he'd always wanted to go on the television." The counterpoint was back.

"Your people reckoned she'd run off to London to try and break into showbiz," Kenny said contemptuously. "No way. Not Stacey. She was far too sensible. She agreed with us. Stay at school, get her A-levels, then we'd see."

"She could have been on the television," Denise wistful now.

"She had the looks."

Kay cut in before they could get off and running again. "Did she say what she'd talked about with Jacko Vance?"

"Just that he was really friendly," Denise said. "I don't think he said anything in particular to her, did he, Kenny?"

"He hasn't got time to take a personal interest. A busy man. Dozens of people, no, hundreds of people want him to sign an autograph, exchange a few words, pose for a picture."

The words hung in the air like the afterimage of sparklers. "Pose for a picture?" Kay said faintly. "Did Stacey have her picture taken with him?"

They nodded in sync. "Kerry's mum took it."

"Could I see it?" Kay's heart was suddenly thudding like a drum, her palms sweating in the stuffy room.

Kenny pulled an embossed album from under a coffee table stained a colour unknown in nature. With practised hand, he turned swiftly to the last page. There, blown up to ten by eight was a fuzzy snapshot of a cluster of people surrounding Jacko Vance. The angle was skewed, the faces blurred, as if seen through a heat haze. But the girl standing next to Jacko Vance, the one he was unquestionably talking to, his hand on her shoulder, his head inclined towards her, the girl looking up with the adoring look of a new puppy was without a shadow of a doubt Stacey Burton.

It had been harder than Wharton had expected to talk to Detective Sergeant Chris Devine. When he'd rung her office, he'd discovered she'd signed up for a couple of days' compassionate leave following her initial telephone statement to the murder inquiry. It was the first time Wharton had encountered anyone who seemed to be genuinely grieving for Shaz Bowman; he'd not been the officer charged with breaking the news to her devastated parents.

By the time Chris had returned the message on her answering machine, Wharton was already in London interviewing Vance and his wife. It had been easy to arrange to meet at her flat afterwards.

The hard-nosed copper in him had warmed to Chris Devine immediately she'd opened her door and greeted them with, "I sincerely hope you're going to nail the bastard who did this." He wasn't bothered by the array of artistic photographs of beautiful women that covered the walls of her flat. He'd worked with dykes before and on balance he thought they were a damn sight less disruptive than most of the straight women on the force. His sidekick was less sanguine, carefully choosing to sit facing the wall of glass that looked out from the modern block of flats to the ancient church left incongruously standing at the heart of the Barbican complex.

"I hope so, too," he'd said, perching on the lumpy futon sofa and wondering fleetingly how people ever slept on the things.

"You've been to see Jacko Vance?" Chris said almost before she was settled in the big wing chair opposite him.

"We interviewed him and his wife yesterday. He confirmed what you'd already told us about the appointment DC Bowman kept with him on the day she died."

She nodded, pushing her thick chestnut hair away from her face. "I had Vance down as the type that would keep a note of everything."

"So what was all that about?" Wharton asked. "Why were you helping DC Bowman maintain the illusion that she was a Met officer?"

The frown line between her eyes deepened. "I'm sorry?"

"Your direct line in the CID office was left as a contact number for DC Bowman. The impression it gave was that she was still a Met officer."

"She was still a Met officer," Chris pointed out. "But there was nothing sinister in giving my number as a contact. During their training period, the profiling squad officers can't take phone calls in working hours. Shaz asked if I'd sort it, that's all."

"Why you, Sergeant? Why not the desk officer where she was stationed?

Why not leave her home number and ask him to call in the evening?" There was nothing hostile in Wharton's manner; he was genuinely interested in the answer.

"I suppose because we were already in contact over the case," Chris said, feeling irritation rise inside her but giving no outward sign. Her years in the police had left her with the tendency to see innuendo in everything and the ability not to show her reaction.

"You were? In what respect?"

Chris's turned her head and her dark eyes looked over Wharton's shoulder to the sky beyond. "She'd already asked for my help. She needed some newspapers photocopied and I went out to Colindale to do it for her."

"You were responsible for that parcel?"

"I was, yes."

"I've heard about that. Must have been hundreds of pages, box that size and weight. That's a lot of work for an officer as busy as you must be," Wharton said, starting to lean a little now he suspected there might be more going on here than met the eye.

