost... Her chin went up; she seemed to feel the need
to stare Superintendent Annerley out.  "D'you want to know the rest?

Or is that enough?"  she enquired.  "Oh, you can guess what happened
after that, anyway, it's all quite obvious!"

I'd still like to hear it, please.  And from Mr Crayshaw, .as well as
yourself."

I told him to make sure dear little Tracy remembered exactly what time
he was with her, just in case," Virginia Crayshaw said, sparing her
husband a sarcastic glance.  "As I'm sure the co-operative little piece
did.  . . Tony didn't like the idea of a body in his shed, of course,
though I don't know where else he thought I could have put it!  So we
had a bit of a fuss about that-" I'll tell him the rest, Virginia."

Anthony Crayshaw had reached a kind of calm, though a look of sickness
remained in the back of his eyes.

Hadn't Jane thought once - not a murderer?  Too soft a man underneath
the bluster for that?

After my wife had told me about the accident," he said to the
Superintendent, stressing the last word, "we both agreed that
protecting David from.  . . any hint of involvement was the most
important thing.  So," he swallowed, "we - I - left the girl where she
was for the time being... Concealing a death is a crime, I know.

However, after your people started making enquiries, I knew I'd have
to... So it seemed best to put the body somewhere anonymous.  I used my
car for that on the Saturday night'

After he'd had another session with little Tracy - at my urging,"
Virginia Crayshaw put in.  "A mistress, if you can dignify her with
that name, should at least be useful!"

I used my car, and then .  . . disposed of it," Anthony Crayshaw said,
looking as if he was trying not to hear his wife's voice.  "I'd told
Tracy - er, Miss Pargeter - that my car had already been taken... I
gave the police the same story, that it went missing during Friday
night.  Though I didn't tell them until Monday.  On Saturday night
Virginia drove out after me when I was disposing of the car - I set it
alight myself, of course, you must have guessed that - and she picked
me up and we drove home together.  That's a false insurance claim too,
I know," he added.

He actually seemed to think that mattered.  On top of what else he'd
been doing... But he'd been sick at what he'd had to do: remembering
that - and looking at him - Jane couldn't help a flicker of sympathy
for him.

Though less, when she thought of Deirdre, dumped in a ditch.  And then
what must have seemed to be their luck there had been another murder of
a girl, at around the same time.

And then a third.

I'd like you to come down to the station now - both of you,"
Superintendent Annerley said.  He added, "You can, of course, ring a
solicitor and have him present.  In fact I'd advise that you do.

Meantime'

Tony, you'd better do something about David, hadn't you?

See that he goes to stay with a friend, or something?"

Although Virginia Crayshaw's voice was trying for its usual casualness,
there was, all at once, the barest tinge of an appeal in it.  Suddenly
she looked tired - and old.  The high cheekbones suddenly showing too
clearly through her skin, the lines deeper, the air of elegance a
fragile shell.

There was something she did care for, then.

We can see that arrangements are made for your son."

Superintendent Annerley sounded cool and inflexible as he came to his
feet.  "Meantime: Virginia Crayshaw, you have already been cautioned,
and up to this time you have waived your right to remain silent.  Here,
now, I am charging you with the murder of Deirdre Ann MacArthy, which
took place by your own confession on,

No!"

The strangled protest came from the doorway.  No one had heard David
come down .  . . He stood there staring at his mother with horror in
his eyes, a whiteness about his mouth, too utterly absorbed even to see
his father's instant, protective, outflung arm.  "No," he said again,
his voice barely audible, his eyes absolute on his mother's face.  "No,
you didn't.  . . You couldn't..."

There was no gainsaying Virginia Crayshaw's courage.  Nor the hardness
she could choose to put on, with every well-bred fibre of her being.

She simply stared at her son, her chin lifted, her eyebrows rising
scornfully.

Oh, don't be silly, David," she drawled.  "She was just a common little
chit, and no use to you at all!  If I killed her accidentally - and I
did - what difference does it make?  Do pull yourself together: people
like that simply don't matter!"

Epilogue

Deirdre MacArthy could be buried at last and rest in peace.  The Crown
Prosecution Service would charge Virginia Crayshaw with manslaughter:
that, along with concealing a body, omitting to report a death, and
obstructing the police, was all she would admit to, and it was felt
despite the circumstances that a charge of murder had little hope of
standing up in court.  General opinion was that it would all be peanuts
to a good lawyer, and both the Crayshaws would probably get off with a
suspended sentence.

Jane heard all this when she returned from her sick leave.

A little later Dan Crowe called her into his office for a private
interview.

Now, about staffing," he said, giving her one of his beetling looks.

"We'll be losing Sergeant Ryan shortly.  His own lot want him back in
London.  We've got a sergeant from Rochester coming to fill in the slot
- permanent appointment - so we'll be back up to strength.  He'll be
junior to you," he added, a casual confirmation.  "But about you

Yes, Guv?"

Do you plan to stay here, or what?"

"Well, yes."  Surely Morland hadn't started some ploy to get rid of her
again?  "I hadn't thought of doing anything else," Jane said firmly.

"I've got my feet under the table, I know the district, I like it
here.

I haven't even considered looking for anything else!"

Good.  I just wanted to check that a run of success hadn't given you
itchy feet.  If it hasn't, I'll let you in on something.

Confidential for the moment, mind.  . . The DI job in this department
will be up for grabs in a few months' time."  He studied her expression
and added, "Yes, my job!"

You're... moving on?"

Yes.  Like I said, this is confidential for now - but I'm taking the
family to Australia, emigrating.  We've had it in mind for a while: the
wife fancies it, she's got a brother there.  And it looks like a good
place to bring up kids.  So..."

Jane was flabbergasted.  He had never given the least hint of it until
now.  She found her voice again, with difficulty.  "I had no idea.  If
it's what you want I hope it all goes well for you!"

"I'm just letting you in on it so you'll know the vacancy will be
coming up.  No reason why you shouldn't put in for it, and if my
recommendation counts for anything - No promises, mind.

But you've got some pretty good marks on your record down here, and the
Super's pleased with you.  Well, that's all I've got to say.  I just
thought I'd let you think about it.  You can get back to work now,
Sergeant, there's plenty of stuff needs picking up on!"

"Yes, Guv.  Thank you."

Jane got to her feet obediently and began to take herself out of the
office, her head buzzing.  The guy leaving, and the Detective
Inspector's job coming up for grabs?  It would depend on the
competition, of course, but... She was halfway back to her desk across
the empty CID room before she heard his voice raised behind her, coming
through his open door in what appeared to be a carefully casual
comment.

"Whoever gets the job will be working to DCI Morland, of course.

Still, as they always say, better the devil you know!"

The thought almost stopped Jane in her tracks.  Herself appointed to
run CID under Morland?  The idea was practically bizarre.

She had to suppress a sudden shake of laughter, but her eyes were
dancing as she headed back to her desk.

Now, that really would be a challenge, wouldn't it?  Definitely a
thought to take to bed with her every night.

A real incentive...