

Dark Times

A Dave Lewis/Mariska Masekova

Crime Novel

By

S.D. GRIPTON

© Sally Dillon-Snape and Dennis Snape (2019)

This novel is from our imagination and none of the characters reflect real people past or present

Twelve Years Ago

It was hot in the large canvas tent; all the men were sweating beneath the claustrophobic dying darkening evening heat of the Yemeni desert. The meeting was exclusively men; a Colonel, his Adjutant, a Captain and two Majors; all of them Officers of the British Army. Except for sweat running down the faces of the Colonel and his Adjutant they were otherwise immaculate; The Captain was covered in dust and sand but the two Majors were not only covered in dust and dirt and sand but in face camouflage, too. The men all held large glasses of whisky.

"Major Lewis, by God man, you did a wonderful job today, wonderful indeed."

It was the Colonel who spoke and as he said what he said it was followed by an appreciative slapping of thighs. Major Lewis bowed his head in a sign of silent respect to his fellow officers; they sipped their whiskies.

"It was a brilliantly conceived plan for a Territorial," the other Major said, a man who was Regular soldier rather than the part-time honorary position held by Major Lewis. The Regular officer should have won hands down; he had been defending a good position and there was only one way he and his troops could be approached; at least he believed there was only one way. Credit where credit was due though, he had been defeated by a brilliant officer, there was no doubt about that, he had been outthought and out-shot by the Territorial Major and his troops. It was something that would rankle for years.

For the exercise, The Regular Major had been defending a position near a wadi that had high banks which could not be climbed; the sand being too unstable, the ground too unsound. Who would ever have thought that the Territorial, a respected Territorial within the Army but a Territorial all the same; who would have thought that he would use his tallest strongest men to provide a human ladder along the bank for his troops to climb up; who would have thought of doing that? Major David Lewis thought of it. He got himself and all his men up and over the bank at least one hour before the exercise was due to begin and they all lay quite still beneath the heat of the day. His tall men made their way back to base and climbed into an Armed Personnel Carrier and as the beginning of the exercise came round, this single APC appeared in the distance ahead of the Regular troops and their Major, the vehicle approaching with full headlights blazing and approaching from the direction from which the Regulars were expecting an attack. The vehicle stayed out of range of defensive weapons for some minutes and the Regular Major wondered what the Territorial was up to. He soon discovered when David Lewis and his troops came charging up from the rear and within eighteen minutes had slain all the Regulars for the purposes of the exercise. David Lewis was a sneaky bastard, the Regular Major suspected.

And he was not impressed by such sneakiness.

"I hear you're leaving us, Major Lewis," the Colonel said.

"Yes, sir, this is my last exercise," David Lewis confirmed. "I have been promoted to Detective Inspector back in my day job as a police officer, and my lovely wife is pregnant with our first child."

All the men raised their glasses to him and hip-hipped him.

David Lewis smiled. He would miss all this, though there was quite a bit of it in the Police Force, but he was done with the Army. He'd served in Iraq and one term in Afghanistan and felt lucky to have survived; he felt he'd given of his time and of his emotions and now it was time for him to concentrate on criminals and on the love he felt for his wife and is soon-to-be-born daughter.

They knew it was going to be a girl.

And David Lewis could not have been happier.

"To David Lewis," the Colonel toasted. "May he go on to be a success in his police life just as he most certainly would have been if we had only been able to persuade him to join the Regulars. To Major David Lewis."

Another toast was drunk.

The six officers ended up quite a long way on the other side of tipsy by the time they finished celebrating David.

**

Chapter 1

Nausea and pain.

He was suffering from both.

His chest heaved; he wanted to be sick except there was nothing in his stomach to retch up. It was very dark and he couldn't understand why, it should be daylight, it couldn't be night. And his head hurt. It hurt terribly. Migraine hurt, migraine headache. It was too painful to open his eyes. Pain and nausea.

Wet.

Suddenly he was wet; cold water was cascading over his head. Was he drowning? Had he fallen into his bath, into a river, a stream, an ocean? He was gasping for breath; something was jammed in his mouth, something hard, solid. Jammed. He couldn't breathe; he was drowning, falling, retching. He had to open his eyes; his life depended upon it. Open his eyes. Open.

He opened his left eye.

Someone was looming over him, a huge someone, a giant, a vast scary presence. He glared up at the giant with his one open eye. It was an ogress. A huge monster of a woman; a female with wild red hair. She lifted something, something shiny, something metal. She was going to hit him with it; she was going to smash his skull. She was going to kill him.

Water hit him with considerable force, full in his emotionless face. His one eye closed rapidly, he wanted to curl up into a ball, except, except...

...he was already curled in a ball

"Wake up!" the ogress shouted. "Wake up you stupid, drunken bastard. Wake up."

He began to cry. Tears mixed with the water that ran from his hair, down his face, off his chin, onto his chest.

"Wake up! Open your eyes."

The noise was tremendous, echoing in his head, making it hurt more than ever, making him cry more, hurting him. He couldn't open his eyes; couldn't the ogress understand that simple fact? He couldn't do it. The pain was too great. Too great.

More water landed on him, once again flush into his face. He moaned and tried to reach out to protect himself but his arms were cramped, solid, he was made of concrete. He could not move. He would die here, wherever here was. His life was surely over.

"Open your eyes!"

The order was so loud, so magisterial, so authoritative that both his eyes opened, if only slightly. Light hurt him; the ogress still towered above. He blinked to get water out of his eyes and rolled over on to his right side.

He was tightly curled and naked, he realised, and his right thumb was jammed in his mouth. He removed his thumb with a loud pop; as if he were loath to set it free. He unwound his legs and stretched them out, rolled over on to his back, brought his arms down to lay them at his sides. His head still throbbed, the light still caused him pain, but his eyes were now fully open and he stared up at his housekeeper, Mariska Masekova, a girl with a foreign-sounding name but with immaculate English credentials. Private girls' school; University educated; unable to get employment in the current recession, cleaning and cooking for him in the meantime, providing some income for herself and living in free accommodation. She lived in his basement in some comfort. No bills to pay, fully furnished, her own entrance, no restrictions on coming and going or on any guests she wished to invite. He barely knew she lived there though, so quiet was she.

"Mariska," he whispered.

"What do you think you are doing, lying there, curled up, naked, thumb in your mouth? I thought you were supposed to be getting better."

"I am."

"Doesn't look like it to me. Get up, cover yourself with something."

"Where am I?"

"You are lying on your bedroom floor, behind a wardrobe that you pushed away from the wall so you could get behind it. That's where I found you almost one hour ago. It has taken me that long to bring you round. The empty whisky bottle is on the floor over there."

She pointed to her left.

He didn't need to look; he knew the bottle would be there. There would be another somewhere, too. He could taste the poisonous alcohol in his mouth, the furring on his tongue. He was supposed to be recovering. Getting better. As if he could ever get better. Better than what, anyway? Better than the way his life was before it all happened? Better than that? Impossible. It might be better than last week but even that was difficult to quantify.

"Your people have phoned. They are visiting at noon."

His people. What did she mean? His people?

"That is in forty-three minutes time," Mariska said. "You should be ready to meet them."

His people? He was struggling with that. His people? Then the cogs of his brain began clicking into place. Oh, he thought. His people. He tried to roll over on to his side, to climb to his feet and failed.

"Mariska," he whispered.

"What did I tell you the last time? I said if you ever got in this state again, you would have to get yourself out of it. I will not help you. You are either ready for the visit of your people or you are not. Either they will take you back or they won't. It doesn't matter to me. I have done enough to help. I do no more. Get up. Get showered and dressed, get ready for your meeting."

Without looking, without actually knowing, he knew she had left the room, though she didn't close the door behind her. The carpet on which he lay was soaked, the result of the water Mariska had thrown over him. He sighed. His people were coming. Did he care? Did he want to continue in his job? Did it matter? He pushed down on his hands and tried to push himself up but his arms were too weak, there was no strength in them. He began to cry again. His life was over; he was done for. He pushed himself feet-first from behind the large, brown-wood wardrobe, on his back across the bedroom floor until he touched his double bed, used only for single sleeping. He screwed himself round, grabbed his mattress and pulled himself up to his knees. His head spun, nausea rose up in him again and pain exploded in his brain. Tears rolled down his face. He dropped his face on to the duvet and attempted to lift himself to his feet. It was like lifting the Colossus of Rhodes. Up and up he came, his legs at first wobbly, then locked. He rose to his full height of six-feet exactly; or one-point-eight-two-metres in the new age which he didn't quite understand. A full-length mirror faced him and his reflection was disgraceful. It showed a tall, thin man, where once had stood a tall, broad-shouldered man; it showed a sad, long face, where once it had been round and jolly; it showed a sunken chest, a narrow waist, saggy bollocks, a limp dick. He looked exactly the same as he'd looked the last time he'd reflected upon himself in the mirror. He couldn't understand why he wasn't dead. He rarely ate, except when Mariska forced something down him, he rarely exercised any longer; he just drank and sat around, staring at the pictures on a television screen, never understanding what was supposed to be happening. People singing and dancing, what was that all about? Other people in a house, bickering? People in a jungle? Crap. Utter crap. The whole lot of it. He didn't know why he still had a television.

He staggered across his bedroom, into the bathroom, immaculately tiled, wonderfully modern, something left over from another life, another age. He skidded and slipped on the tiled floor and collapsed into his shower, sliding the door closed with his right foot, stretching up to turn on the water, which came out with force and was extremely cold. He gasped, sucking in air with hurtful lungs full. Why did he survive? Why did he bother? Why couldn't he just lie down and die? His Granddad had done it. Laid down and died, not wanting to be part of the history of the world any longer. He should do it. He could do it. He could die.

The water pounded down on his head and body.

*

"You've lost more weight, David,"

"A bit."

"You don't look much recovered to me."

"I'm feeling a little better, sir."

"It's been almost a year."

Almost a year. A bloody year. Surely not. A year since his whole world crashed down on him. A year since...

"I don't think you will ever be coming back, David, do you?"

"I would like to come back, sir. I really would."

Why did he say that? He didn't want to go back to work.

"You will never be up to it, I'm afraid. You should retire. You'd get a fairly good pension, sympathetic treatment."

"I'd die, sir."

"You're dying anyway, David. You've given up."

"No sir. I am trying."

"Not hard enough, I'm afraid. You are still drinking. I can smell it from here."

"Only occasionally sir. I had a bad day yesterday."

"You have a lot of bad days, David. I've been talking to Mariska. Without her, you really would be finished."

Dave said nothing; he just dropped his head and fought back the desire to cry again.

"I'm going to send you to Dr. Hughes, the Force psychiatrist. I'll get her to rubber-stamp your retirement, then you can get on with your life, whatever kind of life it may be."

"I want to come back, sir."

There. He'd said it again. He must want to go back, mustn't he?

"Not in the state you are in. You are never going to recover. Almost a year and you haven't moved on by one single day. You're wasted, David, lost, done for. You let it get to you."

"It was my family."

"I know it was."

There was silence in David Lewis's lounge as the two men sat and looked at each other. One with clothes that were far too big for him, trousers hanging loosely on hips that were no longer there, a shirt hanging on shoulders than didn't exist, hair uncombed and slightly damp; the other immaculate in his Police Superintendent's uniform, with buttons brightly polished, creases sharp enough to shave with, black shoes that showed bright reflections, hair cut short and neat.

"I've made an appointment for you to see Sally tomorrow, 2 p.m., give you time to rise and shine. At the medical centre. Don't be late. Turn up; not like last time. It will be your very last chance."

*

"Come in, David."

He rose from the chair in the waiting room, only one chair, no receptionist, all appointments strictly by order, no need for frills, a blue office door with Dr. S. Hughes (MRCPsych) embossed in white on black plastic, a different door in and out so that the police officers who were her patients never met. Go and see Sally that was the order. Many others had received the same order before being retired from the Force. Sally was who they came to see now but before her it had been James, before him, who knew, someone.

"Sit down."

Dave sat on the chair in front of Sally's desk, behind which she sat. She peaked her fingers and leaned her chin on them as she stared at him, before sitting upright and pulling a pad of paper towards her.

"New clothes?"

"Yes."

He felt comfortable in his new jeans, his grey sweater, his new black leather jacket, new trainers.

"You have lost more weight, though."

"A bit, yes."

"You're not eating properly."

"Sometimes I do."

"When your housekeeper cooks for you?"

Dave Lewis didn't reply. Sally scribbled on her pad.

"Other than that, how has your life been progressing, in general?"

"Better."

It had been better last night with Mariska cooking him a meal and insisting he eat it, after which she searched the house for whisky and found none. He had none in the house, which was a bit of a pain, though he slept well. Peacefully, for a change. He had thought of sneaking out and buying some alcohol but he knew Mariska would hear him leaving and cause a scene in the street. She'd done it before, embarrassing him in front of his neighbours and passers-by. Effective control. She was good at it. So he slept instead.

He awakened early, refreshed. And hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so hungry. By the time he made it down to the kitchen, Mariska was already there, making toast, brewing tea, smiling at him, her long red hair tied back, her face free of make-up, dressed in an ill-fitting tracksuit, bare feet.

"Toast?" he asked, as he sat.

"You want something else; you can have it when we come back."

"From where?"

"From our run."

"I can't run."

"Yes, you can. Today, you must. You must be ready for this afternoon, your appointment with Sally, otherwise they will get rid of you; they will pension you off. And I won't be able to stay if they do that, you will be unbearable."

"I'm not unbearable now?"

"Yes. Yes, you are, but with no hope left in your life you will be worse."

"I can be worse?"

"I think you can. Eat your toast. Drink your tea. I will meet you outside in twenty-minutes."

They only jogged fifty-yards and he was breathless, barely crossing the road, so they walked through the park, occasionally jogging a few steps, the pair of them together, the tall thin man and the red-haired beauty, other joggers smiling at them; knowing a man who couldn't run when they saw one; just someone exercising for his younger girlfriend.

Never assume.

"You need some clothes that fit."

"I know."

"I'll go and get a pair of jeans, a shirt, a jacket. You should be okay."

"Thanks."

*

Sally's office was claustrophobic, low light, no windows and little colour.

"Tell me what you see when you close your eyes at night."

"Fire."

There was no hesitation in his answer.

Sally pulled a file towards her and opened it. She studied the pages, turning them slowly.

"You have never been involved in a serious fire," she said. "You've been shot at, buried alive, dragged along the street by a car, beaten, but you have never been in a fire. Why would you see fire when you close your eyes?"

"You know why."

"No I don't. There are no reasons to see fire. It is not your memory. It is someone else's memory. Not yours. Why would you want to see it?"

Dave shrugged.

"Not a good enough answer, I'm afraid. I am trying to assess whether you can continue your career or not. False memories can cause all kinds of problems."

"It's not a memory."

"You know that?"

"Of course I know that."

Sally scribbled on her pad.

"Then why do you see it when you close your eyes?"

"I feel their pain."

"You don't feel their pain, David; you see fire, but it's not your fire and not your pain. Stop seeing it, stop feeling it."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. You are seeing something you have never experienced, you are making it up, something that is not in your brain, not in your memory, and it is not part of you. You can stop it but if you can't you will go mad, and if you go mad you can't be a police officer."

Sally smiled. Dave didn't notice.

"I can't get past their deaths; I can't forget them."

"No-one expects you to forget them. No-one wants that, they were part of your life for some years, but the fire wasn't your fire, their pain is not your pain. You have your own pain, the pain of loss, the pain of someone being ripped away from you, but you must also face the fact that they had already gone, David. Your wife and daughter had already left you for someone else. They had restraining orders taken out against you. They wanted no contact. They were gone."

"But now they are gone forever."

"Yes, they are."

"There is no coming back for them, no chance they might change their minds."

Sally scribbled on her pad.

"There is cognitive thought there, David. You are aware they went but are hurt because their deaths took away your right to challenge their right to leave."

He shrugged again.

"Don't shrug at me, David, speak, that is what you are here to do."

He waved a hand around, anger rising in him.

"Okay, Sally, you are right. I always thought I could win them back, I always thought they would come back, through all the restraints on me and everything else. I always thought we would be together again, forever. I didn't see that the man's wife would burn down the house with my family inside."

"It wasn't your family, David, not when they died. They had been gone for almost two years; she was going to marry Mr. Tilson the moment his divorce was finalised. He was going to be a father figure to your daughter."

"He was never going to be her father."

"I never said that. I said he was going to be a father figure to her because you would not be living with them."

"Why was there no hint that the wife would do what she did?" he asked.

"An excellent change of tack for that question, David; your questioning instincts are still intact. Mrs. Tilson had never committed an offence in her life. She'd never caused a moment of trouble to anyone. No one could have seen it coming."

"But he left her, Terry Tilson; he said she was a mad cow."

"Your wife said you were violent and reckless when she took out the restraining order. Did you ever see yourself as either of those things?"

"Of course not."

"People say things when they are angry with someone else or they want something."

"Untrue things, but it was true what he said about her. She was a mad cow. She set fire to a house with three people in it."

"Yes she did, and she was sentenced by the Courts for her offence."

"It wasn't enough."

"Vengeance is never enough to those who desire it. Is that what you want, David? Vengeance?"

"Yes."

He said it quietly the first time. Then he shouted it.

"Yes!"

Sally scribbled on her pad again.

One hour-fifteen-minutes later, Dave Lewis stepped out through a dark green door. Who knew who was waiting to come in through the blue one?

Dr. Hughes' report to his superiors would follow.

* * * * * *

Chapter 2

Another waiting room; another day.

Eight days since the last time he'd sat in one, except this one had a receptionist, or secretary or whatever she called herself; blonde, slim, forties, floral dress; beige carpet on the floor, colourful flowers in a vase on her desk, wallpaper on the wall behind her showing green leaves; a skylight the only window above the desk. Dave Lewis couldn't help noticing these things, he still retained his observational abilities; situations and places had always interested him. They were mildly interesting even now.

He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, new shoes and tie, all of which Mariska had purchased for him, with his own money of course, ready for this meeting. This was the big one, she'd said, before she'd pushed him out of his front door and into a waiting cab. This was the one that counted. Either you go back to work or you don't. Do not mess it up, you need the job.

Did he?

He wasn't sure. What was the point of being a Detective when he hadn't seen the crime coming that killed his wife and child? No one saw it coming, he'd been told. But he'd been the best, one of a kind, a great Detective, dedicated, clever, good deductive powers and people skills.

And he'd never seen it coming.

Tilson's wife setting fire to the house where he lived with Dave's wife and daughter. His almost ex-wife; his about to be divorced wife; his daughter never an ex- but dead anyway. In the fire. Petrol through the letter box, followed by rags and ignition, three a.m. everyone asleep, house going up like a firecracker, whoosh, just like that, three dead, engulfed in flame and smoke. Cause of death? Inhalation of smoke; not to mention being burned to a cinder. Daughter Melanie, Mel, eleven; wife Claire, thirty-seven; bastard Terry, (who cared about his age?); nutter Kathleen who should be dead by now. Fifteen years was all she got, legal argument about the state of her mind at her trial. Her state of her mind? Dave knew all about the state of her mind; it was mean, jealous, deadly, vengeful, marriage over, awaiting her own divorce. Cow.

There was a buzz on the desk of the receptionist and she picked up a phone and whispered into it. Phyllis, was that her name? Philomena? Who cared?

"You can go in, Detective Lewis," she said, laying down the phone.

Dave heaved himself from a chair and meandered towards a closed door that had a name on it he couldn't even be bothered reading. He knocked and pushed it open. Why was he here? Why was he bothering? They were never going to let him return to work, his career was over.

There were three of them, two men in the uniform of Superintendent and a woman wearing a dark suit, pale blue blouse, stone necklace he couldn't identify, God only knew who she was, a secretary, someone to record his ramblings. He waited to be invited to sit before he did.

Superintendent Edward Manse, the officer who'd visited him at home just over two weeks ago, read a file that lay on the table in front of him.

What the hell are you reading? Dave thought. What is it about my life you don't already know? Come on, man, get it over with.

Manse looked up.

"Thank you for coming, David," he said.

Dave Lewis said nothing; he simply sat with his hands in his lap, staring straight ahead. Thank you for coming, he thought. As if I had a choice. What would have happened if I hadn't come, would I have just received a letter telling me what I am going to hear today? No job. Thank you for coming. Fuck off.

"We have the report from Dr. Sally Hughes, who you saw you just over a week ago."

The three of them stared down at a file lying in front of them.

You haven't read it yet, Dave thought? You have been in receipt of it for at least twenty-four hours and only now do you think of reading it? Get on with it. I can be in the pub in no time. The pub. He hadn't been in a pub for months. He did all his drinking at home, except Mariska wouldn't allow any alcohol into the house at the moment, not this close to his interview. It was like living with a jailer but he was sleeping better, his appetite had picked up and his thoughts were more lucid.

Get the hell on with it, he thought, as he stared at the panel with his weak, rheumy eyes.

"You have been off work for almost one year."

It was the woman who spoke, whoever she was, and what did it matter to her, anyway? Keep your nose out of my affairs, lady.

"Yes."

"And during that time you have retained the pay and conditions of a Detective Inspector."

"Yes."

Yes. Yes. So when you pension me off, I get it based on an Inspector's pay. Get the hell on with it, let's talk figures.

"How do you think your interview went with Dr. Hughes?"

He blinked. What the hell did it have to do with her? Why should he have to explain anything to her? Who the hell was she? Did his career rely on what he said to her? Fuck you, lady.

"She was rough with me."

"Because when she has been kind to you, you have failed to respond."

It was Manse who spoke this time.

How do you know? Were you there? Were you listening at the keyhole? I wouldn't put it past you.

Dave said nothing.

"You have nothing to say."

If I had anything to say, I would have said it.

"She was rough with me, made me realise what had happened to me and to my family, made me think about my future, what I wanted to do with the rest of my life."

I want to get drunk and make love to Mariska, that's what I want. And neither of those dreams seems to be within my reach.

"The talk seems to have worked." Manse again. "In the report we have in front of us she recommends that you should be allowed to return to work."

Dave's eyes opened wide.

Had he heard properly? Was it true, or were they taking the piss?

Allowed to return to work? Is that what he'd said?

"On reduced duties, of course,"

It was the bloody woman again. Reduced duties; what did that mean? Handing out traffic tickets? Stuff that. Sitting at a desk, shuffling paper? Stuff that, too.

"You can't return as a Detective Inspector," Manse said.

Ah, that was it, a demotion, less money; less pension should they want to get rid of him later. My life is messed up enough without you lot adding to it.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, if you choose to return, Dr. Hughes recommends a three-month trial period at the reduced rank of Detective Constable."

"On Detective Constable's pay?"

His brain was working a little bit; he was asking questions, he was getting back into the game. His anger was also growing. They wanted him to agree to a demotion, less pay, less pension.

"Yes."

"And how would that affect my pension should I not be able to continue following my three-month trial period or a failure to complete it?"

The two uniforms and the woman looked one to the other.

Question too bloody difficult for you, is it? Do you want me to repeat it? It's quite simple, do I retire on an Inspector's pension or a Constable's.

"We are prepared..."

God, she had a vicar's wife's tone, you could just hear her giving a sermon or reading it for her vicar husband, believing every haranguing word.

"...prepared to allow you to retire on an Inspector's pension if you fail to work through to a completion of your trial period. If you are still with us after that point, we will have further meetings to discuss your situation."

What's to discuss? I am not going to last three-months, you know it, I know it. I might make three hours, three days, maybe, but there's no chance of making three-months? No chance. Why not let me go now? Let me get on with killing myself.

He said nothing.

"Have you nothing to say?" Manse asked.

Why was the other uniform there? He hadn't said a word. Did he have nothing to do today? Was he just at a loose end? Did he ask to sit in on this meeting; this sad little case; good cop to broken man, should we keep him?

"As long as I can still retire on an Inspector's pay."

"David," Manse said, almost gently, "we are trying to help you in both directions here. We could have ignored Dr. Hughes' report and just retired you off, but she has recommended twelve-weeks and we are going to give them to you. From a personal point of view, I wish you well, but I feel you will fail. I don't think you are ready or will ever be ready again. But my colleagues think that you should be given a chance and want to go along with the report presented to us. I really wish you well, and we don't want to punish you by downgrading your pension. We will keep it at its current level for the time being and see how it goes. How does that sound to you?"

It sounds like a crock of shit, you two-faced bastard. It was because of people like you that I tried so hard when I was an Inspector. I loved rubbing your noses in it; it was what the job was for. Of course, Julia didn't see that way, didn't like it, that attitude, the ex-Julia, the dead Julia, the burned Julia, the-left-me-for-Tilson Julia. She never thought I should have worked so hard. Other police officers don't work as hard as you, she'd carp. Other officers? Who cared what they did?

"Will you come back on that basis?" Manse asked.

Dave shifted in his seat. He wanted a drink. He wanted to die; he wanted to be left alone to die. Why wouldn't they let him do that? Why couldn't they leave him alone?

"Yes, ma'am, I will."

Why had he said that?

He didn't want to come back at all, especially not as a dumb Constable, on no pay, obeying everyone else's orders. Say no, you weak bastard. Say no, tell them to shove it. Now; before anyone reaches out a hand.

Manse reached out with a hand, rising from his seat, smiling.

"Best of luck, David."

Don't take it, remain sitting, ignore him. Ignore him.

"Thank you, sir," Dave said, as he half-rose and took the hand and shook it.

No one else offered a hand so he considered himself dismissed. He brushed down his new suit and turned to leave.

"Monday, then," the woman said. "Report to Detective Sergeant Holland at 9:00 a.m. at C.I.D."

Tell her to shove it. Come on you coward, tell her.

"Yes, Ma'am."

They allowed him to leave. Outside the room was just a corridor, no Philomena, no smiling face, nobody, just a corridor and stairs. Outside, on the pavement, Mariska waited for him. There was no bloody escape from her; she kept him on a tighter rein than a dangerous dog.

"Well?" she said, as she linked his left arm.

"Three-month trial."

She squealed and jumped with glee. In the bloody street. With people looking on. Like a schoolgirl just being told she'd passed an exam.

"Stop it."

"Don't be silly, it's exciting. Two years I've been living in your basement and this is the most exciting news you've ever had. The most positive anyway."

She giggled and danced.

"Cease,"

"I'll treat you to a meal. Give me some money."

He stopped and looked at her, pulling her to a halt.

"Well," she said with a grin, "you don't pay me enough for me to treat you."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, I'm very sure."

He shook his head. Jesus, how had his life come to this? Being bossed around by a well-educated kid, being given three-month's trial by people who couldn't solve a crime if their lives depended upon it.

They strolled along the street and found an Italian restaurant just opening. Mariska linked arms with him and they looked like father and daughter so Dave thought.

Who the hell was Detective Sergeant Holland?

**

Mariska had got his car up-to-date. It had been serviced, taxed, insured, cleaned inside and out, new tyres, broken lights repaired. It even looked like a car again. Of course, she didn't let him drive it, far too early in his recovery to allow him to wander around the City on his own behind a wheel.

He argued with her.

And lost; he almost always did. She was wonderful in an argument, she simply stonewalled everything he said, every point he made. She ignored him and his views and his arguments. She was right, he was wrong. End of story.

She'd spent the weekend jogging him around the park, feeding him, exercising him, making sure he got enough rest. On the one occasion he tried to creep out of the house, minutes after midnight, looking for booze, she'd been there, waiting, dressed in a tracksuit, arms folded. She didn't say a word but he turned and re-entered the house. And there had been no alcohol. Not a single glass.

On the day he began working again, she drove him to work.

"When will you be home?"

"I'll be lucky to make it to lunchtime."

"Don't be so pessimistic. Will it be a full day, home at five, say?"

"It'll be a miracle if I last that long."

"I'll have dinner ready."

She drove off without saying goodbye, good luck or anything else.

What the hell am I doing here? Am I completely nuts? I don't want to do this? Do I? He stared up at the front of the Police Station. He used to be known here, people used to say hello to him, smile at him, speak to him, discuss things with him. Now? He had no idea. He could always walk away, go for a drink. Mariska would kill him though.

A woman exited the building. Tall, slim, short blonde hair, dark glasses, black shoes, dark suit, white blouse open at the neck, in her early thirties. She skipped down the three steps that led up to the doors and crossed over to where he stood.

"Dave Lewis?"

He blinked. Who the hell was this woman? What did she want with him? Why was she even speaking to him? Leave me alone, go away.

"Yes."

She held out her right hand.

"Detective Sergeant Holland. Chrissie."

Dave looked at the hand; he looked at her mostly make-up-free face, her finely honed cheekbones, her dark glasses. Detective Sergeant? He didn't know her. He was going to work for her? Was that fair, was it just? Ignore the hand. Walk away.

He took the hand in a limp grip, but said nothing.

Chrissie smiled. "Jeez, they told me, people who knew you, that you were a sagacious sort of guy, outgoing, friendly."

"I changed."

Her smile disappeared.

"I guess you did. You want to come in with me, or are you going to walk away. You look like you are ready to walk. Are you going to give up? Not even try?"

Once again he stared at her. He realized that he was still holding her hand and he let it go. How could he answer? Should he tell the truth; that he didn't want to be here? That he didn't want to go back to work? He wasn't ready. He would never be ready.

"I don't know."

"Tell you what, come on in, have a coffee. You like coffee?"

"My housekeeper allows me to drink coffee."

She cocked her head as if she hadn't heard properly.

"Your housekeeper?"

"She looks after me."

"Oh. Okay then; come and have a coffee."

She took hold of his left arm, just above the elbow, and walked him up the steps, into the Station. Inside, a uniformed Sergeant nodded, but didn't speak, Chrissie tapped in a security code on a door, opened it and took Dave in, along the corridor, up some stairs; stairs he had once known well, fourteen in total, he'd counted them years ago, when he'd first climbed them. He turned right at the top of the stairs automatically, Chrissie had no need to steer him, but his first instinct was to step into his Inspector's office, his name no longer on the door, somebody called Wantage in there now, never heard of him, past that one, into the general office, where only two officers sat at desks. One he knew, Sammy Tate, been a Detective Constable since forever, the other he didn't, tall guy, young, dark hair, brown eyes, dressed up to the nines, looking like a model, someone from a television show. Chrissie let go of Dave's arm. He stood in the room, five desks, five computers, half-a-dozen chairs, one window, high, lots of artificial light. Some things never change.

Sammy climbed from his chair, came forward, smiling, holding out a hand.

"Dave, welcome back. How are you doing?"

How am I doing? I'm a fucking wreck. How do you think I'm doing, you moron? I'm a wasted shell.

"Okay, Sammy, I'm doing okay."

"Good man, good man."

Slaps on shoulders, hugs, Sammy the life and soul of whatever party was going on, a bundle of friendly fun. For a cop. Chrissie smiling, watching Dave integrating, feeling good about it, about him. It was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.

"Eric Bishman," the other officer said. "Erky."

Another hand, another handshake, another smile.

I'm going to die. I can't take all this, this friendliness, this false camaraderie. I haven't missed it at all; when I was a boss I was always regarded as cold, distant, and I've only changed for the worse.

"Coffee?"

Dave turned to look at Chrissie. She was holding a mug, his Dave mug, three-quarters full of black coffee. He stared at the mug. Jesus.

"It's your old mug."

No fucking kidding.

"Thanks."

He took it, held it in both his hands, the warmth flowing through him, making him feel mildly better. He looked at the three faces, Sammy with his smile, Erky serious, posing, as if he were checking himself in a mirror, Chrissie the concerned mother, just a kid really, barely thirty, driven, he could see it in her face. He tried a smile and had no idea if it worked or not.

"Thanks for the welcome."

"You are very welcome, Dave," Chrissie said. "Really, it's great you're back. Take a couple of days, find your feet, drink some coffee, bring yourself up-to-date on current cases, chat to the boys. We're all here for you."

It was like being spoken to by a Social Worker, like the woman at his interview. We're all here for you. What the hell did that mean? Where else were they going to be? It was where they worked, where they came every day to investigate crime. Hopefully.

"Thanks."

He sipped his coffee. It was hot, burned his tongue.

"Your desk," Chrissie said, pointing to a completely clear, and clean, desk.

Dave stared. It had a phone, a computer monitor, an old jam jar with pens and pencils in, a chair that you could swivel round and lean back in. In his old office he'd had a big upright leather one that he felt gave him a certain air of leadership, power. He'd liked that chair.

"Thanks."

"Don't keep thanking me all the time, Dave. Just come back to yourself, be the copper you were before...well...before... You know what I mean, prove to the bastards upstairs that you can do it again, be brilliant again. We all look up to you, even those of us who don't know you personally, we know of your reputation, your abilities, the way you looked after your team."

He looked at her and shook his head.

"That really was before, Sarge. Back before time began."

"Well," Chrissie said, as she put her hands on her hips, "you're back, so you must have impressed somebody."

She smiled.

Dave felt himself smiling; at least he thought he was.

Who the hell had he impressed? The psychiatrist? Must have been her. Jeez. How did he do that? Who the hell impresses psychiatrists? Ever.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

He moved around her and sat in the chair behind his desk. He looked up at the three faces looking down at him, different expressions on each. Sammy with his smile, Erky with his deviousness, his worry about how he looked, Chrissie with hope, looking like an angel come down from heaven trying to convert the atheist.

"Good man, Dave," she said. "Sammy, get him some files so he can see what's happening on our patch."

"Sure thing, Sarge."

Sammy moved away, along with Erky, who went back to his own desk; Chrissie leaning over to pat Dave's hand before she returned to her small office, leaving the door open, just enough room inside for one person, a desk and a cabinet, nothing to write home about except for someone as ambitious as Detective Sergeant Chrissie. Sammy dropped at least a dozen files onto his desk.

"Ongoing cases," he said. "And some solved ones, to get you back into the swing. Dave, it really is nice to have you back."

Dave looked at his smiling face.

"Thanks, Sammy. I'll get used to it."

Will I? Will I ever get used to it? Do I ever want to get used to it? What the hell am I doing here, a fraud, an impostor, a shell, empty of knowledge or incentive? Should I just call it a day? Looking around at the other faces he realized that that was what they expected him to do. To walk. To give up. He flicked open the first file, slid closer in on his chair and gave the information his utmost attention. A situation grabbed his attention immediately. A house had been broken into, the burglar had been disturbed, the burglar had hit out at his intended victim, knocking him down and knocking him out. The victim was seventy-one years of age. A cowardly, dastardly attack by the kind of criminal bastard who haunted the City, made the place seem worse than it was.

If it could be made worse.

He gave the file further attention, read the reports, came to a conclusion.

It was just the kind of attack Clive Allen Pendel would carry out.

Dave leaned back in his chair.

Where the hell had that name come from? Clive Allen Pendel, a burglar who specialised in robbing the elderly and who attacked them whenever he was disturbed. Clive was a fat, bald, tattooed useless greedy shit. Dave lifted the file and waved it round.

"Clive Allen Pendel," he said.

"What?" Chrissie asked, as she rose from her chair in her office and approached his desk in a rush.

"This burglary and attack," Dave said, as Sammy and Erky turned to look at him. "It reminds me of guy called Clive Allen Pendel. His M.O."

Chrissie took the file from him, opened it and scanned the details of the crime. She looked at Dave.

"You know him, Clive Allen Pendel?" she asked.

"Known him for years. Targets the elderly, attacks them if he's disturbed. If he's not locked up, it's him."

Chrissie turned pages of the file she held.

"He's not banged up."

"It's him."

Chrissie smiled.

"Jeezus, it didn't take you long to get back into your act."

"It's not an act."

"No, sorry Dave, of course not. I didn't mean it that way. What I meant..."

"I know what you meant."

Dave didn't smile. He didn't feel like smiling, he'd almost forgotten how to do it. And he was glad of it. All the bloody smiling that went on in the world, most of it false; smiling to cover sins, to cover lies, to cover backstabbing. He hated people who smiled all the time. Didn't used to hate them, of course. With Julia, with Melanie, he smiled all the time. No need to smile now.

"Sammy, Eric, go see this Clive Pendel, see what he's got to say for himself."

She gripped the file in her left hand.

"Thanks, Dave."

Yeah, fine.

"Yeah. Sure. It's okay."

Sammy strode to his desk, tapped in something on his computer and said, "I've got his address. Clive Allen Pendel. Come on, Erk."

How many names did the bloody model have? Eric, Erky, Erk? How many did he want or need? The film star moved languorously and followed Sammy like a trail follows a snail.

"You did good, Dave."

What kind of English was that? You did good? You did well, that would have been acceptable, although saying nothing at all would have been better. Chrissie went back to her office, taking the file with her, tapping on her keyboard, staring at the monitor then at Dave. He looked through more files, drank his coffee. His phone rang. Not any phone, not one at another desk, not the one in Chrissie's office, but his. He stared at it before answering.

"C.I.D." he said.

"It's me."

Mariska

Who else?

"What?"

"Is that any way to speak to me?"

"I'm at work."

"I know you are, and you have been there for almost one hour and I am checking on you, seeing how you are, how you are bearing up, back in the bosom of your colleagues."

She exhausted him. Totally. Her energy, her verve, her youth, they were all a curse to him. Maybe it was time to get rid of her, tell her he no longer needed her. I'm back at work, doing okay.

"I'm okay."

"See," she said with youthful enthusiasm, as if to prove Dave correct. "I said you could do it. I knew you would. See you later."

And she was gone.

"'Bye," he said, into a dead phone.

"Your housekeeper?"

Dave looked up. Chrissie was standing at his desk. What's it got to do with you? Why are you sticking your nose in? Tell her nothing, nothing.

"Yes."

"Checking up?"

"Yes."

"She must care."

And if she does, I ask again, what has it got to do with you? And I don't know if she cares, she just seems to have a very strong mothering instinct. She helps.

"Suppose."

"She must be a comfort."

Yeah, like a large scotch, or even a bottle of it or more. That's the comfort I understand. She's not like that.

Dave shrugged.

"That was a brilliant get, Dave. Clive Pendel. No-one fingered him here."

Dave shrugged again.

Chrissie stared a while, then returned to her office, saying over her right shoulder, "Oh, by the way, the other Detectives are Thomas Lane and Peter Lindcroft, the D.I. is Elliot Wantage, you should see them all today."

"Good."

Dave went back to his files.

Bloody women.

* * * * * *

Chapter3

Three cups of coffee later, Chrissie called for him.

"Bring your chair, Dave, let's have a chat."

Not another bloody chat. Jesus, I have been chatting to people for a year now, and none of it has done any good. Is this the time to leave, to just put my head around the door and say; See you? Is it?

He dragged his chair across the office and placed it in front of Chris's desk. She glanced at her watch.

"We're going in to see the Boss in half-an-hour and I want to make sure there are no issues before we go in. Nothing to embarrass either of us."

Nothing to embarrass you, you mean? You've taken me on to further your career. You want to be the one who brought Dave Lewis back into the fold, but it's risky. I might walk; that would upset your plan. I might shout at someone I shouldn't shout at, that wouldn't go down well at all. Maybe I'll punch someone; then I would be back on the beat. If I kill someone, career over. And I could get away with killing someone, the balance of my mind being really off centre.

"Woe betides embarrassment."

"Don't be cute, Dave, I am only trying to help. We all are."

I don't need your help, or anyone else's come to that.

"Sorry."

"Okay. The Boss won't want to know how you are doing, you haven't been back long enough, but he will be interested that you found Clive Pendel almost immediately. It indicates your police brain is still working, that there is still knowledge there."

"I don't know how Pendel could have been missed; someone should have picked him up."

"There have been a lot of changes since...since you went, Dave. Lots."

There had been a stink, he remembered. He'd been warning everyone about Kathleen Mary Tilson, saying she wasn't right in the head, even though she had done nothing wrong, had never been aggressive, never committed a crime. It was just a feeling. Something was not right about her. Maybe some people had had their arses kicked. He hadn't taken much notice, had no idea about who had survived and who had perished.

"He's a good guy, Wantage."

"Who?"

"The D.I. Elliot Wantage."

"Oh."

"He's going to see both of us together, see how we're getting on, see if I've got anything to say."

"Have you?"

"What; got something to say?"

"Yes."

"I have. I'm going to tell him that you're after his job."

She smiled.

"I had his job. A year ago."

"Well, I'll tell him you are on your way back."

"That'll impress him."

Chrissie laughed. A delicate pealing sound. Not unpleasant. She was a woman who loved having fun.

"Careful, Dave. You'll be cracking jokes next."

"Not in this life-time."

"Of course you will. Anyway, I've only called you in to let you know we are going to see Wantage and that you should have no worries."

I haven't got any worries. Only the usual ones. When is my next drink, can I go home, is my working day finished? Can I not end it all? The usual ones.

"Thanks."

"Stop saying thanks, Dave."

"Okay."

Dave returned to his desk, ploughed on through the files; robberies, attacks, sexual assaults, attempted child abduction. All the stuff that had been there the last time he'd sat at a desk like this. Life moved on did it? Did it fuck.

Chrissie Holland exited her office again, it was barely worthwhile having one, Dave thought, the amount of time she spent out of it.

"You will be all right here, while I nip out?" she said.

What? I can't be left in an office on my own? What do you think I am going to do, smash all the equipment; that would certainly dent your upward gallop?

"Yeah, of course."

Chrissie departed the office, now there was only one member of the Criminal Investigation Department in the department, and that one couldn't care less about where he was. His ability to investigate crimes had long since past, he needed a drink, to lie down, to climb into a coffin, something, anything to end it all.

Dave leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head.

Daddy.

The word was said quietly, no more than an unearthly whisper, but it was enough to knock Dave Lewis off his chair, straight backwards, into the wall, off which he bounced, spinning round to land face down on the floor, trembling, white-faced, eyes wild. His chair had fallen in the opposite direction.

He lay very still staring around, and could see nothing.

For a moment there, for a split-second, he had seen his daughter Mel, dressed in the white dress with red trimmings he had purchased for her eleventh birthday, looking just as he remembered. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, fragile, as she always seemed to be. Beautiful. The way she should be now. Not dead.

It was the first time he'd ever seen her sober.

Drunk, he saw her all the time, like the white rabbit that sat on his bed, a big bugger with huge teeth. Drunk, he could call Melanie up almost any time and she would come, but of course, even he knew she wasn't there, knew she was just a figment of his well-known imagination.

But seeing her sober? That was a new thing. He never called her, he never asked her to come to him; his concentration had been totally on the files he was reading. Why had she come? Was she really there?

He climbed to his knees just as Chrissie Holland re-entered the office carrying two sandwiches from the canteen. She looked in alarm to where Dave knelt. She lay the sandwiches down on another desk and came over to him cautiously.

"Dave. You all right, Dave?"

It took a moment for him to realize she was there, above him, looking down with her angelic, motherly expression.

"Fell off my chair. Leaning back. Stretching. Just fell over. Sorry."

He climbed to his feet, righted the chair.

Chrissie laughed her laugh again.

"Jeez, I can't leave you for a second, can I? Fell off your fucking chair, how ridiculous is that?"

Bloody ridiculous actually; but not as ridiculous as telling you that I was knocked over by the appearance of my dead daughter.

Daddy

The word tumbled around his brain. He heard it over and over. How could he have heard a word spoken by a dead child? How did that work? She'd never spoken before.

"Bloody ridiculous," Dave agreed, as he sat.

He tried a smile but didn't think it worked.

"You really are a funny bastard."

Thank you for that, Chrissie. Detective Sergeant Chrissie. Driven Chrissie. He looked up at her.

"Yeah, hilarious."

She reached back, picked up a packed sandwich and tossed to him.

"Here. Eat."

Dave caught the sandwich, looked at it, BLT, cold. Wonderful. Not.

"Thanks."

"Coffee?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"It's your first day, I'll do the coffees. Tomorrow, you won't get such attention. Tomorrow you'll just be another member of the team. Eat it quick, we have to see Wantage in five."

Five bloody what? Five years; five decades? Why can't people talk properly any longer? He peeled open the sandwich and took a bite, while Chrissie went and brewed some coffee. Half-way through, some person stuck his head around the door to the office and called out to Chrissie.

"Right, Boss," she said, as she climbed to her feet, exited her office and said, "That's D.I. Wantage, he's ready for us."

I haven't finished my sandwich. I haven't even finished my coffee.

"Leave the sandwich and coffee, come on, he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

A Detective Inspector who doesn't like to be kept waiting? What kind of career path had he been on? Waiting was part of the bloody job. Dave laid down his cup and sandwich and followed his Sergeant out of the offices. Chrissie knocked on the office next door. Knocked? No one had ever knocked when he had been a D.I. His office door was always open, no interruptions admonished, information important, doors no block to that.

She pushed the door open and stepped in.

Wantage waved a hand around.

"Sit," he ordered.

Chris sat in one chair, Dave in another.

"David, welcome."

Shove your welcome up your arse.

"Thank you, sir."

"No need to call me sir, Dave. Boss will do."

You will never be able to boss anyone, you wanker. Look at you, silk and wool suit, hand-made shirt, silk tie, Italian shoes, immaculate hair. Who the hell got you ready for work? And how do you make your money?"

"Okay, Boss."

"Chrissie, how's he doing?"

"Very well, boss. A bit shaky at the start but fine since then. Put the finger on a burglar almost immediately."

"So I heard. They have him downstairs, now. Clive Pendel, was it? He seems to have slipped past my knowledge."

Knowledge is slipping past your knowledge. You know nothing. How did you get to be a D.I.? Friends from above? Connections? University education, fast-tracked?

"That was a good get, Dave."

"Thanks, Boss."

It's called knowing your patch. Do you know your patch? Did you spend long enough days and nights walking its streets? Or did all that pass you by?

"You still happy to have him on your team, Chrissie?"

"Of course, Boss."

Oh, he certainly likes to be called Boss. Everything she says, Boss this, Boss that. Fucking Boss.

"You going to measure up, Dave; become part of a team again?"

I was never part of a team; don't you know anything about me? Okay, a little bit, I was a little bit part of a team; I quite liked working with other people. I suppose that makes me part of a team. A little bit.

"Frankly, Boss, it's too early to say."

Wantage blinked. It wasn't the answer he was expecting. He wanted obeisance, the toeing of the party line. He wanted someone to say that he was delighted to be back and would try his best. Ah!

"Oh," Wantage said, as he glanced at Chrissie.

"First day nerves, Boss."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"He doesn't sound too confident to me."

I am still here, tosser. I am still in your office. Giving the wrong answer doesn't make me invisible.

"His confidence will return."

"And you're sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure.

"Boss."

"Of course I'm sure, Boss."

If I'd been better, stronger, with more physical strength, I would have knocked him off his chair for that insult. Treating a woman like that. Demeaning her in front of someone else, a junior colleague. He deserved a smacking for that. If only I'd been strong enough.

"She seems to think you can do it, Dave."

She? The bloody cat's mother. She? She's got a fucking name you bloody fool, you time-wasting career freak. Get some people instincts.

"And I admire her for it."

"Boss."

"Boss."

"I'll go along with her for the moment..."

That's big of you, especially as my twelve-weeks have been sanctioned by people so high above you that to reach them you would need an oxygen mask.

"...and the Clive Pendel get was a good touch. We'll see how it goes, day by day."

Week by week, you self-obsessed waster. Until twelve of them have passed, been worked, done.

"Thank you."

"Boss."

"Boss."

Wantage waved a hand again and Chrissie rose from her chair, so Dave did the same thing. They were dismissed. Back in the office she stood with her hands on her hips and stared at him.

"You made a determined effort to get right up his nose, didn't you?"

"Yep."

He went back to his desk as he listened to her laugh.

"You succeeded."

"He's a wanker."

"Not in your class?"

"Not in a million years."

"You've still got it then, the desire to be a copper. It might be deeply hidden, but it's there. You want to go and interview Clive Pendel?"

"You and me?"

"If you want."

"Okay."

Chrissie shook her head and smiled; leading the way out of the office, down the stairs to Interview Room 1. She knocked on the door and opened it, and Dave heard Sammy say, "For the tape, Detective Sergeant Christine Holland has entered the room."

"A word," Chrissie said, as she motioned Sammy to her.

"Yes, Sarge," Sammy said, as he stepped outside and looked, with surprise, at Dave standing in the corridor.

"Has he said anything, Pendel?"

"Nothing a human being would like to hear, Sarge. He's just babbling, swearing, denying. Wants to know how we got on to him. Been at his mother's for years, apparently, he's only just back."

"Back long enough to do his stuff, though."

"Yep."

"I'd like me and Dave to have a go at him."

Sammy raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"That okay with you, Sammy?"

"Yeah sure, Sarge. I'll get Erky and we'll go and have a sandwich."

"Good man. Dave, you ready?"

Am I? Am I hell. But, bugger it; I'll give it a try.

"I'm about as ready as I can be."

"Good man."

* * * * * *

Chapter 4

Chrissie stepped into the Interview Room and Dave followed. They took up two seats opposite Clive Pendel, who sat next to a Duty Solicitor. Clive laughed loudly and raucously.

"Jesus Christ," he said, "if it isn't Detective Inspector Lewis. David Fucking Lewis. Hey, man, I thought you were dead in a fire. No, not you, the wife, wasn't it, and the kid, roasted alive by some insane woman."

He laughed and slapped his chest like a madman.

He was fatter than Dave remembered, more round in every aspect, face, head, chest, stomach, everything had grown.

"I see your mother's cooking agrees with you."

"Don't mention my mother."

"You brought her up first, Clive, as I hear it. Been living with her for some time, that's what you've said. So, she's feeding up your fat idle frame, pretty soon you're going to pop."

Clive turned to his Solicitor.

"He allowed to talk to me like that?"

"Usually, no," the Solicitor, Mr. Michael Tonne, said. "But as you just insulted his dead wife and child, I'm going to let it go."

"What kind of fucking solicitor are you?"

"A good one. What kind of client are you?"

Clive didn't answer; he sulked like a big baby.

"Diddums," Dave said.

"I'm not taking any more of this shit from him, you hear me."

"Detective," Tonne said, "be aware that I am listening."

"Have you got an alibi for when Mr. Billy Williams was attacked, Clive?" Chrissie asked.

Clive laughed again.

"How stupid does that sound, Mr. William Williams, that's what Billy stands for, isn't it? Billy Williams. Who the fuck has a name like that, William Williams?"

"The man you attacked while burgling his house had a name like that."

"Never heard of him, never burgled his house."

"It gives you a kick, Clive, doesn't it, beating up old folks, stealing from them, always did, always will."

"Fuck off, Lewis."

"You always were the most cowardly person I ever dealt with, the meanest; the most yellow, cringingly stupid criminal I have ever encountered."

"Yeah, you think so?"

"I do."

"You don't think I ever got away with any crimes?"

"Too stupid, Clive; far too stupid."

"Yeah, well I could tell you a thing or two, Detective. You don't know a thing about me."

"I know you're a fat, ugly shit who likes to rob old people and beat them up. Mr. Williams fought in Korea; do you know that, he was a soldier, something you could never be?"

"You think I couldn't do that, be a soldier?"

"I know, fat man."

"Stop calling me that!"

"Fat fuck."

"Hey, Solicitor shit, he can't say that."

"No, he can't. Be warned, Detective Lewis."

"But he's right, Clive, isn't he?" Chrissie said. "You are everything he says, but worse; far, far worse."

"Fuck you, lady."

"If only you could, Clive, if only you could," Chrissie responded. "A normal man could but you're not normal, are you? You get your kicks another way don't you, by beating up old people and robbing them."

"They are useless!" Clive shouted. "They deserve everything they get. They are so stupid, they will let anyone into their houses, they ask for it, all of them. I'm a man, enough man for you, not like Billy Fucking Williams, he should have been put down years ago. A soldier in some long-forgotten war; he should have done us all a favour and been shot."

"So you are some kind of avenger, on behalf of God, on old people?"

Clive leaned back in his chair, looked mighty pleased with himself.

"Yeah, that's good, lady. That's what I am. God's avenger."