"I did it in my own time. OK, Inspector?"

"That's a lot of time to give up for a junior officer," Wharton suggested.

Chris's mouth tightened momentarily. With her snub nose, she had more than a passing resemblance to Grumpy from the Seven Dwarves. "Shaz and I were partners on the night shift for a long

time. We were friends as well as colleagues. She was probably the most talented young officer I've ever worked with and frankly, Mr. Wharton, I don't see how questioning why I was happy to give up my day off to help her is going to help you put her killer away." Wharton shrugged.

"Background. You never know."

"I know, believe me. You should be asking about Jacko Vance." In spite of himself, Wharton couldn't help an ironic grin. "Don't tell me you fell for that as well?"

"If you mean, do I go along with Shaz's theory that Jacko Vance was killing teenage girls, the answer is, I don't know. I've not had the chance to review her evidence. But what I do know is that Vance arranged with me that she should come to his house early on Saturday and she was dead by the next morning. Now, the way we work things down here is we get very interested in the last known person to see a murder victim alive, and according to Shaz's mum, you don't seem to have any record of anyone seeing her after she left Vance's house. That would make me very interested in Jacko Vance. What are the profiling squad saying about it?"

"I'm sure you'll appreciate that until we can conclusively rule out her immediate colleagues from our inquiries, we can't use them to investigate the case."

Chris's mouth fell open. "You're not using Tony Hill?"

"We think she may have known her killer, and the only people she knew in Leeds were the ones she was working with. You're an experienced detective. You must see that we can't risk contaminating the inquiry by taking any of them into our confidence."

"You've got the most talented profiler in the country in the palm of your hand, a man who actually knew the victim and knew what she was working on, and you're ignoring him? Is there some reason you don't want to catch Shaz's killer? I bet Tony Hill doesn't think you should be letting Jacko Vance off the hook."

Wharton smiled indulgently. "I can understand you getting a bit emotional about this case." Chris seethed inside but said nothing as he continued. "But I can assure you, I've spoken to Mr. Vance and there's nothing to suggest that he had anything to do with the murder. According to him, all DC Bowman was interested in was whether he'd spotted any of her so-called cluster of missing girls in the company of any regular attenders at his events. He said he hadn't and that was that."

"And you take his word for it? Just like that?"

Wharton shrugged. "Like I said, why wouldn't we? Where's the ' to suggest anything suspicious?"

Chris stood up abruptly and picked up a packet of cigarettes from a corner table. She lit up and turned back to face Wharton. "He is the last person that we know who saw her," she said, her voice harsh.

Wharton's smile was meant to placate but only enraged. "We don't know that, with respect. She'd written the letter

"T" in her diary beneath the appointment with Vance. As if she was going on somewhere else. You wouldn't know who

"T" is, would you, Sergeant?"

A deep inhalation of smoke, a long exhalation, then Chris said, "I can't think of anyone. Sorry."

"You don't think it might refer to Tony Hill?"

She shrugged. "It could, I suppose. It could mean almost anything. She could have been going to the Trocadero to play laser games, for all I know. She never said anything about any other plans to me."

"She didn't come here?"

Chris frowned. "Why would she?"

"You said you were friends. She was in London. I'd have thought she'd have popped in, especially with you being so helpful and all." There was a tougher element in Wharton's voice and his jaw thrust outward.

"She didn't come here." Chris's mouth clamped shut.

Sensing a weak spot, Wharton pushed harder. "Why was that, Sergeant?

Did she prefer to keep a bit of distance between you? Especially now she'd got herself a boyfriend?"

Chris walked briskly to the door and opened it. "Goodbye, Inspector Wharton."

"That's a very interesting response, Sergeant Devine," Wharton said, taking his time getting to his feet and checking that his junior officer was still taking notes.

"If you want to insult Shaz's memory and my intelligence, you're not doing it in my home. Next time, make it formal. Sir." She leaned against the door, watching them walk down the hall to the lifts.

"Arsehole," she muttered under her breath. Then she let the heavy door swing shut and crossed to the phone where she rang an old flame in the Home Office. "Dee? It's Chris. Hey, doll, I need a

favour. You've got a psychologist on the payroll, geezer called Tony Hill. I need a personal number ... "

Jimmy Linden had noticed the young black man even before he'd reached his seat in the sixth row of the empty stand. Years of working with promising young athletes had developed his instinct for spotting strangers. It wasn't only sex perverts you had to be on the lookout for. The drug pushers were just as dangerous with their promises of steroid magic. And Jimmy's youngsters were the very ones most prone to falling for their promises. Anyone who wanted to be the best at javelin, hammer, shot or discus needed the kind of muscle that anabolic steroids could provide a lot more easily than training.

No, it never hurt to keep a weather eye out for strangers, especially here at Meadowbank Stadium where he coached the Scottish junior squad, the pick of the bunch, all of them desperate for that edge that would make them a champion. Jimmy looked up again at the stranger. He looked in pretty good shape, though if he'd ever had dreams of being a contender, he should have knocked those fags on the head a long time ago.

As the session drew to a close and the young athletes climbed into their track suits Jimmy spotted the stranger getting up and disappearing down the stairway. When he emerged trackside moments later, demonstrating he had some official reason for being there, Jimmy felt the muscles in the back of his neck relax slightly, the first sign he'd had that they'd been tense. Old age was creeping up at a gallop, he thought wryly. Used to be he was that close to his body that not a nerve fluttered without him knowing about it.

Before he could follow the sweating bodies into the changing rooms, the stranger stepped in front of him and flashed a warrant card. It was too fast for Jimmy to suss which force he belonged to, but he knew what the card was. "Detective Constable Jackson," the man said. "I'm sorry to bother you at work, but I could use half an hour of your time."

Jimmy tutted, his whippet face narrowing in displeasure. "You'll not find any drugs with this lot," he said. "I run a clean team, and they all know it."

Leon shook his head and smiled. "It's nothing to do with your squad. I just need to pick your brains about some ancient history, that's all." There was no trace of the smart-mouthed jive talk he used on his fellow profilers.

"What kind of ancient history?"

Leon noticed Jimmy's eyes flickering after his disciples and realized the trainer still had things he wanted to say to them. Hastily, he said, "It's nothing to worry about, honestly. Look, I noticed a half-decent cafe just down the road. Why don't you meet me there when you're done here and we can have a chat?"

"Aye, OK," Jimmy said grudgingly. Half an hour later he was facing Leon over a mug of tea and a plate piled with the sort of bakery products that earned Scotland its nickname of the Land O'Cakes. He must be one hell of a coach, Leon thought as the little man wolfed down a coconut-covered snowball. All the successful throwing jocks Leon had ever known were big blokes, broad in the shoulder and heavy through the thighs. But Jimmy Linden resembled a medieval ascetic, the classic long-distance runner, one of those creatures of bone and sinew who stride easily across the finishing line at marathons, eyes on the middle distance, looking as if the only thing they could want was the next twenty-six miles.

"So what's this all about?" Jimmy said, wiping his mouth with surprising daintiness on a proper monogrammed cotton handkerchief pulled from the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

"For reasons that will become obvious, I can't go into too much detail.

We're investigating a case that may have its roots deep in the past. I thought you might be able to give me some pointers."

"About what? All I know anything about is athletics, son."

Leon nodded and watched a meringue disappear. "I'm going back now a dozen or more years ago."

"When I was based down south? Before I came back up here?"

"That's right. You coached Jacko Vance," Leon said.

A shadow passed across Jimmy's face. Then he cocked his head to one side and said, "You're not telling me somebody's putting the black on Jacko and thinking they'll get away with it?" Amusement lit up his watery blue eyes.

Leon winked. "You didn't hear that from me, Mr. Linden."

"It's Jimmy, son, everybody calls me Jimmy. So, Jacko Vance, eh? What can I tell you about the boy wonder?"

"Anything you can remember."

"How long have you got?"

Leon's smile was tinged with grimness. He hadn't forgotten why

he was in Edinburgh. "As long as it takes, Jimmy."

"Let me see. He won the British under-fifteen title when he was only thirteen. I was coaching the national squad at the time and I said as soon as I saw him throw that he was the best chance of an Olympic gold that we'd had in a generation." He shook his head. "I wasn't wrong.

Poor bugger. Nobody deserves to watch the event they should be winning when they're trying to learn how to use an artificial limb." Leon understood the implied but unspoken, ' even Jacko Vance'.

"He never considered doing the disabled games?" Leon asked.

Jimmy snorted derisively. "Jacko? That would have meant admitting he was disabled."