"You're a fat shit," Dave said, as he rose from his seat and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Thirty-three minutes later, Clive Allen Pendel was charged with the assault and burglary on Billy Williams. He swore a lot and screamed and demanded Lewis show up so that he could confront him, to give him to opportunity to prove he was a man.

Dave sipped coffee in the office with Sammy and Erky and Chrissie.

"I'd heard you were a bit unorthodox," Chrissie said.

"Ugly rumour."

Orthodox, unorthodox, what did it count if it got results? Wind them up, make them slobber and scream, make them talk, make them give themselves up. Only gang members were different. They never said anything. No matter how much you insulted them.

"Bit more than a rumour."

"We got him, that's all that counts."

"As long as his Solicitor doesn't raise any shit."

"Tonne? He's one of the good guys."

Chrissie shook her head and looked at the other Detectives.

"He knows everybody," she said.

"He always was good," Sammy said.

They're doing it again. Talking about me as if I'm invisible, not here, not present. I may as well go for some lunch, try and sneak in some scotch.

"Okay if I go for some lunch?"

"Sure is, Dave. I've called your housekeeper Mariska, told her you'd be coming out about now."

He stared at her. You called Mariska? You did? What gave you the right to do that? How dare you?

"She called and asked if I would keep her informed, she sounds nice, she cares. She said thanks," Chrissie added.

Well, she fucking would.

She was waiting outside, a huge smile on her face. Mariska Masekova; father, Majit, an utterly crazy, though hard-working Czech who married a fiery colleen, Siobhan. There was a lot of shouting in the family home, lots of noise, but they managed to have a daughter, red-haired, like her mother. A university graduate, in what Dave had no idea, she could have been anything, he supposed. What she did before she came to work in his house, he had no idea. Julia employed her. And there she was, bouncing around on the pavement like a teenager.

"You lasted a whole morning," she said, taking hold of an arm, leading him around the corner to where the car was parked. "Solved a crime, Chrissie said."

Chrissie? They'd talked enough to get to know each other?

"You've exchanged names with her?"

"Oh, yes, she sounds lovely. We're going for a drink one night to talk about you."

"Don't bother."

"Tell me what kind of morning you've had."

"It was shit."

She roared with laughter, a very unladylike thing to do in Dave's estimation. In public; walking along a street. Did she have no shame?

"Where do you want to go for lunch?"

"The pub?"

"We'll go to the coffee shop."

"Why did you ask?"

"I wanted to see if you had gained any more sense since you left the house this morning. You haven't."

"You can't speak to me like that, I'm your employer."

"Yes, I can. Come on, how much money have you got?"

Jesus.

He drank black coffee and ate a Danish; she drank Earl Gray and had a toasted teacake, more English than him, certainly more of a lady that he was a gentleman.

"I saw Melanie."

She stopped with the teacake halfway to her mouth.

"In your office?"

"Fell off my chair, bounced off the wall."

"In your office, sober?"

"Yes."

"You didn't call her, you didn't ask her to come?"

"No, I wasn't even thinking about her."

She stared at him, still not eating.

"Maybe you are going mad at last."

"You think so?"

"Maybe she wanted to speak to you, to see you, instead of it always being the other way round."

"It's a thought."

"Try not to think of her in the future, see what happens, see if she comes again. Did it frighten you?"

"No, not frightened, I'm never frightened, not of Melanie. But I was shocked enough to be thrown from my chair."

"Did anyone see?"

"I was alone, though Chrissie found me on my knees. Told her my chair had tipped over."

"She only comes when you're alone."

"She does."

"Maybe that's good, we don't want anyone thinking you are mad."

"No."

"Eat your Danish, drink your coffee. Don't think about Melanie."

Afterwards, she escorted him back to work.

"Am I ever to be left alone?"

"Not until you get better, not until you are the person whose wife employed me. Not until then. It has taken me a whole year to get you to where you are now. There will be no going back."

He stared at her. Where did she get the resolution from, the steadfastness? The nerve? She was supposed to be working for him, for the family when Julia first employed her, back before... When Julia had been in the house, Mariska had always been subservient, quiet, respectful, but as soon as she'd gone, yes, well. She'd loved Melanie, though. She'd made her laugh, completed homework with her, taught her dances. Dave had never talked with her about how much hurt she might have suffered by their leaving, by their death. He never talked to anyone about those things.

"Go to work, do your best."

She walked away without another word. She never actually showed him any real emotion; she never hugged him, kissed him, even on the cheek. She most certainly never slept with him. Oh, how he dreamed of that; she in her late twenties, him approaching forty. When he wasn't dreaming of Melanie, he was dreaming of Mariska; her long legs, her glorious red hair, her sheer beauty. But it was never to be and he was fooling himself if he thought it ever would. He wondered why she did what she did. Why she looked after him the way she did? Like a jailer.

He thought about not going into the police station but did, then had to ask the Desk Sergeant what the door code was. When he had it, he punched it in, walked the corridor, climbed the stairs and entered the office. Chrissie was there with Sammy and Erky, and two other men, presumably Detectives Thomas Lane and Peter Lindcroft. They were all gathered around Chrissie's office door. When he entered, they all turned to look at him. Chrissie laughed and held out her right hand.

"Pay up," she said, and the three men all handed banknotes to her.

Dave stood in the centre of the room and watched.

"We were betting you wouldn't come back," Chrissie said, jovially, and without shame. "I said you would, these wankers said you wouldn't."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," Dave said, dryly, as he took his seat, pulled it forward, switched on his monitor and gazed at it.

Wankers was exactly the right word for them.

Lane and Lindcroft came over and introduced themselves; Dave didn't know them from the old days. The old days? That made it sound like decades ago. It felt it, too. Dave shook their proffered hands and mumbled a greeting of his own. He wasn't very good at hypocrisy.

"We didn't mean anything by it," Lindcroft said.

"That's all right, then, isn't it?"

Without saying another word the two officers moved away and sat at their own desks. Best thing. Leave me alone.

Chrissie called for him.

"Shut the door."

Dave stood in front of her desk, leaned back and closed the door. The door was that close.

"You've got to work with them," she said.

"Who?"

She leaned forward, her expression serious.

"You have a propensity for sarcasm."

"You've noticed."

He shuffled his feet; put his hands by his sides, behind his back. He didn't want to be here.

"You still have to work with them."

"For twelve-weeks."

"If you survive twelve-weeks.

"If I survive."

"Have you ever considered the fact that if you do survive they will keep you on full time?"

"No."

"Mariska won't allow you to fail."

"Oh, you know her that well do you?"

"I have a fair idea of what she's trying to achieve. She's trying to rebuild you."

"I don't know why."

"Neither do I. But she knows you better than I do and she must see something in you. You had something before; skill, talent, drive; maybe some of it is still there."

"I doubt it."

"You should be guided by her."

"I should dismiss her, get rid of her."

"You'll be finished if you do that."

"Maybe I want to be finished."

Chrissie leaned back in her chair.

"Okay, get out, go, finish it, bugger off, get out of my sight."

Dave stood, stunned.

"If you don't want to play, to take part, don't. Simple. Leave it behind. Walk. Go. Now."

Dave shuffled some more, turned his head this way and that, staring off into the distance, focussing on Chrissie, on his feet, on his fingers. She's right. I should walk. I should go. Come on feet, move. Let's go. His feet refused to move. Come on feet.

"Not so easy, is it?"

Dave said nothing.

"You want to stay, you want to prove to us all that you can be as brilliant as you were but you're worried you won't be able to do it. You might just be an ordinary copper after all."

Dave still said nothing. He continued shuffling.

"Stand still."

He ceased shuffling. It was like being spoken to by Mariska.

"I think we can assume you're not leaving, not sober anyway. Drunk, you probably won't react at all, drunk you won't get out of bed, but I've got you for twelve-weeks, minimum. I've taken you on. Don't fail me. Don't fail Mariska. Go back to your desk, do some detecting."

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Don't speak, just go."

He went. Spent the afternoon working through closed cases. Realised he was working with a pretty good team, they might be wankers, but they were excellent wankers. At 4:00 pm, Chrissie came out of her office and told him to go home.

"Have you phoned Mariska?"

"She's outside, waiting."

"Bloody thanks."

"See you in the morning."

**

Cynthia Annie Howell was thirty-five years of age and a nurse. In her opinion, she had never done anything to harm anyone in her whole life. She tended to people, nursed them, cared for them. She didn't hurt, she never would hurt. When she'd been a little girl, she'd never wanted to be anything else but a nurse. She'd always wanted to care for others.

She had a sense of Godliness about her, she took her religion seriously; she cared about the personal cleanliness of her soul, the purity of her thoughts. She was happily married and adored her husband; they'd never had children but were as close as human beings could be. She was looking forward to returning home and being with him.

She was in good humour when she bid her colleagues farewell, told them she'd see them tomorrow and walked out of the hospital. She walked behind the main block of the hospital, where the original, older buildings were. It wasn't an official staff car-park; it was just a place where she, and a few other staff, chose to park their cars. It was out of the way, secretive, her car hidden in the shadows, no lighting there, dark. She put the key in the driver's door, feeling in a light-hearted mood, and she was hit on the head from behind by the flat, metal end of a spade, which was swung high and wide and brought down with some force. Cynthia Annie Howell crumpled into an unconscious heap.

Her car was recorded on CCTV passing the main hospital entrance at its usual time. Nothing seemed odd about it.

Something was distinctly odd when Cynthia recovered consciousness though. Her face, her head, were bound with tape. Only her mouth was untaped, though that was gagged with cloth. Her arms were taped behind her back, her ankles taped together. Rope was tied around her waist. She was naked and cold and felt the wind on her body, so presumed she was out in the open, out of doors.

She was very scared.

She had no idea what was happening, no idea what had happened to her, though her head did hurt, badly. She was getting into her car, wasn't she? Yes. Getting in. After that, nothing; not until now. She tried to scream and heard nothing but a grunt. Where was she, she was cold, naked? What was she doing here? Who had taken her? Why? What was she kneeling on? Wood. She was kneeling on rough wood and it hurt her knees. She wiggled her naked toes and felt stones. Kneeling on wood, with stones behind her. She couldn't work it out. Help me, she thought. Once again she tried to scream; once again it came out as a grunt. The wind around her seemed to increase.

Then she heard it, some distance off, but distinct.

The sound of a train.

It took her brain some moments to put all the facts together. A train. Wood. Stones.

She was kneeling on a railway line.

No!

That could not be.

Who would do that to her? Why? She was a good woman. A nurse. She had never hurt anyone in her life. She began to struggle and discovered that the rope around her waist had her bound to something, probably the railway line. Panic rose in her. Oh, my God. God, please help me. Please. The words screamed in her head.

The sound of the train got louder, the wind fresher.

She was kneeling at the exit of a tunnel. She knew, instinctively, that was a fact. Someone had bound her to a railway line, naked, gagged, blind, on her knees, on a railway line at the exit from a tunnel. Oh, God.

The sound of the train got louder, the wind increased.

It was coming. She could hear it, feel it, the sleeper she was kneeling on began to vibrate.

No. No! No!

* * * * * *

Chapter 5

It was raining, blowing a gale and Steve Harkness, a motor-cycle riding, tall, slim, Railway Mobile Operations Manager with a bad haircut, plodded along the railway track, protected as he walked on the line by a temporary block put in place by the Signal Box controlling the line. He'd just been settling down with a cup of tea and a cake in the M.O.M.'s cabin, his duties mostly done, when the phone rang. His Control. Report from a driver, hit something coming out of High Hill Tunnel; tunnels have names; bridges only numbers; the tunnel being 454 yards long, Victorian built, 50 mph speed limit. Probably a sheep. Driver only got only a momentary glimpse. Sheep a constant problem on that part of the track. Steve Harkness being the one responsible for finding and confirming the dead sheep. Sometimes the job was shit.

His orange coat flapped in the wind, large pockets in it, holding all kinds of things, rain bouncing off his hard-hat, the light from the lamp he held shining near and far as he swung it left and right. Bloody farmers. Bloody sheep. Always getting smacked by trains. Causing all kinds of delays, something the Company got fined for, the next train already late. His job was to search the line as quickly as possible, find out where it was, move it if necessary. Being hit at fifty-miles-per-hour could make a bloody mess of a sheep.

He didn't get paid enough money for this.

The light from the lamp shone on something.

What was that?

He moved in to stare, to inspect, to do what he was paid to do.

What was it?

It was part of a human head. The bottom half, half the jaw missing, tape around the bit he could see.

He definitely wasn't paid enough for that.

He vomited over a fence.

**

Dave Lewis's home phone rang. He didn't have a mobile, used to have, not now.

He didn't know what it was. His phone never rang. No one ever called him. It was a dream, a nightmare, something. The phone could not be ringing.

The phone continued to ring.

He threw off the duvet, opened his eyes. It was dark. No one ever phoned during the hours of night. They used to when he was a policeman. Not now, not since...

Oh, he thought. I am a policeman. Again. Temporarily.

But it can't be about police matters. He was only back on a temporary contract, twelve-weeks, reading paper work, getting up to date, getting to know colleagues. He wasn't a proper policeman. A toy one, maybe. Make believe.

The phone rang on.

He plodded downstairs in his underwear, in the dark, not putting a foot wrong, he knew the house so well, the only house he'd ever shared with his wife and daughter. He padded across the hallway and picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"Ten minutes," Detective Sergeant Christine Holland said. "Be ready."

The phone went dead in his hand. Ten minutes? What ten minutes? He couldn't be ready in ten minutes, he was still asleep, almost. He would have to have a coffee, something to eat. What the hell time was it, anyway? He glanced at the hall clock. Two minutes past two. In the morning? It was dark. It must be. What did she think she was doing? Calling him at such an hour. I'm going back to bed. He turned to walk back up the stairs.

"Get dressed," a voice said.

Dave whirled round. Mariska was standing in the shadows, a smile on her face.

"You're back at work."

"I don't want to be back, especially not at this time of day. Those days are over."

"They are only just beginning. Again."

"Mariska, please."

"Get washed, get dressed. She'll be here shortly."

"She called you, Chrissie?"

"She asked if I thought you were ready."

"For what?"

"For a murder."

Dave's skin tightened, his spine stiffened and he stared at her. Murder?

"Wrap up warm," she said, "the weather is awful."

*

"I asked her to wake you," Chrissie said in the car, driving roads quiet at this time of night. "She said she never came into your bedroom, except in emergencies."

"True."

"What kind of emergencies?"

"Oh, you know; the usual kind. Drunken ones, thumb in mouth, naked, stuck behind the wardrobe kind of emergencies."

"Oh."

"I thought everybody suffered from them."

She smiled.

"No, they don't. She's pretty special, your housekeeper."

"She wants me to leave the house to her when I die."

"Yeah, right."

Dave almost smiled. Almost. He couldn't believe he was out at this time of day, quarter past two, thereabouts, dark, wet, windy, no idea where he was going, no idea what he was going to see. Chrissie hadn't said, just picked him up outside the house in her car, him dressed in a warm anorak, jeans, walking-boots, thick cotton shirt, woollen hat, pulled low; her dressed almost as warmly.

"Driver of a train reported hitting something coming out of High Hill Tunnel."

Here it comes. Here come the details I don't really want to hear, blood, snot, all kinds of bodily fluids, body parts. High Hill Tunnel? Someone hit by a train? More bits of human flesh than you could count. Oh, what fun it was to be back.

"It was investigated by one of their personnel, he found some body parts. British Transport Police were called, just as they always are, just in case it wasn't suicide."

"It wasn't suicide?"

"Not with wrists and ankles bound with tape. Transport police called us."

Dave turned away from Chrissie. What a terrible way to go. One human being, so called, placing another on a railway line and letting a train run over him or her.

He turned back to her.

"Man or woman?"

"Woman. Black."

"Race killing?"

"We don't know yet."

"Any identification?"

"No."

"How many parts?"

"Lots, apparently."

Dave turned away again. God, how awful. I don't want to do this, I want to be somewhere else; I want a drink. I cannot cope. I am not the man I once was, I don't want to see, I want no part of it. I am not strong enough.

"Think you're up to it?"

"I don't know."

"You soon will."

"I guess I will. If I'm not up to it, I'll find my own way home."

"You are under my care, Dave. Mariska would kill me if I didn't return you to your home in one sober piece."

"Christ."

He had been completely emasculated, castrated. He was so far under the thumb of women he was almost crushed, a complete nonentity. A waste of space. I'm going to teach them a lesson. I will have a drink. I can kill myself. No matter how hard they try to stop me.

Chrissie pulled the car to a halt in an improvised car-park, lots of vehicles; police cars and vans, railway vans, lots of police, lots of rail workers, the whole lit by emergency lighting. As was the track, as Dave could see when he climbed out of the car. Below. On the railway lines. Lots of people on hands on knees, the side of the track, uniforms, searching; others in suits more properly employed investigating, detecting.

"All shifts are in on this," Chrissie said as she pulled a green vest with C.I.D. in large reflective letters on the back from the boot of the car and tossed another one to him.

"It's serious, then."

"Dave, stop the shit. A woman, identity not yet known, was on a railway track with her wrists and ankles taped, maybe her head, too. She probably couldn't see but I bet she could hear. She would have heard the train coming and known she couldn't do anything about it. Terrifying. I can't imagine it."

Nor I. And I don't want to. I already have enough problems dreaming of fire, of choking, of burning, and like the psychiatrist said, it's not even my memory. I can't take any more horror.

"Come on."

She led, lifting the incident tape; he followed, slouched in his anorak, head down against the wind and the rain, not happy in the dark, even if it was lit by bright artificial light. Foxes out there in the trees, bound to be, beyond the lights. Rabbits. Rats. All watching. Chrissie went through a small gate, scrambled down a bank, Dave followed again, glad he'd put his jeans on. He didn't care if he got them dirty. Onto the track, where a tall uniformed police officer in an orange vest stood, along with a small individual with a white armband on that read PICOP in red letters. He held a pad on a board in his hand, covered with protective plastic.

"Name," he said, as Chrissie and Dave approached.

"Detective Sergeant Chris Holland and D.C. Dave Lewis."

"Dave?" the police officer said.

Dave stared at the man, who was showing the pips of an Inspector.

"Hugh Penley?" Dave said, eventually. "Good grief. You're a..."

"British Transport Police," Hugh said. "Inspector. Nasty business, this."

Hugh Penley had been a uniformed Sergeant the last time Dave had met him. Smaller police force; more chances of promotion.

"Yeah, nasty."

Maybe I could become a railway policeman, ride trains, travel the country, stay away from proper crime and bullying women.

"This is Barry Albert; he's the Person In Charge Of the Protection for the closure of the lines."

Barry Albert was wearing the armband with the letters PICOP upon it, just to make sure everyone knew who he was.

"He's keeping a roll call of the names of everyone who's here," Hugh Penley continued, "because he doesn't want anyone left behind on his, or her, knees when the lines open and trains start running. We don't want another incident."

Barry laughed.

No one else did.

"When you leave, make sure you check out with him."

"Okay," Chrissie said, as she wandered off, along the line.

"Nice to see you, Dave."

"Sure, Hugh."

Dave followed.

Both lines were closed, Up and Down, all railway lines have up and down, not north/south or east/west, just up and down. The train company would be hoping they could open the lines for the first service of the day but there was no chance with this incident. Dave knew that; there were people everywhere, all kinds of investigations going on. The lines were going to be shut well into the day. That meant lots of people on buses, many unhappy commuters who didn't understand, all of them interested only in their own selfish needs. Not interested in a dead woman. Smashed to bits by a train doing fifty-miles-an-hour; a huge lump of metal hurtling towards her.

"Charlie," Chris said, as she approached another plain-clothes officer.

"Chrissie," Detective Sergeant Charles Nough said. "Sorry about dragging you out, the Super wanted us all on it. It's terrible."

"So I believe. Any of my boys here?"

"Tom Lane and Pete Lindcroft. Still waiting for Erky Bisham and Sammy."

"They'll be here. You put Tom and Pete to work?"

"They're looking for body parts."

"Jesus."

"Forensics are here in numbers, they've found some parts of her head, her arms, which were taped at the wrist. Her legs were found on the line, we think she was in a kneeling position. Her legs were taped at the ankles. Her head was taped, too, and she may have been gagged. We've found bits of her torso and she appears to have been naked, but we're missing lots of other things. Still searching for clothes, handbags, jewellery, phone, anything. Clues, you know."

"Found any?"

"Not yet."

Charles Nough stared at the man who was trying hard to stand in the shadows with his head down, seemingly uninterested in anything. Charles stared hard.

"Dave Lewis. Is that you?"

Dave didn't lift his head. He'd recognised Charlie Nough the second they'd arrived, he used to be part of Dave's team, a Detective Constable the last he'd heard, now a Sergeant, a good cop, but not one he wanted any sympathy from. He was sick of how are you, what are you doing now, how's things?

"Dave?"

Dave lifted his head.

"Hello, Charlie."

"Hey, man, nice to see you. You back here in an official capacity, as a cop?"

"I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Charlie laughed and held out a hand.

"Nice to have you back on the job."

Dave took the hand, another limp handshake.

"Thanks."

"You know the details?"

"Too many by the sounds of it. What have they done with the train?"

Charlie blinked, smiled then turned to Chrissie.

"He's still got it, Chrissie."

"He might have."

There it was. Talking about him again. The Invisible Man.

"They've taken the train out of commission, Transport Police have quarantined it. It's gone to a depot for examination, Andy Marks and John Williams are there, waiting to see what's found. I understand the fanatical Manager of the cleaning teams has been called out and is inspecting the train herself. She's under the train now or so I believe. Some job, huh? Who'd want to do it? There will be some bits underneath."

"Lots of bits," Dave said. "Most of her innards will be under that train. Any clues as to who did it? Or why?"

"Not yet," Charlie said. "We won't know until we find out who the victim is, was."

Dave nodded. Couldn't do much until a person was identified. Then you had a chance. You discovered enmities, hatreds, prejudices. It happened all the time. It was how coppers solved crimes.

Erky Bisham and Sammy Tate joined them and Chrissie asked Charlie where he wanted them.

"Along the line," Charlie said. "Don Blue, Ian and Len Hanley are down there already, looking, searching."

"Searching for what?" Erky asked.

"More body parts."

"Great."

Bisham and Tate wandered off down the line. Either side, uniformed officers continued with their fingertip searches. That job was shit, Dave thought. It was wet, windy, and who knew what lay hidden in the grass. Shards of glass, sharp fragments of stone, syringes, rats, all kinds of things. The gloves they wore would not protect them from everything they might find.

"Does Dave get to do a job?"

"He stays with me, Charlie," Chrissie answered.

"Oh, okay."

"I can go wherever you want, Charlie," Dave said, argumentatively.

"You stay with me," Chrissie insisted.

Dave didn't attempt to push himself forward again.

"And where do you want us, Charlie?"

"I could do with someone else at the depot, with the train," Charlie said. "Someone to interview the driver. Apparently, drivers get three days off when they hit a person but he's been called back in. His union rep is already at the depot."

"His union rep?"

"Yeah. You want to do it?"

"Sure."

"D.I. Wantage has been and gone, he's awaiting developments. The Superintendent came down to take a look and went home. Weather was too bad for him," Charlie said.

"Great. Okay, we'll go to the depot, speak to the woman who's under the train, then the driver when he turns up."

"Nice to see you, Dave."

"Thanks, Charlie."

Back in the car, after receiving directions to the depot and informing the PICOP they were leaving, Chrissie said, "I'd love to let you roam around on your own, Dave, but you would only let me down. You'd let yourself down and Mariska. I can't do that to any of us."

"Thanks for trusting me."

"Dave, you can't be trusted. Face it. Not yet."

"Will I ever be?"

"Up to you."

Chrissie drove in silence for the rest of the journey.

The depot was well lit, as railway depots usually are. Chrissie went to the office, found someone to escort her and Dave to the train; Les, a fat guy with a breathing problem, who seemed to be about ninety.

"Bad do," Les said.

"Bad enough," Chrissie confirmed.

"I'd hate to be under that train," Les said.

"She still under there?"

"You don't know her. Every suicide we have; and we've taken over from gas now, the railway, favourite way of killing yourself, jump in front of a train, fuck the driver, the passengers, people held up on their journeys, selfish bastards; she's under the trains for hours, makes sure she gets every little piece. She's fucking weird."

"Maybe she's just a perfectionist," Dave said.

He understood professional perfection. He'd tried to attain it the first time round.

"Fucking nuts, you ask me."

Nobody's asking you, you fat bastard, Dave thought, rather ungenerously.

Chrissie found the two-carriage train, surrounded by incident tape, and found Marks and Williams on the train with another railway policeman, all of them half-asleep on seats, stretched out. They leapt to their feet when she spoke.

"What the fuck are you lot doing?"

"Sorry, Sarge, there's nothing to do until she comes out from under the train," Marks said.

"Shouldn't one of you be under it with her?"

"She wouldn't let us go under, told us to fuck off, her train, her job. She promised to bag everything she could find."

"This is Dave," Chrissie said.

Marks and Williams stared.

"Dave Lewis?" Andy Marks said.

"The very same."

"Fucking hell," Williams said. "Never thought you'd come back."

"Well, I have."

Not for long though, twelve weeks maximum. Three months. Gone.

"Well, welcome back, man," Marks said, grinning.

Chrissie brought her mind back to the job at hand.

"What's the name of the woman under the train?"

"Helen, Sarge," Marks answered. "Bit of a maniac according to almost everyone we've spoken to."

"Come on," Chrissie said to Dave. To Marks and Williams she said, "You two may as well stay here." To the railway policeman she said, "Aren't you supposed to protecting this train?"

He skulked his way off.

Chris and Dave climbed down and went to the front. Chrissie crouched, looking down into a pit. Dave did the same. Beneath the train they could see a woman in a white bio-suit, sprayed with Terminex to guard against blood diseases; a hard hat with a peak, eye visor, face mask, gloves and overshoes over solid black boots. She was standing close to the train, examining something. Besides her lay a couple of yellow biohazard bags. One heavily full.

"Helen?" Chrissie shouted.

The woman looked round, pulled down the face mask.

"Be out soon, I think I'm almost finished."

"Okay, we'll wait. Found lots of her, I see."

"More than enough, thank you," Helen said. "Looks like I might have too many teeth."

Chrissie gazed at her, then at Dave, then they stood.

"Maybe she's as nuts as fat Les said she was," Chrissie said.

"I doubt it. I think she's just good at her job."

"Like you were?"

"Like I was."

"No ideas, no brilliant insights?"

"Not until I know who she is, was. Then we'll know."

"First thing you said, was it a race killing? You think it could be?"

"Not now. Too much effort has gone into killing her. It was planned in meticulous detail. Race killings are normally instantaneous, anger-led, rage, result of an argument, a gang attack, a knifing in the street, a shooting, a drive-by. This was too well planned, too well organised."

"See, you already have insights."

Dave almost smiled again.

"Made a mess of my fucking train," Helen said, as she appeared from under it, carrying two bio-bags, one full. She pulled off her white suit and dropped it into less full bag; the overshoes, face mask, visor and gloves followed.

"Where've all those other policemen gone?"

"They're on the train."

"I'll fucking kill them. They're not allowed on any of my trains unless I say so."

"The railway cop is off round the other side somewhere."

She held out a hand. "Helen Crane, manager of cleaning trains at this and many other depots."

She was a comely woman, fair-sized all round.

"Detective Sergeant Chrissie Holland. Detective Constable Lewis."

They all shook hands. Helen took off her hard-hat. She had dark hair, brown eyes, full lips.

"You want to go to the office, get a coffee, sit around and talk about what happened?"

"Sure."

"Your guys will have to get off my train and guard the heavy bio-bag."

"Okay."

Helen banged on the side of the train carriage.

"You ever do that, bang the side of one of my trains," she said to Dave, "I'll cut your bollocks off."

Dave smiled. This woman had balls.

Marks appeared at an open door.

"Get off," Chrissie said. "Guard that bio-bag, the pit and the train, make sure none are interfered with, bring Williams with you. Stay awake."

"Yes, Sarge."

Marks called for Williams and the two of them climbed off the train. Helen marched them to the front and said, "Stand there."

The two detectives stood exactly where they were ordered to stand. In her depot, with her trains, no one argued with Helen.

"Come on," she said to Chrissie, and the women marched off, Helen carrying the half-filled bio-bag, followed by Dave, who appeared to be almost insignificant.

Helen Crane's office was a wooden hut, warmed by a two-bar electric fire, with a single central ceiling light, with a bright bulb, a desk, four chairs, several steel cabinets, and a tiny table with an electric kettle and half-a-dozen cups on it. A box of tea bags, a jar of coffee and a half-empty bottle of milk stood next to the cups. Helen tossed the hard-hat between two of the cabinets in a practised move and filled the ancient-looking electric kettle with water from the single tap over a small basin.

"Tea or coffee? I don't do sugar with anything. And sit."

"Tea for me, milk," Chrissie said.

"Coffee, no milk," Dave said.

"You'd better arrange for your forensic people to pick up the bio-bag," she said, as she waited for the kettle to boil and shoved the one with her bio-clothes under the table.

"Some job you've got here, Helen."

"Well, Chrissie, that was your name, wasn't it; someone's got to do it. I'm responsible for the cleanliness of the trains, inside and out, underneath included. Never had a murder before, the thought of someone being killed on a railway line is a bit Victorian to my way of thinking, but lots of suicides. I now know they all leave behind the same kind of human soup."

She brewed the drinks, laid the cups on the table and sat.

"And I guess your people will want to have a look underneath, too, take some samples of blood. They won't find much. I never miss anything; I know how to search underneath a train for bits of body. In the wheel flanges and the couplings. I found a jaw-bone with some teeth in the coupling of this train, a few more beneath it, could be someone else's."

Helen shook her head, as if she couldn't understand how she missed teeth beneath one of her trains.

"Mind you," she said, as she sipped her coffee, "I once searched a train, cleared it, pressure washed it, sent it on its way; as it moved, a great lump of flesh fell from underneath it. Had to move fast to retrieve it, let me tell you."

"Lots of gory stories," Dave said.

"Oh, you speak do you? You seem to be following her around like a lamb. That your job?"

"I'm training," Dave said.

Helen glanced at Chrissie.

"He's weird," she said, and the women laughed.

Was that all he was? What he was reduced to? A joke? Something for women to laugh at?

"And he doesn't do humour," Chrissie added. "He's very serious."

"I can see that."

Chrissie called Charlie Nough and asked him to send a forensics team to the depot, told him most of the victim was in bio-bags but they would probably like to check for themselves. Charlie said he would give the message and call back when they departed.

"I haven't found any arms or legs," Helen said.

"I believe they've been found at the scene."

"Oh, really. Then I would say she was kneeling when she was hit."

Chris stared at Helen.

"Why would you say that?"

"Well, the train is a type 150; it has a cow-catcher on the front, when it hits people on railway lines it normally cuts them in half. Leaves their shoes behind on the spot where they were hit."

"Really?"

"Really. At the last second, people feel the fear and shrink; they get knocked right out of their shoes. I haven't found any clothing of any kind so I'm assuming the person was naked."

"We think she was."

"So the train would have decapitated her, the height she was, smashed her jaw against the front, ergo the jawbone and the teeth in the coupling. It would have split the torso, some on the line, some underneath and pushed the legs down the track, probably smashed the knees to pieces. You should have the feet, though."

Chrissie and Dave listened in astonishment. The woman had very nearly laid out exactly what had happened, at least what was thought to have happened.

"That's amazing, Helen. What training did you do to learn this job?"

Helen laughed a raucous laugh.

"Started off as a cleaner, basic sweeping out of trains, emptying rubbish bags; moved up to supervisor showing other people how to sweep and empty; been moving up ever since. Been doing the job for over fifteen-years now. Just experience, there are no qualifications that I know of, though I have been on a few courses."

"Have you always done it?"

"Nope. Got pregnant young, worked part-time, got a job on the railway in a signal box, but couldn't cope with the shifts, so got a job cleaning, which meant regular nights. Only needed someone to sleep over to look after my little one. Took over one depot, then another, got headhunted not once, but three times. Love the job."

"I can see that," Dave said.

"Jeez, you know how to talk, you."

"Yep."

They drank their drinks.

There was a knock on the hut door, Helen screamed, "Fuck off," but fat Les entered anyway.

"Message for Detective Sergeant Holland," Les said. "Driver's here."

Chrissie finished her drink and climbed to her feet.

"Thanks, Les. Thanks, Helen, keep up the good work."

"I will. Find out who did this terrible thing to this poor woman."

"I will."

Dave made no effort to move. Chrissie slapped him on the back of the head.

"C'mon, you, get your arse in motion."

Dave climbed wearily to his feet.

"Oh," Helen said, "almost forgot. I found a short length of rope. Don't know how important that might be."

"Neither do I. Thanks."

* * * * * *

Chapter 6

Abe Solent, the driver, sat in the depot canteen, alongside Don Bruce, the union rep. Abe was an angular man, with deeply sunken cheeks, which gave him the look of an undertaker. Don was round in every aspect and loud of mouth, as Chrissie and Dave discovered when they entered the room.

The two rail workers sat at a long table, on red plastic chairs, two of which the Detectives sat on when they introduced themselves. Chrissie took out a notebook and a pencil.

"This is not a police station," Don said loudly, pompously. "No need to take statements yet."

Chrissie looked up.

"I'm not taking statements Mr. Bruce; I'm simply preparing to take notes. A statement will be required later, down at the station but we could always go there now if you'd prefer. We could always make this meeting official."

"We are only here to see what Mr. Solent can tell us about what he saw, if anything," Dave added, playing the policeman at last.

"He didn't see anything," Don said, as he continued to shout as if he were addressing a union meeting.

"Were you there, Mr. Bruce, in the cab, with Mr. Solent?" Dave asked.

"Of course not."

"Then shut the fuck up while we ask Mr. Solent some questions."

Chrissie turned to look at him, a look of amazement on her face. So, she thought, the real Dave Lewis is in there somewhere.

"You can't speak to me like that, you fascist bastard," Bruce stated, puffing out his chest like an oversexed frog.

"Shut. Up," Chrissie said. "Mr. Solent, just run us through your trip until the incident."

Abe Solent glanced at Don Bruce, whose round face had turned puce-coloured then he said, "Normal trip, nothing special. Green lights all the way, as I would expect, next to last train, nothing running in front of me until I got to the main line."

"The main line?" Chrissie asked.

"The line the incident was on is a branch line, joining up with the main at the West City junction, five or six miles along the route."

"Okay."

"Went into the tunnel..."

"High Hill tunnel?"

"That's right. There are red and green lights at the entrances, both ways, up and down; it was green, clearing me for the line ahead. Went through the tunnel at 50, the speed limit, came out, caught sight of something on the line, had no idea it was a person, couldn't do anything about it, hit it. Only glimpsed it; a momentary sighting. It's a part of the line where we have a lot of trouble with sheep trespassing, thought it was one of them. Stopped the train about a mile along, got out, checked the front for damage, saw none, but saw blood on the front. Thought I'd hit a sheep, reported it in. I felt awful about it when I learned it was the death of a person. Not my first, of course. Third. Suicides. They don't care, you know, about the driver, what it can do to him. I close my eyes when I see them jump in front of a train or step off platforms; I don't actually see the incident, the moment of impact. Now with this one looking like murder it's just terrible."

"It is Mr. Solent, and thank you for your comments."

Chrissie had been making notes, now she folded her notebook and shoved it into a coat pocket.

"You gave a very lucid account and I thank you for it."

"And you saw nothing of note, no one else at the side of the line; no torches shining that might have indicated someone standing close, nothing like that?" Dave asked.

"He said..."

Dave turned a withering look on Don Bruce and the union rep quieted.

"Nothing, honestly, just a glimpse of something dark in the dark, hardly noticeable, right there at the exit of the tunnel, train lights shining on it only momentarily, I didn't know it was a person. Couldn't have done anything about it, of course, even if I'd known. Would never have been able to stop the train, takes the best part of a mile, you can't go throwing passengers around and making things worse."

"Of course not. Did you have many passengers?"

"No idea; it was pretty quiet, I think. A dozen; fourteen, something like that. You'd have to speak to the guard."

Chrissie took out her notebook again.

"And he was?"

"She. Sheila Winch."

Chrissie turned to Don Bruce.

"We'll need to speak to her."

"Why?"

"You just heard why," Dave said.

"Can you arrange it or do we have to go through the company?" Chrissie asked.

"I'll arrange it through the company. It'll be later in the day, she'll be sleeping now, and she'll have to have half-a-day off, maybe a whole one."

"We just want a brief talk, shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes."

"Trauma," Bruce said. "It was a murder, you know."

"We know," Dave said.

"I've just had a memory," Abe Solent said and every eye turned towards him.

"A memory?" Chrissie asked.

"Yes, something I'd dismissed as she appeared only for that millisecond in the train lights, something I've just remembered."

"What was it, what have you remembered?"

"I can't be sure, you understand, and I know it will sound stupid, but I think I saw rope. She may have been tied to the line."

**

Outside, back in the car, Chrissie phoned Charlie Nough.

"Charlie," she said, "the search. We're looking for rope, pieces of it, lengths of it, anything."

"What've you found out, Chris?"

"Well, a piece was found under the train at the depot and the driver just mentioned that he might have caught a glimpse of rope. He thinks our victim might have been tied to the line."

"Jesus."

"Rope, Charlie, any rope you can find."

"Okay. By the way, Forensics are on their way."

"Good. We'll await their arrival."

In the canteen, before they departed, the three men and the woman had shaken hands.

Don Bruce had said to Dave, "If you ever tell me to shut the fuck up again, I'll head-butt you."

"Union policy, is it?"

Chrissie laughed, Abe Solent didn't, he looked more haunted than ever, Don Bruce glowered.

"You were almost a policeman back there, in the canteen," Chrissie said. "There have been flashes."

"I'll grow out of it, come to my senses."

"Careful. You might start enjoying it."

"Never."

A van pulled up next to the car, Chrissie and Dave climbed out and met the Forensics team. They escorted the newcomers to the wooden hut where Helen still sat drinking tea, flicking through a magazine that specialised in trains. Once introductions were completed, Chrissie and Dave departed. Dawn was just rising; slivers of grey daylight creeping up over the horizon, another day would be starting for normal people, people who hadn't been dragged out of bed to deal with a horrific murder.

"Can't do much now; not until we know who she was," Dave said, pulling off his green jacket and lobbing in onto the back seat of the car.

"You want to go home?" Chrissie asked.

"I never wanted to leave it in the first place."

"You don't want to be part of the team who catches the person responsible for this horrific murder?"

"If it takes more than twelve-weeks, I won't be part of any team."

"You're a miserable bastard."

"I was never known as a happy person."

"Maybe that's..."

"What?"

"Nothing, sorry."

"Maybe that's why your wife left, took your daughter, because you were not a happy-clappy kind of person. Is that what you were going to say?"

"Forget it, I'll take you home. Don't come to work until after lunch."

"I was extremely happy in the family home with my family around me. I had no need to extend that happiness to a job where I was dealing with the dregs of society and the crimes they committed."

"A smile now and again might have been nice."

"I don't do smiles."

"Yes, you do, I've seen you trying. You're trying to remember what it was like."

"Take me home."

He didn't ask Chrissie in for a drink of any kind, tea, coffee, certainly nothing stronger. As he stood on the pavement he thought of walking down to the 24-hour garage and getting something to drink but when he stared down at the basement windows he thought he caught sight of Mariska. He wasn't sure and he didn't want a scene in the street at this time of day, milkmen around, early workers leaving their homes. He knew she would chase him down the street screaming like her crazy father.

He entered the house, kicked off his boots in the hall, pulled off the woollen hat and anorak, hung them up and plodded through to the kitchen, where he made himself another coffee. He was too wound up to go to bed, too awake to sleep. He could barely believe he'd been out there, on railway lines, in depots, meeting people he knew, all of whom seemed to have moved on in life. All except him. He'd gone backwards, back to a Constable. What the hell. He didn't want to do the job, anyway.

He carried his coffee through to the lounge without putting any lights on, sat on the settee in the darkness of a room made darker by having the heavy drapes closed. He laid the cup of coffee on a small table, rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair. What a terrible way to go, being run over by a train, what a mess it made of your body. Especially if you'd been tied there, bound, knowing there was nothing you could do about it. Terrible.

Daddy

Dave lifted his eyes. Melanie shimmered in the darkness, still dressed in her white dress with red trimmings, still looking beautiful. His heart almost burst with hurt.

"Melanie."

He didn't move from the settee. He'd tried to touch her before, when he'd been drunk, those times when he'd seen her, and she'd just gone, disappeared. Now he was sober and had more control. He wanted to rush forward, to sweep her up, but he knew she wasn't really there. He didn't know what he was seeing but it wasn't a living Melanie.

Daddy

Melanie smiled and stretched out her arms.

Tears began to flow down Dave Lewis's face, first a trickle, then a torrent.

"I'm sorry, Melanie. I loved you so, still do."

Daddy

"Please say something else, sweetheart, something else."

Kathleen

Kathleen?

No. No. No.

Kathleen Mary Fucking Tilson. The woman who'd murdered Melanie. Why was she saying Kathleen? She didn't know Kathleen, never met her as far as he knew. How could she be saying Kathleen?

"No, Melanie not Kathleen. Not her. Julia that was your mother's name. Julia."

Kathleen

No. No. No.

"No, Melanie. Julia."

Kathleen

"No!"

The word echoed round the room like a gunshot, a ricochet, bouncing all around. Melanie disappeared in a blink.

"No, Mel, I'm sorry. Don't go. Please. Come back. Melanie. Please."

In the silence the darkness was complete. Dave may as well have been sitting in a black hole. He'd sucked the light out of his daughter, frightened her away. Would she ever come back, would he ever see her again?

I need a drink and I need one now, he thought.

He stood, turned, and saw Mariska standing in the doorway, dressed in her badly fitting tracksuit.

"I couldn't see her," she said. "I wanted to but I couldn't."

"She kept calling out for Kathleen."

"Kathleen?"

"Yes."

"The woman who...?"

"Yes her."

"Why?"

"How the hell would I know? Mariska, I need a drink."

"No, you don't. You no longer need to keep poisoning yourself. You are not addicted to it, you are over it. You do not need a drink. Go to bed; drink your coffee, anything to take your mind off it."

Dave spun round, pulling at his hair.

"Mariska, you're killing me."

"No, you were doing that without me. I gave you almost a year to do it, to finish yourself off and you failed. Now I am trying to save you; Chrissie is trying to save you, too; lots of people together are trying to save you. You need to want to save yourself. You do not need an alcoholic drink. Coffee, there on the table, drink that."

"Will you go to bed with me?"

"No."

"Please."

"No."

She moved away from the door, disappeared into the greyness of the morning, moving down into her basement apartment. Dave heard the door lock. He flopped back onto the settee.

Kathleen? Why did Melanie say that? Why was she calling for her? Did she see her on the day she died? Was Kathleen the last person she saw outside the burning house? How did she know her? Fucking Kathleen. He drank his coffee, put his head back and closed his eyes. Why? Why Kathleen?

It was noon on the lounge clock when he woke. He could hear Mariska in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans. That's probably what had wakened him, Mariska doing it on purpose to do just that.

"Mariska," he called, without moving.

She popped her head round the lounge door, a smile on her beautiful face.

"Any chance of a coffee?" she asked in a fair imitation of himself.

He almost smiled again.

"Thanks."

"Come into the kitchen, sit at the table, lunch is almost ready."

"Lunch? I haven't had breakfast yet."

"You're expected at work. Two hours."

"Oh, you've been communicating again."

"We have spoken, yes. Terrible business last night. Awful. Things like that don't happen in my country."

"Mariska, this is your country."

"Oh, yes."

She smiled again and tittered. She had a wondrous titter.

He climbed from the settee, feeling stiff but rested. The settee was okay to sleep on; he'd done it a thousand times in the past when he'd come in off a night shift, not wanting to disturb Julia.

"Come and eat, then shower, change."

She'd made a light pasta lunch; it was delicious, as usual. He hadn't realised how hungry he was, ravenous. He cleared his bowl, ate some garlic bread, felt better.

"Odd, Melanie saying Kathleen's name." Mariska said, sitting opposite him, eating the same food.

"Yes. Very."

"You shouted at her."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, she just...just..."

"Kept saying Kathleen?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea why?"

"No. I have to shower."

"Maybe she was trying to tell you something; something about Kathleen."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Go and shower, you'll be late."

"You sound like a wife."

"I'm not your wife."

"Never will be?"

"You're too old for me."

She didn't smile, she didn't titter, and Dave didn't know whether to believe her or not. He showered, got dressed in the fresh clothes Mariska had laid out for him then she took him to work. He did not get to kiss his wife farewell.

"Boss wants to see you," Chrissie said, the moment he entered the office.

She looked shattered. She was in different clothes from the last time he'd seen her, she was showered, cleaned, but had bags under her eyes, the eyes bloodshot.

"You haven't slept a lot have you, or even been to bed."

"Things to do."

"You went back to the railway line?"

"And the depot, spoke to the Forensics team. They found more bits of rope, all of a similar type."

"She was bound?"

"Looks like."

"And taped, her eyes?"

"That, too."

"Jesus."

"Listen, go see the Boss, he said it was urgent. Me talking is only delaying you. Go knock. Speak to you later."

Dave knocked.

"Come in," Wantage shouted and once Dave had entered said, "close the door, sit down."

Dave sat down in the chair facing D.I. Elliot Wantage's desk. He wondered why he was here. Maybe his time was done, maybe they were dispensing with his services. Could be another report had come from the psychiatrist saying he was completely nuts. He sees the ghost of his daughter. Mad as a hatter.

"I've got some bad news for you, David," Wantage said, both his tone and his expression serious. "Reasonably bad news anyway."

How could bad news be reasonable? It was either bad or it was not. It could not possibly be reasonable.

"Reasonably bad?"

"Yes. And I have to begin with an apology."

An apology? He barely knew Wantage; what the hell had he to apologise for?

"We've only been notified today. Late. Very late."

Notified of what? What was the man babbling about? Say what you mean, dick.

"Notified of what, Boss?"

Wantage shuffled papers on his desk, peering down at them. Then he looked up.

"Kathleen Mary Tilson's appeal."

The effect on Dave was instantaneous and devastating. All the air went out of him as if he'd been kicked in the guts. The colour drained from his face as his blood went elsewhere in his body. He tried to hold on, but slipped from the chair to the floor, where he lay, gasping like a landed fish. Wantage came round his desk and helped Dave back into his seat.

"Deep breaths, Dave," he said. "Deep."

Dave couldn't manage it. He could barely breathe at all, never mind deeply. He sat with his head hung low, arms hanging limply. Wantage offered him a glass of water.

"Drink the water, Dave, drink."

Dave didn't move, he remained as he was. Wantage massaged his back and his neck.

"Come on, Dave, it's a shock, but you have to fight it, you have to face it. It will be happening. In two days' time. Thursday."

Dave's head snapped up.

"What?"

"There has been a certain amount of secrecy about it and her appeal lawyers convinced the court that you were not a person of legal importance for notification because Julia had already left you, you were separated from each other, she even had a restraining order out against you. On that basis you weren't informed. We have only just found out ourselves."

"How can they do this, she murdered my daughter, she burned down a house, we know that, how can there be an appeal, how can I not be notified?"

The words tumbled out of him. He still wasn't breathing properly, no colour had returned to his face, but rage was beginning to rise, as he climbed to his feet, shook himself before retaking his seat.

"I've made some calls on your behalf, Dave. I have no idea on what grounds they are making the appeal but I can tell you that they are extremely confident of a retrial."

"A retrial?"

It was said barely above a whisper.

"Yes. And you probably won't be called to court during the appeal because you have been too emotional about the incident, the deaths of Julia and Melanie. That's the word."

"Bastards. Fucking bastards. Why is no one on Julia's side? Melanie's?"

"What about Terry Tilson?" Wantage asked.

"Fuck him."

"He died, too, Dave. He has to be taken into respect. Has to be. Imagine how his parents feel."

"Julia's parents, Christ," Dave said. "They haven't spoken to me since...since...they blame me for her leaving; they blame me for her death."

"They have been notified of the appeal. Two weeks ago."

"And they never called me?"

Wantage shrugged. Domestic issues were not his job.

"Bastards."

"You can't afford to be angry about this, Dave. Or do anything stupid. You can't take a drink, cause havoc. It's a legal process, just like millions of others we've had. It will roll on whether you do something or not and doing something will only make matters worse for you. It is a time to be cool of thought, concentrated of mind. It is not a time for stupidity."

Dave took a huge breath and colour returned to his face.

"Cool of thought?"

"This is a time for it, Dave. You cannot afford to make any mistakes now. You will make things so much worse. I think her team is relying on you losing it, relying on you to cause trouble, that's why the non-notification. They have just tried to annoy you, are waiting for you to rant and rave, to turn up at court drunk and abusive. They are counting on you being like that. It will boost the appeal."

Dave took it all in, as much as he could. It had been such an initial shock, an appeal for a cold-blooded murderer like Kathleen Tilson. Is that what Melanie was trying to tell him? Watch out for Kathleen. She will soon be free. Watch out.

"I've made a provisional appointment with the union solicitor for 4:00 pm., so you can ask any legal questions you might have. He knows the case."

"Thanks, Boss."

"I'm not happy about the way this has been handled and I've made my feelings known, but that's all I can do. Lodge my complaint."

"Thanks."

"Take my advice. Stay sober, stay clear of thought. You are going to have to be. Lean on people you already lean on, they'll listen."

Dave nodded as his mind whirled. If I kill her, fucking Kathleen, will I get away with it because of the state of my mind? I should be prepared to do something to honour my wife and child. Something. Nothing. I can do nothing. Wantage is right; they'll be waiting, fucking lawyers, waiting for me to crack, to make a show of myself, to mess everything up so they can get her off. They're counting on it. Well, fuck them.

"Go and get a coffee, maybe a bar of chocolate, bring your sugar levels up again. You have had a shock, a real shock. And I'm sorry. I thought you should know."

"I am very grateful, Boss."

"It's okay. Go get a drink of coffee. If you feel you need to speak to me more, just knock. I'll be here."

"Thanks."

"Chrissie says you say thanks too much."

Dave nodded.

"Sorry," he said.

"And that, too. Too much."

Dave remained silent.

"Go get something to eat. Speak to D.S. Holland, tell her how you feel."

Dave rose from his chair, nodded silently and departed. He stood for a moment in the corridor leaning on the door then he wandered into the office where all desks were now occupied by Detectives; Bisham, Lane, Lindcroft and Tate staring at him, waiting for the inevitable explosion of emotion; Chrissie was in her office with Mariska.

Mariska?

Dave ignored all his colleagues and walked into Chrissie's office.

"Mariska," he said. "What are you doing here?"

She turned and looked at him. There was no smile on her face.

"I'm here to look after you."

Dave blinked, he didn't understand. To look after me? What did she mean?

"To make sure you don't do anything stupid."

Dave stood, mute.

"You know? About the appeal?"

"Chrissie called, asked me to come in."

"Chrissie?"

"You need all the friends you have, Dave, at a time like this."

"Do you two want to run my whole life?"

Anger rose in him like the eruption of a volcano.

"Wipe my arse when I shit? Feed me with spoons? Why would you think I was going to do anything stupid?"

"History," Chrissie said. "Any problem in your life, you drink, you shout, you destroy. You always have, even when you were a good cop."

"And you are not doing it this time," Mariska added.

"Where do you get off, lady? You are an employee; I pay you to clean my house. Keep the fuck out of my life."

"Don't speak to her like that."

"Well, you can stay the fuck out of it, too."

"Don't tell me to fuck off, Detective Constable. Insult a person who cares for you, an employee, if you want, that is one thing but swearing at a superior is quite a different thing altogether. Think about what you are going to say. Start with an apology to Mariska."

Dave stood silent and angry, breathing heavily, watched by everyone, including all those at their desks. There was no one who didn't think he was going to explode. To scream and shout, smash things to bits and get drunk. He'd done very much the same thing many times over the years, he was famous for it.

He calmed.

"Sorry, Mariska," he whispered.

"Your apology is accepted," she said. "We are going for coffee."

"You are going to be useless in any investigation, Dave," Chrissie said.

"Go for a coffee, see the solicitor, ask him what you can do, if he can help."

"Does everyone know my business?"

"It's a very small world, a police station."

Mariska rose from her chair, took him by the arm.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

At Chris's office door, he turned and said, "About the railway murder?"

"Forget that for now. Concentrate on yourself."

Dave nodded.

* * * * * *

Chapter 7

"I can't believe it," Dave said, as they sat opposite each other in the local coffee shop, coffee for him, Earl Grey tea for her.

"It's happening, get used to it. Think about how you are going to handle it."

"Not very well if I know myself."

"You can get through it; we can get through it together."

"We, Mariska?"

"You know I am here for you, to help in any way I can."

Dave almost smiled slyly.

"Almost any way?"

"Almost."

She didn't almost smile, she drank her Earl Grey and nibbled on a crumpet, he drank his coffee and ate his bar of dark chocolate, snapping if off one piece at a time.

"It's not fair though, not justice."

"It doesn't appear to be."

"Mariska, it isn't. How can it be? We know she burned down the house, we know she killed three people, how can there be an appeal, how could she only get fifteen-years in the first place? She should have gotten life without appeal. The key should have been thrown away. She should have been forgotten about."

"We would never have forgotten her."

"No."

"Chrissie told me we would be able to attend the appeal."

Dave looked at her over the rim of his cup.

"You and Chrissie are getting mighty close."

"We could become really good friends, she's only thirty-one, I'm twenty-seven, same age-group, same interests. Like you. She wants to see you back to your best and so do I."

Dave leaned forward in his chair, finished his coffee, lay down his cup, ate his chocolate and shook his head.

"Julia only employed you because she knew she was leaving and wanted someone there to look after me, to make sure I ate, slept, showered. To make sure I didn't have a breakdown."

"She failed then, didn't she? Because you went days without food, without showering, you stank; you drank far too much and did have a breakdown. She failed, and I failed, too, if that was why she employed me."

"You don't think that's what she did?"

"I've never thought about it. I needed a job after university and she gave me one. I was grateful to her and when she left I missed her and Melanie, and when they died..."

"I've never really asked about how you felt, have I?"

"No, but it was not your place. I am simply an employee and it was not my place to express an opinion, to show my emotions, to weep and cry, to show loss."

"That's the Czech way of doing it, is it?"

"It's my way."

"And you're twenty-seven? You don't look older than nineteen."

"I must have been very young when I came to work for you then. Besides, the women in my family have always looked young. I have aunts who look like teenagers."

"I didn't know how old you were."

"The details are on my application form, in the desk."

"I've never been in the desk, it was Julia's."

"I'll clear it out, make it yours."

"No, please, no."

"It's time to throw their clothes away, Julia's and Melanie's."

"Not yet."

"Soon."

"Okay, soon. Are you going to the appeal with me, just to listen?"

"You will definitely need to go with me," Mariska said, "the two of us together, then I can make sure you don't do anything stupid and make things worse."

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't be nauseating. We're going together."

"I guess."

She left him outside the cafeteria, content to drive back to the house in his Volkswagen, urging him to go back to work, to see the Solicitor, to investigate the murder, to get on with his life as a Detective, to show some steel, some resolve.

To return to the Station, Dave had to pass two Public Houses and three off-licences. He almost didn't make it. He stood for some time looking at the poster-plastered window of one off-licence studying how cheap whisky was, beer, lager. It seemed to be cheaper than ever. No wonder there were more drunks around now than there used to be, more wrecked livers, more wrecked lives. He stood and pondered about whether to wreck his own life, to descend into despair forever more. He licked his lips; he could taste it, smell it, feel it on the back of his throat, thumping into his stomach, warming him, intoxicating him in every way, his senses and his emotions. He couldn't live another day without a drink.

Sweat popped on his forehead, he began to itch, rubbed his hands together, swallowed. Oh, God, he thought, please help me. Help me.

"You coming back or what?" Chrissie asked, from over his right shoulder.

Dave spun round to look at her.

"You're working as a tag-team, you and Mariska, aren't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I was on the way back from my own coffee break, saw you standing here, thought I'd offer a hand. But if you want to go in, go on, don't let me stop you. I'm going back to the office."

She walked away.

Dave watched her go then caught up with her.

"Fucking amateur psychologists," he said.

Chrissie smiled. Dave didn't.

Back in the office, someone had set up an Incident Board, upon which were the details of where the female was found on the railway line, the circumstances that had led to her death, all other relevant details. The Board did not contain a name. That detail was yet to reach them.

"Glad you could both join us," Wantage said sarcastically.

Dave opened his mouth to speak, to argue, but Chrissie hushed him and he leaned against a wall at the back of the room whilst Chrissie joined Wantage at the front.

"This was a particularly brutal murder," Wantage began.

No shit Sherlock, Dave thought.

"We don't know who she is yet, no identification has been found at the scene; no handbag, no documents, no jewellery, no phone, nothing personal at all. We will discover her identity though; already we are contacting businesses to see if they are missing an employee. We have fingerprints but she's not in the system, we have some details of her teeth and they are being circulated to all dentists. We will do right by her. She was tied to a railway line in front of a train with no chance of escape. We know her wrists and ankles were bound, her eyes were taped over and she was gagged. That's the latest information we have."

Wantage looked around the room where all the Detectives were gathered.

"Any questions? Observations?"

"Where to the railway line was she tied?" Dave asked.

All faces turned towards the speaker. Few of them were friendly. Most thought Dave Lewis was receiving preferential treatment.

"What?"

Dave ignored all the faces, all the eyes of hate, the lips of sarcasm.

"Well, Boss, where was she anchored to the line? Where did forensics find the rest of the rope that held her to the track?"

Wantage strode to a desk, picked up a file and glanced through it.

"There are some visible skid marks along the track where it is assumed the rope was dragged along when the woman was hit, before it broke presumably."

"No rope was found tied to the track?"

"No."

Dave folded his arms and said nothing more.

"What are you trying to say, Detective Lewis? What are you getting at?"

Dave shrugged, a nothing expression on his face.

"Come on, Dave," Chrissie said. "We all know how brilliant you once were. What is it you are trying to tell us?"

Dave unfolded his arms but remained leaning on the wall.

"Any knots in the rope would have been tightened as it was pulled along by the force of the train. I would have expected to find some rope still attached to the track, close to the point of impact."

Wantage checked the file again.

"None was. What would that mean, in your opinion?"

"In my opinion, Boss," Dave said, slowly, as if speaking to a child, "it would mean someone removed it after the death. It would mean that someone stood on the bridge, above the incident, watched it happen, then calmly walked down the bank and removed any rope still attached to the track."

A dark silence hung over the room as each person considered the implications of what Dave surmised. That the murderer had stood on the bridge and watched the death take place. Murderers didn't usually watch. They were usually too involved in the actual act to watch, to stand back and study their handiwork. They were usually too busy ensuring their efforts were successful.

"It's a thought."

"More than a thought, Boss. If there is no sign of a rope attached to the track, then someone must have removed it, taken it away, thrown it somewhere, burned it, disposed of it. Someone watched the murder take place then removed the rope."

"Like I said, Detective, it's a thought."

Dave fell into a sulky silence.

"I think he's right, sir," Chrissie said. "I think someone did remove any rope tied to the track."

"Jesus! It's just a theory, D.S. Holland, one of Detective Lewis's famous theories, it is not a proven fact, and if we spend too much time trying to prove that's what happened, we could lose the thread all together."

"We should take someone from Forensics back to the scene to discount the theory," Chrissie argued.

"Well, bloody do it then, Detective Sergeant."

Wantage returned to the files he held in his hands. Chrissie departed the room, dragging Dave out with her.

"Your bright ideas are such a pain in the arse," she said.

"Some say."

Chrissie pulled her cell phone from a pocket, called Forensics and arranged to pick up one of their team to return to the scene. Forty minutes later, after parking the car, Chrissie called the Signal Box, asked for twenty-minutes for police on the line. The signalman told her to wait until the next train had run, that he would call back in about fifteen-minutes. While she spoke, Dave let himself through the little wooden gate, slipped down the bank and stood close to both the track and the tunnel mouth. He closed his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Dave looked up at the bridge, opened his eyes, stared at Chrissie.

"I want to know what it sounds like, feels like, a train coming out of the tunnel, get some idea of how it must have felt for our victim, hearing it but not being able to move, or to see."

Chrissie turned to Trevor Elmott, the forensics volunteer; in the loosest sense a volunteer.

"He's weird," she said.

Trevor, a blonde-haired, spectacle wearing, thin man in his thirties, carrying a black leather case, didn't agree.

"He's got a point."

"Fuck."

The sound, when it came, was terrifying, very close, the three of them standing with their eyes closed, as near to the track as they could safely stand. The sound came closer and closer, with a rush of air ahead of it until there was a loud whistle, hurtfully close, ear-shatteringly loud, overwhelmingly noisy, the sound of metal on metal, a rush of cold wind, retreating sound, then silence, eerie silence.

They climbed back on to the bridge, Chrissie still getting her breath back, when her phone rang.

"Hello."

"Were you standing near my fucking railway line?"

"Er...sorry about that, signalman."

"Did I tell you could stand near the fucking thing?"

"No."

"You frightened the fucking driver to death, he'll need three days to get over the shock, but he realized you weren't gory sightseers or vandals by the fact that you all looked like fucking coppers. Get back on the fucking bridge."

"We're back on the bridge."

"You still want the possession?"

"Yes.

"Please."

"Yes, please."

"I'll ring you back when I'm ready."

"Thanks."

Chrissie turned to look at Dave and Trevor Elmott.

"Jeez, but the signalman is an anti-social bastard."

But she had no idea how anti-social the signalman really was. Isolated for much of his working day, alone, on a hill-top, no-one to talk to, no radio or television allowed, miles from anywhere, he had to drive across several fields just to get to his box and he felt undervalued by his employers; just a number who was ignored for promotion, and the highlight of his day could be pissing off the police. So he did. He kept Chrissie and her group waiting on the bridge until he'd run two more trains, a further hour wasted in gathering evidence for a murder. If Chrissie thought the police force was jammed full of people who liked to piss the public off, she knew nothing of signalmen.

When he did ring, the three of them threw themselves down the bank onto the track and went immediately to where skid marks of rope were discovered and photographed. Trevor laid down his case, opened it, while Chrissie and Dave watched him and worried trains would suddenly appear out the mouth of the tunnel. Trevor crawled around peering, looking through a hand-held magnifying glass, tutting, clicking his tongue and talking to himself. He seemed extraordinarily normal for someone who worked in Forensics. He reached into his case, pulled out an evidence bag and spooned something into it.

"Got something?" Chrissie asked.

"Might have," Trevor answered, not yet ready to commit.

Chrissie lifted her gaze from Trevor to look into the black, empty mouth of the tunnel again. She'd never realised how terrifying tunnels were until now. Dark, damp, dangerous, unbelievably low and narrow. Who'd be a train driver?

"Okay," Trevor said, as he closed his case and stood.

"Got something?"

"I won't know until later."

"Give me a guess."

"I may have found some rope debris that could, only could mind, it's not evidence, be consistent with someone cutting a rope with a knife. It's not certain."

Chrissie stared; Dave climbed the bank ahead of them.

"Fuck him," Chrissie whispered to Trevor.

She called the signalman from the bridge to tell him she was off the line then stood for some time staring down at the spot where the woman had been struck by the train. What kind of person does a thing like that? How cold a heart would you have to have? She shook her head as she tried to come to terms with her questions. Fifteen minutes with the person who'd done it. That's all she'd ask God for, all she would need. Fifteen minutes.

Back at the Station, Chrissie told Wantage that whoever tied the woman to the track probably stood on the bridge and watched her die, then calmly walked down the bank, cut the remains of the rope and took it away. Whoever had done it took self-protection very seriously.

**

In her prison cell, which she didn't share with anyone, Kathleen Mary Tilson lay on her bed and smiled to herself. After so many years of shit her life was getting back on track. Her freedom was virtually ensured; according to her lawyers she would now have time to do things, to achieve objectives she had long wanted to achieve. She'd learned the importance of setting objectives on a prison course, happily provided by the state. All those years of abuse by her husband, all those betrayals, all that pain.

It is my time now Kathleen Mary Tilson thought.

It's my time now.

* * * * * *

Chapter 8

Detective Constables John Williams and Don Blue had a lot in common. Not only were they the same age, thirty-two, they were Detectives on D.S. Charlie Nough's team and were married to sisters who were a pair of peroxide blondes of the old school; John to the beautiful Aroma; who changed her name from Carol because she thought it too ordinary; and Don to Beverly. Both sisters were avaricious and self-centred in the extreme. So John and Don had to do a lot more than be policemen to earn the money that kept them happy, such as working Private Security. On their days off they worked for a security company founded by Jamie Nolan, an ex-policeman himself, who knew where to look for weaknesses in people, especially policemen, and that company protected the rich people of the City, especially those who lived in Millionaires Row. This didn't make John and Don corrupt necessarily, but it made them greedy on behalf of their wives; their private security work was against the spirit of their job, it took their attention away from the important details of crime detection. But every time the two worked for the company they were reimbursed to the tune of five-hundred pounds. Cash. Which kept their wives very happy.

For themselves, as investigations progressed and unfolded, they acted as scouts for a local newspaper, The City Free News, which paid them one-hundred pounds for every story they used. Their contact was Roseanne Hedge, a dark-haired, dark-eyed one-time cutie, who once possessed a powerfully ambitious drive but who had thrown it all away, looks and ambition, on a man who never married her or even left his wife.

Roseanne was always on the lookout for a story. Even a half story.

She sat in a small, dark, real-ale public house with John and Don, each of them with a pint of beer in front of them, all of them friendly, knowing each other for some years, even sending Christmas cards.

"Is it going to be any good?" Roseanne asked, after downing half her pint.

"We think so," Don Blue replied.

"Give."

"The railway death."

"We ran it yesterday, small column, page four, suicide, that's what we were told by the railway company," Roseanne Hedge said as she sipped on her beer.

John Williams smiled.

"Murder," he said.

"What?" Roseanne asked, a smile growing on her face.

"Murder," Don Blue confirmed.

"Tell me all."

"Money," John said.

Roseanne lifted two envelopes from her large brown handbag and laid them down on the table. Don Blue scooped them both up. By agreement with his colleague, It was his turn to take.

"Tell me."

John and Don gave Roseanne all the details, the how's and the wherefores', but not the who. The who still had not yet been identified.

Roseanne smiled widely, finished her beer and departed.

John and Don felt remarkably smug.

They finished their beers and ordered more.

**

The meeting with the Solicitor was something of a waste of time, at least as far as Dave Lewis was concerned.

"Don't speak," the Solicitor advised.

What am I? Dumb?

"Don't lose your temper, shout out, or argue with anyone."

Oh, for God's sake, what am I doing here, listening to this shit? As far as I know I have never lost my temper in a court. What kind of policeman would I have been if I'd lost my temper in court? What kind of policeman does he think I am now?

"Don't approach Mrs. Tilson."

"Who?" he asked, his memory momentarily fogged.

"Kathleen," the solicitor stated.

"I never think of her as being a Mrs. I just think of her as a murdering bitch."

"Comments such as that will not help if you express them on Thursday."

"What? Murderer? Or bitch?"

"Either and both."

Yeah, right.

"Terence Tilson's parents will be there, as will Julia's."

Jesus, it was going to be a show, everyone on the red carpet just like at a newly released film, just for television or the massed media in general.

What were Barbra and Sean, Julia's parents', expecting to hear? That Kathleen was mad and didn't know what she was doing? Or that she wasn't mad and should be released or, at the very least, granted another trial, which would have to prove how mad she was all over again. How would they feel if they heard that?

How will I feel if I hear that?

Destroyed. Dead.

I will be dead.

I've forgotten what Terry Tilson's parents were called. Was that bad? Probably.

"Dress appropriately, David. This is the Appeal Court after all. Don't stink of booze, be showered, be clean, look the part of an anguished husband. Actually, don't do that. You were barely her husband and you haven't been officially notified; they will not be expecting you or they are expecting you to turn up and make a show of yourself."

"Terry Tilson wasn't Julia's husband, either. He was Kathleen's husband."

"I know, but please don't say anything like that. You will only make the situation worse."

"What situation would that be? The one where Kathleen, who killed my wife and child in an arson attack, gets given the chance for redemption? That situation?"

The Solicitor consulted papers on his desk.

"We wouldn't even have a situation if not for smart-assed, money-grubbing bastards like you," Dave said with feeling.

End of consultation.

**

The who of the victim came through later that same day, just as Chrissie and Dave were leaving for home, Mariska already outside the Station waiting, ready to escort her injured little soldier home.

Cynthia Anne Howell.

That was her name.

Nurse. City Hospital. Thirty-eight years of age.

Copy of teeth sent to the hospital confirmed to be hers by the Dental Department.

First job for Chrissie and Dave, check with the Dental Department. Ensure correctness, no room for error. Mariska came too. Sitting in the front of the car, chatting to Chrissie, Dave slumped in the back like a sack of potatoes, worried about Thursday. They weren't really going to let Kathleen out were they? Maybe he would have to kill her himself. Get some good old-fashioned justice.

The plan was to leave Mariska in the car but she wouldn't stay; typical of her; and she escorted them all the way into the Dental Department. Dr. Harold Davis, tall, stick thin, bald, brown eyes, long face, very long legs, be-suited in a tan suit, blue shirt, blue tie, dark shoes. Dental Surgeon. Chrissie introduced herself, introduced Dave but sort of waved past Mariska, who was allowed to stay.

"Treated her myself," Dr. Davis stated. "A wonderful woman, very warm-hearted, couldn't believe it when I saw the chart. Cynthia, it's so sad. On the railway track, I believe, suicide someone said, but it wouldn't be that if the police are investigating. Would it?"

"We're just ensuring we look at every angle, Doctor."

It was Mariska who spoke.

Fucking Mariska.

Both Chrissie and Dave turned to look at her. Mariska simply shrugged. Dr. Davis nodded his head seriously.

"Yes. I see."

Dave was still staring, mouth open, wondering where Mariska got her nerve from.

"Could you help us with any other information, Doctor?"

This time it was Chrissie. Dave didn't think Mariska would try it again.

"Such as?"

"Do you know if she was married, for example? Have you any idea how many years she'd worked at the Hospital? What department she worked for? What ward?"

"Any lovers?"

Jesus. It was that bloody red-haired woman again.

"Shall we wait outside?" Dave asked Chrissie.

"No, it's okay, Dave," Chrissie replied. "Just a few questions for the Doctor, then we'll have to try and get to personnel."

Doctor Davis glanced at his watch.

"There won't be anyone in Personnel at this time in the evening. Gone home. Every one. And yes, she was married. Anthony was her husband's name. She's worked at the Hospital for years, before I came and I've been here fifteen-years. No children as far as I know. No lovers, either, no scandal."

He turned his head to look at Mariska who smiled.

"And she worked on a general ward, first contact kind of place, where assessments are made about patients' needs. Unless, of course, they've been shot or knifed. They're straight to A&E and into theatre."

"You have no doubts whatsoever that the teeth belong to Cynthia Anne Howell?"

"No. None at all."

"Thank you, Doctor. I wonder if you could aim us in the general direction of her ward."

"Too complicated. Best go to reception and ask. Start from fresh. Hospitals? They're a nightmare to navigate."

"Thank you again, Doctor."

Chrissie ushered Dave and Mariska out of the Doctor's office and along the wide corridor.

"That was very naughty, Mariska," she said.

"Very naughty!" Dave exploded. "It was bloody awful. Wilful. What the hell were you thinking, Mariska?"

Mariska shrugged, said nothing.

"Go and sit in the car," Dave said, masterfully, using all his authority.

"It's okay, Dave, she can stay," Chrissie countered. "No need to banish her to the car. Just so long as she doesn't ask any more questions."

"Fucking great."

Mariska smiled.

The trio trudged along endless corridors, navigating by colour and code, until they first found Reception, and from there to the ward on which Cynthia Howell worked. By the time they arrived they felt as if they'd walked half the length of the nation. There was a tiny desk behind which three nurses, in various coloured uniforms, sat. Chrissie approached, flashed her warrant card and asked to speak to someone. They got to speak to Senior Nurse Caroline Elmond, thin, blonde, blue-eyed, well spoken, and they got to speak to her in a tiny office with the door closed.

"How can I help?"

"We're making enquiries into Cynthia Anne Howell," Chrissie said.

"From what prospective?" Nurse Elmond asked.

"Into her background, here at the Hospital, who her friends were, her enemies, people she worked with, people who didn't like her, those that did."

Caroline Elmond folded her arms under her small breasts and looked severe.

"Why?"

Chrissie sighed.

"Because she died yesterday."

Caroline Elmond gasped, lifted a hand to her mouth, sat down on a chair, looked down then up.

"Oh, my God," she said.

Chrissie gave her a moment to recover. Dave looked around the office, taking note of the untidiness of it, the seemingly scattered paperwork, the random nature of everything. And its sheer lack of size, so tiny that four people could barely be accommodated. Mariska kept her attention on the Senior Nurse, kneeling in front of her to take her hands and stroke them. Chrissie and Dave exchanged glances

"When you're ready," Mariska said. "We have to know as much about her as we can."

Caroline looked directly at Mariska and tried to smile.

"How did she die, Cynthia?"

"We believe she was killed," Mariska replied, stroking the backs of the nurse's hands like a real-life Teresa of Calcutta.

The sight sickened Dave but made Chrissie smile. Without saying so, she thought Mariska was superb in getting information out of people.

"Where? How? Oh, God. She never turned up for her shift, so unlike her, I tried ringing, but there was no answer, her husband was at work. Oh, God."

Chrissie stepped in, easing Mariska out of the way with her right foot. Mariska, of course, was not about to be moved.

"Just some impressions of Cynthia will do for now," Chrissie said. "We will have to take formal statements later, from everyone who worked with her. Can you do that, give us some general impressions?"

Caroline looked down at Mariska, who smiled and nodded before standing and moving aside.

"She was very efficient, highly thought of, a good time-keeper, kind. What more can I say?"

"Did anyone dislike her?"

"There is always likes and dislikes in a building of this size. No one likes everyone and neither is anyone liked by all; it's impossible."

"Who disliked her?"

"We had some trouble with a porter, always grumbling about people of colour. Doesn't like anyone; Asians, blacks, anything or anyone. Not even the Welsh."

"Name?"

"Bert Kinder. He's been reported to management a few times for his attitude."

"Do you know if he's on duty today?"

"He should be. You can reach him through reception. Oh, God. Poor Cynthia. How was she killed?"

"We believe she was murdered," Mariska said.

Helpfully.

Caroline stared and gasped for air. She would be all right; she was in a hospital. Chrissie, Dave and Mariska departed and tramped endless corridors again.

"Your name is Bert Kinder?" Chrissie asked when they found him.

"Yep."

Chrissie, Dave and Bert were sitting in another small office, this one off reception. Mariska was back in the car, escorted there by Dave, where she'd been told to wait.

"I was only helping," she insisted.

"In a way only you can," Dave said before returning to the reception area.

"Do you know Cynthia Howell?"

"She the black cow on General Admittances?"

"Yes."

"Then I know her."

"You have something against her for being black?"

Bert Kinder leaned back in the chair on which he was sitting.

"You're here, talking to me, so someone must have mentioned that I don't like them."

"Them?"

"Black people. Asians. Welsh."

"Why not?"

"Just don't."

Bert was wide, not necessarily tall; he just gave an impression of wideness, of size. He was in his fifties, broad of girth, big of hand, round of face, short of hair, very short. His grey eyes stared out seemingly without emotion. He was neither frightened of being interviewed by police nor cocky enough to dismiss it.

"So, you're just a racist shit."

"Detective Constable Lewis, there is no need for that kind of talk. Mr. Kinder is assisting us with our enquiries. Aren't you Mr. Kinder?"

"He speaks to me like that again I'm out of here."

"We can always go down to the station if you wish, Mr. Kinder."

"I'm at fucking work."

"Don't speak to her like that, you moronic racist bastard."

Bert Kinder jumped up from his chair.

"Sit down, Mr. Kinder."

"No, I'm not staying. I'm off."

"Then we'll continue at the station."

Before Bert Kinder could argue, Chrissie had 'cuffs on him and he was pushed up against a wall so hard his huge nose was flattened.

"I was being nice," Chrissie said.

"He fucking wasn't," Kinder mumbled.

"It's just his way."

Back in the car, Mariska was sitting in the front, Dave was sitting in the back with Bert Kinder, Chrissie was driving. No one spoke except Kinder, who kept repeating that he'd done nothing to the black woman, he just knew her, was all. He'd done nothing. Nothing. Chrissie booked him in, resisting arrest, and marched him into Interview Room 2, sat him down, un-cuffed him, asked if he wanted a drink. Kinder asked for coffee. He seemed suddenly meek, his voice quiet, as if he had shrunk in some way. Chrissie brought the coffee, handed it to him, and she and Dave sat.

"Listen," Kinder said, before either had asked a question, "I didn't do anything to that woman, nothing at all. Other than her working on the ward I know nothing about her. And my attitude towards her, that's not my fault. My dad bred it into me from my youngest age. It's me, it's my DNA; he made sure of that. I can't help it. I've been arrested a few times, check with your Desk Sergeant, but I have never been charged with anything, I've never committed a violent racist act in my life, I've been on marches, done some shouting, some fist-waving, but I have never done anything to anyone, ever. I am just a sad shit with a racist attitude. Honest."

Three hours of questioning proved him right. He was in a pub at the approximate time of the murder, with a gang of like-minded thinkers, ranting on about the state of the nation, all the things wrong with immigration; landlord named him, CCTV backed him up, he was in most of the night, as was his habit. Kinder lived alone, in a small apartment above an English fish-and-chip shop, his only life was being in the pub with his mates. He was released with a warning as to his attitude towards people of colour and the Welsh; he could be jailed, he was told. They would be watching him, checking.

D.I. Wantage visited Cynthia's husband, Anthony, who was destroyed when told of his wife's death and the means of it, saying she hadn't come home last night, he thought she was working late; he got up, went to work, hadn't realised his wife was even missing, never mind dead. He promised to come in and make a statement, tell of their relationship. Wantage liked to visit families of the deceased. He felt he had a talent for it; thought he shared an empathy with them, a quiet seriousness, a sympathetic religiousness, even though he was not religious himself. Wantage promised Anthony Howell that his wife's murder would be treated with all proper respect, that no publicity would be given to it, other than the tiniest amount that might move the investigation along or help in finding the perpetrator. There would be no front pages on this investigation. Anthony thanked him.

The following morning Cynthia Anne Howell's death was spread, in large letters, all over the front page of The City Free News.

It was a scoop.

Roseanne Hedge had her story.

* * * * * *

Chapter 9

Dave didn't think Wantage had it in him. He'd appeared to be very much a wanker, an over-promoted, emotionless prick, the sort of politically correct knob-head who was ruining police work.

But Wantage cared.

And he was angry.

He stormed around the incident room with a copy of the City Free News in his hand, displaying the front-page headline to everyone. And everyone was there. The night shift hadn't been allowed to leave, the morning shift had been called in early, day-workers, too, the room was packed and Wantage ranted. He shouted as loud as Dave had ever heard anyone shout. He demanded to know who'd given details of the Howell murder to the press. Anthony Howell had already been on the phone to him, angry, extremely irate, as he had every right to be, besieged in his own home by press and media. Wantage outraged. John Williams and Don Blue outraged, too, acting their parts brilliantly.

When it appeared that Wantage would never cease ranting, Dave raised his hand, like a child in a classroom.

"What?" Wantage screamed.

"I don't feel too good, boss."

"A tongue-lashing too much for you, Lewis, is it? Too much noise for you? Or a guilty conscience?" Wantage sneered.

"Choose one," Dave said.

He slouched from the room, breathing hard, feeling rage rise up in his throat, in his gut. He trudged along the corridor as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, a modern Atlas, down the stairs, out into the fresh air, where he stood a moment looking round and taking deep breaths. Was it worth it, this job? Who cared about it? People only wanted to give you any respect when they were in trouble. Anthony Howell would be in the station sometime this morning with his brief and he would demand answers about how his wonderful dead wife was all over the newspapers, with gruesome details of her murder.

Dave turned right towards a row of three telephone boxes and stepped into the nearest, pushed in his card. The phone rang for a minute or two and Dave waited patiently.

"City Free News. Roseanne Hedge."

"Hi, Rosy."

Silence. A long silence.

"Not speaking? Cat got your tongue?"

"Fucking hell; David Lewis, ex of this manor."

"The very same."

"Welcome back, boy."

"Thanks."

In the age before Julia, if such an age existed and it must have Dave conceded, he and Roseanne Hedge, in the days when she was an up-and-coming cutie, were an item, together for some very long summer months. Before the entry into Roseanne's life of the noxious married man; before her fascination with him; before she surrendered her dignity, her magnificent forthcoming career and her body to him. They might have led to something; those summer months if not for him, the married man.

"How are you?"

"Surviving. Just. Yourself?"

"Big fish, small pond. Better than the other way round, I suppose."

"Suppose."

"You want to know, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I can't give up my sources."

"Yes, you can."

"Oh, David, I would be laughed out of the trade. I would never be trusted again anywhere, ever."

"What am I going to do with it, Rosy? Go to the press? I just want to know for my own benefit. I am back, newly back, only for twelve-weeks mind, but I want to know who's prepared to stab me in the back. Matter of self-preservation."

"Oh, Dave."

"I know I ask a lot."

"You seeing anybody?"

"No."

"Is there a chance of a rekindling?"

"No."

"Give it to me gently, David."

"Okay, sorry, no."

"Better. I can't tell you."

"Rosy, you can. It will go no further."

"Jesus."

Silence.

"Could we have lunch, dinner, something?"

"I'd probably be accompanied by someone."

"You are seeing someone?"

"No. It would be Mariska, my housekeeper."

"Your housekeeper?"

"Don't ask."

"John Williams and Don Blue."

"Thanks, Rosy."

End of call.

Dave re-entered the police station, let himself in through the coded door, climbed the stairs, strolled the corridor, re-entered the office. Wantage had finished his rant and was nowhere to be seen, the newspaper lay in torn bits all over the floor, ripped to shreds in temper. Chrissie was back in her office with Charlie Nough, the other officers were gathered around desks, some coming, others going. Dave went over to John Williams, gently pulling him away from colleagues.

"Bastard."

"What?"

"You, John; you and Don. Bastards both."

"What?"

"I'm a policeman, John; it's my job to find things out. You do it again and I'll have your career."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Me, John. Ask around. I'm being Me."

Dave walked away, leaving John Williams staring.

Another early morning telephone call had awakened Dave this morning. This time without Mariska being informed in advance. That's because it was the Duty Sergeant calling; ordering everyone in. While Dave was still on the phone, Mariska appeared from her basement apartment wearing a long, blue woollen dressing gown pulled tightly around her, an expression of sheer anguish on her face. She looked pale, ashen; she looked as if she had seen a ghost. Dave took her right hand and squeezed it, letting her know the telephone call was nothing urgent or important.

"It's just another early call, Mariska, nothing to worry about."

"Melanie came to me."

Dave's jaw went slack. His eyes widened.

"When?"

"Just now, when the telephone began to ring and I woke. She was there, at the foot of my bed."

"Did she say anything?"

Mariska looked at the floor. When she looked up again, tears were streaming from her eyes.

"Kathleen. She said Kathleen."

Dave wailed.

But he'd gone to work.

He waited for Chrissie to cease talking with Charlie, during which time Don Blue approached him.

"You say a fucking word, Lewis and I'll get you."

"Fuck off, Don. You and your meaningless threats. You're a bastard just like your friend Williams. Leave me alone or I will say something. Check my record; I'm a bigger bastard than you will ever be. And never do it again."

Dave stepped away from him. Don grabbed his arm.

"Take your fucking hand off me," Dave said with just a hint of menace in his words.

Dave stared directly into Don Blue's eyes, unblinking, steady, backing up his implied threat.

"Now."

Don Blue dropped his hand.

"Never lay a hand on me again. Ever."

Of course, when Don made an accusatory phone call to Roseanne Hedge she denied even knowing Dave Lewis was back at work, saying she hadn't spoken to him in years and she eased Don Blue's mind. Someone else must have told him.

"You ready?" Chrissie asked.

"Of course."

They strode out of the office, side by side, looking very much part of a team, in fact looking like the whole team.

"What did Don Blue want?"

"To speak to me."

"About?"

"Between him and me."

"Making enemies already?"

"Got a great many of them; may as well add to their number."

"You're weird."

"So you keep saying."

"For a moment there, Wantage thought you were the leak."

"He can think that if he wants. Where are we going?"

"Bisham and Lane are going to the Hospital to speak with Cynthia Howell's colleagues, maybe have another word with Kinder. Sammy and Lindcroft are getting the paperwork organised in the office, tracking the autopsy, making sure everything is in place. Bad do; the newspaper."

"Very."

"That's not what you were talking to Don Blue about, was it?"

No comment.

"If you know who gave up the information, you should tell."

No comment.

"Thanks for the tip, though. I'll watch him from now on."

Dave almost smiled.

"I used to go out with Roseanne Hedge, years ago, just one summer."

Over the roof of the car she stared at Dave.

"You're a one, aren't you?"

"Could say."

"We're going door-knocking, around where Cynthia lived."

"Good enough."

The estate was modern, neat, tidy, small houses, narrow roads, lots of greenery, as if it was attempting to make up for the lack of room. Cars were parked all over the place. Couple of years, Dave thought, and they'll all be arguing about parking spaces. That'll be the start of it. They began with house the other side of the semi of the Howell's house, into which they stepped. The people didn't want to talk but Chrissie insisted, gently, but still insistently.

Gregory and Marjorie White had lived in the house from new. Couldn't believe it. Was it true? How she died? Cynthia? How awful. Couldn't sleep, either of them, couldn't go to work, had to be there to comfort Anthony as much as possible.

"Have you ever heard them argue?" Chrissie asked.

The Whites stared, appalled at the question.

"I have to ask."

"Why, for God's sake?" Marjorie asked.

"Because it's my job. I have to pry into every corner of the Howell's life. It's not fun. I wouldn't do it if I didn't have to but it's important. Did you ever hear them argue?"

"Everyone argues."

Dave tapped on the adjoining wall. It was a modern house, the wall sounded like cardboard.

"I expect you heard everything that happened next door."

Gregory and Marjorie stared at Dave.

"We don't listen, just like they didn't listen to us. They have arguments, we all do, we don't discuss them with each other, there have never been any sounds of violence, nothing broken, no plates smashing, no beatings, no black eyes, bruises. Anthony and Cynthia are wonderful neighbours, we couldn't ask for better, and it is terribly sad what has happened. Enough for you?"

"Thank you, Mr. White. I think that may well be enough."

He stared at Chrissie, she thought about it.

"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. White. We may be back, and we are sorry to have upset you both."

Marjorie White began to cry, her husband comforted her, Chrissie and Dave let themselves out.

"It's going to be like that in every house."

"Don't say that, Dave, I couldn't stand it."

They were on their sixth house, after five sad and wretched reminiscences, when they found a single mother, Sandy Brothers, thirties, very shapely, blonde, blue eyes, son at school, purchased her house only with the help of her parents, manager of a greetings-card shop, day off to recover from the shock of what she'd read in the paper this morning.

In her tiny lounge, Chrissie and Dave sat drinking their first drink of the day, not being offered one anywhere else, Sandy looking neat in a blue dress, white buttons all the way up the front, white sandals, not looking distressed at all.

"She had an affair, you know, Cynthia," Sandy said as she sipped on a bottle of water.

Chrissie almost dropped her cup. Dave sat up straighter.

"What?" Chrissie asked.

"Three, four years ago. Only a few weeks, less. Just after this estate went up, after we all moved in.

"An affair?" Chrissie asked.

Sandy sat back in her lounge chair, obviously pleased with herself.

"They never had any children, Cynthia and Tony; he's a bit serious, an accountant, stiff as a poker, could never see him relaxing enough to enjoy sex, don't get me wrong though, nice guy. Great couple. No kids. There weren't many on the estate in the early days, but I had my little Brucie, he's five now, a baby then. When she was off-duty, especially at weekends, Cynthia would come across, we'd have some cake and tea, she'd hold him, play with him, she was a nurse, you know, oh, you do know, she would have made a wonderful mother. Loved little Brucie, she did. She asked about his father, I said he'd been a soldier, passing through, gone off to war, never heard from him again, and she just said, conversationally, quietly, as she played with Brucie, that she'd been seeing someone but it had ended. She'd had her few weeks of real fun but it was over. Nice guy apparently, but a bit of a rogue, a smoothie. She got the impression he'd had a lot of affairs. I don't know whether he was married or not. He never wore a ring, she said. She wouldn't tell me anything else, no name, no identification, said she met him on a course she was on, didn't say when or where. Never mentioned it again."

"And you never saw him, this lover, at the house?"

"Oh, God, no. Like I said, Cynthia never mentioned his name, never brought him to the house, anything like that. I don't know where they met, when they met, nothing. Just the once she mentioned it. Never again."

Chrissie finished her drink, laid her cup and saucer on an occasional table, folded away her notebook.

"Well, thank you, Ms Brothers. We may be in touch. For you to make a formal statement."

"That's fine."

Dave lay down his cup and saucer with his drink only half drunk. Quite frankly, and in his opinion, the drink was crap. He stood. Chrissie stood. Sandy Brothers escorted them out of her house, said goodbye and closed the door.

"Think she's lying?"

"Too close to call, Dave, could be the truth."

She pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket as they walked away from the house towards the car, interviews finished for the day. She banged in a number and it was answered almost immediately.

"Yes, Sarge."

"Tom, you still at the hospital?"

"Yeah, we're in the canteen, grabbing a drink and a sandwich while we wait for the next colleague to check in. Nothing yet. Cynthia Howell was well liked, respected and never did anything wrong. Never upset anyone. We have her car on CCTV passing the main entrance to the hospital minutes after she'd signed off her shift."

"So she was taken later. Thanks for that. Get on to personnel; we want to know what courses she went on three and four years ago. Find out where, for what and who her fellow students were, if you can."

"You got something?"

"Might have, Tom. Speak to you later."

"Okay."

End of conversation.

Chrissie turned to Dave.

"I'll take you home, you get ready for tomorrow."

"I'll be all right, don't worry about me."

"You say that all the time and quite often you are not all right. Go home, compose yourself, have a relaxing evening, put your mind right, speak to Mariska, crazy though she might be. I'll see you Friday."

"I might come in later in the day, following the appeal hearing."

"Only if you want a shoulder to cry on."

"You think she'll get a re-trial?"

"It's the word."

"Shit."

There was no sign of Mariska when Dave arrived home, though his car was parked up at the rear of the house. He bade Chrissie goodbye, entered, hoping she would be in. He tapped lightly on the basement door, the one that led from the house, and waited for Mariska to open it. Eventually, she did.

"Why are you using the tradesman entrance?" she asked. "You know full well where my front door is, how to knock it, how to wait for it to be answered."

"I'm sorry; I just wanted to make sure you were okay after, you know..."

"Melanie?"

"Melanie."

"I'm fine."

"You want to come through; I'll make a hot drink. With my own hands."

"How could I refuse such an invitation?"

She came out of the basement, closed the door behind her. She was still dressed in her blue dressing gown, didn't look as if she'd been out of it all day. So unlike Mariska, she had never been a slouch, always up and at it. She sat at the kitchen table. Dave brewed coffee and Earl Grey tea.

"How did the investigation go today?" Mariska asked.

Dave didn't turn to face her when he answered.

"It went fine, found out some things about the victim. Maybe we did. Not sure. We'll investigate."

"I want to be a police officer."

He looked over his right shoulder.

"That's good, makes more sense than you being my housekeeper. With your education you should be the Chief in no time."

"I'm not joking."

"Never thought you were."

He brought the cups over to the table, slid out a couple of coasters from a pile at one end of the table, and lay them down.

"Will you help me?"

"You know I will. Do you want to move out of the basement, into the house? You know there are plenty of bedrooms."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Just a thought."

"If I moved into the house, first of all my crazy parents would think you and me were an item, they would be enraged that I was living with you in sin. Secondly, downstairs, I have my own entrance, two bedrooms if I want someone to stay over, my own bathroom, not that there aren't enough bathrooms in the house, but I have my own television, music centre, life. Why would I want to share all that with you?"

"You make several very fine arguments."

"You just want me to move in so that we can share Melanie moments, don't you?"

"How was she dressed, this morning?"

"White dress, red trimmings; the one you bought her for her eleventh birthday."

"The same."

"The same dress?"

Dave nodded, sipped his coffee.

"Why do you think she keeps mentioning her?"

Mariska didn't use Kathleen's name.

"I don't know."

"Do you think she's trying to tell us something; about something that's going to happen in the future?"

"Maybe. But it seems that tomorrow Kathleen will get a re-trial at the very least. That's the word."

"We don't have to go to the appeal."

"Yes, we do. If only to upset some people."

Mariska smiled a wan smile.

"You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"What, with you sitting next to me? Do you think I have a suicide complex?"

"At one time, I thought you did."

"No longer, Mariska. No longer."

"If she comes again, Melanie, should we try and ask her questions? Whichever one of us she comes to?"

"Do you think she came to you because I shouted at her? Would she do that?"

"I don't know. But should we ask questions?"

"Like what?"

Mariska paused.

"Ask her how she is, whether she's with Julia, if she's trying to tell you something about Kathleen."

Dave stared, speechless for a moment.

"Do you think she would answer?"

"I don't know, but we could ask."

"What if she just says Kathleen and nothing else?"

"Then we shall have to think about our questions."

Dave looked at Mariska and thought about what she was saying. Would it work? Would Melanie have answers to questions? Would she want justice on behalf of herself and her mother? It would be wonderful to speak to her, rationally, sober, let her know he had never forgotten her, still loved her, still loved her mother.

"Okay, we'll ask."

Mariska reached out and took his right hand, smiled.

"It will work."

* * * * * *

Chapter 10

Thursday began dark, dismal and damp. Grey clouds hung low in the sky; drizzle fell and soaked everything beneath it, working its way down collars and beneath coats. It was a perfect day to hear bad news. If bad news it was to be.

Dave Lewis had slept badly. He'd remained half-awake all night long in the hope that Melanie would come to him but she didn't. He wanted to rise early and ask Mariska if Melanie had come to her again but it was cold and damp and he didn't want to rise at all. He wanted to stay in bed. It was only the clattering from the kitchen that eventually brought him out of his bedroom, unwashed, undressed, unready for his day.

She was already dressed immaculately, her long red hair brushed and styled perfectly, the dark suit she wore not only suitable but well-fitting, the skirt the right length, the white blouse buttoned all the way up to the neck, low black shoes, only a smidgeon of make-up. She, at least, was ready.

"We have only two hours."

"I'll be ready."

The unasked question hung between them as they sat at the kitchen table, Dave eating toast, Mariska cereal, him drinking coffee, she drinking chilled water. Neither looked at the other. There had been a moment of togetherness last evening but it was gone. Only awkwardness remained.

"Did Melanie...?" Dave began to ask.

"No. Did she come to you?"

"No, she did not."

"She will come."

"She may have said all she's going to say. Maybe she's gone to wherever dead people go."

"Heaven, David. It's called heaven."

"No such place."

They ate in silence, avoiding each other's eyes, Dave finishing his toast and coffee.

"Get ready."

"I don't think I want to go. I don't want to see Kathleen Tilson set free or granted a re-trial."

"We are going. Get ready. It is for Julia we go, for Melanie."

"Mariska, please."

"Get ready."

He moved from the table, from the room, shambled into the bathroom, came down thirty-minutes later dressed in his suit, the one she'd purchased for his interview. He was showered, clean, shaved, wearing a neatly ironed shirt, polished shoes, he had his watch, wallet, I.D. Card. He was as ready as he was ever going to be.

The appeal was due to begin at 11 am.

By then Dave and Mariska were in place, only the two of them when they arrived, after passing through the main gates, the two porches of the entrance, with carvings of eminent judges and lawyers, Jesus, Solomon, Alfred the Great, Moses, the man who brought down the carved stone of original sins. So the Bible said. Dave didn't believe in the Bible, he didn't believe in religion, used to, when he was younger, maybe even up to the time when his wife and child were burned to death. Not now. No God would do that. Even to the worst of them. It hadn't even been the Devil's work, he didn't believe in him, either. It was human beings, they were their own gods and devils, and anything they couldn't explain, a kind deed, a bad act, had to be the work of some greater being. It was crap.

They stood and looked around the Great Hall, high, arched, huge, before approaching an Usher, who guided them towards the Court they needed. Not Number 4, the Usher said, where the Royal Coat of Arms ruled supreme. Made no difference to Dave. He only wanted justice; he wanted Kathleen Tilson to remain in prison. For the rest of her life. Only that.

Tilson's parents came later, they'd aged, he'd met them at the funeral, he'd felt obliged to attend. He still couldn't remember their names. They avoided looking at him once they'd noticed him and his red-haired companion. Dave wanted to tell them Mariska wasn't his girlfriend or anything like that, he felt he owed it to them, but he couldn't do it. Because of their son he hated them.

Barbra and Sean, Julia's parents, Melanie's grandparents, came in. Barbra gasped audibly when she saw her ex-son-in-law, turned to her husband, who whispered something and they sat without either speaking or looking at him again. Mariska took Dave's hand, held it, squeezed it. Dave didn't feel at all comforted. He felt tense, thought his breakfast might come up, ached as if he'd been in a fight. He was afraid; afraid of what he might do if they let the murdering bitch free. Kathleen Tilson on the streets. What a nightmare. What grounds did the lawyers have, anyway? She was a killer, a cold-hearted murderer, everyone knew that. How could anyone not know that? Guilty as fucking sin.

Kathleen's parents entered last, taking their seats quietly, not even looking round, staring only ahead.

The lawyers entered, groups of them, and took their places, actors in a play, reading their lines so perfectly, playing their games, laying out all their files and documents, talking to each other in whispers, defenders and prosecutors. He'd always hated that, for and against being so friendly, just like an old-boys club, which it was, even when it had women members.

Finally, she came in.

Handcuffed and escorted by two huge female warders, one either side.

She looked pasty-faced, she'd put on weight, her hair was shorter than he remembered, but it was still her, it was still the murderess. Kathleen Tilson.

Her mother cried, reached out, became pathetic. She's a killer you silly bitch.

"Mother," Kathleen Tilson whispered. "Dad."

Her mother began to cry more, her father said nothing, just offered a handkerchief to his wife with which she dried her eyes. Kathleen looked around the court, at the few members of the public who had nothing better to do on a wet Thursday morning, people with sad, sad lives, peering on scandal so they could chat about it later. There were a couple of journalists with notebooks ready, some already writing. Kathleen's eyes roamed until they settled on Barbra and Sean, when they stopped. Kathleen smiled, as if all her dreams had come true. Her eyes moved on, almost missed Dave, but Dave half-rose to make sure she saw him. Kathleen's eyes flared, hate flashed, her mouth became a thin slash, then a sneer, as if to say, I got them, your wife and child. I got them. Dave stared back at her and saw only rage, pain, cruelty. Kathleen's eyes moved to Mariska, where they remained a moment before moving on. Mariska squeezed Dave's hand again. Dave squeezed back. The Judge entered, everyone stood; it had begun.

It all came down to one report. During her trial, Dr. Willis Lunge had been the prosecuting psychiatrist, it was his report that said Kathleen Tilson was in full possession of all her mental faculties, that she knew what she was doing when she set fire to the house, she knew there were people inside and wanted to kill them. During her original trial, the defence said that her mind was disturbed, she didn't know what she was doing, didn't know there was anyone inside, never meant to kill, but the prosecution proved that she did know. There was a car outside, a light on in the front bedroom for Melanie, who hated sleeping in the dark, the curtains were drawn. How could there not be anyone inside? She killed because she wanted to kill. Unfaithful husband, too much degradation, still married, him living with another woman. She wanted to kill Terry Tilson. Julia and Melanie were collateral damage. Kathleen didn't care.

With other evidence, it was clear. Kathleen was a murderess.

In the appeal, the defence argued against the trial psychiatrist's report.

Wasn't it the case, they argued, that in all other trials of a similar kind, where and when a psychiatrist was called for, the prosecution always called on Dr. Barnaby Rogers? Was that not the case? It was the case. So why had he not been called for the Kathleen Tilson trial?

What bloody difference did it make? Dave thought. Even if she only half-intended to kill, it was still murder. She'd killed three people. He felt like shouting out as the appeal progressed, as words melted into other words and reason and justice seemed to be lost in the mist.

Why wasn't Dr. Barnaby Rogers called for the prosecution, just like he always was?

Because his report about Kathleen Tilson said she wasn't in command of all her faculties, that she was suffering from enormous duress and therefore acted outside her normal character, she had no history of violence. Dr. Barnaby Rogers thought she was temporarily out of her mind when she murdered three people. The prosecution in her trial cast a wide net until they found a psychiatrist whose theory fitted their own. Was that not the case?

She was out of her mind all right, Dave thought. With hatred, with temper, with the desire to kill, a blood lust, not caring for anyone except herself, wanting to kill her husband and anyone who got in the way.

But insane?

Never. Never.

The Judge said he would consider the facts and give his ruling on Monday. End of appeal. All over. Go home losers. Mariska pulled Dave to his feet, all the energy gone out of him, as limp as a flag on a still day. He breathed with difficulty, his legs wouldn't work properly and his heart beat loudly.

"Pull yourself together."

He looked up at her.

"Now," she said.

Dave took a deep breath, nodded his head, brushed her hand away, took control. In the Great Hall, with people still wandering in all directions, Barbra and Sean conversed with bewigged barristers; there was no sign of Kathleen's parents, or Tilson's.

"Ask them if they want Julia's clothes, her effects," Mariska said.

"What? No. Not in a million years."

"They would like some things of hers, they really would. Offer. Offer. Try to mend the friendship. You were all friends once. Try."

"No."

"You can't hang on to them forever, they will rot where they hang, where they lie, they will stink. Is that how you want to remember Julia and Melanie, with a load of stinking clothes and unused perfume bottles? Smelly shoes, rotted coats?"

"Stop."

"Offer them something, anything. This could be your only chance."

Dave stared across at Barbra and Sean, who were still in conversation with barristers. He breathed deeply. Mariska was right, they had all been friends, he'd had a wonderful relationship with his in-laws, they'd admired him for what he did for a living, knew how much he loved their daughter and granddaughter, knew how much they loved him, they all ate together often, even took holidays, cruising, sitting in sunshine, laughing, drinking. Fun. In times past. After the divorce they took their daughter's side, blamed him. Understandable but painful.

He made his way across the immaculate tiles towards the group. Mariska followed a few steps behind, like a junior royal shadowing a senior one. They stopped some four paces from where the group continued to talk. Eventually Sean turned and looked at Dave. He said nothing, but nudged his wife. All the group turned to look at him.

"Hello, David," Barbra said.

"Barbra. Sean."

"How are you?" Barbra asked. Her voice was cuttingly chill. She wasn't interested in how he was; she was just making light conversation.

"Better, thank you. Yourselves?"

"Still destroyed. Thanks to you."

Me? Dave thought. Me? How the hell was it my fault? Your daughter left me for a bastard whose wife burned their house down. Where was I at fault in it all? She took out an injunction against me, sited work and all the time it took of my life, never home, never there for Melanie at school plays, parent's days, sports' days. Never. Not interested. Only interested in work.