"So you became his coach when he was thirteen?"

"That's right. He was a worker, I'll say that for him. He was lucky, living in London, because he had good access to me and to the facilities, and by Christ, he made the most of it. I used to ask him, did he not have a home to go to?"

"And what did he say to that?"

"Ach, he'd just shrug. I got the impression that his mother wasn't bothered what he was doing as long as he was out from under her feet.

She was away from his father by then, of course. Separated, divorced, whatever."

"Did his parents not come along, then?"

Jimmy shook his head. "Never saw the mother. Not a once. His dad came to one meeting. I think it was the time he was going for the British junior record, but he blew it. I mind his dad took the piss out of him good style. I took him to one side and told him if he couldn't back his boy up, he wasn't welcome."

"How did he take that?"

Jimmy took a gulp of tea and said, "Ach, stupid bastard called me a bum boy. I just told him to fuck right off, and that was the last we saw of him."

Leon made a mental note. He knew Tony would be interested in this. As he saw it, the young Jacko had been desperate for attention. His mother was indifferent, his father absent and his whole being was focused on his sporting achievement in the hope that somehow that would win him approval. "So, was he lonely, Jacko?" He lit a cigarette, ignoring the disapproving look on the coach's narrow face.

Jimmy considered the question. "He could mess about with the

best of them, but he wasn't really one of the lads, know what I mean? He was too dedicated. He couldn't loosen up enough. Not that he was a loner. No, he always had Jillie in tow, hanging around him, telling him he was wonderful."

"So they were devoted to each other?"

"She was devoted to him. He was devoted to himself, but he liked the adoration. Unconditional, like you get from a collie dog. Mind you, even Jillie got the hump sometimes. I moved heaven and earth to keep that pair together. Whenever she got fed up with taking the back seat to his training or competitions, I used to bolster her up with how great she'd feel when he stood there on the Olympic rostrum picking up the gold. I'd say, most girls, the only gold they ever got was a poxy wedding ring, but she was going to get a gold medal."

"And that was enough, was it?"

Jimmy shrugged, wafting Leon's smoke away with one hand. "To be honest, it got so that was the only thing that kept her going. When he started competing on the senior circuit, and Jillie was that wee bit older, she started taking notice of the way the other lads treated their girls. And Jacko didn't stand up too well to the comparison. If he hadn't have lost his arm, she might just have put up with it for the acclaim and the cash that went with it, because athletes were just about starting to make mega bucks around then and the writing was on the wall for more to come. But as soon as she decided he wasn't going to be a cash machine or a household name, she got shot of him."

Leon was on full alert. "I thought he dumped her? Didn't I read at the time that he broke off the engagement because he wasn't the man she'd signed up for and it wasn't fair to tie her down? Something like that?"

Jimmy's mouth curled into a contemptuous smile. "So you fell for that load of toffee? That was just the story Jacko leaked to the press, to make him look like the big man instead of the sad bastard who'd been dumped."

So Shaz might well have been right, Leon thought. Circumstance had piled two traumatic stressors right on top of each other. First Vance had lost his arm and his future. Then he had lost the one person who had believed in him as a human being rather than as a throwing machine.

It would take a strong man to survive that unscathed; a warped one would need to take revenge against a

world that had done this to him. Leon stubbed out his cigarette and said, "Did he tell you the truth?"

"No. Jillie did. I was the one drove her to the hospital that day. And I saw Jacko after she told him."

"How did he take it?"

Jimmy's eyes dripped contempt. "Oh, just like a man. He told me she was a heartless bitch who was only after one thing. I told him he didn't have to give in to his injuries, that he could train for the disabled games and that it was just as well he found out the truth about Jillie now. He told me to fuck off and never come near him again. And that was the last time I saw him."

"You didn't go back to the hospital?"

The trainer's face was bleak. "I went every day for a week. He wouldn't see me. Refused point-blank. He didn't seem to realize I had lost my dreams, too. Anyway, I got the chance of this job back in Scotland round about then, so I came back here and started all over again."

"Were you surprised when he popped up as a television celebrity?"

"I can't say I was, no. He needs somebody telling him he's wonderful, that one. I've often wondered if all those millions of viewers are ever enough, if he's still as desperate to be adored as he was back then. He could never see any value in himself that wasn't reflected in other folks' eyes." Jimmy shook his head and signalled for another cup of tea. "I suppose you want to know if he had any enemies and what his deep dark secrets were?"

An hour later, Leon knew that what Jimmy Linden had told them at the start of their conversation was the stuff that had mattered. Just as well, he realized as he sat in the car afterwards. For some reason, his miniature tape recorder had failed to turn over automatically and had only recorded the first half of their chat. Feeling well pleased with himself nevertheless, Leon set out on the long journey south, wondering who'd done best so far. He knew it wasn't a competition. He'd liked Shaz enough to do it for her sake. But he was sufficiently human to realize that if he performed well out on the street, it would do him no harm. Especially since he now understood that as far as Tony Hill was concerned, he had more than a little to prove.

It wasn't difficult to spot the sports stadium and leisure-centre complex. Spotlit against the dark Malvern Hills, it was visible for miles

from the motorway. Once he'd turned off on to minor roads and a rash of mini-roundabouts, however, Tony was glad he'd called in advance for directions. The centre was too recently built for most locals to know where it was, so the anonymous voice that had given explicit guidance over the phone was clearly used to the process.

As it turned out, he'd have arrived safely if he'd simply followed any other car heading in the same direction. The car park was already crowded when he reached it, and he had to park a few hundred yards away from the main entrance with its banner proclaiming, "Grand Opening Gala with Special Guests Jacko Vance and Stars from the England Squad'.

Footballers for the lads, Jacko for the women, he thought as he walked briskly across the Tarmac, grateful for the bulk of the stadium acting as a buffer against the chill night wind.

He joined the throng of eager people thrusting through the turnstiles, casting a practised eye along the staff checking tickets. He chose a middle-aged woman who looked competent and motherly, and squeezed through the press of bodies to present himself at her window. He slipped his Home Office credentials out of his pocket and showed them to her, arranging his face into a rueful, harried expression. "Dr. Hill, Home Office, sports research group. I was supposed to have a V. I.P pass, but it didn't arrive. I don't suppose ... ?"

The woman frowned momentarily. She gave him a swift appraisal, reckoning whether he was up to something, realizing the queue behind him was building up, finally deciding it was someone else's problem if he was, she pressed the release button to let him through. "You want the directors' suite. Round to the right, second floor."

Tony let the natural movement of the crowd carry him forward into the vast echoing area under the grandstand, then edged to one side to study the giant map of the stadium cunningly laid out on the underside of the tiered seating. Whoever had designed it had been aware of the three-dimensional surface it would be reproduced on, and it somehow managed to be clear from whatever angle it was viewed. According to the programme he'd just bought, there would be live music in the main arena, followed by a demonstration five-a-side football match featuring England squad players, then an Irish dance spectacular. For those who had shelled out an extra fifty pounds or won one of the contests run by the local TV, radio

and newspapers, there would be a chance to meet the celebrities. And that was where he needed to be.

He slid through the crowd, calculating his moves so he upset no one on his route to the executive lift. The lobby was cordoned off with heavy crimson ropes. A security guard wearing a belt loaded with enough equipment to stock a hardware store stared balefully out from under a cap worn low like a guardsman. Tony knew it was nothing more than bravado. He flashed his credentials at the guard, moving purposefully as if the last thing he expected was to be challenged. The man took a step backwards and said, "Wait a minute."

Tony was already at the lift, pressing the call button. "It's OK," he said. "Home Office. We like to turn up when they least expect us. Got to keep an eye on things, you know." He winked and stepped into the car. "Don't want another Hillsborough, do we?" The doors slid closed on the bemused face of the guard.

After that, it was easy. Out of the lifts, down the hall, in through the open double doors, a glass of something straw-coloured and fizzy from the nearest waist coated flunkey and he was established. Tony took in the long windows that ran the length of the opposite wall, looking down on the all-weather pitch. He could just see a team of majorettes strutting their stuff down below. A thin crowd bunched around the edges of the room. At the far end, over by the window, Jacko Vance stood at the centre of a cluster of middle-aged women and a few men. His hair gleamed in the refracted light from the spotlights over the pitch, his eyes shone in the soft lighting of the executive suite. Even though he'd already glad-handed his way through two charity appearances that day, his body language was still warm, welcoming, his smile treating everyone as a welcome equal. He looked like a god dealing with his worshippers without condescension. Tony gave a thin smile. The third event since he'd gone out on the prowl for Jacko, and every time he'd struck gold.