"I only wanted to ask..."

Dave hesitated. Do I really want to give these people Julia's clothes, her shoes, her perfumes? Anything?

"Hello, Mariska," Barbra continued. "You're still with him, then."

"Yes."

"Moved in, yet? It was what he always wanted."

Before Dave could open his mouth, Mariska stepped forward and began to speak, her voice tight with anger.

"I moved in years ago or have you forgotten. I lived in the basement then; I live in the basement now. I was employed by your daughter as a housekeeper and I am still a housekeeper. David has never wanted me to move into the house then; he doesn't want me to move in now. He loved your daughter without measure as did I, as he loved Melanie. He has done nothing wrong. It was your daughter who left him, let's not forget that. She left him. He caused no one harm. And he only came across to see if you wanted any of Julia's clothes, or shoes, or bottles of perfumes, or anything. You have no right to treat him as you do."

She stopped speaking and stood still, her red hair swirling around her face. She had her chin out, her expression one found on mothers whose children were threatened. In a way, he was her child. He needed her care.

Barbra reddened; Sean looked from one woman to the other. Dave turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing on the floor. Tears welled up in his eyes.

"David," Sean shouted. "We'll have her clothes, anything you'd like to give us."

Dave didn't even turn round to look; he just kept walking, out of the building into the dismal, damp grey daylight. The last thing he heard was Barbra shouting "Sorry." But he didn't care whether she was sorry or not. Didn't know what she was sorry for. Didn't care.

He trudged along the pavement and Mariska caught up with him and linked his arm.

"You were magnificent in there."

"For doing nothing, Mariska; for saying nothing?"

"Have you any idea how difficult it is for you to do nothing, to say nothing? You do things all the time, stupid things on many occasions, but still things, and you say things all the time, too, you have always got something to say. Today, you were magnificent by doing and saying nothing. No outbursts, no insults, no shouting, nothing. Magnificent. Come on, you can buy me a drink."

She dragged him across the road, through the drizzle, into a coffee shop, where coffee cost as much as a house did in the sixties. Was it so rare, Dave thought? Coffee? Or was it the fact that thirty-five different ways of drinking it had inflated the price? They sat by a window and gazed out on the miserable weather and the, equally, miserable people.

"Thanks for being there today. It was wonderful of you. And for standing up for me against Barbra."

She fluttered a hand, a kind of it-doesn't-matter gesture, but she smiled.

"If I am going to be in the police force," she said, "I should see places like the Law Courts. Quite magnificent places."

He gaped for a moment.

"You've made the decision?"

Mariska smiled.

"Chrissie told me I would be good at it; that I was a natural."

"Did she indeed?"

"Yes, she did."

Dave reflected on the information, almost smiled, shook his head.

"I'd never seen the court before today, either," he said.

"No?"

"No. When I got criminals convicted they stayed that way. There were never any appeals on any cases I worked."

"You worked on murders, though?"

"I did. All convicted. Four in all. Three dead in jail serving sentences; the other doing full-life for murdering his own daughter."

"I want to be as good as you when I am in the police."

"Don't aim so low. I was never that good, just lucky. Give it some thought, too, before committing. There are lots of exams, lots of physical stuff."

"Are you saying I couldn't do it?"

"Of course not, I'm just saying, think about it. Don't get carried away because you spent one day with me and Chrissie and she said you could do it, interrupting with your questions by the way, asking questions you shouldn't have asked."

"I felt like a police officer."

"You weren't."

"I'm going to be, though. How can I fail with you and Chrissie on my side?"

"There's always a way."

They sipped their drinks.

"Do you think the appeal will work? Will they let her go, give her a re-trial?"

"I don't know, Mariska, but if I had to guess I would say Kathleen would get a re-trial. How can you have two psychiatrists, same age, both trained in the same way, probably know each other, party together, play golf, how can you have two people who disagree so completely? One says mad, the other says sane. One says she knew what she was doing, the other says not. How can they be at such complete opposites?"

"I don't know, but I suspect another jury will be asked to decide."

"I think you might be right."

"Barbra and Sean looked well, didn't they?"

"Did they? I didn't notice."

"I'll get some things together for them; give them a call when they're ready."

"Don't give them anything I like."

"You like everything."

"Don't give them anything."

"I'll find something. Are you going back to work?"

"What else have I got to do?"

"You could get drunk, have another breakdown, be terribly lonely and feel sorry for yourself. You could do that."

"Do you know something, Mariska Masekova; you have a hell of a lot to say for a housekeeper?"

She smiled.

"It must be the Czech in me."

"It must."

"Go back to work."

He met Chrissie coming out of the station, going to her car, which she parked in an alleyway that ran along the side of the building. No lights in it, gloomy, dark, but many police parked there, one behind the other, just enough room to get in and out, if you were an advanced driver. The official car park just wasn't big enough, it was always packed; very often one couldn't get in or out without chasing down a few owners. Chrissie didn't have that kind of problem. She had her place in the alley and no one messed with it.

"Where're you going?"

"Home, Dave, it's where I live. The day's over for me."

"Oh."

Dave glanced at his watch, he had no idea it was so late.

"How did it go?"

"Confusingly."

"Better idea on what shape the appeal is taking?"

"Yep. Was she mad or not when she committed the crime? Possessed of her faculties or not? Duelling psychiatrists, couches at dawn stuff. One for one theory; the other for the other."

"You want to go for a coffee?"

"I won't keep you, you go home."

"Come on, you tell me about your day; I'll tell you about mine."

Seated in another coffee shop, Dave told Chrissie everything that had happened, everything he could remember before his mind had become lost in a fog of words. He told her about seeing Barbra and Sean, about Mariska wanting him to give them Julia's effects. He did not mention that Mariska wanted to become a police officer; he thought he would leave that for Chrissie to discover.

"Nice thought. The clothes."

"No, it isn't, Chrissie."

"You'll get used to the idea, trust me."

"You're one of the few people I do trust."

"I didn't mean it literally."

"Oh."

They drank in silence and looked around at the people who, like them, were stupid enough to pay the prices the coffee shop was asking for a cup of coffee.

"You got a partner, Chrissie? Boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, significant other?"

"Nope."

"Any reason why? You're quite passable."

"If that's meant to be a compliment then you missed the mark by a long chalk. Why did your marriage collapse?"

"Work."

"Exactly. Why take the chance? And what are the options? Date police officers? I would rather cut my own head off, with scissors. Find someone who understands me and my fascination with crime? One chance in a million."

"Nothing happening, then?"

"That's not exactly true. Whenever the mood takes me, I book into a posh hotel, get dressed up, find a man, have a wild time for a day or two, then he goes home and I go home. Love, marriage, mad sex and divorce all in two days. And no pain. Lovely."

"The posh hotel probably thinks you're a hooker."

She laughed and finished her coffee.

"You want a lift home?"

"You haven't told me about your day, the investigation."

"Not much to tell. We can't find anyone to confirm Cynthia was having an affair. If she had one, she really kept it secret except for that one mention to the neighbour. Expecting the autopsy and forensics reports in the morning, early. Went back to the depot, spoke to the train guard, they call them something else now, but that's what she was. Got a statement from her. Sheila Winch, nice kid, honest."

"That makes a change."

"It does."

"And thanks for everything, Chrissie, all the help you're giving me. You be happy."

"I am, David Lewis, and I intend to stay that way for years to come. But thank you for saying it. You are a very nice man."

"Never let Mariska hear you say that."

Chrissie smiled.

"Have you ever slept with her; she is an amazing looking woman."

"No, never. Never even seen her naked, never seen her bare breasts. Nothing. We live in the same house but have completely different lives. But since Julia's death she's been amazingly wonderful to me. She's dried my tears, held my head, put me to bed, got me up, cleaned up after me, cooked and cleaned the house, way beyond what Julia employed her for. She tells me I am too old for her in an emotional way, probably physically, too, even though she has no partner. I think she quite likes me, though."

"She would have to. I wouldn't have done what she has done even if I'd been your wife. I'd have been out of there ages ago."

"If she left, I would be wrecked, useless. I have become so dependent upon her."

"Doesn't she want a career?"

"I don't know."

"She would make a great police officer."

Jesus, Chrissie, bloody thanks.

* * * * * *

Chapter 11

Melanie came to him in the night. He lay awake, unable to sleep and her shimmering, ethereal light lit up the bedroom. He sat up and looked at her. He felt a great sense of relief, of warmth, of happiness. He loved his daughter, always had, always would.

"Hi, Melanie," he said, his voice calm as he tried to sound like a Daddy.

Daddy

"How are you?"

Cold, I think

It was working, she was answering questions.

"Are you always cold?"

I think so

"Is that what is it like where you are, cold?"

I don't know where I am. I want you to hold me, to hug me

She held out her arms.

A sob leapt into Dave's throat.

"I can't, darling girl, I don't know how to."

I'm lost and don't know where I am. You won't hold me?

She glided across the room, arms held out.

Help me. Keep me warm

"I can't."

And in place of a little girl in a white dress with red trim, in place of gentleness and love, a monster grew. Melanie rose up, growing enormously, arms spreading, until she hovered over Dave. Her face was contorted with rage, her eyes bulged, her lips curled back in a rabid dog fashion.

Dave cowered in his bed.

_I want my Daddy to hug me!_ Melanie roared, the sound of the words encompassing Dave, rushing through his very structure, weakening him, scaring him, frightening him. Death continued to rise above him, filling the room with shimmering light.

I want my Mummy!

The sound was guttural, deep, not like a young lady's voice. It was a devil's voice. Not the devil, but a devil. Not Melanie, not her.

Her ghastly, ghostly face came closer and closer to his, it was still Melanie, her features were all there, except they were distorted, as they would be in a Hall of Mirrors. But this wasn't a game or fun, this was Hell. This was a devil from Hell. Inside Melanie.

Her face was only inches away when she spoke again. This time the distorted, angry face with the bulging eyes and wicked teeth, spoke with a little girl's voice.

Kathleen killed me, Daddy, in a fire. She killed Mummy, too and I cannot find her. I don't know where she is. But Kathleen is going to kill you. Then we shall all be together.

The awful head lifted back towards the ceiling and eerie, wicked laughter emitted from the ugly face.

Dave Lewis screamed.

Mariska crashed into the bedroom, throwing the door wide open with a loud bang, staring at the apparition.

"Be gone!" she shouted. "Be gone."

Melanie's face, distorted by a devil, turned towards her, sneering and growling.

Mariska held her ground.

"You frighten me not," she shouted. "Be gone, you evil thing. Back into Hell."

She lifted a crucifix from beneath her nightgown, from between her breasts and held it out in front of her.

"Be gone!"

The apparition that had been Melanie roared again, a howl of pain, of anguish, of loneliness and chill. Then it was gone. Like a light being switched off. Dave lay back on his bed and sobbed, his face buried in a pillow. He trembled with fear, felt diminished, vulnerable, ashamed to be a man. Mariska came and sat on the edge of the bed.

"It's okay, it's gone."

"Melanie."

"It wasn't Melanie. Something took possession of her, something evil. Something from Hell."

"I don't believe in Hell."

"Believe in it now."

Dave rolled over and looked up at her. She was so beautiful, so young, she looked so vulnerable, where did she get her strength? Why did she stay with a man who was so unbelievably weak? Why did she help him so?

"Hold me."

She leaned on him and hugged. He could feel her breasts beneath her nightgown pressing against him; she was wearing a blue lacy thing, she liked blue. He could feel her glorious hair falling all around his face, he could smell it, she smelt wonderful. He put his arms around her and pulled her closer, she didn't resist, not until he tried to kiss her, then she slapped him. He let her go and she stood.

"You're getting better," she said.

"I need you to climb into bed next to me. I need comforting, holding, hugging. I need to feel you next to me."

"It is not going to happen. Go back to sleep."

"I haven't been asleep, I couldn't sleep."

"Well, Melanie came, but she was taken over by something else. Did you ask her questions?"

"Yes."

"Did she answer?"

"Yes."

"Good. What did you ask?"

"Get into bed and I'll tell you."

Mariska folded her arms and remained where she was.

"I asked how she was, she said that she was cold, didn't know where she was. Said Kathleen killed her. She asked me to hug her and I couldn't."

He didn't mention the threat against himself.

"She let herself become angry because you couldn't hug her. She doesn't understand yet, she died before her time. Years before her time. While she was angry something invaded her spirit, something evil, something terrible."

"She said she couldn't find her mother."

"Her mother has probably moved on, gone to Heaven. Melanie's stuck between life and death. Her anger is keeping her there, her rage at being called early. We must try and calm her, help her come to terms with it so she can move on, maybe to be with her mother."

"I don't want her to go."

"Don't be so selfish," Mariska snapped. "Melanie is in pain, anguish, she is trapped in limbo between life and death, it is no place for a child, no place for anyone. She needs to be with her mother. She needs to move on."

"How do you know so much about this stuff?"

"It must be a Czech thing, huh? From the old country? Is that what you think? You find it hard to believe that I could have read about these things, that I could have studied, learned. You have such a low opinion of me."

"No, no I don't. I was just asking, that's all. You seem to know about everything."

"I had to learn a lot of things to look after you. Now go to sleep, I will see you in the morning."

"Please sleep with me."

"Switch off your obsessed mind. Go to sleep."

She stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door.

"Please," Dave whispered. "Please."

**

When Dave came down he was dressed and ready for his day, unlike the day before. He wore his dark suit, white shirt, in fact the same clothes he'd worn to the Court of Appeal. Only his underwear and socks were different. He'd slept badly of course, dreams and nightmares of Melanie had interrupted whatever rest he'd tried to get. He felt okay, though, ready for his day.

Mariska appeared, she was dressed in a dark suit, white blouse, dark shoes.

"You going somewhere?"

"To work."

"Work? Where?"

"With you."

The toast Dave was eating almost choked him. He coughed and spluttered, covering his mouth with a napkin.

"What?" he asked when he'd recovered.

"I spoke to Chrissie, earlier. Told her I had informed you that I wanted to be a police officer, she was thrilled, said I could ride around with you and her today, just so long as I don't ask any questions. Just as an observer, to see how things work, give me some background experience. She has forms already, giving them to me later. Is it okay if I ride in with you or do you want me to use my own car?"

She carried on nibbling and drinking tea calmly, Dave stared.

"Chrissie said all that?"

"Yes, you can ring her if you want; she said you wouldn't believe me."

She smiled.

"Aren't we even going to talk about what happened last night?"

"What? With Melanie?"

"Yes, don't you regard it as a pretty weird event? My bedroom full to bursting with a demon who had taken over my dead daughter's spirit. Even talking about it I can't believe it happened."

"There," Mariska said, "you said it yourself. No point in talking about it. It happened, you don't believe, so there really is no point. I am much more excited about my day. What will we be doing?"

"I have no idea."

"You'll take me, then?"

Dave blew out his cheeks, finished his coffee and rose from the table.

He parked his car behind Chrissie's in the alleyway. He couldn't leave it there long, though, or someone would be mightily annoyed at him.

"Stay here. I'm leaving the keys in so if anyone comes and asks you to move it, move it. Don't get in any arguments."

"Okay."

"Morning," Chrissie said, as she sat in her office. "Mariska with you?"

"She's in the car. You must be nuts."

"She wants to be one of us; she's not doing anything else, except scrubbing your floors and washing your dirty underwear. Thought this might do her good, set her in good stead."

"You're nuts. What if I tell the boss?"

"David Lewis, how could you say such at thing?"

"Anyway, I do my own washing."

"Yeah, I bet. Autopsy's ready. Wantage is coming in soon to talk us through it. Forensic report, too. Get two coffees, he should be here by then."

A bloody tea-boy. That's all he was.

A board with Cynthia's photograph dominated the room, details of her life and death written in printed letters all over it. Date-of-birth, address, name of husband, place of work, how she died, where she died. There were photos of the railways line, with circles and arrows superimposed on them. There were photos taken from the CCTV coverage of the hospital showing Cynthia driving away in her car. The date and time clearly shown. The camera was sited too high to help identity the driver of the car, though everyone believed it to be Cynthia. There was a lot of information. The name of her murderer was not included.

Wantage entered, carrying two files. He went to the front of the room, Chrissie and Charlie Nough joined him. Wantage waved the files around.

"Cynthia Anne Howell, nurse of this parish, brutally murdered by a person or persons unknown. We are going to get the bastard who did this."

Dave had to admit, the man had a passion for the job.

Wantage lay down one of the files on a desk, opened the other.

"This is the autopsy report. Copies will be made available. We all know what happened to Cynthia Howell and the autopsy confirms it. Decapitated by a train, legs and arms knocked off the body, her torso mulch beneath the train. Terrible. A terrible way to go. She was bound, blindfolded and gagged. This was a deliberate murder, unlike a casual one, someone gave Cynthia's death a lot of thought; they wanted her to suffer; to know she was going to die. So far we have no idea why. What did she do that so pissed off someone that they would want to do this? We don't know. But we must find out, we must discover why. The woman, Cynthia, was a veritable angel as far as we can find out, highly thought of at work, proficient in her chosen career, loved by her husband, who is devastated by her death, work colleagues have nothing bad to say about her, neither do her neighbours. The only clue we have, and we are not even sure about it, is one Sergeant Holland has. Chrissie?"

"We spoke to a neighbour, a Ms Brothers, who has a little boy, who was just a baby when Cynthia moved on to the estate. According to Brothers, Cynthia used to call round on her days off to play with the kid. She told Brothers she'd had a short-lived affair with someone she met on a course three, or four, years before. No one else we have spoken to has mentioned an affair. We haven't mentioned it to the husband yet, see if he knew, he's too distressed, but we will. Meanwhile, we're checking with the hospital for what courses she went on during that period. Any news, Tom?"

Thomas Lane, who was sitting on a desk, rose to his feet.

"We discovered that four years ago, just before she moved onto the estate, Cynthia Howell attended two courses; courses only available to qualified nurses; one was a two-day course in Pain Management, the other a four-day course for Moving and Handling. It was an Instructor's course so Cynthia could teach trainee nurses how to move people, how to handle them. Both courses were run at the University during the summer, we are on to them for a list of people who attended. The University is doing the best it can. They will get back to us."

"Thanks, Tom."

"Okay, Sarge."

"Bits of rope were found in the flesh of Cynthia's abdomen, where she was tied to the track, on her knees, facing the direction of the train. She was naked. We have found no belongings, no clothes, no underwear, no handbag, no phone which we know she had when she left work, no jewellery, which her husband has given us details of. Teams have scoured the woods and the land around the railway line and we have found nothing connected with the case. Also, as many of you remember, Detective Lewis put forward a theory that the murderer, or murderers, watched from the bridge, or the bank, while the train hit her, then walked down and cut away the remaining rope attached to the track and took it away with them." Wantage lifted the forensics report from the desk. "Forensics confirms that. Someone either stood on the bridge or on the bank and watched it happen, then walked down, even as the train was coming to a stop, and cut the rope from the track. We have found no sign of any further rope in subsequent searches. The rope, by the way, was a run-of-the-mill type, purchased by the ton, and not identifiable. We have found no fingerprints at the scene, the ground on the bank was churned up by us, the police, during the initial investigation, we weren't able to find any meaningful evidence there; the bridge was too hard to find any foot indentations on, we have swabbed the bridge itself in the hope that the murderer or murderers touched it or left DNA of some type, but there was nothing. If someone did lean on the bridge parapet, they leant on it with a coat, or the elbows of a coat. We have found no DNA on the gate leading down to the railway line. In fact, we have found no DNA relevant to the investigation. All in all, we've got bugger all. We don't know who or when, other than the fact that Cynthia was tied to the track between trains, which run hourly; or why, but the why might lead to the discovery of the other two. We must find out why Cynthia Howell was killed. There must be something; she must have upset someone. We have checked her bank accounts and neither she, nor her husband, owe, or have borrowed, huge amounts of money, except for their mortgage, which they were happily repaying. They liked living on the estate; as far as we can tell, they had no other problems we know about. No drugs, alcohol, financial, or personal problems, but someone didn't like her, someone hated her, hated her enough to kill her in such a terrible way. We have to find out the why. Get to it."

The meeting broke up, Wantage went back to his office, taking the reports with him, other officers grabbed phones, made calls, others chatted.

Chrissie spoke to Tom Lane then used a phone. She finished her call, turned to Dave.

"C'mon, we'll go to the University where they have lists of who was on those courses."

"Can I finish my coffee?"

"That's the trouble with you, always thinking of yourself."

"It's a coffee."

When they exited the Station, Mariska was parked right outside, in Dave's car, on the very busy main road, inside the limits of the pedestrian traffic lights that helped people across when they were trying to make it to the Station. Dave was sure that Mariska had overstepped the mark and looked forward to the bollocking she'd receive from his Sergeant. Just to keep Mariska in her place, let her know she couldn't do just anything, let her know she wasn't a police officer.

Chrissie leapt the barrier that kept pedestrians safe from certain death on the road.

"Hi, Mariska," she said, as she pulled open the passenger side door and climbed in.

Dave looked on, agape, before he activated the crossing lights, stopped all the traffic, squeezed between the barrier and the car, climbed in a rear door.

"Someone came," Mariska said. "I had to move the car."

"Of course you did."

"The University, Mariska, know how to get there?"

"Yes, Chrissie."

She indicated she was moving away from the kerb just as the lights turned green then she just pulled out, causing chaos and much hooting and tooting behind her. She made a very unladylike gesture to all moaning drivers but kept moving.

"That's my girl," Chrissie said, turning to smile at Mariska.

Jesus, Dave thought. They're like a pair of fucking schoolgirls.

Mariska drove through traffic-packed streets, eventually through imposing gates, rarely closed; through immaculately kept grounds, students strolling all around, over an ornamental bridge, parked the car in a 'Staff Only' space and the three climbed out.

"Why are we here?" Mariska asked.

"One of Cynthia Howell's neighbours stated she had a brief affair about four years ago, with someone she met on a course. We've checked with the hospital which courses she attended and there were two, both held here during a summer. One on Pain Management, the other and instructor's course on Moving and Handling, and we are here because the University promised to get us a list of people who attended. We are here to see if any familiar names stand out. Even if none do, we will be contacting them all, to see what they can tell us about Cynthia, if they noticed her being pursued by anyone, whether there was anyone she was making eyes at. According to the neighbour, Cynthia said she had the affair was with a real smooth bastard. Shouldn't be hard to track somebody like that."

"Thanks, Chrissie. You wouldn't have told me any of that, would you?"

"No," Dave answered.

"You don't want me to have a career?"

"You've got one."

Both women laughed.

The main entrance to the University was a huge, arched thing with gates that were locked at night, with a little office for a porter. Chrissie asked where Administration was. The porter asked what their business was, Chrissie flashed her warrant card, told him they already had an appointment, the porter gave them directions. They walked between towering buildings, skyscrapers of learning, old, with ivy growing up the walls, wonderfully controlled. A woman stood on a gravel path waiting for them.

"Detective Sergeant Holland?" Her voice was untainted by accent.

"Yes."

The woman extended a long, slim hand, immaculately manicured. She was tall, thin, dressed in a dark-blue two-piece, the skirt way beyond the knee, sensible shoes, light-blue blouse, dark hair blasted into place, very little make-up.

"Jane Melling. Administrator."

Chrissie shook her hand.

"Thank you for seeing us."

Chrissie waved a hand vaguely behind her.

"My colleagues," she said.

Jane Melling never questioned it.

"You wanted lists from nurse's courses from four years ago?"

"If that's possible," Chrissie said.

"Of course it is. Please follow me."

They followed. Jane Melling led them along a long corridor, through an oak door into a large office with three other staff working at desks, all of whom smiled at the strangers. Chrissie and Mariska smiled back. Dave ignored them. Melling led them to an office, her own office, with her name on the door in large white letters. She invited them in. There were only two chairs other than her own, so Dave stood while his bloody housekeeper and his superior played games.

"We're not actually involved in these courses," Melling said, looking around the room with all the mien of a school headmistress, "they just hire our facilities, sleep in our rooms, when sleeping is required,"

Almost every day, Dave thought. If you go for long enough without sleep you'll probably die.

"Catering facilities," Melling continued, as if she'd heard Dave's interruption, "even leisure facilities. They're allowed to use our gymnasiums and swimming pools. We have to know numbers of attendees and names so we can organise things."

She opened a drawer in her desk, reached in, lifted out a very thin red file and closed the drawer. She opened the file and spread out the two sheets of paper that were in it. She put her left hand on one.

"These are the students who were on the Pain Management Course, two days, eight students, three cancellations, and these," indicated by her right hand, "for the Moving and Handling Instructors Course, eleven students, no cancellations."

Melling slid them across the desk towards Chrissie, who picked them both up and scanned names and addresses; only Cynthia Howell's name was instantly recognisable.

"And you say the University doesn't organise the courses?" Chrissie asked.

"Ah, yes," Melling replied, as she re-opened the drawer she'd closed. She pulled out a card and slid that across the desk.

Chrissie picked it up, read what it said, passed it over her shoulder to Dave, who also read it. Dave was delighted that Mariska, looking as innocent as original sin, didn't get it passed to her.

DeLour Management.

Specialists in Courses for Qualified Nurses.

L.D. Roade. Executive Manager.

There were telephone numbers, fax numbers and email addresses. There was also an internet site.

"You keep all your cards from people who run courses?"

"Detective Sergeant Holland, this is a very efficient office."

I believe you, Dave thought. Boy, do I believe you.

"And are they still in business, DeLour Management?"

"Very much so. They have a whole raft of courses booked for the summer. Very popular courses too: a very well-managed company, no problems with their staff, their instructors or payment. Though I do believe one of their more popular instructors died, or moved on, we were never quite sure."

"Thank you, Mrs. Melling."

"Miz Melling, Sergeant Holland. We don't afford the title Mrs. to anyone in this University."

"Oh."

"So demeaning, don't you know; such a loss of personal identity."

Miz Melling rose to her feet. The policemen were dismissed.

They were escorted back into the fresh, though grey and cool air.

"That was fascinating," Mariska exploded, the moment all three of them were back at the car.

"Fascinating because?" Dave asked.

"Oh, you wouldn't understand; Chrissie was wonderful in there, masterful, in face of that horrible woman."

"That horrible woman runs this University. She is responsible for thousands of students, all the courses, meals, rooms, maintenance. That woman is probably a genius."

"She certainly spoke like one or, at least, she spoke like a member of the Royal Family."

Chrissie and Mariska laughed again. They were just like a couple of carefree kids. They didn't seem to realise that this was a particularly terrible murder enquiry they were working on. What was he thinking? Mariska wasn't working on anything. He held his hand out for the car keys, the women climbing into the back of the car.

"I'll buy the coffees," Chrissie said.

"I'll buy the cakes," Mariska added.

"You are going to be a real asset to the team, young Mariska."

"Well, thank you, Detective Sergeant. It is very kind of you to say so."

They laughed again.

As he'd intimated before, there was just too much smiling; too much laughter in the world.

Too damned much by half.

He jammed the car into gear, spun the wheels and raced out of the University grounds. The women squealed like small children.

Too damned much.

* * * * * *

Chapter 12

They found a table in a packed coffee shop, on the other side of the park, Mariska making a path through the chattering classes, carrying cakes; Chrissie carrying their cups of tea, Dave carrying his own coffee. They lay down their drinks, slid into their seats and peeled back the paper on the blueberry muffins.

"Do you see anything obvious?"

Dave picked up the lists and scrutinised them again.

"Nothing leaps out, no names I recognise, other than Cynthia's. What do we know about the company; anything?"

"Not yet."

Mariska took the lists and read through them. Chrissie climbed from her chair, fought her way through the crowd to make a phone call.

"Thank you for letting me accompany you," Mariska said.

"Not my idea," Dave responded.

"But you haven't sent me home, insulted me, been sarcastic, anything."

"Would it work if I was any of those things? Would you go home?"

"No."

Mariska smiled, they sipped their drinks in silence. Chrissie returned after some time, wolfed down her cake, sipping her fast-cooling cup of tea.

"I've got Sammy on to DeLour Management, web-site and phone; see if we can go and speak to someone about these courses."

"Something strikes me, looking at the lists," Mariska said.

Dave stared at her, astonished. Chrissie smiled.

"Well, call me stupid if you want, but Cynthia Howell was supposed to have a short-lived affair, so she wouldn't choose anyone far away from here, would she? There are people on this list who live miles away. She couldn't have been involved with any of those. It would have to be someone who lived locally, in the City, somewhere around. It's common sense, she wouldn't have had time to travel; her husband would have missed her, suspected something."

Dave was even more astonished.

Mariska had made a truly relevant point.

"You're a natural, made to be a police officer."

"Thanks, Chrissie."

She took back the lists, took out a pencil and began running a line through those who lived miles away. On the Pain Management Course, there were only two, but it meant they would only have to chase six other people down. On the Moving and Handling Course, five were from out of the area, which left six again.

"We'll get the troops onto it as soon as we get back to the Station."

Her phone rang. Once again she fought her way through the crowd, eventually returning to drink the rest of her tea without sitting.

"We have an appointment with Mr. Roade, Executive Manager of DeLour, in one hour. Come on."

On the way, Chrissie called in at the Station, took the lists of students into the office, copied them; asked Sammy to start ringing round, find out if anyone knew of an affair, four years ago, anyone jealous of that. She took the original as given by Miz Melling with her when she went and climbed back in the car.

DeLour Management took up one half of the fourth floor of a twenty-storey building, all glass and steel, about as aesthetic as a broken brick, at least as far as Dave was concerned. They checked in at the main reception, soared in the lift, checked in at another reception on the fourth, woman behind the desk being of medium height, buxom, with a died-blonde beehive hairstyle with pink flowers in it, black made-up eyes, rouged cheeks, short green dress, blue scarf, yellow shoes. She looked like an advert for the United Nations. She buzzed through and announced them.

Roade appeared almost immediately, hand outstretched, gleaming tan, made-to-measure wool and silk grey suit, fitted shirt, hand-made shoes, silk tie, slim, tall, greying hair, educated. He introduced himself to everyone and invited them through. He ordered three coffees and a tea for Mariska from his multi-coloured receptionist.

"Leslie Daniel Roade," he said, once everyone was settled in comfortable chairs, "but if you don't mind, I prefer Daniel. I set up DeLour six years ago, after seeing which way the wind was blowing as far as National Health Service finances were concerned. I used to Manage a hospital, a Trust as it would be called today, twenty-years of experience in that field, economics degree from the City University, always very careful with the public's money, saw my chance, started setting up courses for nurses, never looked back."

"Exactly how does it work, Mr. Roade?" Chrissie asked.

There was a tap on the door, Miss Multi-Coloured entered, bearing a tray with the cups of drinks and biscuits on a plate. She lay down coasters; put the drinks in front of people, the plate of biscuits away from Daniel Roade, near to his guests, departed.

"I advertise in Hospitals and Nursing Magazines, it's all kosher. Trusts pay the fees for the students, unless it's a private individual trying to expand his, or her, knowledge. Once I have enough for a course, usually ten to twelve people, I hire the University for the summer months when all their normal, so-called students, are basking on beaches. Nurses seem to enjoy the courses, we have excellent feedback. You being here today, would it be something to do with the dead nurse, the one murdered on the railway track?"

"It would, Mr. Roade. She was a student on one of your courses four years ago and a witness we spoke to said it was possible that during the time she was on it, and maybe for a short period thereafter, she had an affair. Someone hated her, Mr. Roade, a great deal, so we are looking into every aspect of her life. If she had an affair, we have to try and discover who with, how it went, most importantly, how it finished. Mrs. Howell, the murdered nurse, she had a husband. If she did have an affair, it was probably with a fellow student, and we wondered how well you know the students booked on your courses."

"I don't know them at all," Daniel Roade said. "As the Executive Manager, I run the company, its finances especially, it's my job to ensure courses are filled, make sure our Instructors are keeping up with present thinking in the Health industry, all the legal ramifications, all the changes in Health and Safety. Most of our Instructors come from a background of Health and Safety, especially for the Moving and Handling courses, we use doctors and specialists for Pain Management. Each course has its own type of Instructor. They are excellent and knowledgeable. I am very proud of them, of the company in general. We do a good job; provide an excellent service the National Health can't always provide for itself."

"So no stories trickle down to you about anyone on the courses? You don't hear any whispers about raucous or promiscuous behaviour, drunkenness, nothing like that?"

"After every course I always hold a debrief with the Instructor. Of course, I hear tales of everything you mention but during the summer we run many courses and the stories fly through your brain without actually stopping. There is a moment of laughter then we move on."

"And nothing rings a bell about four years ago?"

"Detective Sergeant, I had to look up the files just to remind myself what we were doing four years ago, never mind remembering any stories from then."

"Okay; and your instructors? All of the highest character?"

"We don't take anyone on without them having formal qualifications and with at least five separate references. And we check and double-check. The whole reputation of this company rests on the shoulders of our Instructors; they are the ones in the front line, so to speak. They represent us. We try for excellence in all things."

"And they are not likely to have affairs with the students?"

Dave was, once again astonished, for it was Mariska who asked the question.

Daniel Roade stared at her, blushing.

"We did have one instructor, we got rid of him. He was quite a one for the ladies."

"Did he work for you four years ago?"

Both Chrissie and Dave left the questions up to Mariska; she seemed to be doing so well.

"Yes."

"What was his name? Do you remember?"

Roade relaxed.

"Yes, yes I do, because he was killed by his wife some time later, it was in all the papers, all over the TV. Burned to death in a house fire."

Drums thumped away in Dave's brain, sweat leapt out on his forehead, he began to tremble.

"What was his name?" he asked, his voice nothing more than a low growl.

"Tilson," Roade replied, brightly. "Terence Tilson."

**

Daniel Roade had loaned his staff room to Chrissie so that Dave could recover. After being told the identity of the rogue Instructor he'd slumped forward, only caught before he fell to the floor by the combined efforts of Mariska and Chrissie.

Terry Fucking Tilson.

Dave never actually learned what he did for a living, though Julia mentioned he was a teacher of some kind, when they were speaking. Melanie might have mentioned it, too, in the early days after Julia left, during one of his access days, before the restraining order, before he was cut off from those he loved.

Terry Tilson, a lover of Cynthia Howell?

How the hell did that work?

"I don't know," Chrissie said.

Dave looked up, abruptly, not realising he'd spoken aloud.

"What?"

"I don't know how Terry Tilson connects to Cynthia either, other than the possibility of them being lovers. Being his lover can't possibly connect to her murder, though. Who would murder her? Kathleen is still in prison. Is there anyone else? Another lover, maybe; someone who blamed Cynthia for his death. I don't know. The information just complicates everything."

Chrissie leaned forward with her head in her hands. Dave slumped backwards in the comfortable chair, he just wanted to sleep. Mariska looked at the profile photograph of Terry Tilson pulled from Roade's files. The black and white showed his slick, black hair, immaculately groomed, his long, unblemished face, his dark eyes, his Roman nose, his lips set in the famous secret smile, the one that irritated Dave so much when he met the man during his early access days, the smile he'd mentioned many times. It was the face of an obvious rogue and why Julia couldn't see it was beyond Mariska, just as it had always been beyond Dave.

"He was very good looking," Mariska said.

Dave and Chrissie looked at her with unbelieving expressions.

"By his photograph, I mean. You can see why women might fall for him, even happily married women like Cynthia. As an Instructor, he had access to hundreds of different women, a bit like if he'd worked behind a bar or in a nightclub or a lifeguard in a swimming pool, all popular with women of all ages; opportunity is everything. He must have had many affairs. Women away from their normal routines, away from homes and responsibilities, like women being tipsy in a bar or a club, half-naked in a swimming pool, letting their hair down a little, being more relaxed, leaving themselves open to the flattery and attention husbands and boyfriends had stopped giving. Easy to see how he worked."

"She has a point."

"Every time she opens her mouth she thinks she has a point."

"Don't be so ungracious, David Lewis, she led us to Terry Tilson. Did you think of asking if Instructors had affairs?"

Dave didn't answer.

"Neither did I. Mariska, you just gave a very good assessment, but it doesn't answer the fundamental question. How does Cynthia Howell having an affair with Terry Tilson lead to her murder?"

"No idea."

"Dave?"

"I can't even think about it at the moment; ask me later."

"So no idea."

Mariska handed the photo back to Chrissie, who shoved it into an inside pocket of her jacket.

"What I think is, we contact some of the students from the Moving and Handling course, see if he approached any other women, I guess he would have. We need to see if any of them have information about a definite affair. That will move us forward a little bit then we can ask if any of the students were jealous of that affair, if hatred raised its ugly head."

"Hatred always raises its ugly head."

"Thank you, David, for that comment."

"It's true."

"I'll call Sammy; see if there is anyone close we can call on, before we go back to the office."

She pulled out her cell phone and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"It must be upsetting for you?"

"Of course it is, Mariska. Doesn't it upset you, too? I always knew Tilson was a bloody rogue, a man for the women, it was written all over his face, why did Julia not believe me, why did she believe him on every occasion?"

"He must have paid her a lot of attention. You didn't."

He ignored her comments.

"And why oh why did she actually go and live with him? Why the hell couldn't she have just had an affair like all the others? Why did she have to set up the happy home, rub Kathleen's nose in it, get herself and her daughter killed. My daughter."

"I don't know. Maybe he saw something in Julia he didn't see in all the other women, maybe she was special to him."

"She was fucking special to me!"

"No need to shout, to swear. I'm just trying to find an explanation. Calmly."

"Calmly?"

The word was nothing more than a growl.

Chrissie re-entered the room.

"Guess what? We're in luck. One of the nurses from the course lives just along the street, Sammy just phoned, spoke to her daughter, and her mother works here. At DeLour Management."

"You're kidding?" Dave said.

"No. Her name is Alison Weaver. I've just spoken to Roade, she's one of his office workers; he's gone to get her, bring her here."

The door opened, Roade entered, escorted by a woman in her early forties, average height, styled fair hair, round face, blue eyes, full lips, slightly overweight, dressed in a pale blue suit, pink blouse, blue shoes. She looked apprehensive.

"Detective Sergeant, this is Alison Weaver."

Chrissie held out her hand.

"Hi, Alison."

"I have to get back to work," Roade said.

"Of course, Mr. Roade."

He departed; Alison Weaver still didn't take Chrissie's hand.

"Hi, Alison," Chrissie insisted.

"Hello."

It was a very formal shaking of the hand.

"Please sit."

Alison sat.

"Would you like a coffee or something, tea?"

"No, thank you. May I ask why I'm here?"

"Terence Tilson," Mariska said, before Dave could open his mouth.

Alison lifted a hand to her mouth and whispered, "Oh, God."

"You knew him?" Chrissie asked.

"Yes."

"Tell us how."

Alison Weaver licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, she looked around the room, looked from one person to another.

"Why? He's dead."

"Miz Weaver, we know he's dead, we have asked you here for informal talks but if you want to make it formal we can always go to the police station, stick you in an interview room and you can't keep secrets in a police station; probably everything you tell us will be made public by tomorrow because we are investigating a murder, and Terry Tilson's name has cropped up and now, so has yours. Tell us how you met him, how you knew him."

Alison's eyes went very wide.

"Cynthia Howell, you're here because of Cynthia's death."

You knew her, too?" Dave asked, before Mariska could speak.

"Oh, God."

"Miz Weaver, you have a very complicated story to tell. Please start at the beginning but start now, please."

Alison looked around the room again.

"I'll start at the end if you don't mind."

Her voice became assured, her attitude becoming one of complete confidence. This was a woman who knew what she wanted, what she wanted to say, how she would say it. She gave the impression of someone who'd waited years to tell her story.

"I came to work for this company because Terence did. I loved him beyond reason, adored him, would do anything for him, and he asked a great deal and he didn't like refusal. I was devastated by his death. Devastated. I didn't know he was married to Kathleen in the beginning, I only learned of her later; never thought she would do something like that, set fire to the house."

She crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt.

"I met him four years ago on a Moving and Handling course when I was a nurse. He was an Instructor"

"At the City University?"

"Yes."

Alison gave a knowing look.

"You've traced me because of the course records kept by the University, haven't you?"

"I know it sounds a bit of cliché, Ms Weaver, but if you don't mind, we'll ask the questions. At the City University?"

"Yes, at the University. At that time, I worked at the City Hospital, a nurse in paediatrics, loved my job, liked going to work, helping people, tending to them. The course actually changed my life."

"Because you met Terry Tilson?" Chrissie asked.

"He didn't like being called Terry. He preferred Terence, insisted on it, in fact, or Rupert, which was his middle name."

"Your life changed?"

"Yes, it did. At that time, I'd only been married a couple of years, loved my husband, enjoyed my life with him; then Terence came along. The Moving and Handling course was over four days and as soon as I set eyes on him I knew I wanted him, knew I'd do anything for him, there was just something about him."

"He was a womaniser," Mariska said. "Perfectly practised."

"Don't say that!" Alison Weaver said, her eyes blazing in temper.

"But it's true, and please don't raise your voice to me."

Dave and Chrissie stared at each other; Chrissie smiled.

"Well, I admit he had a reputation."

"Well founded."

"I suppose."

"I do suppose, Miz Weaver, so please continue."

Chrissie's smile widened. She had the look of a mother who was inordinately proud of a child.

"I wanted him, you know, sexually, as soon as I set eyes on him, but he rebuffed me, pushed me away. He had another in his sights."

"Who?" Chrissie asked.

"You know who."

"Answer the fucking question," Dave growled.

Alison Weaver looked at him, for the first time losing her composure.

"It...it...was Cynthia Howell."

"She worked at the City Hospital, just like you."

"But I didn't know her until the first day of the course. I'd seen her round, walking corridors, in the canteen, places like that, I was aware of her, but I didn't know her, not till the course started. We shared a room."

"At the University?"

"Yes."

"And Terry Tilson set his eye on her?" Dave asked.

"Please refer to him as Terence."

"No!"

Everyone turned to look at Dave's angry expression; Alison actually jumped in her chair, suddenly very frightened of him, losing more of her composure.

"Terry fancied her?" Chrissie continued.

Alison couldn't take her eyes off Dave Lewis, as if she were trying to place him, remember some details about him.

"You're the policeman," she said. "Julia was your ex-wife, she died with Terence. I remember seeing you on TV."

Chrissie clapped her hands; Alison jumped in her seat again, and swivelled round to face her.

"I won't tell you again, Miz Weaver, just answer the questions. Terry fancied Cynthia Howell, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"How did that make you feel?"

"I was furious."

"With Cynthia or Terry?"

"With Cynthia, how could I ever be furious with Terence?"

"Easily; if you ever put your mind to it."

Dave had to give Mariska ten out of ten for that one. Moments earlier, he'd come close to slapping Alison Weaver, Chrissie had known, had grabbed her attention back from him.

"Nothing was easy with Terence."

"You were furious with Cynthia?"

"Yes. She never slept in the room we shared, not from day one, slept in his bed every night, he drooled over her, even during the course, she was Miss Perfect, always had the right answer, always knew what to do. She wasn't that much better looking than me. I think he was attracted to her colour."

"And you hated her?"

"No, not hate, not then, I was just furious because she was in my way. Because of her, I thought Terence didn't know I existed. For four days and four nights they were inseparable, Terence and her, and it drove me mad."

"Then what?" Chrissie asked.

"After the course, Cynthia never had anything to do with him again. She just walked away and never looked back."

"Do you know how Terry felt about that?"

"Oh, he was very angry, he detested the thought of being rejected once he'd set his sights on someone, hated it, always wanted to be the one to call it off, to say it was over. He hated rejection with a passion. He thought about going to see the husband, telling him what had happened but that wasn't his style, he was too frightened of confrontation with men. Didn't mind it with women, he could control us. But men; no way. Eventually, he phoned me; that's how I discovered all this; he called me, he had noticed me after all, actually ordered me to meet him, I did, and I met him every time he ordered me to after that."

"Your husband never knew?"

"Never. There was no need for him to know, things I did with Terence, just for him, I didn't want my husband knowing I knew about such acts."

"Did you ever see, or speak to, Cynthia again?"

"Just once; in a corridor in the hospital. I'd already applied for the job here, had an interview, knew I was going to get it, Terence told me, so I stopped her and said I was with Terence and how did she feel about that? I felt very superior. She just smiled and wished me luck, said she didn't care, not one hoot, walked away. I felt furious with her again. Not care, how could she not care about Terence? I hated Cynthia Howell after that, she deserved to die."

"She had some sense and did not deserve to die. You are sick."

Once again, Mariska's intervention impressed Dave.

Alison Weaver turned to gaze to her, brushed hair back from her eyes.

"You're young and beautiful, you can probably get any man you want, but look at me, I've always been this height, this weight, no matter how much I dieted, never had enough money to make myself different, the attention Terence gave me was unimaginable. You wouldn't understand."

"I understand that you are a very stupid woman, hating Cynthia Howell for no more reason than her having what you wanted, feeling joy at her horrific death, obsessed by sex with this awful man, demeaning yourself, betraying your husband, lying to yourself for years to make yourself think that Tilson was a wonderful man. Making me sick doesn't do it. I despair of women like you."

Alison spun round to face Chrissie.

"Can she speak to me like that?"

"She just did and she does have a point, several of them in fact. Just because she can have any man doesn't mean she wants them, unlike you."

Alison crumbled; she slumped forward and began to cry. Chrissie pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and offered it to her.

"Dry your eyes Miz Weaver, we need yet more answers."

Alison Weaver sniffled, wiped her eyes, her nose and looked up.

"I don't think I want to answer any more questions."

Chrissie stood, suddenly.

"Okay, we'll continue these discussions down at the police station."

"I want a solicitor."

"You're not getting a solicitor, Miz Weaver, you aren't being charged with anything. You are helping us with our enquiries, nothing more, nothing less. I'll just go and inform Mr. Roade that you are leaving with us, and tell him why."

"No!"

Alison half-rose from her seat but Chrissie pressed her back down into it.

"No, what, Miz Weaver?"

"Please don't tell Mr. Roade. He never knew about Terence and me, no-one did, employees aren't allowed relationships between each other. Mr. Roade is very strict about it, one of them always has to leave, we kept it secret, even after Julia went to live with him, we still didn't tell."

"Tilson was still seeing you even after Julia moved in with him?" Dave asked; his voice once again barely above a whisper.

"Yes, of course. I would do anything for him, and I do mean anything. Most women wouldn't do the things he asked me to do."

"Jesus Christ. He had my daughter."

"Melanie. Of course, she was your daughter."

Dave stared at Alison Weaver. Murderous thoughts swept through his mind, the woman was not fit to live, who would miss her, she deserved to die? Rage coursed through his veins, his hands worked themselves into fists then opened again.

Mariska put a hand on his, squeezed it.

Dave looked at her, tears in his eyes.

"It's all right. It's all right."

Alison Weaver turned to Chrissie.

"I knew Julia was his wife, I knew it was him."

Mariska continued to soothe Dave.

"How did you know Melanie?" Chrissie asked.

"From the house of course. Terence used to take me there or tell me to meet him there. I knew Melanie quite well. They were divorced, weren't they? Julia and him?"

"They were not."

Alison Weaver lifted a hand to her mouth.

"Oh God; she told me they were divorced, she told me more than once. God, I feel so guilty."

"Why?"

"Well, you know, Julia didn't look like me, she was tall and beautiful and intelligent, but it made no difference to Terence. He wasn't just a man, he was a drug to women, a very potent drug; if he wanted you to do something, you would do it or he would finish with you, he would move on, find someone else. When I went round to the house as I did many times, I went round for only one reason. Sex. I would go round during the day when Melanie was at school and we would all sleep together, Julia, Terence, me. He really liked it. So did I. So did Julia."

Dave cried out, an anguished, painful rolling sound.

A sound from the dead.

* * * * * *

Chapter 13

"Weaver was telling the truth, wasn't she?"

"I'm sure she was Mariska, and what an awful story she had to tell."

"When you told Mr. Roade about her, he was furious."

"It's all she deserved, knowing who Dave was, revelling in the facts she gave us. She should not have mentioned some of those things. She was boasting."

"He soon dismissed her."

"All she deserved. No sympathy for her."

The three of them were sitting in the car in the staff car park of DeLour Management, the women in the front, Dave slumped on the back seat, Chrissie and Mariska sipping chilled water from a company vending machine they passed in the lobby; Dave drinking nothing.

Mariska looked back at him.

"Every time he seems to be getting back on his feet, something comes along and knocks him on his back again. Two steps forward, one step back, all the time."

"It's a bloody shame, he's a nice guy, he was a great policeman, could be again, but not with all this information coming out; it will knock him back. Will you be able to look after him?"

"I will do my best, as I always have."

"You are fantastic, you know."

"No, I'm not. I have real affection for him, as I had for the whole family, but now he wants to sleep with me all the time and I don't want to do it, it would ruin everything, forever."

"You don't want to be the lady of the house?"

"No, I want to prove myself in the world. I knew I wasn't going to be a housekeeper all my life. I have been waiting for something to come along, something that inspired me, now I have set my sights on being in the police force and I want to see how that goes. I may have to move out of the basement."

"Don't do it yet, please."

"Oh no, not yet, I want him to be much stronger than he is but, eventually, I feel I must. Either out of the basement or into the house or move on."

"Don't rush it, finish basic training at least. I have the application forms ready for when we get back to the office."

"Thanks, Chrissie, you're a real friend."

"Will he think less of her, the saintly Julia, now he knows she took part in threesomes?"

"I don't know."

"Trouble is, and the question has got to be asked, if she was doing threesomes with Weaver, who else was she doing them with? How many other women did Tilson bring round to the house? Julia was obviously besotted with him, sounds like she would have done anything for him. What else did she do?"

"It's too horrible to contemplate."

"It has certainly dented her image as the saintly beautiful loving mother. I just can't get my head around it; and Weaver proud of it all, really proud."

"Is this what it's like, police work, an endless stream of weird people?"

"Mostly, yes."

"What are we doing?" Dave asked, as he stirred in the back seat.

"Back with us, are you?" Chrissie asked, as she twisted round to look at him.

"Don't be funny, what are we doing now?"

"We're going back to the station, put Tilson's name on the board in the office, sit around and think about how it might apply to the murder of Cynthia Howell."

"Kathleen might have organised it from prison."

"Dave, Cynthia slept with Tilson for only four nights, when they were both away from home, who the hell's ever going to know about that? Kathleen wouldn't have known about that one, though she probably knew about others, he wouldn't have mentioned Cynthia and Weaver wouldn't have said anything, she just told us that she'd never met Kathleen and I believed her."

"Kathleen could have had something to do with it."

"Just drop it, Dave, she couldn't have. On this occasion she's in the clear."

"I still say we should look into it, see if she had any friends inside who have been released and who would have killed for her."

"You live in a world of fantasy, get real," Chrissie stated, her words spoken with steely resolve. She was sure Dave Lewis would not come back into the real world until he was confronted by it.

"We could always ask, make an enquiry," Dave mumbled.

Chrissie started up the car, drove out of the car park, headed for the Station.

"Tell you what," she said, on the way, "after I've given Mariska her application forms why don't you two take the weekend off, go walking, talk, swim, whatever you want to do, get yourselves ready for Monday, the Appeal Court decision, the probable re-trial, or just rest. I assume you are still both going?"

"I could get drunk."

"No, Dave, do not get drunk; definitely do not do that."

"No, not that," Mariska said, enforcing Chrissie's statement.

"Spoilsports, both of you. Especially as I've just learned the wife I loved, the mother of my child, my dream woman, the one I adored and missed like hell when she went, enjoyed doing threesomes with ugly women, and who knows what else. I deserve the right to get drunk after learning of that."

"You never have to clean up after yourself," Mariska said, hard resolve in her words too.

Dave fell into an embarrassed silence.

"I didn't think she was that ugly, Weaver," Mariska said.

Chrissie laughed, Dave sulked.