It was almost as if there were a connection, an invisible fibre optic linking the hunter and the prey. This time, though, he'd make certain those roles were never reversed. Once had been enough for that.

Tony moved to one side and made his way up the room, using the legitimate guests as cover. After a few minutes, he had travelled the length of the room, occupying a corner opposite Vance but slightly behind him. His eyes moved regularly from side to side, scanning the area immediately around the TV star, never lingering for long, but never leaving Vance unattended for more than a moment.

He didn't have long to wait. A young woman with slicked back blonde hair, John Lennon glasses and a scarlet cupid's bow bounced into the room clutching a bag emblazoned with SHOUT! F M, checking over her shoulder to see that her charges were still firmly in tow. Following in a ragged line came three adolescent girls overdressed and over painted a couple of youths with more spots than charm and an elderly woman whose hair was so rigidly set it appeared the rollers were still bound into it. Three paces behind slouched a nerd in a gi let with a dozen bulging pockets, a pair of battered SLR cameras hanging negligently round his neck. The winners of some moronic phone-in competition, Tony guessed.

He could think of one question they wouldn't have been asked: How many teenagers has Jacko Vance murdered? It would take a year or two after he'd finished his work for that to filter down into the trivia quiz books.

The bouncy blonde approached where Vance was holding court. Tony could see Vance look up at her then dismissively abandon her for the middle-aged woman in the turquoise said he'd been charming previously.

The blonde lunged through the inner circle round Jacko, only to be headed off by the woman Tony had noticed running interference for Jacko the first time he'd staked him out. Their heads huddled together, then the PA nodded and touched Vance on the elbow. As he turned, his professional gaze slid round the room and caught Tony. The sweep of his eyes paused momentarily, then continued, nothing else in his expression changing.

The blonde's competition winners were ushered into the presence of their idol. He smiled down on them, charm personified. He chatted, signed autographs, shook hands, pecked cheeks and posed for photographs. Every thirty seconds, his eyes lost their focus and glanced unerringly at where Tony stood leaning against the wall, sipping fake champagne, his pose and his expression reeking assurance and confidence.

As the competition winners reached the end of their audience, Tony moved away from his vantage point and headed for the little group, still standing near Vance, their expressions ranging from ecstasy to an affected nonchalance, depending on how cool they felt the need to be.

All bonhomie, Tony insinuated himself into

their group, his expression a model of openness and geniality. "I'm sorry to butt in on you," he said. "But I think you might be able to help me. My name's Tony Hill and I'm a psychological profiler. You know how stars like Jacko are always being plagued by stalkers? Well, I'm working with a team of crack police officers on ways to find out who those stalkers are before they start causing real problems. What we're trying to do is to come up with a psychological profile of the perfect fan, the good supporter. Someone like you, the sort of fan any celebrity would be glad to have on their side. We need to do this so we can get what's called a control profile. All we need is a short interview with you. Half an hour, tops. We come to your place or you come to us, we pay you and you get the comfort of knowing you might have stopped the next Mark Chapman." He loved the way their faces always changed when he mentioned the money.

Tony took out the pre-printed name and address slips from his inside pocket. "How about it? Painless anonymous questionnaire, you help us save a life and you earn yourself Just fill in your name and address on one of these and one of my researchers will be in touch." Out came the handsome embossed National Offender Profiling Task Force business cards.

"This is who I am." He handed them out. By now, all except one of the youths had their hands out for a form. "There we go," he said, providing them with pens.

He looked across at Vance. His face was still smiling, his mouth forming words, his hands patting an elbow here, a shoulder there. But his eyes were on Tony; dark, questioning, hostile.

The house was nothing special, Simon thought as he parked the car. A three-bed roomed dormer bungalow on a thirty-year-old development that was well on course to disprove the adage that life begins at forty.

She'd have done a lot better if she and Jacko had stayed together. She certainly wouldn't have ended up in a town like Wellingborough where a night out at the DIY super store was most people's idea of a good time.

He was amazed at the speed with which Carol Jordan had come up with Jillie Woodrow's whereabouts, particularly since she was three years into her second marriage. "Don't ask," Carol had said when he'd complimented her, admitting it would have taken him days to make that much progress. He remembered Tony Hill mentioning something to Carol about her brother in the computer indus try and wondered if their shoestring task force had just added data burglary to its irregularities.

He sat in the car and looked across the narrow street at the house belonging to Jillie and Jeff Lewis. It looked spick and span and relentlessly suburban with its perfectly trimmed lawn and borders filled with neatly equidistant hebes and heathers. There was a year-old Metro on the drive and net curtains across the picture window. If Jillie Lewis's attention had been caught by the sound of his engine, she could be watching him and he'd have no idea at all.

This was almost certainly going to be the most crucial interview of his career to date, Simon thought, gearing himself up for the task. He had no clear idea of what he was going to ask, but if Jillie Lewis had information that would nail Jacko Vance for the murder of Shaz Bowman, he was determined to prise it out of her, one way or another. He hadn't had the chance to find out whether he would ever have been allowed to owe Shaz more than a colleague would. But even that was more than debt enough for him. Simon got out of the car and pulled on the jacket of his Marks and Spencer suit. Straightening his tie and his shoulders, he took a deep breath and walked up the path.

The door opened seconds after his ring, stopped short by a flimsy chain that he could have been past in seconds if he'd had a mind to. For a brief, mad moment, he wondered whether this was the cleaner or the nanny. The woman who faced him across the doorstep bore no superficial resemblance to the old newspaper photographs of Jillie Woodrow, nor to the teenage girls on the missing list. Her hair was a streaked blonde urchin cut rather than the dark bob he'd expected, and she'd lost every vestige of puppy fat, being skinny to the point where, if he were her husband, Simon would be surreptitiously reading up on anorexia. He was about to make his apologies when he recognized the eyes. The expression had hardened, there were lines starting to show at the edges, but these were Jillie Woodrow's dark blue soulful eyes. "Mrs. Lewis?" he asked.

The woman nodded. "Who are you?" Simon presented his warrant card and she gasped, "Jeff ?"

Quickly Simon reassured her. "It's nothing to do with your husband. I'm currently attached to a special investigations unit in Leeds, but my home force is Strathclyde. I don't have any local connection."

"Leeds? I've never been to Leeds." When she frowned, discontent was written across her face like an advertising hoarding.

Simon smiled. "Lucky you. There have been times lately when I've wished I could say the same thing. Mrs. Lewis, this is a very awkward situation and it would be a lot easier for me to explain it inside with a cup of coffee than it is on the doorstep. Can I come in?"

She looked uncertain, making a show of checking her watch. "I'm supposed to be at work," she said, carefully not saying when.

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important," Simon said, his apologetic smile displaying the charm that had been one of the assets that had taken him this far in his career.

"I suppose you'd better come in, then," she said, slipping the chain off and stepping back. He walked into a hall that looked as if it belonged to a show house. Spotless, tasteless and immaculate, it led into a kitchen that no one appeared ever to have cooked in. Jillie led the way and gestured to the circular table crammed into one corner. "You better have a seat," she muttered as she picked up a kettle, dark green to match the tiles along the splash back of the sink. "Coffee, then?"

"Please," Simon said, wedging himself behind the table. "Milk, no sugar."

"I suppose you think you're sweet enough," Jillie said sourly, taking a jar of cheap instant from the cupboard and spooning it into two china mugs. "I suppose this is something to do with Jacko Vance, is it?"

Simon tried not to reveal how taken aback he was. "What makes you say that?"

Jillie turned and leaned against the work top crossing her jean-clad legs and folding her arms protectively over her chest. "What else would it be? Jeff's an honest hard-working salesman, I'm a part-time data processor. We don't know any criminals. The only thing I've ever done that anybody outside these four walls would be interested in was being Jacko Vance's girlfriend. The only person I've ever had anything to do with who would interest some special investigation unit is Jacko bloody Vance, come back to flaming haunt me again." It was a defiant outburst and she concluded it by turning her back on him and managing to make vicious the act of pouring two coffees.

Not quite sure where to go next, Simon said, "I'm sorry. It's clearly a sensitive subject."

Jillie dumped the coffee in front of him. Given the pristine

kitchen, he was surprised she didn't run for a cloth when it slopped on the pine tabletop. Instead, she retreated back against the work top clutching her coffee like a child with a hot-water bottle. "I've got nothing to say about Jacko Vance. You've had a wasted journey from Leeds. Still, I suppose you get good mileage since it's the taxpayers that foot the bill and not some skinflint company."