"What the hell am I going to do with a weekend off? I want to work," he said.

"Take the opportunity, Dave, once you're back full-time, there won't be much time for leisure."

"I'm not coming back full-time, twelve-weeks; that's all I'm doing, hopefully enough time to help solve Cynthia Howell's murder then I go."

"You want to stay," Chrissie argued. "The job is flooding back into your system, blue-lights are flashing in your head; you can't wait to be back."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is."

Both women shouted it at the same time and laughed again.

There will be sadness here, Dave thought. Real sadness; there is just too much happiness between these women. People aren't allowed too much happiness. Look at me. I had too much happiness.

He remained silent for the rest of the trip.

In the Station the three of them entered the offices, Chrissie grabbing a marker-pen, stepping up to the Incident Board, and drawing a line from Cynthia Howell to a new name, Terry Tilson. Charlie Nough sat watching her and looked on in astonishment. He glanced only once at Dave.

"Is that the one and only Terry Tilson?" Charlie asked.

"He had an affair with Cynthia Howell four years ago. It only lasted four days, we don't know how it links in with Cynthia's murder, it's just more information."

Chrissie stepped back, looked at what she'd written.

"I have no idea how he fits in," she said, shaking her head.

"Kathleen Tilson had something to do with the murder of Cynthia Howell."

Everyone in the room turned to stare at Dave.

"We've already been there, Dave," Chrissie said. "Kathleen is still in prison, at least until Monday."

"She could have gotten someone else to do it, someone she got to know in prison."

"Not many people can get someone else to do their murders," Charlie said.

"It's worth looking into."

"Suppose so," Charlie Nough said.

"Charlie, it's a dead end," Chrissie said. "We all know Dave has a personal involvement with Kathleen but he can't simply accuse her of every murder in the City."

"I can try," Dave said.

All around the room, sneaky smiles crept onto everyone's face; they all knew Dave had lost it again. John Williams and Don Blue particularly enjoyed it.

"Got those papers?"

"Yes, sorry, Mariska."

Chrissie stepped into her office, picked up a large envelope, handed it over and smiled. Without speaking, Dave left the office, strode the corridor, down the stairs, out of the door, to his car, parked in the alley. He started it up and was just driving out of it when Mariska stepped in front of the car.

"You were going without me?" she called.

He wound down the window.

"You could have gotten your best friend to drive you home."

She stared for a moment before climbing in and closing the door.

"You can be unbelievably petty. No wonder no one liked working for you when you were a Detective Inspector. You must have been unbearable. Why must you always be right? Why can't anyone else be just as right? And this sulking, it does you no good."

"Unlike you who is, supposedly, beginning a thirty-year career; application forms in your pretty hands; I only have eleven weeks to go. For that amount of time I can be what I want, say what I want, think what I want, and investigate what I want. It has nothing to do with you."

"As I said previously, you are unbelievably sulky."

She fastened her seat belt and pushed her seat back so she didn't have to look at him. He was so bad-tempered, so moody, one minute thinking straight, like a policeman, the next like a child whose favourite toy has been taken from them. He was so frustrating.

After parking the car at home, he headed for his front door, Mariska heading down the steps for hers. Neither spoke. Two hours later she called him down for dinner. He didn't come. She went upstairs, into his bedroom. He was on the bed, naked, curled tightly in the foetal position, fast asleep. She shook her head. He was so complicated. She drew the bedroom curtains, left him where he was, didn't cover him up, ate alone, retired to her basement, began filling in her forms. When she needed advice, she called Chrissie and received it. She was going to join the police force. She really was.

Dave woke cold and stiff, woke with a start and a frisson of fear. Melanie stood close to the bed, staring directly at him with eyes that were black; such a shame, she used to have the most beautiful blue eyes, just like her mother.

"Hi, Melanie," Dave whispered.

He realised he was naked, pulled the duvet to cover himself.

Hello, Daddy.

"Did you know Alison Weaver?"

He had no idea why he asked the question, he didn't even want an answer.

Melanie smiled.

She was nice, Alison made me laugh, she was a great friend to Mummy.

She made no mention of Terry Tilson. Dave wasn't going to mention him; he didn't want a repeat of the demon of yesterday.

Daddy, where is Mummy?

"I'm looking for her, darling. Using all the power I have to find her. I'm looking for her just for you."

The smile on Melanie's face widened and scared Dave half to death. He then felt guilty, how could he be scared of his only daughter, the absolute love of his life, someone who had never harmed him or harmed anyone, who had died so young.

Thank you, Daddy.

"It's okay, darling girl, I will keep looking until I find her."

Kathleen, Daddy.

Dave fought down all his feelings of rage and anger, stayed calm.

"What about Kathleen, Melanie?"

She's coming home, Daddy. Coming home. To kill.

"Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me."

I love you, Daddy.

"I love you too, my darling girl."

She began to fade.

"Don't go, Melanie, please. Stay with me."

I have...to...go.

The words tailed off, she was gone. Dave stared at the spot where she'd stood, let the tears roll down his face, allowed himself time to sob. He missed his daughter so much, would miss her for all time. He thought he would always miss his wife, too, but after hearing what he'd heard today he wasn't so sure. Threesomes? With bloody Tilson and Weaver? And how many more? What else had she done for him? What had she done for other people? Even when they'd been together, especially during their early time together, before Melanie, she'd been adventurous but he would never have asked her to do those things, never. Tilson had been such a manipulator; he could make women do anything he wanted. How many more of them were there? How many more? And why did he have to choose Julia to live with? Because she would really do anything he wanted? Dave's sobbing increased. How could she have done it when she knew how much he cared for her, work or no work, how much he loved and adored her? How could she have done it? It was beyond him, he couldn't explain it. What did Tilson make Kathleen do? Of good Catholic stock, would she have done anything at all?

He sat up in bed, wiped tears from his eyes.

He would have to ask her that. What she did for him? Maybe she didn't, and wouldn't, do anything, which drove him to other women. How many women? She'd already killed Julia. His eyes widened. He'd never considered that, no one had. Maybe Julia had been the target all along. Maybe Terry Tilson was the collateral damage. Maybe Julia was the target, Melanie, too. Jesus. He looked at the bedside clock. Too late to do anything about it today; but tomorrow. Tomorrow he would see. Tomorrow he would ask.

He climbed off the bed, pulled on a dressing-gown, padded downstairs, re-heated the meal Mariska had cooked for him, wolfed it down, starving now, wondering whether to call on her. That would mean dressing, going out, knocking on her front door. He stood in front of the door leading to the basement from the house and thought about it, he even raised his hand to knock, to say he was sorry for his moods, that he didn't want to be horrible towards her, that he loved her. No! He did not love her. No! Not that. People he loved died. Not that.

He went through to his lounge, sat on his couch, drank coffee, watched television.

Mariska slumped onto the seat next to him twenty-minutes later.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"I was worried about you, you know, with everything we've learned about Julia."

He turned to look at her.

"What else did she do for him? That's what's eating at my brain."

"You mustn't think about it."

"How do I do that?"

"Think about something else; find a subject to concentrate on."

"Can I concentrate on you?"

"No. You should stop thinking about that, too."

Dave smiled, sipped his coffee. Mariska had brought a bottle of chilled water in with her, lifted from his fridge.

"You want to go to a prison tomorrow?"

"Which one?"

"Liver Slides."

Mariska laughed.

"Silver Sides. It's called Silver Sides."

"Ask the inmates what it's called. They'll tell you. Food is awful, your liver just slides away from you, full of junk food and awful coffee."

"Why would we want to go there?"

Before Dave could answer, she knew.

"Kathleen Tilson is there."

"She is."

"She will never talk to you; to us if I come with you; and if they let me in. She is too close to being released. Too close to a re-trial. She would never see you."

"We won't know if we don't ask."

"Why do you want to see her?"

"I want to ask her if she meant to kill Terry."

"But..."

"What if the target was Julia, not Tilson? What if she never meant to kill him, only her? Melanie, too. What if?"

"No one has thought of that."

"Exactly."

"She wouldn't tell you, even if we got in to see her."

"If she thinks she's going to get out, get a re-trial, stay free after that, she might tell me, only me, because of Julia."

"I couldn't be with you?"

"We might get you in; if you simply sat and listened, we convinced her you weren't a danger, just a student, watching for watching's sake, no legal standing."

Mariska clapped her hands lightly.

"It would be terribly exciting."

"If we could get her to see us."

"She will. I feel it. She will."

"Some magical feeling that is solely Czech?"

"Absolutely."

She smiled, leaned forward, planted a kiss on his cheek. The first kiss of any kind that she'd ever given him.

"Jesus."

"He won't help you; only you and I can help you. Get some sleep, wake refreshed, let's see Kathleen."

"Won't you, please...?"

"No. Go to bed. I'll clean up the cups. I won't sleep, you know, because of you."

"I could think of a better reason why you wouldn't sleep."

"I'll bet you can think of more than one but banish them from you mind, it is not going to happen. How many times must I tell you?"

"Until you say yes."

"For eternity then."

She picked up the cups, said goodnight, departed the room and a few moments later locked the basement door. I don't know why she does that, Dave thought, she knows very well I have a key. He watched TV for another hour, until his eyelids began to droop, he switched off, climbed the stairs wearily, climbed into bed, slept without interruption from human, demon, devil or ghost.

He parked the car in the main car-park of Silver Sides Maximum Security Prison, called Silver Sides for the simple reason that it was built in a part of the City that had been known by that moniker since before time was recorded. No one knew why.

"You got your story right?"

"I am a student of psychology at the University, writing my thesis on murderesses. I am only accompanying you on the off-chance I might get to see Kathleen Tilson."

"Did you run off an identification card?"

She opened the jacket of her smart suit and displayed a sealed photograph identification card on a chain around her neck.

"Neat."

"I thought so."

"Right, let's give it a try."

**

They climbed out of the car, Mariska carrying a black briefcase that contained nothing more than ten sheets of blank A4 paper and they headed towards the vertiginous outer walls of the prison, topped with barbed wire, keeping Category 1 prisoners, both male and female, away from normal people. They approached the main gate where Dave flashed his warrant card, Mariska her false ID, they spoke to a Security Guard, and were let into the prison. In the office, he identified himself, identified Mariska, spoke to another Guard and asked if it were possible Kathleen Mary Tilson would see them.

"You're kidding, right," the Guard said, identifying himself as Gordon, Dave didn't know if it was his first or last name. "She's just waiting for the Appeal Court ruling Monday. She's as high as a kite, either thinks she'll get case-dismissed or a re-trial. Either way, she's not bothered. She knows she's getting out."

"Could you get someone to give her my name, tell her I'd like to see her, with a young lady? Please ask."

"And is it police business?"

"Of course."

"Take a seat; I'll see what I can do."

Gordon turned his back, picked up a phone and spoke quietly into it. Dave took a seat next to Mariska, who sat with her knees together, her hands on her lap, her hair tied back, no make-up, the briefcase next to her on the floor, looking very much the professional virgin. Dave stared at her, having had the thought. Was she? He never knew of any boyfriends, not while she'd lived in the basement. Would he know if she'd had boyfriends? He doubted it, not with the hours he used to work.

They waited an hour-an-a-half, longer, almost two.

Gordon received a call, waved them over the desk.

"Female Officer coming down," he said. "Amazingly, your name proved to be a winner with her; she'll be delighted to see you, her words. You've been granted one hour. Try not to upset her; she's a bitch when she's upset."

"Really?" Mariska asked, as if she were taking a professional interest in her.

"Oh, not violent in anyway, miss, just mouthy, loud, could cause a riot in a church, know what I mean?"

"Yes. I know someone like that."

Mariska smiled. Gordon melted.

"I thought we agreed you were not to speak." Dave hissed, as they waited for the female Guard.

"Sorry."

"You're not going to do it, are you? Keep quiet."

"We'll see."

"Fuck."

"Don't swear."

They followed the female Guard, who said not say a word to them, along various corridors, through a few locked doors, until she turned to step into a room, pushing the door wide open, standing back, letting them proceed ahead of her.

Kathleen Mary Tilson was sitting inside the room, smiling, looking pleased to see them.

"No touching, no kissing, please stay on your own side of the table; remain seated until you are ready to depart. You have one hour."

Kathleen retained her wide smile.

She was dressed in casual clothes, dark trousers, blue blouse with a wide collar, hair immaculate, minimum make-up; ready, it seemed, for her imminent release.

Dave took his seat, Mariska sat next to him; the briefcase, which had been checked twice, on the floor. Kathleen stared from one to the other.

"Well, well," she said, her voice full of mischief, "Detective Inspector David Lewis and his girl Friday, Mariska Masekova. Welcome."

Mariska gaped.

"Hello, Kathleen. I see you still know everything about everything."

"I know you've been demoted, new back to work, an Inspector no longer. I never thought it would take you so long to get over the slut Julia's death."

"Death affects us all differently." Dave ignored the slur on Julia's memory.

"Why is the beautiful Mariska with us?"

"She's studying psychology at the University."

"Rubbish. Last I heard, she was still living in your basement."

"Okay, she's just observing."

Kathleen turned her attention to Mariska, still smiling, still cool, untroubled.

"Are you shocked that I know who you are?"

"A little."

"Czech father, Irish mother, twenty-seven, did well at University, worked for the Lewis's since you received your degree or not long afterwards. Bit of disappointment to your parents, really."

"They are happy for me."

"I don't think so. So you have come to observe. Observe what?"

"Whatever happens, whatever is said."

"You think I'm going to jeopardise my appeal just so you can observe."

"Nothing that is said today is going to be noted, we are not wired, we're taking no notes. It is just for me, experience."

"If you were wired, you wouldn't be here and stuff experience. You are just here to be nosy because you can, because you know him. Anyway, my Appeal is over, I am just awaiting the result. What do you think?"

"Re-trial," Dave said.

"You think so? I would be more than a little disappointed. Obviously, I was out of my mind when I set fire to that house. No sane person would do such a thing knowing there were people inside, a child."

"Were you after Julia or Terry?"

Kathleen flared. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth, they all moved, rage oozed out of her; she held it in well though.

"When you speak of him, you call him Terence. He hated Terry."

"Rupert?"

"Yes, he liked that, too."

"Rupert it is, then."

"Not Terence?"

"I can't think of him as Terence. He's just that bastard Terry Tilson to me, always will be, but I'll go with Rupert, it's like speaking about someone else."

Kathleen flared again, for a moment almost losing it. She inhaled deeply, turned to speak to Mariska.

"Are you observing?"

"Yes."

"What do you see?"

"A woman in a rage. A murderous rage."

Kathleen put her hands on the table. For a moment, Dave thought she was either going to slap Mariska or grab her, hurt her in some way. She pulled back at the last second, calmed.

"You're a smart girl."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it to be a compliment."

"Oh."

"Did you mean to kill Rupert? Or was it Julia who was the target?" Dave asked.

"He wasn't supposed to be there, Terence. I'd checked his diary. You didn't know I was still his diary secretary? He phoned me every day, told me where he was going, who he was going to be with. He was supposed to be somewhere else altogether, another town, another place, another person. You're not the only one who suffered from the death of someone much loved in that fire. It's just that I handled it better."

"Probably easier in here, no physical memories, no places to see their ghosts, see where they walked, talked, cooked, lived, slept."

"Think so?"

"Definitely."

"Give it go sometime."

"Pass."

"Do you sleep with him?"

"None of your business," Mariska replied.

Kathleen laughed; amazingly it was a tinkling, friendly sound. Monsters had the most complicated personal attributes.

"So, you don't. That must drive him up the wall, you being downstairs, in your bed, naked, padding around your little apartment, him upstairs thinking about you. Must drive him mad."

"None of your business," Mariska repeated.

Momentarily, Dave couldn't get shake the image of Mariska walking around her little apartment naked out of his mind. He breathed in.

"See, just the thought has aroused him."

"I think we have got all we wanted, haven't we?"

"No, Mariska, you haven't, not until I say so. He has more questions."

"No, I haven't. I just wanted to clarify in my mind as to who your actual target was; you've told me, thank you."

"Don't you want to ask if I feel any guilt over Melanie?"

"I don't suppose you do."

Kathleen laughed again.

"Of course I don't. I just thought you'd ask. Neither she, nor Julia, should have moved in with him, taken him away from me, my wonderful Terence."

"He was a twat; he treated women like shit, you, them, all of you, he got you to do what he wanted, then mistreated and abused you all."

"Not me!"

The words boomed out of Kathleen's mouth like bullets. Dave had touched a nerve.

He laughed.

"What, he never asked you to do anything for him? Never had a threesome with you and someone else? Never abused or used you?"

He laughed again.

"You were his little lady at home, weren't you, cooking his meals, washing his underwear, the little woman? You were just the wife. Oh, my God, that's wonderful. He did all those things to all those other women and never asked you to join in. You would have done it, too, if he'd only asked. What was the problem when you first got married? Were you frigid, cold, had no sex-drive, something like that, too much of the Catholic Church teachings inside you, all sex is dirty, you just lay there like a plank, let him climb on you, felt nothing, is that what drove him away? Is that what got him fantasising about other women, things he'd like to do with them, is that what turned him into the smooth immoral bastard he was? Was he that way because you could do nothing for him? And you kept his diary; you knew who he was with, what he was doing, because he told you. Every day. Not once did he ask you to join in."

Dave laughed loudly. The sound was false, hard, not laughter from amusement, something else, laughter as a weapon, a lancet, cutting away at a heart.

Throughout his taunting, Kathleen's face became more and more an ashen mask, cheekbones white enough to freeze fish.

Dave continued to laugh, wiping a crocodile tear from his eye.

Kathleen leapt out of her chair and slapped him, hard.

The Guard dived in, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back, holding her arms. Kathleen resisted for only a second then relaxed. She grinned at both Mariska and Dave.

"Your day will come, Detective Lewis. And you, Mariska Masekova, say goodbye to your Czech father and Irish mother, you are destined to be not long with them."

"Don't threaten me, you sad bitch!" Mariska yelled, still shaking from Kathleen's sudden leap out of her chair.

"Enough!" the Guard shouted, as she pushed Kathleen up against a wall. "Get out, both of you."

"Thank you, Kathleen, it was very enlightening."

"Yes, thank you, Kathleen."

Kathleen laughed, an eerie sound this time, not tinkling, but maniacal.

"Enjoy your moment, the pair of you. Time is on my side. I will soon be free."

"Of course you will."

"Out! Both of you. Out!"

They departed.

* * * * * *

Chapter 14

They sat in the car in the huge car park of the Prison, having been all but ejected from it. Guards angry with them, Deputy Governor equally angry, questioning Mariska's right to be there, questioning Dave's right, Dave arguing right back at everyone, telling them that his enquiries were relevant police work, that he was investigating crimes; everyone telling him he could state his case to his superiors, whose permission he would need if he ever wanted to return. Even the Deputy Governor thought she would get a re-trial.

"What did we get out of that? What did you observe?" Dave asked, as he stared out of the windscreen.

"She's a very angry woman, capable of anything, very aloof, no guilt from killing an eleven-year old child. Scary."

"What else?"

"She not only knew her husband was having affairs she was active in them, not sexually, but as his secretary, keeping a record, where he was, who he was with. She would have known what he was doing every day, every night. I believed her when she said he was supposed to be somewhere else on the night he died. Can I ask a question?"

"Yes."

"Why would Julia think he was going to marry her when he had no intentions of ever leaving Kathleen? I mean, he did leave her, physically, but emotionally they were attached for life. She allowed him to do what he wanted with other women because she wouldn't do those things herself. You were right, she might have done them, but he never asked. Why on earth would Julia think she was going to have a permanent relationship?"

Dave thought about the question.

"I don't want to say this without killing myself," he said, eventually. "But maybe Julia was the new Kathleen, a more exciting Kathleen, maybe she knew what he was doing with other women, too, she knew he liked threesomes, maybe she was prepared to let him do what he wanted just to be with him. Maybe he was lining her up as his new Kathleen, someone who would keep his diary and do what he wanted. Paradise."

Mariska took his hand.

"I'm all right," he continued, squeezing her hand. "It's the way the evidence is stacking up."

"So that was why Kathleen killed Julia? That would explain it; she never has put forward a motive for doing it, not from what I've read. She knew he was going to cut her out of their deal, ditch her for a younger, better looking, more intelligent, more sexually active model. "

"That's it. Julia was to be the new Kathleen. He'd told his wife he was divorcing her, getting rid of her, because he'd found someone better. It must have been the ultimate betrayal. A Catholic by birth and style, someone who'd allowed him to do whatever he wanted, sleep with whomsoever he wished, to take part in any fantasy he could get away with. She kept his diary. What a betrayal. Julia would have had to be disposed of."

"The diaries."

"What about them?"

"Where are they?"

Dave stared at Mariska with thoughtfulness writ large upon his face.

"Why should we care? Kathleen has been tried and convicted once; she will be convicted again, though it might mean her going to a mental hospital instead of a prison. She burned the house down, no one is arguing against that. It just has to be settled about the state of her mind. Why should we care about the diaries?"

"Don't you want to know who was in them, what was in them? She must have kept lots of them over the years and me; I would want to know who was in them; in one of them at least."

Dave turned it over in his mind then looked at Mariska again, smiled, kissed her cheek.

"If we find one and there are any details in it, it will almost kill me to know, but you are so right, we must know what details she kept. We must."

He started up the car, drove out of the car park.

"Where are we going?"

"To the Station, down to the evidence vault, see if we can find those damned diaries."

**

"Sergeant Mitchell, good afternoon," Dave said.

"Afternoon to you and your lady, too. What do you want?"

"Want?"

"I know you from old, Lewis, from when you were a D.I., you were never nice to anyone unless you wanted something. Famous for it, you were. What do you want?"

They stood in the Custody Suite with the Duty Sergeant, Ellis Mitchell, a huge, pot-bellied man with very little hair and large jowls, his eyes almost hidden beneath flesh. Mariska was carrying her briefcase.

"Anyone working in the evidence vault?"

"What, on a Saturday afternoon, are you kidding me?"

"Could I have the key?"

"What for?"

"I'm looking into something important."

"And what's she doing here, if you'd pardon my language, miss? But you don't know him like I do."

"I think I do, Sergeant, and you're right, he never treats anyone nicely unless he wants something. But this is important."

Mariska smiled.

Ellis Mitchell melted.

"You will have to sign the form, giving you the right to enter, and you must take nothing away. Understand?"

"Of course," Dave answered, as he leaned on the desk.

Mitchell found the correct form from a veritable mountain of forms kept behind the desk. Dave signed it.

"It says here, reason for visit; normally these are kept downstairs when it's open, where you fill them in. What's your reason for going?"

"Ellis, I have no idea until I find it, I don't even know if it's there. Leave that blank, I'll fill it in when I come back up."

Ellis handed over the key, Dave and Mariska made their way towards the door that led to the underground cavern known as the evidence vault.

"Miss," Mitchell called after them, "leave the briefcase here."

Mariska glanced at Dave, returned to the desk, handed it over.

"That's a bloody nuisance," she said, as Dave was unlocking the cage that held evidence going back years for cases and investigations long forgotten, accused long dead and buried, even those who'd been set free, records still intact, evidence that convicted them still there. He turned on the lights.

"If we find them, we'll have to hide them somewhere else."

"Don't be looking at me when you say that, David Lewis. I do not stuff books in my underwear for anyone."

"I was just talking."

They stepped into the vault.

"I haven't been down here for years but I do remember that everything runs in date order, earliest cases closest to the door, newer cases around the back."

He began walking down the narrow aisles. Mariska sneezed. There was a lot of airborne dust. Dave looked at names on evidence boxes, noting years, moving slowly, slowly, looking left and right, Mariska just following. Dave stopped, then started, then stopped again. He reached up, touched a box, then another, two boxes, both with the words _'Kathleen Mary Tilson'_ writ large in marker-pen.

"Got her."

Problem was, there were four other boxes on top of the two marked with her name. He started to ease the bottom one out, ever so slowly, inching it, not wanting to spill the top boxes, pushing the second one in to hold the others, wiggling the one he wanted from side to side, Mariska helping, pulling. The box came off the shelf, the boxes above it crashed down, wobbled, but stayed stacked. Dave turned his attention to the box that Mariska had laid on the floor.

The box was sealed with tape that had _'Police Evidence'_ printed all over it. The tape ran across and round the box and seriously sealed it. Dave pulled out a pen, jabbed at the tape until it tore then stripped it off, flipped back the lid.

Inside, wrapped in see-through polythene evidence bags were the clothes Kathleen had been wearing on the night of the arson attack, dark tracksuit trousers, hooded top, running shoes. As a criminal, as an arsonist, she'd been unlucky. Only moments after she'd started the fire, standing back in the shadows to watch it take hold, flames shooting through the house as if it had been struck by a meteor; as she was running away back to her car, carrying spare rags and spare petrol, as she raced around a blind corner, she ran into a drunk coming back following a lock-in at his local pub. Albert Cummings was his name. The collision knocked her out. When she regained consciousness, she was already in 'cuffs.

Unlucky.

She'd never denied the crime, never, had just claimed she was insane when she did it, now her defence had discovered a psychiatrist who agreed with her.

Lucky.

There were only clothes in the first box, they'd last for years should they ever be needed again, they might be needed for the re-trial, probably would be, got to go through all the original evidence again. Unless they fought it just on the state of her mind. Mad or sane? That was the question.

Dave had no doubt which one she was, vengeful and sane, that was Kathleen Tilson, murderous and deadly; that was her, too.

He put the lid back on the box and slowly eased out the other. He stacked that on top of the first, peeled back the tape, lifted the lid. First things he saw, in sealed bags, were a number of slim diaries and a Bible. He reached in, pulled the bag out, replaced the lid; held them up for Mariska to see.

"Which ones do we take, we can't take them all?"

Dave unsealed the bag to the sound of hissing air.

"Let's take the one from four years ago, the time he had his affair with Cynthia, and the latest one."

He rummaged through the diaries, found what he was looking for. He also pulled out the Bible.

"Why that?"

"They can hold a lot of secrets, Bibles.

"How are we going to get them out of here?"

"Don't know yet."

Dave did his best to re-seal the plastic bag, pushing it back in the box, putting the lid back on.

It took them a sweaty, dusty age to replace the boxes, the first time they did it Kathleen's name was on the wrong side, not facing an aisle. At last, though, they got them back on the shelf.

"The diaries could go in your underwear."

"They most certainly could not!"

"And the back-up plan is as follows."

A few moments later, Mariska departed the vault, climbed the stairs, returned to the Custody Suite, told Sergeant Edwin that there was too much dust down there for her; it was making her ill. Just for effect, she sneezed, coughed, put a tissue over her mouth, took a deep breath, coughed some more. She collected her briefcase, told him to inform Detective Lewis she would be outside in the fresh air, said goodbye. As she strolled along the corridor, Dave stepped out from the stairs leading to the vault. As she passed she flicked open her briefcase, Dave dropped the books in, Mariska closed the briefcase, never missing a beat, kept walking, Dave returned the keys, said he couldn't find what he was looking for, always was a wild-goose chase, thanked Sergeant Mitchell for his efforts, wished him a nice day, departed the Station.

Mariska stood by the car.

"We are a team."

"A hell of team, you ask me. Well done that woman."

"And that man."

They climbed into the car, drove home.

Dave strolled through to the lounge, Mariska made Earl Grey tea for herself, black coffee for him, brought biscuits on a plate, put them on the occasional table, kicked off her shoes, sat next to him on the couch. He was already flicking through the pages of the latest diary; the other diary, and the Bible, sitting on the table next to the plate with the biscuits on it.

"Anything?" Mariska asked.

"Lots of initials, page after page of them, neatly written. Doesn't look good to me."

Mariska took the diary out of his limp hands; Dave picked up his coffee and drank, nibbled on a biscuit. She looked through the pages, starting from the last entry made, the day Terence, Julia and Melanie had died.

In neatly written letters, the letters E.W. were printed in the right corner of the page.

"E.W.?"

"No idea. Maybe she was the one Tilson was supposed to be with the night he died. That's what Kathleen said."

"But we don't know who she is?"

"Not yet."

"What's in here that doesn't look good?"

"Flick back to the previous Saturday."

Mariska did.

Saturday's entry had the letters J.L. and A.W.

"Is that...?"

"I would guess. Julia Lewis. Alison Weaver. Jesus."

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't know her at all, did I?"

"Doesn't appear so. And she seemed to be so happy with you, with the marriage; except for all the hours you worked. I don't know what happened to her."

"Tilson must have been mesmeric. He didn't seem so the times I met him."

"He kept it for women only, Svengali-like. Blanked men; didn't want to make enemies of them; probably too scared of them."

"He certainly blanked me."

Mariska turned the pages of the diary further back then looked up at Dave.

"What?"

"It looks like a regular Saturday thing."

"Julia and others?"

"Yes. As well as E.W., there is S.V., N.L, C.H."

"Stop, please."

"Sorry. Maybe we should have left the diaries where they were."

"We had to know."

"You had to know, David Lewis. You had to know."

"Yes."

He finished his coffee; there were some hard raps on his front door. Dave looked at Mariska.

"You expecting anyone?"

"If I was, why would they be knocking on your door?"

Mariska sighed, climbed from the couch, went to see who it was. Dave let her do it, hiding the diaries and Bible away in a drawer of a cabinet. Before he could sit, Chrissie came striding through the door.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, the two of you?"

Mariska followed her in, stared at Dave, shrugged.

"What were we doing where, Chrissie?" he asked.

"Visiting the prison; seeing Kathleen Tilson. Everyone is up in arms, the boss, his boss, prison authorities, lawyers; every fucking one. What the hell did you think you were doing this close to the decision of her appeal? Jesus!"

"Sit down, Chrissie."

"I don't want to fucking sit down."

She prowled the lounge like a caged tiger or an angry bear.

"Mariska, make her a coffee."

"Who the fuck do you think you are? Make the coffee yourself; don't be asking her to do things for you all the time. You make me coffee."

Chrissie slumped down in a chair. Dave climbed off the couch, made coffee for Chrissie, returned to the lounge, sat next to Mariska on the couch.

"Look at the two of you, fucking Bonnie and Clyde of the police force, and you not even a police officer yet, Mariska. You haven't even got your application forms in yet. You'll be lucky if you don't get kicked out before you get accepted."

"My fault," Dave said, "she was only following my instructions."

"I would expect you to say nothing else, Detective. So tell me why you were there."

"To see Kathleen."

"I gathered that, from all the trouble you've caused."

"Not fair, Chrissie. We asked if she would see us, she said she would."

"But you fucking upset her, in a way only you could. She slapped you, for Christ's sake. She struck a police officer; have you any idea how serious that is? She could get five years for that."

"I didn't prefer any charges."

"But people are expecting you to. They think you only went to see her so you could get her to slap you, that you did it on purpose to negate her appeal, to keep her inside, for spite."

"Rubbish."

"Then why did you go to see her?"

"Mariska and I..."

"Don't fucking bring her into this; keep this event to you, just you."

"But I was with him."

"Mariska, if there is going to be any blame over this escapade he must take it all, he's got nothing to lose, he hasn't got a career so he can't lose it, but you have a whole future ahead of you. You must let him take the blame."

"I was with him and I wanted to be with him. He had a very important question to ask Kathleen."

"What question?"

Chrissie stared between Dave and Mariska.

"What fucking question?"

"Whether Terry or Julia was the target of the fire?"

Chrissie stared, her mouth open, the cup of coffee held halfway between table and lips.

"They were both targeted. Weren't they?"

"You want to tell her or me?" Dave asked, as he gazed upon Mariska's beauty.

"I'll tell her. Chrissie, Julia, and Julia alone was the target. Melanie was collateral damage; Kathleen doesn't care about her death, not one iota. Terry Tilson was an accident; he wasn't supposed to be there, at the house. Kathleen didn't mean to kill him."

"And she told you this, Mariska, did she?"

"Yes."

"And you believed her, you and him?"

"Yes."

"And why should she tell you this thing?"

"Because she wanted to. She wanted Dave to know that she'd suffered too, that she lost someone who was loved."

"And how did you come to ask the question in the first place?"

"We were just talking, it came up; we decided to ask if she'd see us. She said she would, told us that Terry wasn't supposed to be there."

"If he'd left her, why would she know where he was supposed to be?"

"Thereby hangs the tale."

"Don't talk in fucking riddles, Dave, tell me how she knew."

"She was his diary secretary."

"What?"

"She kept details of where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. He rang her every day and told her, she wrote it down."

"She told you that, too?"

"Yes, she did."

"And Julia, what was she to him?"

"Slut."

Chrissie almost dropped her cup, Mariska's head snapped round to look at him.

"What did you just say?"

"Julia was his slut, Chrissie; she slept with whoever he said, not just Alison Weaver but others, lots of others."

"Kathleen knew this?"

"She wrote it down in her diary."

"Why?"

"Because she wouldn't play, couldn't play, probably. That's what she got angry about. He didn't even ask her to do things other women did for him; she might have done them if only he'd asked but he didn't, so she let him do what he wanted with other women, wrote the details in her diary."

"If she let him do it, knew all about it, what made her kill Julia? Why did she turn murderous so suddenly?"

"Tilson was going to replace Kathleen as his diary secretary. He'd found someone who would do what he wanted, didn't mind what he did, someone more beautiful and intelligent. Kathleen was about to be replaced."

"By Julia?"

"By Julia."

"Jesus."

Chrissie stared at Dave, then at Mariska, then back to Dave.

"How does that make you feel?"

"How the hell do you think it makes me feel? For a start, I didn't know her from a snail in the garden, though I guess they both slithered. I didn't know her, Chrissie, not at all. If I had known what she was like I would have gone for custody of Melanie. Without a doubt or a second of hesitation. She failed me, she failed Melanie, she failed herself. All for Terry Tilson."

"You're sure about all this?"

"Yes."

"Is it all speculation, based on her say-so, or do you have any evidence to back it all up?"

Mariska and Dave looked at each other.

"Jesus. You look like guilty fucking children. What haven't you told me?"

Mariska and Dave looked at the carpeted floor.

"God, it must be awful. Tell me before I drag you both down to the Station."

Dave looked up.

"I went to find the diaries."

Chrissie stared, speechless, shocked.

"Fucking hell. You've been into the evidence vault?"

Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"Yes."

Chrissie dropped her head into her hands. Mariska and Dave stared, Mariska rose, picked up the used cups, went into the kitchen, brought back fresh drinks. She lay one near Chrissie, who still sat with her head in her hands; Mariska sat, handed Dave his.

"Thanks."

Chrissie looked up.

"What?"

"Just saying thanks for the fresh coffee."

"You went into Kathleen's evidence boxes?"

"Yes."

"The two of you?"

"Mariska didn't want to go, I forced her."

"I wanted to go."

"Jesus, what are you two like. You think it's a game, policing? Something to do in your part time, tamper with evidence, go and see someone who is, certainly, going to be released on Monday? You are nuts, both of you. What did you take?"

"A diary."

Chrissie held out her right hand.

"Give."

"I can't, Chrissie, I haven't worked out what everything means, yet."

"You want me to get a warrant, get this house searched, arrest you both? That diary is Crown Property; you have stolen it. You have committed a crime, Dave. Your twelve-weeks are over. You didn't want to do the job, well, now you are not going to do it. Give me the fucking diary."

"Give it to her." Mariska said.

Dave looked at her; she smiled and nodded her head. He rose, crossed to the cabinet, slid open the drawer; removed a single diary, the one from four years ago. He handed it to Chrissie.

"Why did you take it?"

"I thought if Kathleen kept a diary, if she really did know all that was going on, then Cynthia Howell would be mentioned, but I haven't had time to look. It would prove that Kathleen knew about Cynthia, give her a reason to kill her."

"Kathleen's still in prison."

Chrissie flicked through the pages, found the date when Cynthia attended the four-day course. She looked down then her head snapped up.

"C.H.," she said.

"Cynthia Howell."

"Same letters four days running."

Dave smiled.

"Kathleen knew all about Cynthia; just as she'd known about all the others."

"Why didn't we investigate this at the time?" Chrissie asked, staring at the diary.

"I don't know," Dave replied, "I wasn't there, I'd been removed from the inquiry, personal relationship with victim. Start of the breakdown."

"Because we had her, didn't we," Chrissie said. "She admitted the crime, went for mental ill health, confessed. We never really investigated anything, did we?"

"No."

"Trouble is, it's only Cynthia's initials that are in this diary, there's no address, phone number, nothing to identify where she lived, what she did for a living."

"Maybe she kept those details somewhere else. If he had a lot of women, and he did, she couldn't have kept up with them all, were they lived, what they did for a living, without writing something down, somewhere else."

"Did you find anything else?"

"No; only the diary. Well, there was a box full of them, but we were only looking for a connection with Cynthia. We found one."

"But Kathleen's in prison."

"Someone killed Cynthia for her. Someone she met in prison."

"Why now?"

"Don't know, she's coming out, time for a reckoning, getting the women who abased her, demeaned her. Could be she's got more religion in prison, sees herself as an avenging angel."

"But in that case..."

"There could be a lot of them on her hit list. Is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes."

Chrissie flicked through the diary again.

"There are a half-dozen sets of initials in this one alone. You say there is an evidence box full of them?"

"Yes."

"Seals broken?"

"Yes."

"Shit. Well, I'd better investigate this myself, get the boxes opened officially, take Sammy with me, he'll witness anything I say, bless him."

"Another one in love with you?" Mariska asked, with a smile.

"Probably, Mariska. As usual, David Lewis, you have sailed close to the wind; how many bloody times have you done that? But every time you do it you seem to come up with something to dig yourself out of the hole. If you fell in shit, you would come up smelling of roses. I don't know how you do it."

"By being a brilliant policeman?"

"You'd love someone to say that about you wouldn't you? No one is and I put it down to luck."

She lay down her cup, stood.

"I'd better get to it. You're not keeping anything from me are you, either of you?"

"No," Dave and Mariska said, at the same time.

"Better not be."

She strode from the room, followed by Mariska; Dave could hear Chrissie speaking into her phone.

"Sammy..." he heard her say.

If she ever found out about the other diary, the Bible, she'd kill him.

Dead.

* * * * * *

Chapter 15

Mariska re-appeared in the doorway; Dave already held both the other diary and the Bible in his hands, flicking through the pages of the diary. His face was ashen. Mariska flopped down next to him.

"You okay?"

"It wasn't just at weekends; it was almost any day of the week. Further you go back, the more times she's mentioned."

"I am so sorry. None of us knew, not just you, Barbra and Sean would be horrified if they ever found out, don't you be spiteful and tell them."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

Dave sighed.

"I promise."

"Pass me the Bible."

He passed the small, hard-backed, red leather covered Bible over to her. She first of all held it then shook it and nothing fell out. Dave watched her.

"I saw it on a TV programme once," she said, "stuff fell out, it solved the case."

"Just like real-life, huh?"

"Something like that."

Inside the front cover was an elaborate honour identification sticker, pasted in with great care. It had been awarded to Kathleen Mary O'Connor in celebration of her sixteenth birthday, signed by a priest whose signature was indecipherable. The Bible was in fairly good condition, considering it was about thirty years old. It had obviously been a much-loved book, cared for and read, if the thumbed pages meant anything. Mariska ploughed through it, looking for what she did not know, anything, something.

That.

The inside of the back cover had a two-inch tear at the bottom corner. It just looked suspicious to Mariska because the rest of the book was in such good condition. The rip ran from the corner to the centre. She lifted the Bible up, stared at it, lifted the lining to see if anything could be seen; she ran her hand over it to see if anything could be felt.

There just could be something.

She put the Bible down, went into Julia's bathroom; the one Dave never used, the one Mariska cleaned regularly, throwing nothing away, not without his permission. She reached into the cabinet, took out tweezers. Returning to the lounge she set the Bible on the table, knelt, lifted the tweezers, inserted them into the rip, squeezed them closed to see if she'd grabbed anything. She could have just ripped the lining away from the cover, of course but it was a Bible and she didn't want any problems with God. She already had enough problems with Dave Lewis.

When she withdrew the tweezers, nothing came out.

She tried again, knowing that in movies, on TV, it was always the third attempt that proved to be successful. When she pulled the tweezers out on her second attempt, the corner of a piece of pink material came out.

"David."

He looked over.

"What do you think that is?"

"It looks like a piece of silk to me, is it part of the lining of the book?"

"I don't think so."

Mariska inserted the tweezers again to pull more of the piece of the pink silk out then she eased out more. Dave was intrigued, watching her closely. Personally, he'd have ripped the Bible apart, the book meant nothing to him, he knew there was no God; He would never have allowed the murder of his child in such horrendous circumstances, He just would not have allowed it. If Mariska hadn't asked him to hand it over, he would have torn it apart. More and more of the piece of silk came out, until it was all out, a pink, not-very-imposing piece of silk.

Mariska lay down the tweezers and flattened it out.

And a not-very-imposing piece of pink silk became something very important indeed.

For written on it, in small neat black letters, were names and addresses.

Line after line of them.

Cynthia Anne Howell; Suzie Ventner; Norma Levington; Carrie Folds; Denise Carrington; Julia Lewis. More than twenty of them, all neatly recorded in small, perfect writing, someone proud of their skills, still making her English teacher, art master and priest proud, the writing small enough for Dave to pull a magnifying-glass from his cabinet and hand it to Mariska, to let her stare. She'd found it, she deserved all the joy. She looked up at him with a smile.

"It's the names and addresses."

"I can see."

"Cynthia's on it."

"Yes."

"And Julia."

Dave was quiet.

"She was very neat, Kathleen," Mariska observed.

"Star pupil, no doubt, teacher's pet."

"Why silk?"

"Who knows? Probably because she was a fan of World War 2 when they hid maps on silk for escapees; it couldn't easily be detected, you didn't know it was there until you pulled it out. Nice instincts, by the way, excellently noticed."

She looked at him.

"That is the first time you have ever congratulated me on anything."

"Rubbish, tosh."

"No, honestly, it is."

He stared at her, ashamed.

"Then I am very, very sorry. I didn't realise I was such an awful person."

"You're not that awful, you just don't notice the needs of others, a kind word, a friendly touch, a compliment; these things aren't part of your way of life. Sadly. You must have been terrible to work for, never telling anyone that they'd done a good job or a great one, never buying anyone a drink."

"I bought lots of drinks."

"I'm not talking about a round at the pub; I'm talking about a bottle of something, Champagne, Scotch, a gift, another way of saying thank you, well done. You have never done that. With anyone. You don't do it with me; you never did it with Julia."

"Is that why she left, because I didn't buy her enough gifts?"

"You worked too hard but that wasn't your fault, you were a policeman when you met her, when you married, she should have known what she was letting herself in for, it's just that your lack of attention drove her to a bad place with a bad man, where she got more attention than she could handle."

A tear rose in Dave's eye.

"And I can't even say I'm sorry."

"No, you can't, but you can always change."

"Me? Change?"

"Everyone can do it if they try."

The tear ran down his cheek.

"I could change for you."

"Not for me, for yourself, be happier, less obsessive, less possessive, less intense. Let yourself be happy."

He attempted a smile but failed.

"You'll be okay, once the shocks are over."

"Are the shocks ever over? They seem to come at me like waves, enormous waves, rolling over me, sucking me under."

"Bad things have happened to you, you have suffered dark times, but they will get better, they must, just by the law of averages."

"Is there such a law?"

"I'm sure there is."

"Terry Tilson must have been some kind of sexual athlete if all the entries by Kathleen are to be believed. He's at it every weekend, usually with two other women, most Wednesdays, occasional Thursdays and Fridays. Mondays and Tuesdays seem like the only time he sleeps."

The change of subject had momentarily wrong-footed Mariska but she was soon back in her stride.

"We should go and see Norma Levington," she said.

"Why?"

"Because she is the only one who lives out of the City. Kathleen told us Tilson should have been in another town on the night he died. She is the only one."

"Why do we want to see her?"

"To ask her why Tilson didn't visit her that night. Find out what went wrong with his life."

"You are taking all this very seriously."

"It's an investigation, my first, it's unbelievably interesting, eking out facts, following leads, speaking to witnesses, visiting Prison, the evidence vault, looking into things, seeking out answers. Don't you think it's interesting or have you been doing it for too many years?"

"It's interesting."

"Tomorrow, we go and see Mrs. Levington?"

"If you want."

"I'll make a copy of the names and addresses. You can buy me a late lunch."

"Jeez, thanks."

They went jogging together through the park, returning as sweat-soaked heaps, he entered the house through his front door, she through hers. Too late for lunch, they met for dinner and afterwards watched separate televisions in separate abodes, slept in separate beds. Dave wished it wasn't so.

It was deep into the night, eerily silent and dark when Melanie came.

He'd been fast asleep, the best sleep he'd had for some time, but the ethereal light woke him as surely as an alarm clock would. He rolled over to face her. She was standing next to the bed again.

"Hi, Melanie."

I love you, Daddy.

"Thank you, sweetheart, I love you, too."

Mummy doesn't love you.

"I know, darling. I know."

It makes me sad.

"It makes me sad, too."

She says terrible things about you, terrible.

"I'm sorry, my darling girl, you shouldn't have to hear them. Mummy is just mad at me; I didn't pay her enough attention."

The man hates you.

The hairs on the back of Dave's neck rose.

"What man, sweet?"

The man, the one Mummy is with. He is a bad man, I don't like him.

"I don't like him, either."

Come and get me, Daddy, bring me home, please bring me home.

Once again, a sob caught in his throat.

"I will, darling girl, I will come and get you, bring you home."

Thank you, Daddy, thank you.

In a blink, the room was silent and dark again. Melanie was gone.

Dave wept.

**

"Mrs. Levington?"

Dave flashed his warrant card, Mariska took out a similar-looking leather wallet, didn't open it.

"Yes."

Norma Levington was in no way a beauty, not like Julia. She was in her forties, overweight, dowdily dressed, mousy, unkempt hair, thick lips, grey eyes.

"I wonder if we could have a word you."

"About what?"

"Terry Tilson," Mariska said, bluntly.

"Don't..."

"Yes, I know, he liked to be called Terence or Rupert. Can we speak you about him?"

"He's dead, killed by that stupid wife of his."

Mrs. Levington attempted to close her front door.

"Okay, Mrs. Levington, if that's the way you want to play it, we will have to ask your husband why Tilson didn't come round to see you on the night he died."

Norma Levington's face crumpled, literally. Her jaw sagged, her mouth hung open uselessly, her eyes bulged, even her jowls seemed to sag. She looked blindly up and down the street but no one was around.

"Come in, come in. Be quiet, my husband's in bed. He does permanent nights on the railway."

Another railway connection, Dave thought.

"Come through."

Norma Levington took them through to a conservatory at the back of the house, making sure she closed every door quietly as they passed through it.

"My husband sleeps on the other side of the house."

Neither Mariska nor Dave made a comment to that.

Norma flopped down in a large, purple-cushioned cane chair, Dave and Mariska remained standing.

"I can't believe this. How do you know Terence was coming here on the night he died?"

"His wife kept a diary."

Mariska was running the whole thing, so Dave let her continue.

"A diary?"

Norma's voice was so quiet Dave had a problem identifying the words. It was more his ability to read lips than actually hearing them.

"She knew what he was up to, where he went, what he did, who he did it with. She wrote it all down in a diary. You were written in it on the night he died."

"Oh, my God."

"Not much of one, though, is He, Mrs. Levington?"

Dave was being cynical again.

"What? Who?"

"God, he's not up to the job, is He? Killing your boyfriend by mistake when he shouldn't have been in the house with the woman and the child who died, who we now think were the sole objects of Kathleen's mad fury. Why didn't Terry visit you?"

Norma Levington looked at her fingers, intertwined them, plucked at her skirt.

"I did things for him, you know," she said, eventually.

"We know that, Mrs. Levington. We haven't called round to discuss your disgusting sexual shenanigans; we have come to ask why he didn't visit?"

Norma Levington was silent for some time, looking from one to the other and back again. Finally, she spoke again.

"My husband works nights, every night except Sunday, he has a night off then; he works on the railway lines, permanent way, replacing sleepers, fixing bent rails, things like that, in a gang. He goes to work every night at about 8.30, comes in any time between four and five, gets into his own bed. We only sleep together on Sundays."

"That's God being nice to you."

"Be quiet, Detective."

Dave thought he might slap Mariska.

"Terence would come round about eleven, leave about two, maybe three, once or twice he was still here when my husband came in, sneaked out while he slept."

"But?" Mariska asked.

"But on the night he died, my husband came home at quarter-to-ten, he'd hurt his back lifting something, he'd been sent home. I had a lot of panicky moments before I could phone Terence and tell him not to come round. He promised to punish me the next time he saw me. I said I understood that. He never did visit. I never saw him again. His stupid wife killed him."

She looked up.

"She killed him by accident, because she thought he was here?" she asked, suddenly brightening.

"Yes, she did," Mariska confirmed.

"Because he was at Julia's?"

"You knew her?" Dave whispered.

"Yes, we used to, you know, if you've seen the diaries, you'll know. Terence was very mesmerising. When he wanted you to do something, you did it. We all did."

"You know of others?"

"Suzie Ventner, he used to bring her here."

"And your husband never suspected?"

"Never."

Norma Levington stared around the conservatory, at Dave, at Mariska.

"He made us do terrible things, you know, but I miss him so much. There was just something about him; it was like being with a film star when you were with him. Champagne and debauchery, just as you imagined it to be in the olden days. I miss him."

"Good for you, Mrs. Levington."

"Detective, be quiet."

He was going to slap her.

"How did you meet him, Mrs. Levington?"

"I worked for a short time in a warehouse, my husband doesn't like me working, he likes me to be here when he wakes, and the company sent me on a course on how to lift and move heavy loads. Terence was the instructor."

"And Suzie Ventner? Do you know what she did for a living?"

"God, yes, she's a solicitor. Terence's solicitor. She was wild, really wild, slim, you know, but wild, insatiable, wore me out she did."

"Thank you, Mrs. Levington."

"She's coming out tomorrow, isn't she? Kathleen."

"So I believe, but it will probably be a re-trial, she will go back to jail."

"Good. She killed my Terence."

She began to cry, streams of tears pouring from her eyes.

They left her there, in the conservatory, sobbing, Dave slammed every door in the house on the way out, making sure he woke the husband.

"You are a bastard," Mariska said, when they'd walked back to the car.

"Well, I am sick of this poor dead Terence crap. My daughter died in that fire and nobody seems to give a shit; it's all poor Terence this, poor Terence that, fuck Melanie, fuck Julia."

"I think some did."

"Don't try and be funny."

She linked his right arm.

"Sorry, drive me into the countryside, I don't see enough of it, take me for lunch in a pub next to a river, let's sit outside."

"The weather's crap."

"Okay, just take me somewhere nice, anywhere."

Lunch was delicious. She drank Earl Grey and he drank delicious black coffee. They barely spoke; there just didn't seem to be anything to talk about. Dave would have massacred everyone in the pub for a pint but decided that would be regarded as a little over the top. They enjoyed themselves.

Sunday night, Dave watched television, never saw Mariska again after they entered the house, he snacked late on cheese and biscuits, waited most of the night for Melanie to show, she didn't, he woke exhausted.

It was Monday.

It was time.

Dave found a place in the oak-panelled Court and sat alone. Barbra and Sean sat a distance from him, Kathleen's parents sat even further away. Her mother seemed particularly distressed. Dave didn't care; she'd bred a monster who should have been put down; someone who'd murdered his daughter. Once again Tilson's parents slipped in quietly, almost unnoticed. Dave ignored them, parents who'd bred another monster.

The usual routine was followed; lawyers came in, seemed like fucking hundreds of them, chatting amicably, laying out papers and files, as if they were ready for another trial already.

Kathleen came up, once again with prison officers on either side of her, just in case she was going back to prison. Little chance of that, Dave thought. She was dressed in a dark suit, blue blouse, hair done, make-up plastered. She looked as if she were ready for a holiday. She smiled at her parents, not at Dave.