Her bitterness seemed to have infected the coffee, Simon thought ruefully, sipping the brew to give himself time to think of a reply.

"It's a serious inquiry," he said. "We could use your help."

She banged her mug down on the work top

"Look. I don't care what he says. It's not me that's pestering him. I had this up to the back teeth just after I first married Jeff. I had cops round half a dozen times. Was I sending Jacko anonymous letters? Was I making abusive phone calls to his wife? Did I parcel up dog turds and post them to his office? Well, the answer's the same now as it was then. If you think I'm the only person Jacko Vance has upset in his selfish journey to the top of the greasy pole, you have got a serious imagination deficiency."

She stopped short and glared at him. "I don't do blackmail, either. You can check. Every penny in and out of this house is accounted for. I've had that accusation to contend with, and that's a load of flaming rubbish as well." She shook her head. "I can't believe that pig," she fumed.

Simon held his hands up in a placatory gesture. "Whoa, wait a minute. I think you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick here. I didn't come to see you because Jacko made a complaint. Sure, I want to talk to you about Jacko, but I'm only interested in what he's done, not what he says you've done. Honest!"

She gave him a sharp look. "What?"

Uneasy that he might have gone too far, Simon said, "As I said, this is all very sensitive. Jacko Vance's name has come up in an inquiry and my job is to make some background checks. Without alerting Mr. Vance to our interest, if you take my point." He hoped he didn't look as nervous as he felt. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been this.

"You're investigating Jacko?" Jillie sounded incredulous but had started to look almost cheerful.

Simon shifted in his chair. "Like I said, his name has come up in connection with a serious matter ... "

Jillie punched her thigh. "Yes! And not before bloody time. Don't tell me, let me guess. He hurt some poor bloody woman too much and didn't terrify her enough to make her keep her mouth shut, is that it?"

Simon sensed the interview spiralling out of his control. All he could do was cling on with his fingernails and hope he wouldn't get shaken off somewhere along the way. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

"It was bound to happen some day," she said, all but gleeful. "So, what do you want to know?"

By the time he got home, Tony's eyes were gritty with staring at too many night motorway miles. He hadn't intended to check his answering machine, but the flashing light caught his eye as he passed the door of his study. Wearily, he hit the playback button. "Hi. My name's Chris Devine. Detective Sergeant Chris Devine. I was Shaz Bowman's CID partner in London for a while. She used me to set up her appointment with Jacko Vance. Give me a call whenever you get in. Doesn't matter how late it is."

He grabbed a pen and scribbled the number, reaching for the phone as soon as the message clicked off. The phone rang half a dozen times, then was picked up. "Is that Chris Devine?" he said to the silence.

"Is that Tony Hill?" The voice was pure South London.

"You left a message on my machine. About Shaz?"

"Yeah. Listen, I've had them turnips from West Yorkshire down here, and they told me they're not working with you. Is that right?"

He liked a person who didn't waste time. "They feel it would compromise the integrity of their investigation to involve me or any of Shaz's other immediate colleagues," he said caustically.

"Bollocks," she said in disgust. They haven't got a fucking clue, pardon my French. So are you running your own investigation, or what?"

It was like being pinned to the wall by a very large weight, Tony thought. "I'm obviously very keen to see Shaz's killer caught," he tried.

"So what are you doing about it?"

"Why do you ask?" he parried.

"To see if you need an extra pair of hands, of course," she said, exasperated. "Shaz was a great kid, and she was gonna be a great cop.

Now, either Jacko Vance topped her for reasons we don't entirely know yet, or somebody else did. Either way, the trail starts at his front door, no?"

"You're right," Tony said. Now he knew what cement felt like under a steamroller.

"And you're working the case?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Her sigh sounded like something from the Shipping Forecast. "Well, in a manner of speaking, I could help. What do you need from me?"

Tony's mind raced. "I'm a bit stalled on leverage where Vance and his wife are concerned. Something that might help me put a bit of a wedge between them might help."

"Like, Micky Morgan's really a dyke?"

"That sort of thing, yes."

"You mean that's not enough?" Chris demanded.

That's for real?"

She snorted. "Course it's for real. They're so far in the closet you'd take them for a pair of winter coats, but they're coke."

"Coke?"

The real thing. She's been with Betsy for donkey's years. Way before she even met Jacko."