A couple of minutes later the judge entered, resplendent in his scarlet robes, his white wig, looking a prat, too much of all this dressing up in British courts. Justice should be about justice not about lawyers and judges in robes and wigs, all in the same clubs, playing at the same golf clubs, eating at the same restaurants, all knowing one another, earning fortunes, pontificating about how people should live when they knew nothing about how ordinary people lived; it should just be about justice. Men, women, they didn't need to get dressed up to provide that.

Everyone stood.

Barbra and Sean looked over at him, Barbra smiled.

Fuck you.

The judge sat, they all sat.

The judge sat for an age while he read papers in front of him as if everything written in them came as a complete surprise. For God's sake, it's your own judgement, Dave thought. How long do you have to draw it out, like a cheap comedian waiting for a laugh, a presenter of a reality show announcing the winner? Come on, bastard.

"This is a complicated case..." the judge began.

They were all fucking complicated.

"...and I have looked in depth at both arguments..."

That's your job, arse.

"...and have decided that Mrs. Tilson should be the subject of a re-trial. I have deemed her previous conviction unsafe."

Kathleen's parents gave little squeals, Barbra and Sean held each other, Tilson's parents remained impassive, while Dave just sat there, cold, knowing that it was going to happen.

Kathleen smiled.

"There are conditions," the judge continued. "The re-trial should begin no later than four-weeks today; the arguments will be about Mrs. Tilson's mental health at the time of the incident. She should surrender her passport to the authorities if she has not done so already. I am mindful that Mrs. Tilson has no previous convictions and has been a model prisoner so I order that she reside at her parents address and report to her local police station each Monday and Thursday until the trial begins. I do this because no argument has been put forward as to Mrs. Tilson's proclivity to honour restrictions. Other than those restrictions, Mrs. Tilson, you are free to go until your new trail begins. Copies of my recommendations and full judgment are available."

He banged his gavel, stood and departed, as everyone stood. Kathleen was led away, her parents chattered excitedly, Sean cried, Barbra hugged him, Dave wondered whether to tell them what kind of woman their daughter was, he was very tempted, but he'd promised Mariska not to say anything and she'd kill him. Tilson's parents slipped away, once again, unnoticed.

And thinking about Mariska. Where the hell was she? She hadn't been at home to accompany him to the Court, she hadn't phoned; he'd heard nothing from her. Where was she?

Dave departed the Court without speaking to anyone, offering no word of congratulations to Kathleen's parents, or commiserations to Barbra and Sean. He departed the building and took up a place on the pavement where he could see Kathleen when she came out.

It took an age until she exited with her lawyers walking in front of her, her parents on either side, a wide smile on Kathleen's face. There were a dozen or so journalists and photographers waiting, one of whom was a tall, red-haired, power-dressed, high-heeled female, with large sunglasses, a false press-card around her neck and a large dummy microphone in her hand.

A female solicitor stepped forward with a sheet of paper in her hand, from which she read.

"Mrs. Tilson will not be speaking to the media," she said. "I shall be making a short statement on her behalf. Mrs. Tilson regrets the deaths she caused, but she was temporarily insane, as will be proved in her new trial. She thanks the judge for giving her the opportunity to prove herself; she thanks her parents for standing by her. There will be no questions."

Immediately, journalists began to ask questions, Kathleen stood and tried not to look superior. Over the Babel of noise and confusion, one question lanced through the air with the precision of a javelin. It was called out by a tall journalist with the red hair.

"Mrs. Tilson," she asked loudly, "who did you ask or employ to murder Cynthia Howell?"

* * * * * *

Chapter 16

The effect on Kathleen was immediate.

Her head snapped round so quickly, to Dave it was a wonder it stayed attached to her neck. All colour drained from her face, she semi-slumped, but was caught by her father. Everyone, including the journalists, turned in silence to look at Mariska, standing tall, magnificent and confident with her forged Press Badge. She held her ground, unmoved, apparently neither frightened by the silence nor the stares. She didn't even take a step back when a look of recognition entered Kathleen's eyes, as she stood erect once more, searched around, looking for Dave, finding him, snarling in his direction.

"No questions!" Kathleen's solicitor shouted. "No questions!"

Another member of the legal team was on a mobile phone.

A tumult broke out amongst the journalists.

"What is the truth behind the question?" one shouted, loudly, as Mariska's question was picked up. "Kathleen, did you arrange for Cynthia Howell to be murdered?"

"No questions!"

"Did you arrange to kill Cynthia Howell, Kathleen? Did you?"

The question, or similar, was shouted out over and over.

The lawyers and parents gathered around Kathleen and hustled her along the pavement, where a large black car screeched to a halt, hazard lights flashing. Kathleen, her parents and her solicitor were shoved, unceremoniously, into it, the car sped off.

The other journalists followed the group all the way, screaming questions that remained unanswered when the car raced off, then they turned as one to look for the redheaded mysterious fellow hack.

She was nowhere to be seen.

She was already in Dave's car, front seat, head down, so as not to be seen from the street. Dave drove past the journalists, all of whom were on phones, off to drop Mariska at home before proceeding to work, as police love to say. Police proceeded a lot or so they liked to think. At the house, before she stepped in through her front door, Dave hugged her, told her she was, had been, brilliant, thanked her.

"See, you can do it."

"Do what?"

"Commend people, be nice, make those working with you feel good about themselves."

"But you were brilliant."

"I know. Go to work. Here."

She took a folded sheet of paper from her jacket pocket.

"What's this?"

"A list of Tilson's women, in case you want to show your bosses how brilliant you are."

Dave took it from her, opened it, read the printed names and addresses.

"Thank you."

"See, it's becoming a habit already, thanking people. That's good."

She pushed him away without a peck on his cheek and entered, closing the door behind her. Dave stared at it, wanting to kick it down but desisting and proceeding to work. The offices were all abuzz about Kathleen being released.

As soon as Chrissie noticed him, she came across the room, grabbed him by the arm, dragged him along the corridor, into the ladies lavatory, pushed him up against the door, jammed her foot up against it to stop anyone entering.

"I've put the diary back and re-sealed the boxes."

"Thanks, Chrissie."

"I think you should start addressing me as Sergeant, don't you?"

"Yes Sergeant. Thank you."

"You ever pull a trick like that again you'll be gone, even if it is after your twelve-week period."

"I won't be staying after twelve-weeks, Sergeant."

"Yeah, so you keep saying."

"It's true, Sergeant."

"You wouldn't know truth if it smacked you in the face and made your nose bleed. I've also spoken to Sergeant Mitchell, got him to destroy the form you signed. No-one has been in the evidence vault, official."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

"You need to thank Sammy, too. And don't do it in a room full of people. Buy him a bottle of something as a way of thanks, he likes vodka. Better still, I'll buy it, you pay for it, don't want you drinking it, going in off-licences."

"No Sergeant."

"You are seriously pissing me off now; you are taking the Mickey out of me."

"No Sergeant, honestly I am not."

"Don't start with the honesty thing; you don't know anything about it."

"No, Sergeant."

"I see Kathleen got out."

"Yes Sergeant."

"Fuck off with the Sergeant thing!"

"But you said!"

"Bollocks to what I said. You make everything seem like a piss-take, you are just so bloody superior."

"Sorry."

"Kathleen got out then?"

"The new trial has got to start by four weeks today."

"Think she'll turn up for it?"

"They've taken away her passport, she's got to live at her parents, there's a good chance."

"Think she'll swing insanity?"

"I think it's four weeks before it starts again and I think she can do a lot of damage in four weeks. I think she's gone beyond caring, she misses her husband, loved him enormously, blames everyone but herself for his death."

"Before I put the diary back I made a note of the initials in it. J.L. obviously was Julia; I'm sorry about her; she wasn't who we thought she was."

"She wasn't who I thought she was, that's for sure."

"We are going to have trouble finding out who the others are, with only initials to go on. And we've got to be careful how we use it, new trial coming up and all, illegal method of detection."

"I don't think she'll make the new trial."

"You just said she wouldn't run."

"I don't think she'll run, either. She killed her husband accidentally, but made her intentions clear, she meant to kill Julia, didn't care about Melanie. She was only caught because of an enormous piece of luck on our behalf, running into that drunk, knocking herself out. Now Tilson's gone she really has nothing to live for; I think she'll kill again."

"What? Even with a re-trial?"

"Chrissie, she isn't going to be found innocent; she did it. She's either going back to prison or to a secure hospital, either of them for years. She's just being clever, she's worked her way to four weeks of freedom so she can kill again. I expect her to kill as many of her husband's lovers as she can."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Could be, might not be."

Chrissie stared at him for a long time.

"Put it to the vote. There's a gathering in about..." she glanced at her watch, "...now, to see where we are with the Cynthia Howell murder. I'll put you up front, next to Wantage; you can tell the room what you think; see how they accept it, what the collective thinks."

"Okay."

She took her foot away from the door, no one had tried to enter, they strode into the office, where Wantage already stood in front of the room as the peasants gathered, or replaced phones, or sat on desks, while others stood and waited.

Chrissie strode to the front of the room, whispered in Wantage's ear. Wantage glanced at Dave, back to Chrissie, shook his head. Chrissie spoke again. Wantage grimaced, looked at Dave, again.

He slapped his hands together to get some silence.

"Detective Lewis has something to say to us," he said, his expression one of a person who had just sucked lemons.

Dave stepped to the front of the room, looked at the gathered group, sneers on almost every face, not Sammy, a few others, most of the others.

"I have just come from the Appeal Court; Kathleen Tilson got her re-trial and it must begin before four-weeks today, she can't leave the country, got to live with her parents. She's going for insanity. As far as the original crime is concerned; the arson attack on my ex-wife's home, killing her and my daughter; I have now learned that the death of Terry Tilson was an accident. He should not have been at the house."

"And you know that, how?" Don Blue asked; a lob-sided grin on his face.

"Kathleen told me."

"Oh," Don continued, "that would be during the visit you got thrown out of the prison for, would it?"

Dave didn't bat an eyelid.

"I didn't get thrown out, I was asked to leave. Are you going to add anything to this meeting Don, or are you still stinging from the bollocking I gave you for speaking to the News, leaking details of the Cynthia Howell case?"

Don Blue flustered, attempted to make his way through other officers, his hands clenched in fists. Wantage glared at him before turning his attention back to Dave.

"To continue," Dave said, coolly, following the furore, "this is something that has been confirmed by another party."

"Who?" Wantage asked.

"I can't name my source, Boss. Terry Tilson had a harem of women he picked up during the time he was an Instructor teaching Moving and Handling..."

There was some sniggering.

"...and other courses, he made the women slaves to his demands, all of them. He regularly took part in threesomes and, apparently, the women would do anything for him. His wife knew about these trysts, Kathleen kept records. She knew where he was supposed to be on the night he died and he wasn't supposed to be at my ex-wife's house."

"How do you know all this, Lewis?"

"Information came my way, Boss."

"From where?"

Dave shrugged.

"Various sources, Boss."

"And we are all supposed to believe you, and these sources?"

"Boss, the sources are impeccable, I would tell, but I can't, a promise was made to allow me to get the information."

"Continue."

"So, if Kathleen knew, why did she kill my ex-wife and child? Let's set aside Tilson's death, which was an accident. Why would she kill Julia Lewis? It was because Tilson was moving on, he was going to make Julia his new wife, his new diary secretary and she was going to do it. Tilson was dumping Kathleen, he was divorcing her."

"Your ex-wife was one of his harem; she would do anything for him, take part in threesomes, things like that?" Don Blue asked; his rage palpable on his face, saying anything to hurt Dave.

"She was, she did, but she kept it to herself, unlike you and Williams going to the press, blowing open the Cynthia Howell murder."

The room was silent and tense. Everyone knew Blue and Williams were in real shit if Dave's accusations were correct and most guessed they were. They couldn't understand why Blue was taking him on.

"My ex-wife became a slut," Dave continued. "I didn't know."

There were a few coughs but not from Don Blue or John Williams, who both knew Dave had done real damage to their careers. They moved closer together, as if closeness could protect them. Wantage looked on, said nothing.

"Continue, Detective."

"Thanks, Boss. Kathleen murdered Julia and my daughter, Melanie, but she is now free for a maximum of four weeks until her re-trial. I think she will try and kill as many of her husband's lovers as she can during that period, I think the only reason she's gone for the insanity defence is to get out, to kill."

The room was stunned into silence.

Chrissie looked all around, trying to gauge expressions. She ignored Don Blue and Williams; they were too engrossed in their own rage. He could be a bastard, could Dave, when it suited him, when he had to fight back. She wondered how Blue and Williams' careers might be affected; they would be off this case, of that she was sure.

"Have you any evidence to back up this theory?"

"Not actual see-there-it-is evidence, Boss, but I now know a lot more about the Tilsons' than I did and I am sure it's her intention."

A secretary suddenly appeared at the back of the room, waved at Wantage, who crossed over to her, she whispered in his ear while the rest of them remained where they were. Wantage looked at the secretary in surprise, then anger, he wheeled round, marched to the front of the room again. He stood to face Dave Lewis.

"Someone outside the Appeal Court, a journalist it's thought, just accused Kathleen Tilson of organising the murder of Cynthia Howell from prison. Was that anything to do with you, Lewis?"

Dave kept his expression amazingly blank.

"Absolutely not, Boss; I never speak to journalists except when I want something from them."

Following an uncomfortable moment of staring, Wantage turned to face the room again.

"The media are all over the police force, phones are ringing off their bloody hooks, they want quotes, reasoning and statements. How the hell can we give them any? Does anyone in this room think Kathleen Tilson organised Cynthia Howell's death?"

Wantage looked around the room. No one had his or her arm up.

Not until he turned to look at Dave who stood with his arm high in the air.

"Oh, fuck," Wantage said. "Whose idea was it to let you back for twelve-weeks?"

"Yours?"

"I think there is a chance, Boss."

Wantage whirled round on Chrissie.

"You've been spending too much fucking time with him. What evidence do you have? Are we treating Kathleen Tilson as a suspect in Howell's murder? Who was the journalist who asked the question?"

"Evidence is all of a hunch-type, Boss," Chrissie continued. "Kathleen really does have nothing to lose. We have discovered that Cynthia Howell was one of Tilson's women. As was Julia Lewis. Both of them are dead. We should look into it."

"How do we know about Cynthia being one of Tilson's women?"

"Reliable source, Boss."

Wantage glanced from Chrissie to Dave, back again.

"There seems to be a lot of fucking reliable sources all of a sudden."

Chrissie remained silent. Dave said nothing, tried to look innocent.

"Am I missing something here? You and him seem to have all this information about all kinds of things, Tilson dying by mistake, a source says where he should have been but you can't tell us; Cynthia and Julia were both women of Tilson's; Julia who, up until today, I have been led to believe was second only to a pure-souled angel in life now, in death, seems to have been some kind of wild-arsed slut, partaking of threesomes; Kathleen organising murder from prison, leaving on appeal and getting ready to kill more. Really, am I missing anything?"

"You've got it all, Boss."

Wantage spun round to face Dave again.

"I have a file in my office, Lewis, from those above, from a time when you were an Inspector. Smart-Alec, it says, a fucking know-it-all, liable to fly off in all directions, chases down his own leads, doesn't share information, not regarded as a good team member."

"That would be me, Boss."

Dave almost smiled. There was plenty of sniggering around the room, too.

"In my office now!"

Wantage stormed across the room; at the door, he stopped, turned, pointed past Dave who was just behind him, pointed at Chrissie.

"And you, Detective Sergeant, in my office, too. Blue and Williams, you remain here, I'll deal with you later."

"What is going on?" Wantage asked, as he threw himself down in the chair behind his desk.

Neither Chrissie nor Dave were asked to sit.

"We have some information, Boss; it's as simple as that."

"We, as in both of you, or does he have the information and you agree with him?"

"Yes, Boss."

"Yes fucking what, Holland?"

"Yes, he has information, excellent information and I agree with him."

"How did you get this information?"

Dave looked straight ahead, like a soldier being interrogated.

"Sorry, Boss, it's confidential. All I know is that Tilson had over a dozen women who did everything he wanted them to do; his wife knew all about it, went along with it, made records of it all, killed Julia after Tilson told her he was leaving."

"But he had already left, if my memory serves me right. He was already living with your ex-wife."

"But Kathleen was still his secretary, she still kept his records up to date, knew where he was, knew who he was with, even what he was doing. That's how we know he died by mistake, he should have been somewhere else at the time, but the woman couldn't make it, her husband was ill."

Chrissie stared at him. Wantage stared at her.

"You didn't know that, Holland, did you?"

"No, Boss."

"So you are living up to your reputation, Lewis; not sharing information, running your own investigations, keeping fucking secrets. How do you know all these facts, how do you know there were over a dozen women involved with Tilson?"

Dave looked at Chrissie, shrugged, put his hand in his jacket pocket, pulled out the sheet of paper Mariska had copied and typed up on the computer. He handed it to Wantage.

He took it and stared at it.

"Where did you get this?"

"Can't tell you, Boss; confidential source."

"And you're sure these women were all involved with Tilson?"

"Yes."

Wantage looked at the list again, handed it to Chrissie.

"Have you seen this before?"

Chrissie looked at, looked at Dave, handed the list back to Wantage.

"No, Boss."

Rage was etched on her face.

"You know where he might have got this?"

"No, Boss."

"And what am going to do with it?"

"Protect the women on it from Kathleen Tilson," Dave replied, seriously.

"Have you any idea how many officers that would take, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? You don't, do you? You don't care. You have this crazy idea, this mad theory, and you think we should abandon all other enquiries, throw all kinds of help at these women, keep them alive, keep them from the evil clutches of Kathleen Tilson."

"She'll burn them."

"Don't be so fucking stupid. She has already been convicted of arson. Even if she does kill them she won't use fire again, she'll run them over; push them off a cliff, something."

"She'll burn them."

"I heard you the first time, Lewis, and you are completely fucking nuts. I thought you could keep him under control."

"I thought so, too," Chrissie said.

"Well, that does it. She can't control you, she was your only choice, you've let her down, probably wrecked her career. Go fucking home, don't come back unless I call you and ask you to come in."

"Thank you, Boss."

"You never wanted the job anyway; and you live in a fantasy world."

Dave didn't reply, he simply pulled open the door, stepped out, closed it behind him, strode the corridor, descended the stairs, let himself out on the street, strode to his car. He sat inside and discovered that he was feeling incredibly sad. Surely, he wasn't missing the job. It couldn't be that. No way.

Back in his office, Wantage spoke to Chrissie again.

"If I find out you know more than you're telling me, Holland, you'll follow him."

"Yes, Boss."

Wantage looked at the list again, opened a drawer, dropped it in.

"Send Blue and Williams in, this investigation is going to be a couple of officers short. He was right, wasn't he; it was Blue and Williams who leaked the Cynthia Howell investigation to the press?"

"Yes, he was."

"How does he discover all this shit?"

"Unfortunately, he's a brilliant police officer."

"Get the fuck out of here."

Blue and Williams were suspended from the investigation.

Chrissie went to work.

Dave went home, didn't even have a drink. He felt sad, but relieved. It was over, he'd never wanted to go back, it was over.

"What have you done?"

He was sitting in his lounge drinking coffee, shoes off, jacket hung up, head back, eyes closed.

"I gave the list to Wantage. He wasn't impressed. Thinks I'm some kind of revolutionary."

"He's right."

Mariska came over; sitting on the couch next to him and placing a hand on his knee.

"You knew you'd be in trouble, the way we got all the information. You didn't tell them, did you?"

"No."

"So you've just been sent home, not suspended, dismissed, anything like that?"

"Just sent home, to await a call that's supposedly coming, something that will not happen."

"It will not come, the call?"

"I'm not sure I want it to come now, I might just take what pension I can and go."

"You're not going to enjoy a pension, you have too much to do, you are in too much pain. You could always go sick. You've had a year, been back, had another breakdown. You could take another year on the sick, easy money."

"Cheating though."

"Lots of people cheat."

"They do, that's for sure."

There was a rat-a-tat on the front door.

"Go and let her in, it'll be Chrissie."

Mariska let her in and she bounded into the room, pointing a finger at him, bouncing on her toes, engulfed in rage.

"You had another fucking diary, didn't you? You lied to my fucking face; you told me you didn't; now I've interfered with evidence, fucked myself, just for you. You lying shit."

She threw herself across the room, began beating Dave around the head. He lifted his hands to cover himself; otherwise he made no effort to move. Chrissie screamed in frustration, moved away from him, looked at Mariska standing in the doorway.

"And you, you're as bad as him."

"He's my employer; I do what he tells me to do."

"Bollocks, you're up to your pretty fucking neck in this little escapade. I called up one of my own friends who works on a newspaper, who told me that she'd never seen the journalist who asked Kathleen about Cynthia; she was tall, red-haired, long-legged. You, in fact, Mariska Masekova. You were the one who asked her the question. You."

Mariska remained silent, her face blank.

"And you asked it because he asked you to."

"He's my employer."

"Stop saying that; it's absolute fucking rubbish. I need a coffee."

"Ask her nicely."

She twisted round to look at Dave.

"You, you're giving me instructions on manners?"

"Don't come storming into my house, ordering Mariska around like she's a piece of shit. You are out of order. Say what you want to me, scream yourself hoarse, slap me about, you have the right, but don't take it out on her."

Chrissie put her hands on her hips and dropped her head. Her short blonde hair dropped over her forehead, her body went limp. She looked up.

"I'm sorry, Mariska."

"It's okay, it's what he does, drives you up the wall, makes you want to scream, to beat him, maybe even to kill him."

Chrissie smiled.

"If anyone knows, you do."

"I do. You want a coffee?"

"Shall I make it, penance?"

"It's okay. Do you want one, too?"

"Please. Thanks," Dave replied.

"Don't overdo the thanks."

Chrissie collapsed into an easy chair.

"You are such a bastard."

"I know."

"The way you just dropped Blue and Williams in it. Nobody will trust you."

"I'm not coming back, I don't care."

"They've been taken off the investigation, sent home for a couple of days."

"Good."

"You lied to me about the diaries."

"I had to, Chrissie. I needed to try and find out what was in them."

"Did you find the list in it?"

"No," Mariska said, as she placed cups of coffee on the table. "I found that in the Bible."

"What Bible?"

"Oops."

Mariska sat next to Dave again.

"Jesus, Dave, you kept a Bible from me, too?"

"Sorry," Mariska said.

"The list was written on silk, hidden in it. I would bet Kathleen knows the names and addresses of all the women on it by heart, doesn't need her little list now, no husband, no diary to keep. Fewer women on the list than there used to be. No Julia, no Cynthia."

"You think she organised it, from prison?"

"I do and I think she'll kill again, maybe even this week, as soon as she can anyway; try and get the rage out of her system, really prove she's mad. You know, one fire is deliberate, you could be mad or sane, two and the odds fall, three or more, you're as mad as a hatter. I don't think Kathleen cares how people view her."

"We can't protect them all."

"She'll get one of them at least."

"I'd better get on to the prison, find out who her best friend was, who's been released."

"Good idea."

"I'll never trust you again."

"I know."

"Neither will Wantage."

"I don't care about Wantage."

"If anyone dies, he'll think you had a hand in it."

"Bless him."

"Are you going to be carrying out any more investigations on your own or is it you and Mariska now?"

"I'm going to take her out for dinner, as a way of saying thanks for everything she's done for me, buy her some Champagne."

Chrissie looked quizzically at Mariska.

"He's trying to change," Mariska said with a shrug.

"There's no fucking chance. You should have seen him today, wrecking careers, being superior, convinced in his own rightness."

"He probably is right though."

"That's what I'm worried about, Mariska; worrying about him being right is going to keep me awake at night."

Dinner was lovely, Dave dressed in his decent suit, a nice tie, shoes he polished by himself, Mariska in a red dress, quite short, high-heels, looking stunning. People looked, thought rich old man-younger woman, businessman-mistress, all kinds of combinations, none of them accurate. Mariska laughed, Dave almost smiled. They drank Champagne, she allowed him one glass, they walked down the slope to the hotel and the restaurant and both of them went in through Dave's front door when they returned home, Dave hoping, but it was a wasted hope. Mariska drank tea, sipped a brandy, went home. Dave kissed her lightly on the cheek, told her to sleep tight; she retired to bed happy, Dave went to bed hopefully. It was getting better between them, he was convinced of it. She would sleep with him. She would. Of course, he wanted much more than that. He wanted love.

Dave fell into a blissful sleep.

Fire, Daddy! Fire!

Dave sat upright, not knowing what time it was, dark, immediately awake, tumbling from his bed, he could smell smoke in his nostrils. Melanie was a barely seen thing, crouched in the corner of his bedroom, her voice booming.

Fire!

Dave raced across the bedroom, out through the door, no sign of fire; smoke in his nose though, a strong smell, downstairs, the fire was downstairs. He raced down, into the lounge, nothing; into the kitchen, nothing; he banged doors open, searching, no fire; he couldn't find the fucking fire.

Mariska appeared next to him.

"What?"

"What?"

He was panicked.

"Can't you smell it, smoke, the house is on fire?"

Mariska sniffed.

"I can't smell it, can't see it, no smoke, no fire."

Dave looked all around, sniffing, the smell of smoke receding in his nose, his eyes looking less wild.

"Nightmare?" Mariska asked.

"Melanie woke me, told me there was a fire, she was shouting at the top of her voice."

"Maybe she was remembering her own fire, the one she died in. There isn't a fire, but we will check."

They checked all the rooms on all three-storeys of the house, she assured him there was no fire in the basement, didn't let him in, he had to take her word for it.

He suddenly noticed he was naked and looked around frantically, from Mariska to himself, looking for something to cover himself with. He grabbed a raincoat from a hook in the hall, pulled it on.

"I wondered how long it would take you to notice."

She smiled.

Now that he was covered, he noticed her. Very short nightdress, pink panties, no bra.

"Cease looking."

"Sorry, can't help it."

"You want a coffee, now we're up?"

"May as well. Sorry about all the fuss, but she was screaming at me. Fire, Daddy, fire. She was in the corner of my bedroom, crouched. It's where she was found, crouched in the corner of her bedroom."

"Don't think about it, go and sit, I'll make some coffee and tea."

He sat on the couch, she sat next to him, he couldn't help but look.

"Stop looking."

"You are very beautiful."

"Ignore me, drink."

"Jesus."

She crossed her legs, he almost fainted.

"Jesus."

She sipped her tea, finished it.

"Melanie was re-living her own death."

"You think so?"

"Definitely. Don't let it upset you; try anyway. I know it's difficult."

She stood. She looked even more beautiful when standing.

"Stop looking. I'm going back to bed, you go back, too."

"I might have another cup."

"Not too much, it'll keep you awake. Goodnight."

"Night-night."

He watched her walk across the lounge, fabulous buttocks rolling.

"Stop looking."

She looked over her right shoulder, smiled.

"You are a very sad case. Thank you for dinner."

"The pleasure was all mine."

"A very nice bottom by the way," she said.

She disappeared.

It was Tuesday morning, 3:00am, when Dave finally climbed into bed to sleep.

On Tuesday morning at 3:00am, Ellen Wainwright's house went up in flames. Her husband jumped from a first-floor window, a matter of self-preservation, he left her choking and engulfed in flames. He broke one leg, one ankle, was badly burned, was severely affected by smoke on his lungs.

She died.

Ellen Wainwright was on the list.

*

Chapter 17

Dave woke to tremendous banging on his front door. For a moment, he thought it was Melanie trying to attract his attention again, but no, it was his front door. He climbed out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, remembering how he'd run round naked in front of Mariska earlier. He glanced at the clock. 6:00 am.

He was at the head of the stairs when Chrissie and Mariska appeared at the bottom. Dave stopped, looked down at them.

"What's happened?"

"Ellen Wainwright's dead. She was on the list."

Chrissie looked worn, tired, fretful.

"In a fire?" Dave asked.

"Yes, in a fucking fire."

"Anyone else hurt?"

"Get down here; in fact get dressed, you're off gardening leave. Her husband was hurt jumping from the bedroom window. He left his wife behind. Says it was too late for her."

"Bastard."

"Who knows what any of us will do in an emergency?"

"I would have sacrificed myself rather than let Julia and Melanie die."

"I believe you would. Can you get dressed please?"

By the time he'd washed, dressed in jeans and a thick sweatshirt, boots, leather jacket, Chrissie was sitting in his kitchen drinking coffee. Mariska was dressed, too.

"You're not coming."

"I am; Chrissie said I could."

"Chrissie, for God's sake, I am already in enough trouble without you giving into her every second of the day."

"It'll do her good to see the sharp end of policing. Not many people get the chance. She's to stay in the car."

"How many times have we told her to do that?"

"I am still here. I'm coming."

Dave poured a coffee.

"Give me some details," he said.

"Exactly as you said it would happen, it happened," Chrissie began. "Ellen Wainwright, a woman who was on the list you gave Wantage, died when her house was burned down. No one has been arrested yet, but we must know who did it. You see, Kathleen doesn't know we have her list. She still thinks it's hidden in her Bible. She doesn't know that we can connect her. We have to be very careful with the information if, or when, we question her, the evidence wasn't exactly discovered legally. We know she did it, we know her list, but we can't tell her how we know, or even that we do know."

"We'll think of something," Dave assured her.

"I don't like the idea of your something's."

"You two ready or are you going to drink coffee all morning?" he said, as he climbed to his feet and left the kitchen.

They departed the house, all of them out of the rear door of Dave's property and climbed into Chrissie's car, Dave in the back, the women in the front, Mariska excited, a pretend cop, worse than having a journalist on the job filming everything for a reality show.

"Where are we going?" Mariska asked.

Dave lay back in the seat, still tired; worrying about how many other women would have to die because of Terry Tilson's obsession and Kathleen's psychopathic instincts. It was all right for Terry to have all these women at his beck and call but just don't be stupid enough to upset the wife, don't threaten to leave her. Three dead, one husband badly hurt; heartbreak and pain, lives wrecked. And all because Terry Tilson wanted to leave Kathleen. He must have realised she wasn't normal, who else would let him do what he did, take a relatively active part in it? Who else? No one in his or her right mind. He must have known she was a murderous bitch.

"We're going to Ellen Wainwright's house," Chrissie said. "The fire is extinguished, her body has been brought out, SOCO have taken photos of her, they've videoed her, but they are waiting for permission to go in and photograph and film everything else; her husband has been taken to City hospital. I'm hoping someone has gone to pick Kathleen up, bring her to the Station, get to questioning her, though not everyone knows what we know. Wantage is not a happy man; he thinks you are some kind of psychic devil; David Lewis, a juju man."

"He can think what he likes. Why didn't he listen to me?"

"Because you sounded mad."

"Thanks."

"See. His manners are improving."

Chrissie laughed at Mariska's comment.

Dave didn't know how she could. He knew that policemen, firemen, nurses, doctors, all those who worked with the dead and dying, had to have a weird sense of humour to survive the horrors of their daily lives, but laughing at something his housekeeper said was mildly over the top. He sat quietly dozing, thinking how mad the world was.

Chrissie pulled up amongst a plethora of flashing blue lights and emergency services vehicles. Police cars, ambulances, fire engines, the site lit up like daylight, which it wasn't, quite; neighbours standing around in night-clothes ogling, peering, silent, wondering what, why, who, except most of them would have known who. Television cameramen gathered like litter in a foul wind, reporters, journalists, a media fire-storm all of its own making.

Mariska pulled up a hood on her coat, tried to remain anonymous. Chrissie and Dave climbed out, strode the road, lifted the incident tape, approached the house, Sammy, Erky, Tom Lane, Pete Lindcroft, Charlie Nough and others already there, standing around looking at the house.

It was blackened. The roof was gone, all the windows, the ones at the front anyway, the door gone, flowers in the garden black and withered, grass burnt, curtains, furniture that could be seen through the gaping holes that once were windows. Another house, another fire, another death.

Oh, Kathleen, what have you done, Dave thought? What are you doing? He wasn't worth it; Terry wasn't worth it.

"Charlie, guys," Chrissie said.

"Chrissie, Dave," the gathered police officers mumbled.

Dave nodded his head, stared in horror at the house.

"What's it like to be psychic?" Pete Lindcroft asked.

"I'm not psychic, Pete, I had information, tried to get it through, lost, now Ellen Wainwright's dead."

"We're still not going to be able to put people on every house," Charlie said.

Dave stared at him, his eyes narrowing.

"Why the hell not?"

"Not enough manpower, especially being two men short."

Dave ignored the sneaky insult.

"But we are going to visit the women, let them know that Kathleen might be after them, tell them to protect themselves, seal up their letter boxes, stop her pouring petrol in."

"That's how this one started?"

"Looking that way, Dave. It's certainly looking that way."

Dave shook his head in sadness. Poor Ellen, entrapped by a sex maniac, killed by a pyromaniac.

"The plods aren't visiting the women are they?"

"If by that you mean the uniformed police officers, yes they are."

"Have they been given instructions to speak to the women alone, without their husbands, boyfriends, partners, being present?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"They'll all deny it, being involved with Tilson. We can't mention the list anyway; we can only say information has come our way. If they interview the women in front of their partners, all the women will deny they knew Terry Tilson."

"Why would they? We're only trying to protect them."

"You're not thinking it through, Charlie. These women have committed sexual acts that would mortify their husbands, their marriages would probably break up, all kinds of financial and emotional problems would explode, all the badness would be exposed for the families involved to peruse. The women will deny everything. So they can't protect themselves, can they, because if they do they'll be admitting they knew who Terry Tilson was? Sometimes, some enquiries are shit. This is one of those times. Plods asking questions? It should be banned by law."

Charlie Nough stared at Dave, knowing he was right.

"Who's going to do it, then, you?"

"Me, if you want. Nothing to be gained from standing here. We know Ellen's dead, someone will be at the hospital, waiting to speak to the husband, who?"

"Ian Holland, Len Hanley."

Dave nodded, turned to Chrissie.

"You never said your brother was on the team."

"There, see, you don't know everything."

Chrissie smiled, a sad, weary sort of smile.

"Are we going to see some of these women?" she asked.

"You want to come with me?" Dave said.

"Wrong way round, Detective. Do you want to accompany your Sergeant?"

Dave nodded, feeling nonplussed.

"You going to be all right here, Charlie, got enough good boys?"

"We'll cope, maybe even without the boy wonder, oops, he's no longer a boy."

"He's still a fucking wonder, though, Charlie, isn't he? Still a fucking wonder."

Charlie laughed, shook his head. Even Dave smiled.

"I'll make the calls," Charlie said, "call the plods off the interviews; they wouldn't have begun yet, anyway."

"Thanks Charlie."

Chrissie and Dave returned to car.

"Did you run any more lists off?" Chrissie asked.

"Of course," Mariska answered.

She shoved her right hand into a coat pocket, pulled out a couple of sheets of paper, handed one to Dave, one to Chrissie. They studied the list.

"Suzie Ventner's the closest," Chrissie said.

She switched on the engine, shoved it into gear, drove off. Eleven-minutes later, she pulled up outside a very swish block of apartments with locked doors and a doorman.

Chrissie pressed the communicator; an old guy appeared, dressed in some kind of mock-military uniform. She pressed her warrant card hard up against the glass door.

"Open the fucking door," she shouted.

The old man opened the door; the three went in, Mariska not sitting in the car.

"Suzie Ventner?" Chrissie said.

"She'll be in the gym, this time of a morning."

"Where's the gym?"

"I should call down; let her know you want to speak with her. You do want to speak with her, don't you? We get a lot of legal people here wanting to speak with her, not very often policemen."

"Where's the fucking gym?" Chrissie asked again.

The man stared at her, offended, pointed to a door to the left of the lobby.

"That will take you down, residents use the elevator."

"Thank you."

The three strode across the marble-floored lobby, pushed the door open; descended a narrow staircase, probably never used by residents who had their own elevator. Chrissie pushed open a door, stepped in, found herself in a gym with about twelve people, male and female, working and sweating inside.

They should get jobs that gave them exercise, Chrissie thought, instead of sitting on their arses all day, having to get up in the middle of the night to push, pull, run, sweat. All the people within ceased their activities and stared at the three with expression varying from shock to surprise. They all stopped grunting.

"Ms Ventner?" Chrissie ventured, into the silence.

A slim woman lying on a bench, who'd been pushing weights, sat up.

"Who's asking?"

Chrissie flashed her card.

"Wonder if we can have a word?"

"About?"

"Trust me; you don't want to talk about it in front of all these people."

"I don't have secrets."

"Ms Ventner, you're a lawyer, you know that's a lie. Everyone has secrets, even you. A word."

"Off the lobby, there's a small lounge, give me time to shower."

"Five minutes," Chrissie said. "We don't have all day."

Five minutes later, Suzie Ventner walked into the small lounge, comfortable chairs, small table, magazines, like a doctor's waiting room. Her black hair was still wet, she wore a white towelling dressing gown; she was slim, bordering on dangerously thin, no more than a size zero, less than that, whatever less than zero was, green eyes, no shape to speak of.

"This had better be good."

"Terry Tilson."

"Terence is dead," Suzie Ventner said without missing a beat.

"We know that, Ms Ventner. His wife isn't."

"In jail."

"You don't keep up with the news then. She was released yesterday, re-trial."

Suzie Ventner stared.

"But she admitted the crime, didn't she?"

"Mental state is being questioned. Sane or mad? Re-trial to decide. Released into the custody of her parents until then," Dave said.

Suzie sat.

"So, what has this to do with me?"

"You know of Kathleen, his wife?"

"He told me he was married, yes, that was her name. So, I had an affair."

"Bollocks to an affair, Ms Ventner, we know all about your secret life, you know, the one you don't have. No secrets, remember. We know about the threesomes, the sexual shenanigans, not being able to say no to anything Terry demanded. We know all about him and his women. Unfortunately, so did his wife."

Suzie Ventner went from looking concerned to angry, irate.

"How dare you. I know nothing of your accusations."

"Ms Ventner, we've spoken to Norma Levington, we know all about you," Chrissie said.

Suzie lifted a hand to her mouth.

"We are not here to criticize your way of life, Ms Ventner, or to embarrass you, or to release information to your friends," Mariska said.

Dave and Chrissie both looked at her. She'd made another agreement not to speak, another agreement she hadn't kept.

"We are here to help and give information."

"What information?"

"Did you know Ellen Wainwright?"

Suzie looked from face to face, as if she were stranded on a high wire and couldn't find anyone to help get her down.

"Yes, I know Ellen."

"Through Terry?"

Suzie shook her head violently.

"Will you please stop calling him that? He was Terence. Terence."

"Or Rupert," Dave added.

Suzie was taken aback.

"Or Rupert," she agreed.

"We won't be calling him Terence, Ms Ventner. He wasn't a very nice man. We may call him a bastard, fucking Terry, or simply Tilson, but we won't be calling him Terence. Understand?"

Both Chrissie and Dave were agape at Mariska's little speech.

Suzie said nothing.

"Do you understand?" Mariska continued.

"Yes."

"Good. So you met Ellen Wainwright while you were playing games with Tilson?"

"Yes."

"She died this morning. In a fire. Her house was burned down. Her husband is alive, but barely. Does this remind you of anything?"

"Julia," Suzie whispered.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Who else, Ms Ventner?"

"The child, Melanie."

"Yes. And who burned Julia's house down, Ms Ventner?"

"Kathleen Tilson."

Suzie Ventner finally saw the light and stared, aghast.

"But she wouldn't. She couldn't, not if she's out for a re-trial. She wouldn't, would she?"

"That's what we are here for, Ms Ventner, to inform you that Kathleen is out, and Ellen Wainwright died in a fire almost identical to the one that killed Julia and Melanie."

"But I live here, in this block, with fifteen other people, with security."

"And you feel safe, do you? You don't think Kathleen would burn the whole edifice down just to get you?"

Suzie let the information sink in.

"She would, wouldn't she, if she's going for insanity, the more places she burns downs, the better her chance. Oh, my God. She really is mad."

"Debatable," Dave argued.

"And that's why we are here. Take great care, Ms. Ventner; go and live elsewhere, temporarily, keep your head down. Kathleen's re-trial is not scheduled to begin for four weeks and unless she makes an error, she will have all that time to get as many of you as she can."

"What do you mean, as many of us?"

"Kathleen kept the diaries, Ms Ventner; she kept a list of the women Tilson slept with, where he was each day and night of the week, what he was doing. Kathleen was his diary secretary. She knew everything about you all. Tilson told her."

"Oh, my..."

For a moment, Suzie couldn't speak, but then she found her voice.

"You must protect me, the police, it's your job. I must have people outside and with me at all times; you must protect me, I am a very important person. I have contacts, I'll make calls, I will have protection."

"Sorry," Mariska said. "There are too many of you. It can't be done. It would take the whole of the police force every hour of every day. This is a time to take responsibility for your own actions, Ms Ventner. If you hadn't been so intent at having your fun you wouldn't be in this situation."

"It was Terence," she said, her voice very much like herself; small and tiny. "He could make you do anything."

Mariska stood.

"Please take care, Ms Ventner," and she held out her hand.

Suzie Ventner ignored it, ignored her, in fact, ignored all three of them; she simply sat in the chair with her head down and played with her fingers. It was debatable whether she even noticed them leaving.

"Edifice?" Chrissie said when they were outside.

"Nice word, I thought."

"You'll get nowhere as a police officer using words like that. Edifice, Jesus."

"Did I do well?"

"Not bad."

"You were not supposed to speak, you promised."

"Take no notice of Mr. Grumpy here, Mariska, you did well."

"Thank you, Chrissie, who's next?"

Chrissie consulted the list.

"Denise Carrington."

**

"I was his bit of rough," Denise Carrington said.

They were all sitting in a tiny lounge, in a council-owned property on a sink estate. The plain wallpaper was curling away where the wall met the ceiling, the carpet must have come with the house when it was built in the Fifties; the furniture was almost unfit for purpose. Dave and Chrissie stood, Mariska sat on the small couch and held Denise Carrington's right hand. Denise had been crying. She was unbelievably unlike any other of Tilson's women they'd met; she was overweight, wide of girth, huge bosomed, mousy haired, brown eyed, small mouthed, with clothes out of Oxfam or some such shop; three small children, all under the age of four, scrabbling about on the floor, until they were taken away by their father, older than Denise, fat, bald, obese, round faced, by the name of Albert.

"Albert would kill me if he knew, well, in a way he did know, because Terence gave me money. I don't think he gave any to the others, they didn't need it. My husband thought I was on the game, he didn't mind me doing that, thought it was funny that men would pay to sleep with me, me being the shape I am, but it wasn't like that. The other women gave me money, too, Suzie, Ellen, Julia. They felt sorry for me, for the way Terence treated me. He made me do all the worst things, I can't tell you, and please don't tell Albert, he really would kill me, he doesn't have the kindest of tempers. So, it's not only Terence I miss; I can't tell you the days I've spent crying over his death, that stupid wife of his, but I miss the money, too. And the other women. Sometimes he'd give me as much as a hundred, made me work for it, though. The others, too, cruel they could be, especially that Suzie. I liked her, though, and Julia, she could be cruel, too."

Dave shrivelled inside. He didn't want to hear any more of this. He nodded to Chrissie, left the room, went back to the car, sat in it, waited, a tear growing in his eye.

"You don't think she'd burn this house down, do you? Anyway, you have to arrest her; surely you can make a case against her. There are kids here, she wouldn't," Denise said, back in the house.

"Melanie?"

"Of course, Melanie, only eleven, she did that; she'd do it again, wouldn't she?"

"We think she'll try."

"I'll have a word with Albert, my husband, and tell him to get his mates to guard the house; they're hard, Allen's mates, tough, they'll look after us. I'll tell him some story about someone threatening us."

"Just so long as you and your children are protected, Mrs. Carrington."

"We will be."

"You should think of sending the children to a relative," Chrissie said.

"Nah," Denise Carrington said, "they will be as safe here with their mother and father as they will be anywhere."

A cloud of depression seemed to fall over everyone when they rose to depart, a darkness, a fear of what may happen.

Back at the car, Chrissie's phone rang.

"Hello. Yes, Boss. Denise Carrington's house, we've already done Suzie Ventner. Okay, will do. See you shortly."

"Wantage wants us back at the station, they've picked Kathleen up, been questioning her, nothing, she's got an alibi, she was at her parents, they back her up. He wants you and me to have a word with her."

"I don't want to speak to her.

"No, choice, I'm afraid."

Dave sulked all the way back to the station. Mariska went across the road to a coffee shop where she waited patiently. She whiled away her time looking through the printed list she pulled from a pocket, wondering whether Kathleen would be clever enough to get them all.

Chrissie and Dave first went up to Wantage's office to speak to him, he was sitting behind his desk, a serious expression on is face.

"Cast iron alibi," he said. "A few glasses of red wine to celebrate her release, some home-cooked food, early to bed. Parents didn't hear her go out, because she didn't go out, she had no car, no way she could have gotten across the City, she had no hidden cans of petrol, no rags, the police are just picking on her because she once started a fire, but she'd been temporarily insane when she'd started that. The parents are furious that we dragged Kathleen out of bed. They're downstairs, in reception, waiting to take her home. I want you two to have a go at her."

"I don't want to do it," Dave said.

"I want you to do it, it's an order."

"But I have personal reasons for not doing it."

"We're not investigating Julia's death here, nor Melanie's, we're investigating another murder, prove your worth, it was your theory, it might prove to have been correct. I hate looking at that list; I worry about who may be next. Get her to confess, let's put her away forever."

Dave sulked all the way down the stairs to Interview Room 1, where they found Kathleen sitting at a table, drinking tea, chatting with Foyle, her solicitor, the one who'd been shouting 'No questions' outside the Court of Appeal. A female police officer kept an eye on both of them. Kathleen looked towards them when the door opened, smiled.

"Detective Lewis, we meet again. What a joy. And D.S. Holland, another pleasure. Do come in."

"This is an outrage," Foyle blustered, "just because she committed one crime, when she was not in her right mind; that will be determined in the near future no doubt; you drag her out of bed, into the station on nothing more than supposition. Mrs. Tilson did not commit this heinous crime; she is not in the habit of burning down properties and killing people."

Dave flopped down into one empty seat, switched on the tape-machine, spoke into it, time, those who were present, the date; sitting opposite Kathleen, Chrissie sitting on the other chair, facing Foyle.

"Yeah, she is," Dave said.

"What?" Foyle shouted.

"She is in the habit of burning down properties with people in them. She's done it twice, now."

"Detective!" Foyle exploded.

"I'll ask her if you don't believe me. Mrs. Tilson, did you burn down a house and cause the death of Julia Lewis and her daughter, Melanie?"

"Yes, I did, but..."

"No buts, Mrs. Tilson, you killed them; now, did you burn Mrs. Wainwright's house down, killing her, severely injuring her husband?"

Kathleen remained silent.

"See, Ms Foyle. Catholic upbringing; she can't tell a lie so she won't answer. Guilty as hell."

Kathleen smiled, turned to Foyle.

"Can we go now?"

"You can't go yet, Mrs. Tilson," Chrissie said. "We are still investigating."

"Ask her parents, D.S. Holland. They are Mrs. Tilson's alibi. She was in their home, never left, she has no vehicle in which to travel across the City, no petrol or other materials were found at the house or anywhere else close by for that matter. Mrs. Tilson did not do this thing and I believe she has a case for malicious prosecution. You simply cannot go around arresting her every time fire breaks out. You cannot."

"So, Mrs. Tilson," Dave said, "tell us who you got to kill Cynthia Howell."

"Outrageous!" Foyle screamed again. "She's not here to answer questions about Mrs. Howell's death. She was in prison when that crime was committed, to attempt to link her to it is disgraceful."

Kathleen smiled, remained silent.

"You're very good, Kathleen," Dave said, as he leaned back in his chair. "Excellent, in fact."

"Thank you, Detective. I never told you how sorry I was that Melanie died. I didn't know she was there."

"Yes, you did. You just didn't give a shit about her. Terry; that was the death that upset you. As you said, you didn't know he was there. Shared grief. You and me. Shared."

She turned to look at Foyle.

"I have no idea what he's talking about." Then she turned back to look at Dave. "And call him Terence," she said.

"She has offered to apologise for your daughter's death, Detective."

"She doesn't mean it, Ms Foyle, she's only talking about Melanie to try and upset me, to try and get me to break down, lose my temper, but the last time we met, it was she who jumped up to slap me."

"Not true," Kathleen said.

"Ask the prison authorities, Ms Foyle," Chrissie said. "They will confirm the attack. Detective Lewis was asked to leave the premises because of the attack."

"Oh that; it was no more than a little tiff."

"Why did you kill Ellen Wainwright, Kathleen?"

"Never knew her, don't know the name, never met her."

Dave sat and smiled. Kathleen looked at him.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I know the people I know, Detective."

"She wasn't one of your husband's women, then?"

The semi-permanent smile faded from Kathleen's face. She stared at Dave, then at Chrissie. They could almost hear her brain ticking over.

"When I was first arrested," Kathleen said, slowly, "I had a Bible; you wouldn't know what happened to it, would you?"

"No idea," Chrissie said, shrugging her shoulders, turning to Dave, who also shrugged. "Probably locked away in evidence somewhere."

Kathleen wasn't sure, Dave and Chrissie kept their faces blank, like good poker players.

"Would it be important, if we found it?" Chrissie asked. "Would it answer some of our questions? Should I search for it?"

"No," Kathleen said, lightly, "it's just a memento from when I was young, sixteen in fact, from my church."

"It must be a long time ago since you attended church."

Kathleen got her smile back.

"You are unbelievably cynical, Detective."

"It must be the job."

"I think you are inherently cynical."

Dave smiled, shrugged.

"You were asleep at your parent's house at the time of the attack?"

"Yes, I was, D.S. Holland, as you will discover when you ask them. No matter your opinion of me, they are good people, they don't lie. Ask them."

"I will."

"Can I go, now?"

"No, our investigations are not yet complete."

"D.S. Holland, this is ridiculous; keeping Mrs. Tilson here. She is so obviously innocent of this crime it's nonsense to keep her here."

"I have other enquiries to make, Ms Foyle. Please be patient."

Dave spoke into the machine, time of leaving, who was leaving, switched it off, they let themselves out, the female police officer stepped back in, closed the door.

"If she drove across the City, surely there will be some CCTV coverage."

"We can go to Ops, see for ourselves."

They climbed to the top of the building, where Operations were based, a room full of screens wired up to many, many cameras following the daily happenings of the people of the City, their foibles, their behaviour bad and good, their traffic, their sheer numbers and movement. Most things were recorded here if you moved in the City, it was almost impossible to miss the cameras. A dozen people were sitting looking at the screens, most of them civilians. Chrissie spoke to Alec Timmings, the civilian in charge of the shift, smartly dressed, tall, head full of white hair, strong chin, blue eyes, quietly spoken, ex-military, Navy or Army, something, told him what they were looking for. He pulled up a chair, took over a screen, Dave and Chrissie standing behind him.

He went back to 2:00am, much quieter on the roads than could be seen on current screens. He began at the camera closest to Kathleen's parents' address, which Chrissie gave him. The closest camera was over a mile away. There was no sign of the parent's car through the hours of two-to-three in the morning.

"Not the parents' car," Alec said.

He spun on to roads leading out of the City, towards where Ellen Wainwright had lived. The nearest cameras to her house were more than half-a-mile away.

"Too many people live in the suburbs, much better to live in the City, much more protected."

"Yeah, right, Alec," Chrissie said.

Alec looked up at her, smiled, spun his dial back along roads one would have to travel to reach Ellen's. Amongst the thin traffic, a white van appeared on screen, travelling at the correct speed limit, no markings on it, no firm's name, just a plain white van.

"Anything?" Alec asked.

Chrissie and Dave looked at the screen, said nothing for a minute.

"Could you track that van back, see how far it would go?"

"Sure."

Alec began to track the van back into the City, through traffic lights, all of which it stopped at, though there was very little traffic; it was something that happened during the night, people drove on the wrong side of the road, through lights, taxis mostly, but it happened. Not with the van, though. It made sedate progress. Back they went, more traffic in the City centre, lots of taxis, some private cars, drivers probably pissed, people everywhere, falling over, lying on pavements, spewing, humanity having its fun, the van was traced back to a huge, Eastern European-type block of apartments where it disappeared behind them. That's where it's trip originated. It was at least a mile from where Kathleen lived in much better conditions.

"We could trace the number," Alec said.

He brought the van out on to the road again, zoomed into the number-plate, Chrissie wrote it down, stepped back, made a call. Less than half-a-minute later, Chrissie had the information.

"It's kosher," she said. "Van belongs to a woman called Irene Wendel, registered address in the apartments. Seems okay."

"I'll give it another sweep," Alec said, as he began retracing vehicle routes from 2:00 to 3:00. Nothing unusual or specific showed up.

"Maybe we've got Kathleen wrong," Chrissie said.

"No chance," Dave argued. "She burned Ellen Wainwright."

"How?" Chrissie argued, "How the hell did she get there?"

"I don't know, but she did."

"Come on, let's speak to her parents, before we let her out of the station and send her home, before her solicitor kicks up a fuss."

They spoke to Wantage, who slumped forward on his desk with his head in his hands.

As she walked away from the Station, her solicitor on one side of her, her parents on the other, Kathleen took only one glance back. She saw Dave standing on the pavement, watching her go.

Kathleen smiled and waved.

Fuck you, lady, I'm going to get you, he thought.

Somehow.

* * * * * *

Chapter 18

"I saw Kathleen walk away," Mariska said when she was back in the car, on the way to see Carrie Folds and at least fourteen other women. "She looked happy, cool, as if butter wouldn't melt."

"She did it," Dave said, from the back of the car.

"How, Dave? Tell me how?" Chrissie asked, forcefully. "No transport, no reports of her leaving the house, no materials discovered. How did she burn it down?"

"Someone helped her."

"Jesus, you are always saying the same thing. Kathleen finds someone to kill Cynthia, no proof, now she finds someone to burn down Ellen Wainwright's house, no proof. Switch to another tune, Dave, you're becoming monotonous."

Chrissie glanced backwards to look at Dave to let him know he was a jerk.

He was unmoved by her glance.

"It wouldn't do any harm to call in at the Prison, ask if Kathleen had any special friends."

"Jesus!"

"After we've spoken to all these women."

"Dave, that could take all day."

"Later, then, we'll visit the Prison later."

"Shut the fuck up, Dave."

"He does have obsessions," Mariska stated.

"He surely does. Never gives up on them, either."

"Tell me about it."

Mariska turned to look at Dave in the back seat. He gave her a very rude gesture. She laughed. It took until teatime to visit all the women. It was the same everywhere they went, denial, acceptance, call him Terence, he was very manipulative, charismatic; I knew about Kathleen, didn't know she knew about me, she wouldn't harm me; I have children/husband/invalid parents. The list went on. By the end, Dave just wanted it all to end. You do your best for people, they just won't accept it. He thought none of the women would try to hide, move away temporarily. Maybe Suzie Ventner; none of the others, they wouldn't tape up their letterboxes, they wouldn't do a thing. It couldn't happen to them. Dave was sick of it.

They called into a teahouse for something to eat, ate toasted teacakes, chocolate biscuits, sipped black coffee, tea for Mariska.

"They don't listen, do they?"

"They don't want to listen, Mariska, that's the problem," Chrissie said. "They all adored Tilson so much that they can't believe anything bad can happen to them because of it. They think they can partake in utter debauchery and suffer no consequences from it, neither guilt nor repercussions. They're all fools."

"Can we go to the Prison?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Dave, give it a rest. Can we at least finish eating our tea-cakes, drink our coffee?"

"They probably won't let me back in again," Mariska said.

"You stay in the car."

"But I want to come in and I will, if Chrissie says I can and they let me."

"I haven't said we're going to the Prison," Chrissie said.

"We've got to go though, haven't we, see if Kathleen had any close friends."

"You're as bad as him."

"Thanks."

"I didn't mean it, Mariska; no-one could ever be as bad as him. Okay, okay, we'll finish this and go. I'll ring beforehand; make sure someone will see us."

She made the call. Deputy Governor would see them. Reluctantly. Told her to keep Detective Lewis under control, the trainee, too.

They sat in a medium-sized office, large leather furniture, battered, looked as if it had all been in a fight. Elaine Dunn, tall, square-shouldered, looking as if she'd been a swimmer in her younger days, short fair hair, blue eyes, square jaw, prominent nose, long face, dark suit, blue blouse, flat shoes, sitting behind an imposing desk while they sat in a semi-circle in front of it.

"No-one was impressed with your last visit, Detective Lewis."

"No, ma'am, I apologise for that. I actually came to annoy Kathleen, there is a history between us, but her reaction was not one I was expecting."

"She killed your daughter?"

"And my wife."

"And her own husband."

"We now have evidence to prove he was an accidental death, ma'am, he shouldn't have been at the house," Chrissie said.

"Oh. I wasn't aware of that, Detective Sergeant."

"And early this morning, another woman died in another fire, very similar to the one that killed Julia and Melanie Lewis. We have interviewed Kathleen under caution at the Police Station but she has an alibi. We were wondering if she had any close friends here, someone who may have recently been released, someone who would kill for her."

The Deputy leaned back in her high-backed chair and stared at them.

"Are you suggesting that Kathleen Tilson convinced someone to kill on her behalf, someone from this Prison, someone we have recently released?"

"It's one string of the investigation we are looking at, ma'am."

"Pretty thin string."

"Actually, ma'am, it's my idea to pursue it," Dave said. "I predicted that when she was released, Kathleen Tilson would kill again. We have a list of women her husband corrupted for his sexual pleasures, Kathleen knew about every one of them. She blames them for her husband's death; she does not blame herself you understand, but those women. We not only have the death of Julie and Melanie, but Cynthia Howell, who was murdered, tied to a railway line in front of a train, decapitated, but Kathleen was still in here, in Prison, when that happened. She couldn't have done it. She must have convinced someone to kill for her."

"If Cynthia Howell's murder had any kind of connection to Kathleen, Detective; I have yet to be convinced."

"Cynthia Howell was one of her husband's women."

Elaine Dunn stared at them for a long time, before leaning forward, opening a drawer and pulling out a brown file, which she flicked open.

"I wanted confirmation of what I knew about Kathleen Tilson, so I referred to notes from Officers on her Wing. Kathleen had no close friends, no friends at all to speak of, she never mixed; the only things she did have was a group, ten or eleven strong, to whom she taught copperplate calligraphy, how to compose a letter, how to fill in an application form, to help them if, and when, they were ever released. Some of them write quite beautifully now. But it wasn't a friend thing, buddy-buddies, kisses and cuddles, she would just turn up, like a tutor, teach them different individual letters, different texts; how to compose sentences, the importance of paragraphs. It kept a lot of quite violent women quiet for a couple of hours, following each lesson they would get on with her lives; as much a life as they had in here. We were thinking of making her course official but we never got round to it."

"She taught them how to write?"

"Yes, Detective Sergeant Holland. Few of the women who come here are well educated; some can barely write their own name. Kathleen not only taught them how to write individual letters in beautiful script, but she taught them how to compose letters home, they practised by writing to each other. We gave them paper and envelopes; they spent hours corresponding, just between themselves. Kept them quiet, peaceful, they liked doing it."

"Did anyone keep the letters?"

"We confiscated one or two during the early days, read them, it caused a bit of a fuss on the day, they thought the letters would remain confidential, we argued our case, won, read them. They were mostly just chatty, like a letter would be, gossip, most of it made up, what it would be like out there in the world, drinking beer, vodka, dancing; there were lesbian fantasies too, violent fantasies, but they were just letters from one prisoner to another and none of them were going to be set free soon. Maybe one or two were but, mostly, the women on Kathleen's wing are long-timers. They just wrote letters to one another then they were destroyed by the prisoners themselves, they then wrote home, nice letters, we have the right to read those. They have kept it up even though Kathleen is out. They still write to one another, still meet every day to practice."

"Maybe a plot was put together through those letters. Did Kathleen write her own letters to other prisoners?" Dave asked. "Maybe that's what happened, she convinced someone through words on paper."

Elaine Dunn stared at Dave, then at Chrissie.

"He doesn't give an idea up easily, does he?"

"You should try working with him, ma'am; obsessive doesn't describe it. But it was an approach we had to follow and we thank you."

Chrissie and Mariska began to stand. Dave didn't.

"So, ma'am," he asked, "was anyone from the group of writers released who could be helping Kathleen, who would kill for her?"

Elaine Dunn stared hard at him.

"I have checked all the release records, Detective, and no one was released who could, or would, do those things; no one was released who had that level of violence inside them; they are sad women mostly, sad and lonely; some will most certainly be back, here is where they feel happy and secure. Of the four who were released, three of them were victims of domestic violence; they had all been beaten and abused for years then retaliated, got jail-time. Their partners didn't. Not fair that, is it? The other was in for vehicle theft, twenty offences, but not exactly the crime of the century, is it? Not a potential railway murderer or arsonist among them. I am reluctant to give you their names because of your obsessive personality, Detective. You will hound them and they don't deserve to be hounded. They are already broken, their lives already ruined. You will have to take my word for it, backed by many years of experience; none of the women released from the wing Kathleen was on was, or is, minded to murder. We spot things like that, we look for rage, a sense of injustice, a grudge; we didn't see it because it wasn't there."

She stood, held out her hand.

"Goodbye."

Chrissie took her hand, thanked her again, Mariska took it, smiled.

"Good luck with your career," Dunn said.

"Thank you, ma'am."

She held her hand out to Dave, but he didn't take it.

"There is nothing worse than a sulky man."

"He has to be right, ma'am, or he goes into the most amazing sulks."

"I believe you Detective Sergeant Holland. Someone will be waiting to escort you out of the Prison. You don't mind if I don't do it, do you?"

"No, ma'am. Thank you for seeing us."

Elaine Dunn inclined her head.

"You are such an embarrassment," Chrissie said, once they were outside the office.

"Okay, thanks."

"Well you are, insisting on your theory, even in the face of all the evidence."

"There's a plot here, Chrissie, and it was put together during those letter-writing sessions. The letters weren't meant to be read, or kept, by the authorities. It was supposed to be just good clean fun, letters from one prisoner to another. Kathleen didn't need to show herself to be friendly with anyone, anyone specifically, because she was making all her friends via the written word, messages going backwards and forwards, right under the Governor's nose. Who knows how many other women Kathleen asked to kill on her behalf before one decided she could and would, and it only takes one, and the Deputy Governor admitted that early letters contained violent fantasies?

"And lesbian fantasies. What are you going to do, hunt down all lesbians?"

"A plot was put together in this prison, I'm telling you."

"Give it a rest."

They went for dinner, the three of them, ate in a pub, cheap and ordinary, the women drank wine, Dave coffee, the meal was shit but filling, Dave paid, they went back to his house, gathered around a coffee table in his lounge and talked.

"We have to find out who was released."

"Oh, for God's sake, Dave, let it go, please, you're giving me a headache."

Mariska changed the subject.

"I wonder if I could ask your advice, Chrissie."

"Sure, what's up?"

"He keeps asking me to sleep with him all the time, he never stops."

Chrissie smiled as Dave blushed.

"Obsessive, is he? I can barely believe it."

The women laughed, Dave went an even deeper shade of red.

"Has he tried to touch you, grabbed you, anything like that. Harassed you, fondled you?"

"Hey, I'm here, and I haven't done any of those things."

"No, he hasn't," Mariska confirmed.

"Has he declared undying love, given you flowers, taken you on exotic holidays?"

"No."

"He's not trying hard enough then, is he?"

"Hey!"

The woman laughed again.

"Don't do it," Chrissie said.

"Okay, I won't. Thanks for your advice."

"I've got to go."

It was late.

"You can stay if you want, spare room is made up."

"Thanks, Dave, but no."

"What are you going back to; a dark, cold house, no heat on, no food prepared, no company, all alone? You may as well stop here, have a drink with Mariska."

"I have a spare bedroom; you can come and stay with me in the basement. You don't even have to see him."

"Oh, thanks, Mariska, I'll take you up on that. If you're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

The women rose from their chairs and meandered off towards the basement without saying good night, thanks, kiss-my-arse, anything.

I wish I had one tenth of what Terry Tilson had, Dave thought. One fucking tenth.

He went to bed, exhausted.

Fire, Daddy. Fire.

Not again.

Dave rolled out of bed, the night was pitch black, he moved by touch, the smell of smoke was strong in his nostrils again, Melanie crouched in the corner of the bedroom again, barely there, her voice as loud as yesterday. He stumbled as he pulled on his dressing gown, opened the bedroom door. All the house lights were on.

Chrissie and Mariska were at the top of the stairs, dressed in very short nightdresses, both blue.

"What the hell's going on?"

"Melanie came to me, David," Mariska said. "Told me there was a fire."

Dave stepped back into his bedroom. Melanie was gone. There was no smell of smoke in his nose.

"She just told me, too."

"Are we talking about Melanie's spirit here?" Chrissie asked. "She comes to both of you? I was sound asleep when Mariska burst into the bedroom, told me to get up, said Melanie told her there was a fire."

"She comes to us."

"She said there was a fire?" Chrissie asked very seriously. "Did she say there would be one yesterday?"

"Yes," Mariska whispered.

"Oh, Jesus," Chrissie said, "I'd better get on the phone, start giving the names of the women, see if any are burning."

They sat in the kitchen while Chrissie made call after call, got addresses checked out, waited for reports back, all of them coming back negative. There were no fires, not at Dave's or at the homes of any of the women on the list. It was a false alarm. Melanie had given false information. They drank tea and coffee. Neither of the women bothered covering themselves up, they simply sat around in their tiny nightdresses, Chrissie in a borrowed one. Dave didn't know where to look. Weariness ate at him, it was all getting to be too much, he wasn't ready for it, didn't want to do it, too many people to watch, too many of his theories ignored, too tired, no-one taking him seriously, except himself, no-one willing to sleep with him. It was only when he saw Chrissie in a short nightdress that he realised what a wonderful looking woman she was. How come he'd never noticed before? Because, compared to Mariska, she looked ordinary. How terrible a thought was that?

Finally, all the calls and checks and confirmations were made, no fires. None at all. Melanie had just been testing them. Maybe she was mad because there were too many women in her house; maybe she was upset with Daddy for wanting other women; Dave didn't know.

Chrissie and Mariska wandered off back into the basement, Dave climbed the stairs.

At the top, Melanie stood, bright and shimmering.

Sorry, Daddy.

"It's okay, sweetheart, it's fine. Are you all right?"

He passed by her, almost overwhelmed with the urge to reach out and touch, to hug her; knowing it would be a waste of time, so didn't.

There will be more fire.

"I know, Mel, I know."

I thought I smelled it tonight, the smoke, I thought I could feel the heat.

"Shh, my darling, don't think about it, let the thought go."

He entered the bedroom, she glided alongside him.

I can't find Mummy.

"I'm trying to find her, darling, I really am."

He flopped on the bed on his back, dead on his feet. Wrong phrase, he thought. Melanie was the only one who was dead in this room, I'm just tired. He tried to concentrate on Melanie, on her fading light, but couldn't keep his eyes open.

"Mel, go to sleep, please. Go to sleep."

He closed his eyes.

He could have sworn she ran a hand over his forehead. He smiled, felt at peace. Slept.

Melanie departed.

He slept the whole night through, woke feeling more refreshed than for months. His mouth was dry, he needed a drink, a beer, not a glass of water; he needed scotch, anything alcoholic. He licked his lips, opened his eyes, daylight streamed in, he hadn't closed his curtains. He smelled coffee, sat up; Chrissie and Mariska were sitting on chests in his bedroom, drinking it. A cup of it sat on a small dresser, steaming just out of Dave's reach.

"Got a cup for me?"

"You'll have to get out of bed for it," Mariska said, smiling a very mischievous smile.

"I haven't got any clothes on."

"We know that," Chrissie said, a giggle in her voice. "Mariska has been telling me about the very pert bottom you've got, I don't believe her, I'm here to confirm her sighting."

"You can fuck off, the pair of you."

"No coffee, then."

Dave looked from one smiling face to another. The happiness they were feeling, generating like heat; it ground away at his stomach; too much of it and something came along and hammered you. He couldn't do with too much happiness.

He thought about his predicament. No coffee if he didn't run around his bedroom naked. That was it, that's what he'd do. He leapt out of bed with a loud shout, rushed the women, they screamed, spilled coffee and tea, ran away, laughing as they went.

"Bastard," Chrissie shouted.

Dave grabbed his cup of coffee, climbed back in bed, covered up. They came back, took up their positions, smiled again.

"Well, I didn't get much chance to see your pert bottom, David Lewis, but the rest of you is in pretty good shape though it could do with a little more weight."

Mariska and Chrissie leaned on each other with their laughter. Dave threw a pillow. He almost smiled.

Downstairs, all of them now dressed, eating toast, drinking more coffee and tea, they talked about the day, what they would do, where they would go.

"We have to be at the briefing at nine," Chrissie said.

"Does that mean I can't come?"

"That's what it means."

"You can wait in the car," Chrissie said.

"Jesus," Dave said, rolling his eyes.

"You're really mean to me; you don't want me to be a police officer."

"No, I'm not, and yes I do."

"Stop saying I can't come with you, then."

"You have no legal standing; you could mess up the whole investigation."

"She's done all right so far."

"Only because you like her, Chrissie; giving her all kinds of opportunities. I think you want her on your squad."

"That would be okay with me. Would that be okay with you, Mariska?"

"It would be very okay."

"You'll be able to tell me all about your day when you return from your toil, Mariska, while I sit here in the house, my twelve-weeks over and done with."

"What will you do with yourself if you don't have policing?" Chrissie asked.

"I'll read, write a book, take up smoking, drink a little."

"If you took up smoking you wouldn't need Kathleen to burn your house down," Mariska said, "you'd do it yourself, probably with me with it. And you don't know how to drink a little. Without the police force, you would be dead and buried in six months."

"I might write a best seller, Mariska."

"Yeah, and I'll be a world famous model."

"Oh, no, you're far too old for that."

Dave felt another smile coming on, but crushed it.

"Don't ask me to sleep with you again. That's it."

"You two sound just like lovers," Chrissie interceded.

"Fuck off," both Dave and Mariska said at the same time.

They went in one car to the Station; Mariska sitting in the coffeehouse across the road. Again.

Chrissie and Dave gathered in the incident room; Wantage and Charlie Nough up front, the board behind them full of more details. The death of Ellen Wainwright prominent, her blown-up photo, lines between her and Cynthia Howell, even a photo of Julia, much smaller, in the right corner, lines drawn from all of them to Terry Tilson, his photo centre, then down to Kathleen.

"All three of these women had sexual affairs with Terence Tilson," Wantage began. "All three of them are dead. One killed in a horrendous event on a railway line, the other two burned in their homes. We know they had sex with Tilson because his wife kept a list." He touched the photograph of her. "She could be responsible for the killings, she certainly killed Julia Lewis," he touched Julia's photo; it was one Dave had given the police as a means of identifying her. There wasn't much left of her face by the time the fire was out. "Ellen Wainwright was killed in exactly the same way." He picked up a sheet of paper, waved it around, identified it. "Prelim report from the Fire Chief. Petrol soaked rags pushed through the letterbox, probably about a dozen of them, then petrol poured in, then a lit rag pushed in after them. By rights there should have been enough petrol to blow the front door off and to kill whoever was lighting it, but the door held, the fire spread rapidly upstairs, Ellen Wainwright died, her husband is seriously ill in hospital. Exactly the same way Julia Lewis's house was burned down. Trouble is, we can't put Kathleen at the scene, either at the Wainwright fire or the Howell rail killing, she was still in prison when that happened anyway. But we believe they are linked. Kathleen Tilson's fingerprints are all over them, not literally of course, but it's her way of seeking revenge and fire is her chosen weapon. We don't understand how the railway killing fits in yet. We have informed all the women Tilson slept with that they should take care in case Kathleen strikes at them, but we've had limited success. It's difficult for the women, they did bad things with Tilson, they don't want partners to know and we don't have enough coppers to cover every abode. Detective Lewis, do you think Kathleen will act again?"

"Yes."

David said it without hesitation. No one turned to look at him. He'd stood in this very room and warned them about Kathleen, they'd all thought he was loopy; now they were just plain scared of him. And his theories. If he said Kathleen would strike again, she would, no question.

"There we have it. She, or someone else, someone she has co-opted, will strike again. If either of them do strike we must be ready, we must attempt to discover who is killing by proxy, every effort must be made to stop any more of these women from being killed. We need information, we need help from wherever we can get it, leave no stone unturned. We have to stop these murders."

Wantage was emotional. Dave admired him more and more.

"Get to it."

* * * * * *

Chapter 19

It was agreed a watch would be kept on Kathleen twenty-four-seven, as the Yanks love to say; it was too much for people to say twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, they'd lose interest by the end of the sentence. Andy Marks and Len Hanley were put on the first shift. They were so professional that within two hours the lawyer Foley was at the Station screaming and shouting about abuse of police power, harassment and any number of other offences, threatening to take legal action. The watch was called off, Marks and Hanley called back to the Station.

Dave rode around endlessly in the back seat of the car while Chrissie and Mariska gossiped up front. He dozed, became bored, could think of no lead to follow, no person to interview, no untrod path to tread. In any murder investigation the first day was absolutely crucial; after that period clues were lost or missed, witnesses missed, not interviewed or interview statements misplaced, information not followed up on, all kinds of crap happened after the first day. Human nature happened.

That schedule had long since passed in the death of Cynthia Howell, ten days since then, nothing to report, nothing found, not one article of her clothing, her bag, her jewellery, not the rope used to bind her, not a damned thing. No witnesses had come forward to report they'd seen anything unusual, heard anything, not at her home, not at her place of work, no-one was even certain where she'd been taken from, where she'd been kidnapped. Where had that happened?

Dave suddenly woke up, rejuvenated; he began talking, becoming inspired. He convinced Chrissie to drive back to the Hospital; she had nothing else better to do, so she agreed.

"This had better not be another of your crazy theories."

"Where was Cynthia Powell kidnapped from, Chrissie?"

"We don't know, that has not been established; it's on the board, place of abduction not known."

"But normally, when she finished work, she drove straight home, that's what her husband told us, occasionally she would stop off at a supermarket, so there are only three places she could have been taken. From work; from a supermarket; if she stopped at one; or from home. We have no witnesses who sighted her at any of those locations. Not one."

"We know she wasn't taken from work, her car was seen driving past the front of the Hospital only moments after she signed off. We know it wasn't from there."

"We have nothing, so let's go back to the beginning, to the Hospital where she set out from, let's see what we find, follow the route. Let's detect."

"Okay."

"Nice thinking, David."

"Thank you, housekeeper."

"Take no notice of him, Mariska; he's just a miserable bastard."

"True."

Dave remained slumped in the car until Chrissie arrived at the hospital and parked. He climbed out, looked around and saw, literally, hundreds of cars in several large car parks, thousands of people either visiting or working.

"Is there a staff car-park, do we know? If there is, which one is it?"

Chrissie stared at him, a look of astonishment on her face.

"We must know, we must have asked," she said.

"Who asked, there's nothing on the board about where the staff car-park is?"

"I didn't ask, personally, but someone must have."

"Like who?"

"I'll go and ask," Mariska said as she marched off, walked through the fancy revolving doors with greenery and stuffed animals in the recess, looking like a hunt that had gone wrong.

Mariska was only out of sight a few seconds before she marched out, approached them, smiled.

"I could get used to be being a police officer."

"You're impersonating one, that's a criminal offence; you could get five years for that."

"Ignore him, Mariska, what did they say?"

She pointed up a hill that climbed up in front of the hospital. There were cars up there, too.

"There, furthest away from the hospital, that's the staff car park. Patients have to be as near to the main entrance as they can get; it doesn't seem fair to me."

"Nobody's asking."

"Do shut up."

"Thanks for standing up for me, Chrissie."

"It's okay, Mariska."

Dave set off, marching towards the staff car park, weaving through parked cars, working his way upwards. The women followed, each shrugging to the other, no idea what was on Dave's mind. At the exit of the car park he stopped, turned, looked down the hill.

"Look at that," Dave said immediately.

"What?" Chrissie asked; once she'd caught up with him, standing next to him, looking, not seeing, Mariska just looking at him.

"There's two ways down from here," Dave said. "Immediate left out of this car-park, here, where we're standing; it takes you behind the main patient and visitor car-parks, out on to the main road, over there," he turned, pointed to indicate. "The other takes route you down the hill to pass in front of the main entrance."

"And?" Chrissie asked.

"You don't see it?"

"See what?"

"If Cynthia Howell's car was parked here when she finished work, she would have turned left, immediate left, gone that way, it was her way home. But she didn't take it, she drove down the hill, past the main entrance then turned left, the long way round."

"And, I ask again?"

Dave gazed at her, turned to face Mariska.

"Do you have any deductions to make; your hero doesn't seem to have any?"

Mariska looked all around, up the hill, down, to her left along the short route, down towards the main entrance. She pondered, turned to look at Dave.

"She didn't park her car in this car park."

Dave clicked his fingers and spun round, smiling at Chrissie.

"She's right, she saw it. Cynthia didn't park her car here, in this car park. We need to find out where she did park it."

Chrissie ignored him, turned to Mariska.

"You clever bitch," she said.

"You are too kind."

They marched down the hill, a sense of excitement flowing through them, they were moving forward, doing something. They made enquiries at reception, were told that the staff car park was the only place where vehicles could be left, nowhere else was available. They marched along the endless corridors to the ward where Cynthia worked, where they were told the same thing. The frustration was immense. Chrissie said thank you, they turned to leave.

"Although," one nurse said, just as they turned, "she might have parked round the back, she hated walking up that hill; it's a killer after a twelve-hour day."

Chrissie turned, slowly, Dave could barely breathe; Mariska felt their tension.

"You are?"

"Nurse Ellison. Beverly."

She was young, too young to know much about Cynthia. How could this kid know what no one else seemed to know?

"And you say she parked round the back? Where is that?"

"Well, round the back. If you go out of the building, all new brick, large windows, loads of parking, turn left, keep going, keep turning left, you'll find the old hospital, years old, wooden buildings, ancient they look to me. I met Cynthia one day, I hadn't been working here long, I'd parked up, was walking down the hill, when I got to the entrance Cynthia was walking in from a different direction. I asked her where she parked, she said round the back, don't tell anyone; she said management didn't like it. I've never given it a thought, never seemed important."

"Thank you."

Chrissie marched out, leading the other two, striding the corridor, seeking, wanting to look, wanting to find where Cynthia parked her car.

It was a very desolate spot, though a few cars were parked there, Chrissie made notes of the numbers, asked Mariska to go and ask at reception whose cars they were, Dave tut-tutted, said she would get them into trouble, Chrissie told him not to be such an old maid, besides she needed him to search. They searched, not knowing what they were looking for.

Mariska returned, accompanied by a very old lady, regal-looking; she looked like the Queen's sister, or cousin, or some such. Mariska was arm-linked with her, chatting.

"This is Miss Emelia," she said.

The Miss was emphasised, not to be confused with the modern Miz.

"She works as a volunteer in the hospital. She has been doing it for almost forty-years. She parks her car here, that's hers."

Mariska pointed to a red Volkswagen.

"Miss Emelia," Chrissie said. "Thank you so much for coming out to speak to us."

"It is all right, my dear," her accent could have carved glass, "anything to aid law enforcement."

"How long have you parked here?"

Emelia smiled.

"Believe it or not, when the original hospital was in operation, this was the main car-park, forty-years ago, maybe longer, very few people had cars in those days and then they only used them for work. I've parked here ever since I began working as a volunteer. My husband was killed in the war, you see, left me wealthy. I thought I could help."

Chrissie smiled. I wish someone would leave me wealthy, she thought.

"And would you know if Cynthia Howell parked here? You did know Cynthia, did you not?"

"A wonderful girl, simply wonderful, very sad what happened to her, she didn't deserve it, she was a happy, happy girl, lovely."

"Did she park here?"

"Oh, yes, very often next to mine. I told her about here in the first place, you know, it's very secret, only the old-timers know it's here, management don't like regular staff parking here, but they don't mind us old-timers using it. Cynthia hated the hill, most of the gals do; it should have been flattened years ago, now it would cost too much money. All the old buildings are used for storage, of course, so sad. It was a wonderful hospital, still is, but it used to be so much smaller, more family orientated, it's just a machine for sick people now, a Titan, thousands of people coming through its doors, like a supermarket. So sad, Cynthia. The funeral is tomorrow, you know, I shall be attending."

Chrissie didn't know, neither did the other two.

"Did you see Cynthia on the day she died?" Chrissie asked. "Or her car?"

"I didn't see her here, in the car park, I saw her when she came to buy something at the shop, we spoke a little, and her car was parked just there."

She pointed.

"By the time she left, 7pm, her car would have been the only one here. All us old folk would have gone home."

Chrissie and Dave exchanged a glance.

"Well, Miss Emelia, you have been very helpful to us, thank you very, very much. Perhaps Mariska could escort you back?"

"Oh, don't be silly, I do this walk every day, I am used to it. You get on with solving Cynthia's death, find out who did it; lovely girl. Lovely."

Miss Emelia shook everyone's hand with great panache then marched off in a very deliberate fashion, back straight, head up, arms swinging. They were an amazing generation, the ones who lived during the war.

"How did we miss it?"

"I don't know, Chrissie, we all saw the car on the CCTV passing the entrance, assumed everything was normal. She may not have been driving, she could have been snatched here, dark, no-one about, easy grab."

"She might have been hit with something, a weapon of some kind. You want to give it an hour to search?"

"More than that, we should get SOCO and forensics out here; get them on hands and knees, a fingertip search."

"A general search first and let's see if we can find anything."

They split up, searched and, of course, it had to be Mariska who discovered something. She discovered a spade. She didn't touch it, just stood above it, staring down at where it was half-hidden in the long grass that grew up against the old hospital wall, the grass here not as well tended as out front.

"Chrissie. Dave," she shouted.

They came over, stared down, Dave pulled on gloves, bent, turned the spade over, examined it.

"Call forensics."

"You think?"

"I think she was hit with this spade, bundled into her own car, driven off. Call forensics, call Wantage; tell him we have something. The place from where Cynthia was taken."

Chrissie pulled out her mobile phone, made the calls, they waited, the three of them. When the troops arrived, they arrived in considerable numbers.

The whole of the back of the hospital was taped off, officers were side by side on their knees, searching every inch of the ground, Forensics had removed the spade, Wantage stood with Chrissie and Dave, Mariska back behind the tape, feeling detached from all that was happening, considering she had discovered the spade.

"What the hell made you return here, Lewis?"

"We had nothing else, Boss, so we decided to go back to the very beginning, start again. We paced it out, looked at the angles, checked the facts, found the spade; called it in."

"A great get. So who do we think is driving Cynthia Howell's car when it's on CCTV passing the entrance?"

"Don't know, Boss. We're going in to have a better look at the recording. See if we can get anything from it."

"Then we thought we'd go back to Operations, see if we can pick up the car driving into the City, see where it goes," Chrissie added.

"Do that, Chrissie."

"Thanks, Boss."

"We'll go into the Hospital again," Wantage said, "start questioning those who worked with her, someone must have known her routine to be out here, waiting for her. It must have been someone she knew."

Dave and Chrissie moved away from the taped off site, ducked under the tape, making their way back into the Hospital, Mariska tagging along, following a few feet behind. She'd caught up by the time they arrived at the entrance. They watched the CCTV coverage of the car passing the entrance, they played it slow, inch by inch, second by second, but the driver could not be identified, the camera was too high on the building. They went back to the Station, climbed to the top floor; took Mariska up with them as everyone was out at the possible abduction scene. She was thrilled. No one questioned her presence, her right to be there. They pulled the recording of the day, ran it, picked out Cynthia's car being driven on the City ring road, one of a number amongst hundreds, Alec Timmings being absolutely brilliant at this sort of stuff. He sat, spinning the wheels of the control, the picture changing on the screen in front of him, he kept doing it until he traced Cynthia's car.

"We should get a view of the driver if it stays on this route; there are some low-level cameras along it."

The trio nodded, standing behind him, gazing at the screen, night falling, soon all cars would be unidentifiable.

The car stopped at traffic lights, there was a low-level camera there, almost staring into the car. The driver wore a large hooded garment, the hood up, covering the face, sunglasses, what looked like a false beard. No identifying marks, no advertising messages on the sweatshirt, no funny faces, drawings, no maker's name, nothing.

"That person is about six-feet tall, maybe slightly more."

They all turned to look a Timmings.

"Make of car, driver is almost up to the roof of it, it's easy to cover one's face, not so easy to cover one's height. Six-foot; maybe slightly taller, six-one, six-two."

"Thanks, Alec."

"It's okay, Detective Sergeant."

They watched until they saw something horrific.

The car pulled into a lay-by, traffic rushing past it on the ring road with blinding speed. The driver climbed out, recorded as a fuzzy image from a camera sited across the road, but clear enough to see the long sweat-shirt, the hood, the sun-glasses, the beard, baggy trousers, too, shapeless, boots. In the driver's hand was something long. Alec Timmings zoomed in and out several times.

"That looks like a police truncheon to me, the kind you can buy at car boots, auctions, not one of the new extendible types, an old-fashioned one, wooden."

They watched as the driver climbed out, closed the car door, walked round the front of the car, opened the rear door, leaned in and with obvious movements, hit something with the truncheon several times.

"Oh, my God,"

Mariska lifted a hand to her face when she saw it.

"The driver is hitting Cynthia Howell."

Dave said it bluntly, flatly, matter-of-factly.

"She must have been coming round after being hit with the shovel; the driver is making sure she remains unconscious."

The driver finished what was being done, came round the front again, stopped for a moment, looked up, directly at the camera, waved the hand that held the truncheon, went back and hit Cynthia again.

Every single one of them went cold.

What kind of person did that?

Playing up to the camera; beating Cynthia for fun.

The four, including Timmings, stared silently at the screen, at a frozen-hearted killer giving no mercy to a victim. Hitting Cynthia with a truncheon, making sure she remained in a state where she could be controlled.

It was more than horrific.

The driver slammed the rear door for a final time, climbed back in the car, drove off, at the next entrance the car left the ring road and disappeared into the night.

"Is it going in the direction of the railway bridge, the one over the railway line where Cynthia was found?"

"That would appear to be the route, Sergeant."

Mariska looked at the screen, looked at Timmings, she was pale, still with her hand to her face. She almost re-assessed her desire to become a member of the police force.

"Man or woman?"

"Couldn't tell, Chrissie."

"Anyone?" Chrissie asked, looking around.

Between the three of them, they couldn't make out whether the driver was a man or a woman, though the guesses were on a man, because of the height and build.

"It can't be anyone from prison then, can it, if it's a man?"

Dave was still amazed when Mariska nailed a thought.

"It certainly isn't Kathleen. That's for sure," Chrissie added.

"I was sure it would be a woman, someone she knew from prison."

"Yes, Dave, but you're not always right, are you? It has been known for you to be wrong."

They stared at the screen, Alec Timmings had gone back to the lay-by, the driver was hitting Cynthia again, too awful to watch, but looking for any clue.

"Hits like a man," Chrissie said.

"Not enough of a swing to tell," Timmings said. "If it was a full swing we could tell, women certainly do have a swing that's different from a man's, that's not sexist, just a simple fact, but with those short, sharp hits, you can't tell."

Mariska turned her back on the screen, she couldn't take any more.

They departed Ops with thanks to Alec, went back to the incident room, updated the board, Cynthia abducted at her place of work, beaten on the way to the railway line, taken in her own car. Chrissie called Wantage, told him everything they'd learned, especially about the kidnapper, the murderer being six-feet, or taller. Wantage stopped his teams interviewing anyone at the Hospital under that height.

"We never did find the car."

"It would have been dark when it came back into the City, we couldn't have found it, or followed it, too much traffic about; could have come in from several different directions."

"Not quite what I was saying, Chrissie," Dave said. "What I meant was that we haven't found the car yet, if we find the car, we find the murderer."

"That's true, but where do we go this time, Dave?"

"To the railway bridge, we go back to the beginning again, it just worked for us, let's get it to work again. We start from the bridge, work our way back into the City."

"It would be a waste of time, too many ways into the City. Whoever was driving would have known she was on CCTV going out of the City, would have steered clear coming back in."

"Then that's our route, avoiding as many CCTV cameras as possible."

Chrissie stared at him a moment, glanced at Mariska.

"Sometimes he does have a thought."

"Sometimes," Mariska confirmed.

Chrissie called Wantage again, told him how Lewis wanted to go back to the railway bridge and try and find the route back into the City, he wished her luck, asked her to leave a written description of what she'd discovered at the Hospital on his desk and she did as she was asked.

They went back to the car, which was parked in the alleyway, climbed in, drove back to the bridge from which the murderer had watched Cynthia die. On the way, they passed the lay-by where Cynthia was attacked. They pulled into it, climbed out, searched around with torches, found nothing, never expected to.

They carried on with their trip, standing on the bridge looking down at where Cynthia Howell died, all of them feeling equally sad and angry. Cynthia's death was so cruel, her death so intricately planned with no chance of escape, apprehending the killer seemed to be the only worthwhile thing in life. They climbed back in the car, Dave in the rear with a torch and a map book.

"Okay, which way?"

"We travelled to the bridge by the same route we think the kidnapper took so the car must have approached the bridge from the left, so we'll go right."

"But there hasn't been any CCTV coverage for miles even on the way we came, why right?"

"Because, Mariska, the murderer having done the deed wouldn't have wanted to be seen by another car that may have been heading towards the railway line."

"You're not making any sense," Chrissie argued, "the murderer could have passed a car coming in the either direction, been spotted for exactly the same reasons."

"No-one has responded to seeing a car on either road, no-one has come forward, so we must assume the driver never passed any cars either way; but the killer didn't know that would happen, took precautions, took another route away from the bridge. We'll go right, swing away from the City; come back in from another direction."

Chrissie turned the car right and proceeded slowly along a narrow country road.

"Why are we going slowly?" Mariska asked.

"See if any articles of Cynthia's clothing were thrown by the wayside, any of her belongings, anything."

"They're with the car."

"Okay, Dave, they probably are, but while we're out here we may as well check."

"These roads leading to the bridge would have already been searched," Dave said.

"Yeah," Chrissie answered, "and where did you see that written down?"

They went slowly until they hit a wide main road. They had seen nothing.

"Where do we go now?"

"Go straight across, Chrissie, there's another narrow road, there."

"There are no cameras on the main road, why would we want to do that?"

"Because if we turn left, the route back into the City, two-hundred yards down the road is a roundabout, brightly lit. Whoever was driving would have wanted to stay out of the light for as long as possible."

"Okay, I'll go along with that."

She drove the car across the main road, into another country lane.

"Do I need to go slow again?"

"Well, not too fast, anyway."

Chrissie drove, keeping her eyes on the narrow road, aware that if any vehicles came the other way she barely had room to get round them. Mariska and Dave keened the hedgerows, looking, searching, one to the left, one to the right.

"Stop!" Mariska shouted.

Chrissie jammed the brakes on, Mariska jumped out, ran back a few paces, bent, looked, Dave climbed out, Chrissie remained at the wheel. It was a false alarm. It took on the shape of a handbag, but it was just abandoned junk.

"Sorry," Mariska said, as she climbed back in the car.

"It's okay, it could have been something."

Chrissie turned and smiled at her.

They came to another main road.

"What do you think?"

"I think our driver has come far enough now, what is it, about four miles from the bridge?"

"About that."

"Confidence must have been growing, successful abduction, deliberate cruel murder, the taking away of all the evidence, escape. A plan had been hatched and successfully completed. The killer must have been feeling elated, oozing with confidence. Now it was time for going home, a celebratory drink, a Chinese takeaway, something with which to celebrate. I say turn left, head back into the City, from a completely different direction than the one the driver departed on."

Mariska was fascinated at Dave's thinking. She wondered whether it was genius, cleverness or just plain guesswork.

Chrissie turned left, onto a main road, and made her way back into the City. They didn't pass anything significant or substantial relating to the murder; it was just a different, busy, way back into the City. Chrissie drove, Dave dozed, thought about drinking, of being drunk, it had been weeks since he'd been properly drunk; he was genetically inclined towards drunkenness, he needed his headaches, his vomiting, the foul taste in his mouth. He needed a drink. When was he ever going to be allowed to drink again? He licked his dry lips, thought of nothing but alcohol.

Suddenly, Chrissie gave a little scream, almost like a catch in her throat, because a vista opened up to her right and everything looked familiar.

"Dave, to your right, what do you see?"

He opened his eyes, sat up, was immediately alert, looked out of the window. He stared, looking right, left, behind him, right again.

"It's the complex of apartments where the white van disappeared, the one we were watching on CCTV yesterday."

"I thought it was. Coincidence?"

"I don't believe in them."

"But you are sure?

"I am. Are you?"

"I am. Well hell, David Lewis; I'll take that."

* * * * * *

Chapter 20

A short, loud, noisy argument broke out between Dave and Chrissie; he wanted to go into the complex straight away, find out what they could, she wanted to return to the Station, watch the recording again. She'd forgotten the name of the woman to whom the van was registered, she needed the name, the address, she needed to speak to Wantage, they couldn't just go charging in; charging in works, Dave argued. By dint of seniority and shouting louder, Chrissie won, Dave sulked, Mariska stared around at the complex, wondering what was going on, whether it was like this all the time with the police, one person going in one direction, another going in the other; no wonder crimes remained unsolved if that was how they went on. She reconsidered her future.

They left Mariska in the car in the alleyway while they half-rushed upstairs to Ops, where Alec Timmings was just going off duty.

"Favour, Alec, big one, the van you followed yesterday, can you run it again?"

"Fuck, Detective Sergeant, I've been cooped up in that room for nine-hours today, my wife has just phoned, my dinner is ready to go either on the table or into the rubbish bin, I've got to take flowers just to get fed, come back in the morning."

"Please, Alec, I'll phone your wife, tell her you are absolutely essential to a murder enquiry, it shouldn't take long anyway, we know what we're looking for."

Alec turned to Dave.

"Is she always like this?"

"Worse, she rattles and nags like one of the best in the world."

"Alec, please."

She ignored the comment made by Dave.

"Jesus!"

Alec marched back into Ops, found the recording, fed it in, found the van on the road, followed it back into the City, all the way back to the complex. Chrissie did as she promised, called his wife, made his apologies, gave her own, said he would be leaving any time now. Alec's wife sounded kind and understanding, not at all like the wife who would throw his dinner in the rubbish. As it happened, when Alec did get home his dinner was in the bin. His wife was doubly angry with him, one for not coming home at the time he was supposed to, two for getting someone else to call and make excuses for him. Who was that woman, anyway?

"Number plate, Alec, please."

Alec zoomed in on the plate, got the number, Chrissie phoned, got the owner's name and address.

"Thanks, Alec, have a nice evening with your lovely wife."

Alec's wife went to bed early with a headache, didn't speak to him all night. Alec was pissed at Chrissie.

When Chrissie stormed into the offices, Wantage wasn't there; he'd had a long day, bless him, and gone home. She thought of calling him but decided against it, the last time she'd done it he'd ripped her heart out and eaten it. Pete Lindcroft sat at his desk in isolation, manning the phones, everyone else still out at the Hospital taking statements, nothing yet, forensics rushing the spade through the system, going to inform them in the morning if anything was on it.

Chrissie said great, keep at it, stepped into her office; Dave slumped down at his own desk. Pete stared at him.

"Nice find, Dave, that spade."

"Thanks, Pete."

"You're a great policeman and I don't know what makes you such a wanker, blowing up Don Blue and John Williams like that, jeopardising their careers?"

"You attack me, Pete, I fight back. I am the dirtiest fighter you have ever met. You throw one stone at me; I'll throw a whole mountain back."

"I had heard."

"You heard right. Don Blue verbally attacked me."

"Boys are saying that if you come back, make D.I. again, they won't work for you."

Dave smiled.

"I once had a friend who was a publican, a gang of his regulars approached him one night and said they would only attend a charity night he was organising if they could stay behind for more beer a couple of nights a week. He told them that attending the charity night was not their choice but his, and his alone; he decided who came into his pub, no one else. They had no input. Not only were they not stopping for more beer, they could fuck off, never darken his door again. It was the only pub for miles around, apologies were no good, they'd challenged his authority, tried to take over his house, it was no good crying, they were out. If I stay, if I make D.I. again, the same rule will apply."

Pete Lindcroft said nothing, eventually he even stopped staring.

In her office, Chrissie switched on her computer, typed in the name of the woman to whom the white van was registered.

Irene Wendel.

Number 37. An apartment in the complex.

Thirty-four years of age.

Criminal record; habitual taker of motor vehicles, twenty convictions so far, many more suspected; the most recent resulting in three years in Silver Side Prison. She didn't call Dave, whom she could see through the window having a friendly conversation with Pete Lindcroft, both of them sitting at their desks, chatting. As she read, the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

Irene Wendel.

Who was she? She stole cars; Deputy Governor Dunn mentioned that a car thief had recently been released from Kathleen's wing. Was that person Irene?

Chrissie scrolled down the entries for her, looking for some time at her photograph; hard, she looked hard, but most criminals looked hard in photographs; newspaper photos always made murderers look like starey-eyed nutters, made child molesters look more creepy than they were, gang members emotionless. She ignored the photo except as an identification tool. Long face, blue eyes, long nose, mousy hair, strong chin, thick lips, small ears.

Irene Wendel was no-ones idea of pretty, she was not even good-looking.

Chrissie pushed her prejudices aside, took more interest in what she was reading.

Six-feet-one-inch tall.

This time she did call Dave, he entered her office and she swung the monitor round so he could see and he stared at it.

"Irene Wendel. That was the woman Alec Timmings gave us. She's in the system. Car theft."

He stared some more at her image.

"Deputy Governor Dunn said a car thief had been released."

"Yes, I know," Chrissie continued, "convicted car thief released from Silver Side. She was there."

"Released only weeks ago?"

"And she's six-foot-one tall."

"Let's go and get her."

Dave spun away from her desk and monitor, made for the door.

"Wait!" she shouted. "We can't go charging in; how many times do I have to say it. We need warrants, discussions, we have to keep people in the loop, inform Wantage, get a team together."

"Fuck all that, Chrissie; let's go."

"Wait. Let me call Dunn, the Prison Governor, see what she's got to say about Wendel."

Dave waited, standing in the doorway, breathing heavily. Chrissie called.

Dunn wasn't at the prison, she'd gone home, Chrissie coaxed her home number out of whoever it was she spoke to, called it.

"Hello."

The phone was only answered after six rings; Chrissie was expecting an answer-phone.

"Deputy Governor Dunn?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"D.S. Holland, ma'am, visited you at the prison. I am sorry to bother you at home."

"What do you want?"

"Irene Wendel?"

"Recently released, car thief, no violence in her as far as I know, never been convicted of any violent act, never showed any practical application for it, was never involved in arguments on the wing, barely raised her voice."

"She could have committed violence though, couldn't she, Deputy Dunn, being six-foot-one, with a build like a boxer?"

"Gentle giant, ever heard the phrase, Detective Sergeant?"

"Was she in Kathleen Tilson's writing group?"

"I asked you not to bother the women who'd been released."

"Was she in the group, Deputy Dunn?"

"Yes."

"Was she close to Kathleen?"

"I have already told you, no-one was close to Kathleen."

"Was Irene open to manipulation, could other prisoners get her to do things for them, could she be moulded like putty?"

"Why the sudden interest in Irene Wendel?"

"Information has come our way concerning her; we are following up on that information."

"And you think Irene Wendel would kill for Kathleen Tilson?"

"We may be looking into the possibility."

Dunn sighed.

"Be careful with Irene, she hasn't the greatest intelligence in the world, it seemed to me that she got more out of Kathleen's group than most of the others and yes, she could be manipulated by others. I don't think she could be manipulated to kill though, most of what went on in the prison was of a sexual nature."

"Was Kathleen involved?"

"Kathleen wasn't involved in any sexual encounters as far as I am aware. She stayed away from that side of prison life; she wasn't put under any pressure by anyone, probably because she was an arsonist, a murderer, held in high esteem in prison."

"It's a weird world, isn't it?"

"More weird than you can possibly imagine, Detective Sergeant."

"Thank you for speaking with me."

"If Irene Wendel is innocent and you cause her grief, Detective Sergeant, I would be very reluctant to help you in the future."

"Thank you for helping me on this occasion, Deputy Dunn. Goodnight."

Chrissie hung up, pointed a finger at the phone.

"Pompous cow."

"What did she say?"

"Irene was in Kathleen's writing group, she doesn't have a high intelligence; the Deputy won't help in the future if we get this one wrong. Gentle giant, she called her, Irene."

"A giant who could have abducted Cynthia, smacked her with a spade, beat her with a truncheon. That kind of gentle?"

"Possibly. Let's go and ask her."

"What about discussions, speaking to Wantage, all those things?"

"Fuck them, come on."

"I need to know where you're going," Pete Lindcroft stated, his voice flat. "I have to log everyone in and out, state where you've been, where you're going."

"Fair enough," Chrissie said. "Put down that we came in and went out, that do it?"

"No."

"Good. See you, Pete."

In the car, Dave brought up what he thought was a serious point.

"We can't have her wandering around?"

"If, by her, you mean me," Mariska retorted, "I will not be wandering around."

"You don't understand, Mariska, we could be arriving at the very sharp end of a murder investigation; your presence could put everything in jeopardy, an unauthorised civilian being involved. If you do anything, say anything prejudicial, we could be in real trouble."

"I won't speak, I won't say anything."

"You have to stay in the car."

"Chrissie?"

"I'm sorry, Mariska, but he's got a point."

"But I've been here almost from the beginning."

"I know, but it gets serious now. This is the time when we have to play by all the rules; otherwise the whole investigation goes down the pan. I'm sorry."

Mariska slumped down in her seat, turned her face to the window, said nothing more. Chrissie drove, excitement growing within; Dave, in the back, sparking as if lit up by electricity. After alcohol, this was what made him feel alive, apprehending criminals, catching the bastards. Of course, he was often disappointed by the Courts, who let all sorts of nasty little people off on the back of some pretty awful excuses, pathetic mostly. The _'my daddy wouldn't take me to the Circus'_ defence still worked after all these years. Can't read, can't write, didn't understand the rules, was still a popular defence, though what was hard about the ability to tell the difference between right and wrong was beyond him. A modern defence was that the accused just didn't understand the law. All shit. Do the crime, bastard, serve the time. Don't whinge. Moreover, solicitors should be disgusted with themselves for putting up such defences as reasons for committing crimes. Even local crimes, like those charged with drunk and disorderly behaviour; judged in lower courts, in front of magistrates; were defended by solicitors who would say, well, his wife left him, his kids don't like him because he's a miserable bastard, never done a day's work in his life, has no pride, a sorry case, your honours. Ten hours fucking community service.

It was all shit. He settled back in the seat, happy with his mental rant.

Mariska spoke again.

"At least tell me why we're after this woman, give me some details, how we got on to her?"

Dave loved the 'we' bit.

"When we ran traffic CCTV, like we did earlier, we found a nondescript white van travelling a road near to where Ellen Wainwright's house went up in flames on the night she died. It didn't seem like anything but when we were coming back into the City from the railway bridge, following the route the genius here decided we should follow, we passed the complex where she lived. Neither Dave, nor I, believes in coincidences, we've found that where two points collide there's a reason for it. The route we travelled took us past the same complex, so we went back into the Station, found the name and address of the registered owner of the vehicle, ran her name through the computer, discovered who she was, and it was a woman who was only recently freed from Silver Sides. She was in Kathleen's writing group, they knew one another. And she's six-foot-one-inch tall."

"Like the person who beat Cynthia?"

"Exactly like that person."

"So she's involved in at least one murder?"

"She could be; that's what we're checking. We want to speak to her, try and find the white van, examine it, with the woman's permission; otherwise we need a warrant, see where she lives, see if she'll let us in."

"What's her name?"

"Don't tell her, she doesn't need to know."

"Irene Wendel."

"Thank you, Chrissie, I won't tell."

"I know you won't."

"I don't know that," Dave said.

"Shut up!" both women shouted.

Chrissie weaved the car through the City traffic, taking it slow, trying not to become too excited, Dave nagging in the back, telling her to get on with it, get it done, giving both women a headache. Chrissie thought it might even be a good idea to let him have a drink; she mentioned it to Mariska.

"He can have one, he can have more, which he will, and you can look after him," Mariska said.

"Fair comment, he doesn't get one."

After a one-hour drive across a distance that should have taken fifteen minutes, they arrived at the complex. They drove through a large arch that gave access to a huge open area of dying grass, empty beer cans, broken playgrounds, mattresses, couches, and which was surrounded by ten storey buildings that protected the outside world from the residents. Teenage gangs lurked in small groups, hanging around like litter, nothing to do, nothing to think about other than who to shoot today, who to knife, who to rob. Get a job, Dave thought, as he climbed from the car. Have some pride in yourself. He looked around at the various vehicles parked up; none of them was a white van.

"We can't leave her here, on her own," Chrissie said.

"Why not?"

"Dave, look at the surroundings, at the gangs watching us. When we come back from the third level we'll be lucky if the car is still here, if we leave Mariska, she'll probably disappear with it. Come on, think."

Dave thought.

"Leave her here."

"Mariska, get out of the car, but you must promise not to say anything, this time it wouldn't be funny or clever, it could be a disastrous. Promise me."

"I promise."

"Her promises aren't worth a shit, she's promised before."

"I won't say anything, I promise. I won't interfere in any way. Don't leave me here."

"Jesus!"

The three of them set off for apartment 37, third level of a sinking ship, bombed out, abandoned, should be flattened, with or without the people inside. That was Dave's silent opinion. He wiped his mouth; the excitement was making him thirsty; he could kill for a drink. He began to sweat.

They climbed concrete steps, looking down at the car from each level, so far, it was untouched, but people were getting closer to it. Up they went, along the open balcony, to number 37; Chrissie took out her warrant card and knocked, loudly. No one answered. She and Dave stood in front of the door, staring at it, Mariska took it upon herself to watch the car, kids were getting closer to it.

"Hey," she shouted, loudly. "Fuck off, leave the car alone, otherwise I'll come down and smack you."

Dave and Chrissie turned in amazement to look at her.

From below, Mariska got fingers, many fingers, but the kids moved back from the car. No one answered the door. Chrissie knocked again.

"I'm going down."

"Don't be stupid, Mariska."

"They're only kids; I don't want the car wrecked."

"They'll batter you without thinking about it then steal the car."

"Have faith."

Mariska returned to the ground floor, walked out and leaned on the car. Chrissie shook her head, knocked again. The door remained unopened. There was a small window, heavily netted, Dave peered through it, could make nothing out, no shape visible of someone hiding under a table, nothing moving.

"We could kick it down," Dave said.

"On what grounds?"

"Murderer lurking inside?"

"We wouldn't get away with it."

"Cries of distress emitting from the innards?"

"Wouldn't work, no-one would believe you."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Let's try next door."

They moved along the balcony, looked down, Mariska was engaged in conversation with a group of five youths.

"They'll get her, I'm telling you," Dave commented, feeling real fear for Mariska.

"Let's try and find out where Irene is, get out of here."

"Go down and rescue her, that's what you mean."

"I didn't say that."

Chrissie knocked on the door of the apartment to the left of 37.

The door was opened immediately, skinny old man, thin patch of grey hair, rheumy eyes, rags for clothes, rotten teeth.

"Thought you'd never knock. You want to come in?"

"No, sir, we're looking for Irene."

"Stole another car, has she?"

"Not as far as I know, you expect her to steal one?"

"Only thing she's good at. Can hardly read or write, has no humour, too tall I think, never had any friends, but show her a car, she'll steal it in six-seconds. A genius at knocking off cars, brilliant. You want to own a car on this complex you ask Irene; she gets you one. BMW, Jaguar, Toyota, whatever you want. It's what stops her from starving. She sold one just a couple of days ago, good car, red, sold some other stuff, too. And she's good to me, too."

"I can tell, sir," Dave said, dryly.

"But do you know where she is?" Chrissie asked, showing her frustration.

"Nope."

"Does she own a white van?"

"Yep."

"You know where she parks it?"

"It's not down below?"

"No, sir."

"She mustn't be in then."

"Thank you, sir."

"Does she hang about anywhere, when she's not here?"

"Car parks, that's where she hangs out."

The old man coughed and laughed.

They moved away from his door.

"Excuse me," the man said.

Dave turned, the man was holding out his right hand.

"I don't give information out for free you know."

Dave snorted; Chrissie gave him some money.

There was a scream from below, they looked down, Mariska was standing like a boxer, fists up, bouncing on the toes of her high-heeled shoes, a youth was lying on floor, others were backing off.

"Try that with me again, I'll break your fucking neck," Mariska shouted.

Dave sighed, Chrissie ran down the stairs, he followed, they joined Mariska, the kid scrambled up off the ground, staggered to join his friends, they wandered a little distance off, stopped, looked back.

"I had to slap him, he grabbed my breast."

"Lucky him," Dave said.

"Get in the car. You okay, Mariska?"

"I'm fine."

They climbed into the car, sat looking round, nothing to do, nowhere to go, dead end. Irene Wendel was not at home.

"Do we wait?"

"Could do, half-an-hour, or we could come back later."

A kid appeared in the archway; he whistled and waved to the ones who'd walked away from Mariska. Dave stared, looked over his shoulder to see the gang running flat out towards them. Dave swivelled round, Chrissie and Mariska looked all around. The kids raced past the car, one of them banging on the roof, and they ran into the arch, where they spread out, hand to hand, blocking the entrance, waving a warning.

"They're waving someone off. Chrissie, the first kid was a lookout, they're waving Irene Wendel off, they know we're looking for her, they watched us go up to her apartment. Chrissie, get going."

Chrissie started the car, reversed; the kids were still in the arch, still spread right across it. No one in the car had seen anything, no sign of a white van, no sign of a six-foot-one-inch woman, a gentle giant, nothing. Chrissie drove into the arch, the kids broke up, laughing, pointing at those in the car.

"Fucked you," one of the youth's shouted. "Truly fucked you."

They all laughed outrageously; walked past the car, back into the complex. No one touched the car. Chrissie drove out. There was no sign off a white van. No sign of Irene Wendel.

"Bollocks."

"We'll find her, Chrissie."

"Thank you for your support, Mariska."

"We'll find her, let's go back, get a warrant, kick down her door, rip the heart out of her apartment, find out everything about her, arrest her."

"Yes, David, thank you for that suggestion."

"Got one better?"

"Nope."

"Come on, then, or let's go and get something to eat, to drink, then we'll get the warrant, unless you want to stay here and wait."

"Irene Wendel may never return now, not now she knows we're after her. Let's eat and drink."

They found another coffee shop, drank strong coffee, Mariska sipped tea while they munched on cakes.

"We think Irene Wendel is the one, the one who killed for Kathleen?" Mariska asked.

"Yes," Dave answered, emphatically.

"Take no notice of him, Mariska, we don't know for sure, but she could be an important link to the investigation."

"She did it," Dave insisted. "Kathleen organised it during her letter writing group, planned it in detail, Irene carrying it out to the letter. Kathleen is as manipulative as her dead husband, she wound Irene up, fed her fantasies, told her she could do it, get away with it, gentle giant my arse. Perfect plan; perfect murder."

"You think that's what Kathleen wanted, the perfect murder?"

"I think she promised Irene that everything would go so perfectly; that she would never be suspected; she would get clear away with it. Every murder she does, she'll get away with. Irene believes, she's been manipulated all her life but now thinks she's doing things of her own free will. Kathleen doesn't care what happens to her, she's going back into somewhere, jail or hospital."

"You think a woman who can barely write and barely read can commit the perfect crime?"

"I think she tried really hard at her letter writing, succeeded, can do it better than people think, she enjoyed writing to Kathleen and she made suggestions that excited Irene, and here we are. She is the instrument of Kathleen's perfect murders."

"You think Kathleen is that good?"

"I think she's better than good, especially when it comes to organisation and manipulation. She was married to Terry Tilson, for Christ's sake, she must have picked up some clues on how to do things, how to fulfil fantasies. Terry was just about the best I have ever heard of at that. Look what he did to Julia, who I thought was the perfect woman, the perfect wife, the perfect lover, the perfect mother. Look what he did to her, to the others, decent upstanding women. Kathleen could easily do the same. I think perfection and manipulation are in her blood."

"You do, do you?"

"I do. I really do."

* * * * * *

Chapter 21

By the time they'd finished their coffee and cakes, they realised the length of day they'd had. Chrissie called in to speak to Wantage, called his home, her heart in her mouth. No answer.

"Seems no-one cares about these murders very much, they care even less about us running all around the countryside all day looking for clues, no-one in," Dave said.

"I'm ready to call it a day."

"Come back to mine, Chrissie, shower, change, sit, I'll make dinner, we'll enjoy a glass of wine, talk."

"You make it sound tempting, Mariska, but I have to go home sometime."

"Not today. Stay another night."

"I need some clothes, things."

"Okay, let's get them. Come on, have some company."

Chrissie turned to look at Dave.

"That okay with you?"

"Not my home, I live in the big bit, alone if anyone has noticed. She does what she wants."

"Please come."

Chrissie smiled a weary smile.

"Okay, but up early, get warrants for the arrest of Irene Wendel and Kathleen Tilson, we should be able to break Irene even if we can't get Kathleen to confess, all we have to do is convince Wantage we have a case."

"He'll go for it."

"You think?"

"Maybe he'll go for it," Dave said.

"Better. Okay, Mariska, you've convinced me, I'll collect some stuff, come over."

Mariska clapped her hands gently, grinned.

"It's lovely having someone else to speak to, instead of only him."

"Watch it, housekeeper, more respect required."

"Tell him to stuff it, Mariska."

"Stuff it."

Dave sighed. He'd never been very good at arguing with one woman never mind two. He paid the bill for the food and drinks, they departed, drove across the City, through its expensive centre, out into the not-so-expensive suburbs. Chrissie kept driving, two-three miles as the light faded and night came on. Eventually, she pulled into a narrow street; cars parked both sides, and she squeezed her car into a parking spot.

"My spot," she said, as she switched off the engine and they climbed out. "It's not much, but it's home."

She was right. It wasn't much. It wasn't a home, either. It was a very small ground-floor apartment of a very small house, tiny rooms, kitchen one couldn't turn round in once you were jammed between work-surfaces, no wonder Chrissie was slim; lounge not of a size to swing the proverbial cat, single bedroom, single bed, small wardrobe, nothing else, shower-room, not enough room for a bath.

Mariska stared around with a look of horror on her face.

"Chrissie, you can't live here, you can't, my lounge in the basement is as big as this whole apartment, come and stay with me."

"Don't be patronising, Mariska, this is home to me, I've lived here for years."

"How many neighbours do you know?"

"The guy upstairs."

"There, you see, with me you would have two friends immediately."

Chrissie raised an eyebrow.

"You want me to be friends with him?"

"He isn't that bad actually, and he'd be able to have sexual fantasies about both of us, take some pressure off me."

The two women laughed loudly, hugged, stared at Dave. He said nothing, he wanted not to be insulted, or a drink, whichever came first. If he was to be insulted, perhaps he could patent himself as a game; call it _'Be Insulted'_. Maybe not.

The three of them being in the apartment made it crowded, so Dave went back to the car, climbed in, sat in the back. He wanted Kathleen Tilson, he wanted her dead and buried, but who was going to take him seriously when her husband had caused the death of his ex-wife. Everyone would say he was biased, building small coincidences into a major case, bringing in Irene Wendel as an accomplice when the only evidence he had was that they were once part of a prison writing-group. In the cold light of day, in fact in the darkness that now lay over them, he had nothing but words, ideas. Wantage would never allow warrants to be issued on the evidence he had. But he knew it all to be true. He had to have a plan, something that would work. He thought about it, decided to concentrate on Irene, get a warrant issued for her arrest as a person of interest, bring her in, question her hard. If anyone was going to break, going to talk, it was going to be her. If he could get Irene to talk, he could get Kathleen that way. He wiped his mouth; he could really do with a drink. He sat up, looked the length of the street, it was no good, the days of the backstreet pub were well past. He slumped back down into the seat.

The giggling women came out of the house, Chrissie carrying enough stuff to indicate a longer stay than one night, Mariska carrying small suitcases. Dave wondered how many people would end up living in his house; he didn't really care now there was no Julia, no Melanie, except in her sad spirit. Bags and suitcases were piled into the car, on to the back seat, annoying Dave, him being tut-tutted at for complaining. Eventually, they drove off.

"Chrissie's going to try the basement for a while, see how it goes, she will keep this apartment for a few weeks, until she discovers if she can live with you."

"She will be living with you," he replied.

"That's true but you do like to interfere."

Dave ignored the insult.

"Is she going to pay rent?"

"Don't be silly, she's my guest. You wouldn't charge my parents for staying, would you? You might, being you, now I think about it. She's just coming for a few weeks but you never know, we might find living together so good we could find somewhere bigger to live, share the rent, when I'm a police officer. And don't go having any fantasies about us sharing a bed, neither of us are that way inclined, bet you'd like us to be though, wouldn't you?"

Dave said nothing. He now had two more problems. What would he do if Mariska moved out? And how could he get the image of her and Chrissie in bed together out of his mind? Life was full of problems.

Back at his house, they used separate entrances, him going in through the front door, Mariska and Chrissie down the steps to the basement. They were still giggling like teenage girls, lifting bags and cases out of the car, Chrissie especially shrill, excited, somewhere else to live, somewhere nice and rent free, apparently.

Dave immediately climbed the stairs without putting any lights on, lay on his bed, wondered about his life, worried about it, where it was going, what he was doing; did he still want to be a police officer for instance? When the scent of an arrest was in his nostrils, he could never imagine doing anything else but was he strong enough for the boring day-to-day stuff, committed to it, did he care? He had no idea, his thinking was slightly out of sync because of his plans to bring down Kathleen Tilson, to stop her getting away with anything more. He wanted her in prison with a long sentence to serve; he didn't want her in a hospital from where she could be released if she proved herself to be sane again. That would take her no time at all, two, three years; she could be out, laughing at him, killing again. He did not want her in a hospital, which he felt sure she was working towards. He wanted her in jail, never to be released. He dozed.

A white shimmering light lit up the corner of his bedroom. Melanie, it was Melanie, he was immediately alert.

"Mel? Is that you, darling? Melanie?"

The shimmering light was not forming a figure, it just hung in the corner of the bedroom struggling, it seemed, to form itself. Dave noticed the shape seemed too tall to be Melanie. Was another demon trying to get to him? Fear surged through him, he didn't know what to do, was it to be another ethereal attack? He couldn't bear it.

A whisper came from the shimmering form, a low anguished whisper.

Melanie.

The word spread across the bedroom like a freezing winter breeze, brushing Dave's face, making tears flow from his eyes in a rushing torrent.

It was Julia's voice. Julia. She was searching for Melanie.

"She will come," Dave said, kneeling on the bed, arms outstretched. "Julia, she will come."

The image flared then disappeared. Dave rolled over, put his face in a pillow, wept.

It was some time later when Mariska tapped on his open bedroom door, he never closed it; who would he be closing it from, or opening it to. He was awake, lying on the bed, eyes open, tears still damp in the corners.

She entered, looked at him, came over, sat on the bed.

"You okay?"

"Julia came, looking for Melanie."

Mariska lifted a hand to her mouth.

"She couldn't form, she was just a light, but she called Melanie's name. She was looking for her."

Mariska stroked his forehead; he reached up, took hold of her hand and kissed it.

"I love you, you know?"

"I know, just don't think about it.

"Have I no hope?"

"Some, maybe. But we must settle Melanie first, help Julia find her."

"How do we do that?"

"I have no idea; when Melanie is here try calling Julia. It must be hard for her, coming back from the other side, she loves your daughter very much. We will call and tell her Melanie is here, she may come, they can leave together, go back together, be happy together."

"What about me; what about my happiness?"

"Your happiness will come."

"With you?"

"Who knows what the future holds."

He kissed her hand again; she stood.

"Dinner is going to be ready soon, go and shower, put fresh clothes on."

She was just like a mother to him, the way she behaved. He didn't want a mother, he had one of those, he never saw her, but he had one. He wanted a lover. He wanted a perfect lover. He wanted Mariska Masekova.

She departed the bedroom, he climbed off the bed, showered, changed, went down to dinner. Chrissie was in the kitchen with Mariska, they were drinking red wine. She poured Dave a coffee.

"No red wine for me?"

"You got it in one," Mariska said, with a smile.

He went into the dining room, sat, drank his coffee.

"I want to go after Irene Wendel, forget Kathleen, if we can get Irene to talk, we'll have her, anyway."

Chrissie popped her head around the kitchen door.

"Good idea; she'll be the weak link, do you think?"

"Hope so. And we should be able to convince Wantage she's a person of interest in at least one murder."

"It would be easier than going after Kathleen. Another couple of weeks and she'll be back in court to face her judgement."

"I'd feel better about that if we had her on murder charges."

"You think she wants hospital?"

"I do. She'll be out in a couple of years, temporary insanity is just that, temporary. She'll convince them she's sane again in no time at all, she'll walk."

"Okay, we'll go after Irene, get a warrant, you can kick down her apartment door, we'll rip it apart. Tomorrow, we'll do it all tomorrow."

It was agreed, Dave felt better, they ate dinner, he drank coffee, they drank wine, they chatted, he received a kiss on each cheek when they retired to the basement. He smiled, thought he might have a chance of experiencing what Terry Tilson experienced after all. He went to bed with a smile on his face, happy thoughts in his mind, slept undisturbed.

Taking Mariska was now so much of a habit that neither Chrissie nor Dave thought about it. When Dave left the house after breakfast, there she was, all dressed and ready, not a comment from Chrissie, a shrug from Dave. Besides, he'd become accustomed to sitting in the back of the car, listening to nonsense. Today it was about some reality show they'd watched on the television. From what they said to each other, it sounded just like the kind of programme Dave loved to ignore. They arrived at the Station, parked in the alleyway, left Mariska to make her way to the coffee shop, while they went in, climbed the stairs, spoke to Wantage. Chrissie explained what they wanted.

Wantage listened.

"And all this is based on the fact that when you were returning into the City, you passed the same place you'd seen a white van disappear?"

"Yes, Boss."

"It's a bit thin; thinner than most of his wild ideas."

"There could be something in it."

"An unmarked white van, a woman who once sat in a writing group and was tutored by Kathleen Tilson, that's what you're telling me?"

"Yes, Boss."

"If we pick her up and the van is full of plumbing equipment, we are going to look like prats."

"She's a car thief, Boss, twenty convictions."

"Doesn't make her a murderer though, does it?"

"No, Boss, that's why we want to speak to her."

"Go back to her apartment, she may very well be in, speak to her there."

"But if we can arrest her on suspicion maybe she'll fold and give us Kathleen," Dave said.

"You still think she's behind it all, the railway death, the fire?"

"Yes, Boss."

Wantage sighed, rubbed a hand across his face, through his hair.

"I knew it was going to be a pain in the arse taking him back, I knew his reputation for coming up with whacky ideas, I should have said no and let him go to traffic, somewhere like that."

"Probably right, Boss," Chrissie confirmed.

Dave had a smile on his face. He was getting quite used to the idea of being in a room but being invisible to all others.

"I'll get a warrant drawn up," Wantage said, "bring her in; let's see what she's got to say. God help us if she's trying to go straight."

"What, a car thief, get real?" Dave said, a wicked smile on his face.

Wantage looked at him.

"Yes, thank you for that comment, Detective Lewis, get the fuck out of my office. Chrissie, come back in half-an-hour."

"Thanks, Boss."

"You're an annoying bastard," Chrissie said, as she and Dave sat in her office.

"So you've told me, over and over."

"I must be right, then. Even when people are trying to help you, you still can't resist being horrible to them. Wantage is not the enemy; we are supposed to be catching the murderers of Cynthia Howell and Ellen Wainwright; trying to stop any more murders taking place. Why the hell would you want to be rude to Wantage?"

They were sitting with the computer monitor between them, the photograph of Irene Wendel filling the screen as copies of her face were printed off.

"I'm sorry about that," Dave said, not appearing to be sorry at all.

"Don't tell me, tell him, when we go back in. Go and get two coffees."

Dave rose without speaking, came back with two black coffees.

"The word is you're on to something," Tom Lane said.

"Could be."

"Pretty close in there with Chrissie."

"She likes intelligent conversation."

Dave said it with a smile; Tom smiled back.

"Get stuffed, smart-arse."

Wantage buzzed Chrissie to say the warrant was ready, not to bring that bastard Lewis in with her. She picked it up in his office, apologised for Dave; Wantage shrugged off her apology.

"He spends most of his time apologising."

"He does, but he has some demons in his heart."

"We're policemen, Chrissie; we all have demons in our hearts."

"He's got more than most."

"Stop defending him, let him work his twelve-weeks, get him out of here."

"I think he might be getting back into it."

"Don't tell me that, give me good news; go get this Wendel woman, let's see what she has to say."

"Yes, Boss."

They picked Mariska up when they drove out of the alleyway, making their way across the City, back to the multi-storey complex where Irene Wendel lived.

Except she lived there no longer.

When they approached Number 37, with about thirty youths watching them from below, they discovered the door wide open, swinging backwards and forwards in the wind. They stepped in; the place had been stripped, there was nothing left, nothing on the walls, in the fixed cupboards, no furniture, nothing, even the carpets were gone, if there had ever been carpets.

"We could always get SOCO out, let them have a look."

"And what would they be looking for, Dave, there's nothing left?"

Dave shrugged.

"I knew we should have waited for her to come back."

"She may not have come back; her stuff could have just been moved out by neighbours. Let's ask the old man."

They knocked on next door, Mariska looked over the balcony, down at the youths, they made all kinds of sexual gestures, all kinds of signals, she gave them the finger, they cheered.

The door opened.

"You again; what you want now?"

"Who cleared out Irene's apartment?"

"Who the hell do you think? Irene."

"She lifted all the furniture out by herself, did she?"

"Neighbours helped, no harm in that, time she moved on, you people won't ever give her no peace."

"Where's she gone?"

"How the hell would I know, nobody tells me nothing, they know I sell information for hard cash?"

"Well, give me some information, I'll give you money."

The old man smiled.

"Got none, come back tomorrow."

He slammed the door in their faces. Chrissie looked at Dave, he shrugged again, looked round, thought about knocking on more doors, knew it would be a waste of time. Irene had moved on. But where had she gone?

"We could look for her, search some car-parks, drive past Kathleen's place, see if there's a white van outside of it."

Chrissie thought about it.

"May as well, nothing else to do, Wantage won't want to see us, seeing as we can't serve the warrant."

They walked down to the car to the tune, if it could be called a tune, of 'Show us your tits', sung over and over by the youths, as they pointed in military fashion at Mariska, laughing. The three of them climbed into the car, drove off, going nowhere, doing nothing. From outside a pasta restaurant at lunchtime, Chrissie called Wantage and explained Irene Wendel had done a runner, but they were in pursuit. Wantage sighed, hung up.

All day was wasted driving round car parks, showing a copy of her photograph to people who had never seen her. They drove past Kathleen's twice, no white van was visible, Dave wanted to knock, enter, but Chrissie told him he was mad. They ate dinner at an Italian, Mariska admitting to being bored today, as if that were a bad thing, Chrissie saying a lot of police work was like that, get used to it, Dave eating, saying nothing. They went home, nothing accomplished. Dave slept without interference from ghosts.

Friday morning, 3am.

Fat Allen Carrington had put the gang he was a member of to use protecting his wife, Denise, and their children. People from the estate had been warned about approaching the house without reason; they would be hurt, they were told. Allen sat on the low wall outside the front of the house with three of his friendly neighbourhood thugs, drinking cans of strong lager, chatting quietly, giving fingers to every car that crept past, no one hooting, all residents keeping their heads down. Allen was wondering how long they would have to keep it up, this protection, before he could go back to sleeping in his own bed with his own wife. A week? Two? He chatted and drank.

Fire chiefs would later state, in reserved criticism, that someone should have been watching the back of the house if they'd been serious about protecting Denise Carrington and the children, and it would have helped, enormously if the back door had actually been secured. The centre of the fire would be pinpointed to the base of the stairs, rags soaked in petrol, probably more petrol poured on top, a burning rag probably thrown from a distance. There was a small explosion that alerted Allen and his friends to something amiss but by the time they came through the front door, the stairs were ablaze. Allen tried to fight his way up through the inferno, he died in the effort; he was found on the landing, Denise threw her children out of the bedroom window at the back of the house, all were caught by gang-members. She couldn't jump, she was too heavy, too big, too afraid, she died with her husband.

Denise, of course, was on the list.

Dave stood in front of the blackened hulk of a house and cried.

Mariska held one arm, Chrissie the other.

"It's madness," he said, through his tears. "All kinds of innocent people are dying and Kathleen and Irene don't care as long as they kill the women on the list."

A quick sweep of the estate, where people were loathe to converse with police, but who were ordered to by the gangs to give up what they knew, had thrown up a possible sighting of a white van being driven off the estate at about the time of the arson attack. Wantage ordered a serious attempt to find Irene Wendel, he even sent someone to interview Kathleen Tilson at her parent's house, not Dave though, and not Chrissie;' Charlie Nough and Ian Holland were given that job.

The immobilizing effect of total frustration overwhelmed Dave, his brain was frozen, his heart cold, he couldn't think of a thing to do, a place to go, a person to speak to. It was as if he was a baby policeman all over again, he had absolutely no idea how to solve the crime.

"Jesus."

"May he help them, Denise and Allen," Mariska finished off.

"Don't go religious on me."

"I'll do what I want, say prayers for whomsoever I wish."

"Leave her alone, Dave, none of this is her fault."

"Sorry."

Dave dried his tears.

"When Charlie and Ian have finished with Kathleen, we're going to see her, we're going to tell her we've got her list, we know what's happening."

"Wantage will kill us."

"We have to do something, seeing her will help."

"Okay, we'll do it."

"Thanks, Chrissie, I know you're putting your career on the line, not me though, couple of weeks, and I'm gone."

"Be quiet, don't say that."

"That's it, Mariska, you tell him."

They stared back at the house, fingertip searches already being made, front and back, roads patrolled, people spoken to, statements taken, photos snapped, forensics traced, Detectives detecting. Wantage walked over, spoke to them.

"Charlie's been on the phone. Kathleen was a dead-end."

"I want to speak to her."

"No."

"I think he's got an approach, Boss."

"He's always got approaches; it's the trouble he causes that bothers me. If he goes to see Kathleen, her lawyer Foley will be on the phone in seconds, my life won't be worth living."

"Give him his head, Boss, if he fails what does it cost? He's going in a short while, a couple of weeks; you can terminate his time now if you want. If he gets it right, you win, he gets it wrong, you win again, you can disown him, sack him, humiliate him, he doesn't care. Let him do it."

Wantage stared from Chrissie, to Mariska, who seemed to be very familiar, finally to Dave.

"Okay, do it, it's your life, your career, but not Chrissie's. If it goes wrong, she hasn't been involved, I'll say you bullied her into it, she stays, you go."

"Understood," Dave said.

Dave released the holds on the ladies, turned and began to walk away.

"Nail her, Dave, please."

"Will do, Boss."

Dave said it without turning but his voice was steady enough, as was his step.

"I wish him luck, Chrissie; we have to stop these killings."

"I'll do anything I can to help him."

"Don't do anything disastrous, don't jeopardise your career."

"Are you kidding?" Chrissie said. "Just knowing him puts my career in jeopardy."

"Who's your companion, by the way?" Wantage asked.

"A trainee, Boss; just a trainee."

Chrissie grabbed Mariska and whisked her away before Wantage asked any more questions. They drove to Kathleen's parent's home, knocked on the door; Kathleen opened it, looked at them and smiled. She was dressed in a blue dressing gown that hung all the way to the floor; she didn't look at all tired; her make-up was in place, her hair immaculate. Her parents stood closely behind her.

"Go away, I have already been questioned," she said.

"We need to speak to you Kathleen," Chrissie said.

"Mrs. Tilson to you, Detective Sergeant, and you don't need to speak to me, you need to speak to my solicitor. Go away."

"She has already spoken to the police," her father said, from close behind her. Dave still couldn't remember his name. "Please leave us alone."

Kathleen began to push the door shut.

"I've got the list, Kathleen," Dave said, when the door had only inches to go before it was fully closed.

Kathleen ceased pushing the door, pulled it open again and turned to face him.

"What list would that be, Lewis?"

"The list. The one from the Bible."

Kathleen visibly straightened, her face hardened, her whole demeanour changed. She turned to look at her parents. "You go back to bed, Mum, Dad, I'll be all right."

"Are you sure, what's he talking about, what list, what Bible?"

"It's nothing to worry about, Mum, I'll be all right; you two go back to bed."

She turned back to face Dave as her parents shuffled back inside the house.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kathleen said, through lips that were compressed almost into white lines in her face. "What list, what Bible?"

"You know what list Kathleen; I know you're killing all the women on it. At least, you're getting Irene Wendel to kill them."

"You're mistaken, Detective Lewis."

"No I'm not; you convinced her to do the killings during your writing classes. You are as manipulative as your husband and as cruel, crueller actually, because he never killed anyone."

"My husband was a nice man."

"He was a bastard."

"Those women threw themselves at him."

"He manipulated them, corrupted them."

"So you know what we're talking about, Kathleen," Chrissie said, "if you know about the women? You're aware of the list?"

Kathleen keened Chrissie, a look of pure hatred in her eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, no. It's just him trying to besmirch the memory of my wonderful Terence."

"You're in the clear, Kathleen," Chrissie continued. "You're mad, that's your argument, has been your argument during your appeal. Give Irene up, tell us where she is, we bring her in, she accuses you, you deny it. Cut and dried. No court will convict you, they may confine you; you still have to pay for Julie and Melanie."

A sly smile spread across Kathleen's face.

"You have it all worked out, Detective Sergeant Holland, don't you? Do this, do that, this will be the outcome; she will be the woman who will suffer. All worked out. You all think you are so clever. And look, here we have Mariska Masekova still playing at being a police person, standing around looking beautiful but useless, a pretty flower in the vase that is Holland and Lewis, a plaything, a toy."

Mariska didn't bite; she remained impassive and calm.

"You're never trying to intimidate the person who you perceive to be the weakest link, are you, Kathleen? That is so like you. Poor Irene Wendel, just a car thief, now a multiple murderer, going away for life, just because you say so, just because you ordered her to kill for you. You don't give a hoot for her; you are just an evil, vindictive cow."

"That's enough, Dave," Chrissie said, "we are just here to speak to Kathleen; we're trying to convince her to give up Irene. It's in her best interest."

"It's in your best interest, you mean, Detective Sergeant."

"You're responsible for killing how many now, Kathleen?" Dave asked. "Julia, Melanie, fucking Tilson, Cynthia, Ellen, Denise, plus various innocent members of families, people who were innocent in the extreme. Melanie for one; someone who had never heard of you. You feel nothing for those people, not even for the women who were totally corrupted by your husband, the despicable Terry."

"Don't say that, don't call him that!"

The retort was sharp.

"I'll call him what the fuck I like, Kathleen, say what I like about him, he corrupted women and you helped him in his task, kept his diaries, told him where he was supposed to be, who with, probably what he was expected to do. You are as perverted as he was; now you are blaming the women for his death, when the only person responsible is you. The evil Kathleen, the Catholic girl gone bad, the murdering bitch who likes to see her prey burn in hell. Is that what it's all about, the fires; Hell, they're all going to Hell."

Kathleen's face was frozen in hate for Dave.

"Careful what you say to me, Lewis."

"Why, are you going to burn my house down? Try it. I'll shoot you dead if I ever find you on the same street as my house. I'll kill Irene, too."

She stared for a little while, thought about what he'd said for a long time.

"I believe you would."

"Believe it."

"As pleasant as this has been, I have to go inside now, call my solicitor; tell him I have been insulted on my own doorstep."

"No more women have to die, Kathleen, you've proved your point."

"What point would that be, Detective Sergeant Holland? If I was making points maybe I would have to kill a few more before I am incarcerated for many years. Goodbye."

She closed the door; no one put a foot in it.

They all profaned as they strode away from the house, climbed into the car, drove off.

"She knows where Irene is hiding."

"Of course she does, Dave; Irene is still her weapon, still out there, still available. Irene can still kill for her."

Dave thumped the back of the front seat.

"I cannot believe this. Why can't we nail her? We should have brought her in. Let's go back and arrest her."

"For what?" Chrissie argued. "We have no evidence against her, other than the burning of Julia's house, her death, Melanie's death, she stood trial for that and that's subject of a retrial."

"I can't bear it."

Mariska turned in her seat and stroked his knee.

"We'll get her, you'll get her, you're much more clever than she is; you will get her."

The rest of the day was wasted, driving around looking for Irene Wendel, hoping for an ounce of luck, patrolling car parks, assisted by traffic cops, returning more than once to the apartments, being heckled by gangs of kids, not even getting out of the car, the door to Irene's apartment visible, still flapping in the wind. It was late when Chrissie drove back to the Station, her mood, her spirits low, much as Dave's were. She shuffled into her office, closed the door behind her, clearly wanting no visitors. Dave sat at his own desk, restless, rubbing his hands over his face, worrying about women dying. Sammy came over, flopped down in a chair.

"You all right, Dave?"

"Life's a shit, Sammy."

"That's a fact no-one argues with, unless you're a dictator, in which case, life is sweet."

Dave almost smiled.

"What's particular about this day, this life?"

"Kathleen fucking Tilson."

"Ah, thought it might be. We're not getting any closer to her, are we, or that Irene Wendel?"

"We're not, Sammy, really we're not, and women's lives are at risk."

"Yes they are."

Sammy slumped in the chair he sat in, thoroughly depressed by his little talk with Dave.

Chrissie opened her office door.

"Dave, you go home, get a cab, take Mariska with you. I'll see you later, paperwork to do."

He could tell she was feeling as depressed as he was himself.

"Kick it into touch, Chrissie. Let's go home."

Sammy looked from one to the other, sensing something going on.

"I'll see you later, ask Mariska to save some dinner for me."

Sammy was even more interested.

"Switch off your imagination, Sammy, nothing's going on"

Sammy grinned. Something was going on, he was sure of it.

"Okay, we'll see you later, don't stay too late."

Dave rose. Sammy grinned. Definitely something; Chrissie and Dave were like man and wife. An office romance; hadn't had one of those in many a long year. Dave said goodnight, Sammy continued to grin, Dave gave him the finger, shook his head, went over the road, picked Mariska up from the coffeehouse, caught a cab home.

Mariska was extremely disappointed that Chrissie had stayed behind; she liked her company, her laughter, her conversation. She hadn't realised how lonely she had been in the basement, how lonely she was. She could always move into the house, of course, but she didn't want to do that. Yet. She wasn't sure Dave was sufficiently recovered from Julia's death. He had to get over her before she could move in. They sat in the back of the cab in silence; upon arrival Dave paid, Mariska went down to the basement, Dave went up, they didn't speak except to say that they would meet for dinner.

Dinner was cold chicken from the fridge, salad, Mariska said sorry, she didn't feel like cooking, Dave said it was okay, she asked if she could have wine, he said she could, no need to ask, he drank coffee. Time passed. Mariska called Chrissie a couple of times, she sounded really down, Mariska begged her to come home, get some food, relax, get her mind off Kathleen Tilson. Chrissie promised to come home soon. Time passed. Mariska called again, Chrissie was still at work, Mariska cried.

"I've done something to upset her."

"Mariska, you have not. We are all having problems with these murders, it's very depressing, we will have to get it sorted tomorrow with the boss, do it legally, drag Kathleen in again, it won't be easy, but if we can keep hold of her long enough, we can break her, get her to give Irene up, charge them both."

"We have to do it."

"Tomorrow, I promise."

She pecked at is cheek.

"I'm going downstairs."

"Sleep tight."

"I miss her; she is just such good company."

"I know she is. Go to bed, forget all the problems, I'll wait here until she comes home, make sure she can get in."

"I gave her a spare key."

"Okay, good."

Mariska glided down to the basement, still beautiful, still poised. Dave didn't wonder for a second why he should be attracted to her, why he felt love for her. And she hadn't rubbished all his hope. He went into the lounge with more coffee, a biscuit or two, watched television, dozed. He woke with a start when what appeared to be the light from a torch was shone into his eyes. He opened them; it was Melanie, shimmering brightly alongside the chair.

"Hi, Mel."

Mummy's coming for me.

"That's good, darling, wonderful."

I'll be going with her.

"That's good, too, being with mummy."

I want to be with you, too, Daddy.

"We'll be together one day, my sweet. Our love will survive everything and anything."

Melanie looked around, over her shoulder.

Mummy's coming.

Another shimmering light shone in the corner of the lounge, forming itself with difficulty, until it was Julia, tall, slim, just as beautiful in death as she had been in life. She glided towards Melanie. Melanie smiled, looked up, took her hand. They both stared at Dave, transfixed and in tears on the chair.

Bye-bye, Daddy.

"Bye-bye, my darling girl, I will always love you."

I love you, too, Daddy. Bye.

She began to fade.

_I'm sorry,_ Julia whispered, as she, too, began to fade.

"It's okay, my darling wife. It's okay."

I am sorry. Forgive me.

"I do forgive you, I have forgiven you. Look after Melanie, please."

She shall never leave my side. I love you.

"I love you, too, Julia."

Bye.

"Bye."

The figures faded, faded, faded then were gone. Dave sobbed loudly, dropping his head, feeling absolutely alone, bereft, wondering whether to kill himself, to join them.

In Chrissie's office, the phone rang again. She picked it up.

"Mariska, I'll be home shortly."

"Detective Lewis's favourite woman will die tonight."

The voice was flat, low, the person who spoke disguising the voice. Chrissie couldn't tell whether it was male or female.

"What did you say?"

"Detective Lewis's favourite woman will die tonight."

"Who are you? Give me your name!"

The phone went dead. Chrissie held it in her hand. Dave's favourite woman?

Mariska!

She would be killed tonight. Kathleen. She was about to do something, burn Dave's house down, something bad. Or Irene, she was going to do it.

Chrissie shot out of her chair, banged through the door. In the offices was Erky, Sammy, Tom Lane, Andy Marks doing a swap shift with Pete Lindcroft. They all turned to look at her.

"Just had a call, anonymous, someone said Dave Lewis's favourite woman was going to be killed tonight."

"The red-haired one?" Erky asked.

"Mariska," Sammy said.

"Get round to Dave's, call all units. I'll follow in my car; let me ring him. Go, go."

The four of them rushed out of the office. Chrissie picked up the phone, banged in the numbers. Dave sounded groggy when he answered, he'd probably been dozing, or had he been crying?

"Dave, I've just had an anonymous call, said your favourite woman was going to die tonight."

"Jesus. Mariska?"

"Get her out of the basement, get her safe, the boys are on their way, I'm following, keep her safe."

"Will do; and thanks for calling, Chrissie. We'll see you later."

Dave rushed into his kitchen; he emptied a lofty cupboard to the left of the cooker, pulled spice bottles and stuff out, letting them fall. Behind it all was a small metal safe embedded in the wall. He picked up his car-keys, found the right key for the safe, inserted and unlocked it, pulled the door open and removed a legally held and licensed grey and black pistol. He gripped it in his right hand. Bloody thing had never been fired and he hoped it worked. He shoved five bullets in the magazine from a box in the safe. If he missed with five, he was worse than useless.

By the time he'd done all that, Mariska was exiting her basement door, the one into the main house. She was dressed in a very short nightdress.

"Get dressed," Dave said. "Chrissie has received a threat against your life. Quickly."

"What?"

"Get dressed!"

Dave literally flew out of the house, leaving his front door open, halting on the pavement, looking up and down the street, nothing suspicious moving as far as he could see, his hands behind his back hiding the pistol. Mariska came out of the house, dressed in her old tracksuit.

"What's going on?"

"A threat has been made against your life, get the car keys, get in the car, drive to somewhere safe, go to the Station, somewhere like that."

"I'm staying here."

"Don't be so ridiculous, someone has made a threat against you. Get in the fucking car; get safe. I couldn't bear to lose you."

"You'll protect me, you and that gun you're hiding."

"For Christ's sake, Mariska."

"We'll be all right, together."

They waited.

Following the call to Dave, Chrissie dashed from her office, along the corridor, down the stairs, out of the building. She raced into the darkened alleyway to her car, unlocking it as she ran. She pulled the door open...

...and was hit so hard with a baseball bat that her head bounced off the car roof.

She dropped like a brick to the ground, instantly unconscious.

Irene Wendel removed the keys from her hand, opened the back door of the car, lifted her in easily, Chrissie being light, Irene not. She closed the rear door, climbed in the front, drove off. Chrissie bled all over the back seat, breathed very shallowly, Irene didn't care. She'd been given her instructions, she'd received a call from Kathleen; tonight was the night. Irene would see things through; she would do what she had to do, what she'd been ordered to do. She drove through the City, heading for the railway bridge; she would just be in time to catch the last train. Well, Chrissie Holland would be.

Dave patrolled outside his house, backwards and forwards, looking up and down, the boys should be here any time, any time.

A white van turned into the road.

Dave stared at it.

It couldn't be, could it?

Surely, Irene Wendel wouldn't dare come at him when he'd had a warning. She didn't know he'd had one? She didn't know? He brought the pistol round to his right side.

"Get safe."

Mariska stood directly behind him.

"In the house, I meant.

She didn't move.

The van stopped almost opposite the house, the lights were switched off and Dave stepped back into the shadows of the door, pushing Mariska back with him. Let her come, he thought, let her fucking come, let her get close, shoot the bitch, shoot her dead. See what she's carrying first, any rags, any petrol, anything suspicious; shoot her.

The van door opened; someone in a hooded anorak, zipped up to the neck, climbed out, reached inside, clearly reaching over to the passenger seat. Dave waited, the tension growing inside him, tight, taut, every muscle ready, hoping the gun would fire. He flicked off the safety.

"Get down."

Mariska crouched in the darkness, scared to death, shaking with fear, never knowing anything like it, someone coming to kill her, her being the target. She really couldn't believe it.

The car door of the van was slammed shut with a noise like a gun being fired. Dave actually jumped.

"My hero," Mariska whispered.

"Fuck off."

The person began to walk slowly across the street, towards the house, just as the boys with the flashing blue lights came screaming around the corner, into the street. No sirens, just lots of lights. The person coming forward never even looked in their direction, just kept coming. In the right hand, the person carried an old Army jerry-can, the sort that held several gallons of petrol, in the other a plastic refuse bag, fully weighted.

Doors slammed as police jumped from their cars.

Dave stepped out from the shadows.

"Stay back!" he shouted to the gathered police. "She's got petrol."

The person still wasn't identifiable as a woman, but Dave had no doubt.

He raised the gun, aimed. The person just kept coming.

"Detective Lewis, let us deal with it, we can get her, let us arrest her and take her away. Dave, look at her, she wants you to shoot her, she wants it, look at her, no fear, not looking at us, concentrating on you, she wants you to shoot. Please don't."

The speech was made by Wantage, shouting loudly.

People on the street began opening their doors, police shouted for them to get back in. The person with the petrol can kept on coming, only a matter of yards away, now.

"I will shoot," Dave shouted. "If you come any nearer, I will shoot."

There was a mad-sounding laugh from beneath the hood. An insane sound. Madness was afoot. Dave put his finger on the trigger. The person, the woman, stopped a moment, reached into the carrier bag, pulled out a rag, a lighter from her jacket pocket, set fire to the rag, dropped the bag in the street. Held up the burning rag. Began walking again.

"Halt! I will shoot."

It wasn't Irene Wendel, she wasn't tall enough, this person was much smaller, slimmer, the walk looked familiar, the appeal hearing flashed through his mind, the way she moved.

It was Kathleen!

"Kathleen, stop where you are: I will shoot."

She lifted the hand that held the burning rag and pushed back the hood, laughing in a very high-pitched insane way.

"Detective Lewis," she said when she ceased laughing, her voice now calm. "We meet again. You will have to shoot me, you promised to do it or I will burn you, or at least the little slut cowering behind you. Come out, slut, come out and die."

She kept walking towards him.

"Dave, don't shoot her, we can take her, please; she wants you to do it."

Wantage again, pleading.

I want to do it, Dave thought. This woman deserves to die; I should do it.

"You said you would shoot me if I appeared on your street. Well, here I am, shoot me. Shoot me!"

He shot her.

She was only yards away. He thought of shooting her in a knee or in a shoulder or her stomach, all of which a person could have survived. But he didn't want her to survive; he wanted her to die. He looked along the barrel, saw her coming closer and closer and shot her between the eyes.

Die bitch.

"Noooo!" Wantage wailed.

Kathleen flew backwards, dropping both can and burning rag, blood spurting from her skull, one shot, that's all it took, one shot. Close though, only five or six yards. One evil bitch removed from humanity.

Dave laid the gun on the ground, held his arms above his head. Mariska stood tall behind him.

Wantage appeared in front of him, other officers ran to Kathleen, bent, confirmed she was dead.

"What the hell have you done, Dave?" Wantage asked. "Jesus, you have made everything worse. You are under arrest."

He stooped and picked up the gun with his fingertips, held it behind him until Sammy bagged it.

"Go inside, stay with an officer," Wantage said to Dave.

"I'll stay with him," Mariska said, as she came forward.

"If you don't mind, miss, I would prefer a proper police officer do it. Go inside, Dave."

He sat on the steps; Mariska sat next to him. Andy Marks came forward, whispered in Wantage's right ear. Wantage looked at Andy, then at Dave.

"There was no petrol in the can, Dave," he said, "and only a pile of clothes in the rubbish bag. I told you she wanted you to kill her. She wanted suicide by cop and you obliged."

Dave went cold, Mariska held his hand.

"She wanted to die," she said. "She died."

"Keep your mouth shut, young lady; you have nothing to do with this incident."

Erky Bisham shouted from the van, the double back doors wide open. He was waving frantically.

"Boss," he shouted. "For God's sake. Boss."

Wantage ran across the road to the van, peered in through the back doors.

Lying on the flat floor of the van were twenty or thirty sheets of A4 paper. Each of them had the same words written on them in very neat capital letters.

WHERE IS DAVID LEWIS'S FAVOURITE WOMAN? WHERE IS CHRISTINE HOLLAND?

The questions were repeated over and over.

Wantage stepped back from the van and screamed at the top of his voice.

"CHRISSIE!" he shouted. "WHERE ARE YOU CHRISSIE?"

Everyone began to shout, to look.

There was no sign of Chrissie.

"Irene Wendel has her!" Dave shouted, as he jumped up from the steps of his house and ran into the street with Mariska, stepping over the body of Kathleen Tilson. "Irene's got her! She'll be at the railway line."

Police officers all around stared at him, speechless and horrified.

"We have to get to the railway line!" Dave screamed, as he and Mariska leaped into a police car and skidded round, screeching off, racing.

* * * * * *

Chrissie came round. Her head hurt. Liquid, probably blood, ran down her face. She felt giddy. She tried to move. She couldn't.

She was bound...

...naked...

...to a railway line.

She lifted her head; the tunnel was directly in front of her. She panicked, wriggled, pulled.

"Won't do any good; all that tugging and wriggling. It'll only make things worse."

The voice came from the bridge.

With difficulty, Chrissie lifted her head. Blood half blinded her but she could still make out Irene Wendel.

"You don't have to do this, Irene."

"Yes, I do, because Kathleen told me to."

"Why did she tell you to do it?"

"I don't know, she doesn't give me reasons, she doesn't have to, and I don't ask, I just do what she tells me. She's a most wonderful woman, changed my life with her words, I would do anything she asked of me."

"You already have, Irene. You've killed Cynthia Howell, Ellen Wainwright, Denise Carrington, you have no need to kill again; I am not one of Terry Tilson's women. We know you committed those murders, we're after you."

"I know. That's why I will be hanging myself as soon as I've watched you die. It's amazing to watch something like that, pity you'll never have the chance. And I don't know what a Terence Tilson woman is. That was her husband, wasn't it, the one who died? No, I was told to kill you because you are Detective Lewis's favourite woman and he is regaining his strength. Kathleen said he's regaining his confidence. Kathleen can't have that; he has to suffer. For his whole life he has to suffer."

"Don't do this, Irene, not just to ruin Dave Lewis. He will recover; he has a woman friend who will help him. If you do this you'll go to Hell."

"So be it, I'll burn just like the others, but I'll hang first. The sad thing about tonight is that Kathleen is going to die, too. She's gone to Lewis's house, he said he would shoot her if she appeared on his street, she's holding him to it. It's over for the two of us; we've had our fun, now it's time to go. If she lives, she will be very surprised. She is just the greatest at planning things, Kathleen."

"I know she is, Irene, and she's a killer, but you aren't, you're a car thief."

"I was never very happy being just a car thief," she sounded very matter-of-fact, as if she were talking in a café, or a public house, there was no tension in her voice at all.

"When Kathleen showed me the wonder of words I was transformed; she made me a better person, a better type of criminal. I have now committed three murders and got away with them all until now. You will be my fourth. I will never be prosecuted for them. How many women have you known who got away with that?"

"You haven't gotten away with them, Irene, we know you did them, we're after you."

"But you're not going to catch me, are you? I'm going to take my own life, and Kathleen won't go back to prison, or hospital, she'll be dead, too. There will be no-one to prosecute for the crimes we have committed; the police, Dave Lewis, they and he, will all have failed. But so will you, you will not only have failed but you will be dead. Double tragedy for you."

"Irene, I beg of you, don't do this."

"Begging won't help but it's lovely to hear. Please continue."

"I am begging. For my life."

Irene lifted her hands to the sky.

"Can you feel the vibration in the rail yet?"

The rails had begun to vibrate.

"Last train of the day is on its way. Coming for you."

Chrissie's words came out loud and panicky.

"Irene, please, don't do this. Please."

Chrissie began to cry.

The rails vibrated more and more.

She turned her head to stare into the tunnel.

"I'll say bye-bye, if you don't mind," Irene said, calmly. "You will probably be screaming shortly, anyway, and won't hear me. Good-bye, Detective Sergeant. See you on the other side."

A light appeared in the darkness of the tunnel, coming towards her at speed.

The vibration of the rails was enormous now, as was the noise, the wind rushing towards her, air being pushed out of the tunnel by the train.

Chrissie screamed.

"No!"

"No!"

"No!"

Her screams ended suddenly.

*

Six weeks later, Suzie Ventner was returning to her office following a working lunch. She had never felt more relaxed; Kathleen Tilson was dead and buried, shot by the cop no less, and thank you for that; and her big ugly accomplice had hung herself, like all good accomplices should. There was no one remaining to be frightened of; her memories of Terence Tilson could remain untarnished and unpunished.

It was a grey day, a light drizzle was falling; she held a small blue umbrella above her head. She never smelled the petrol being sprayed onto her clothing, never heard anything, never suspected, had no idea what was about to happen, not until she exploded into flame.

She did not die; though she's not quite alive.

The end

