etween Jacko and the Princess of Wales, you get no peace these days when you've got a terminal illness," she said out loud. "I'm the lucky one," she went on, moving from bureau to filing cabinet as she cleared her desk in preparation for a guilt-free weekend. "I don't have to listen to the Authorized Version for the millionth time." She imitated Jacko's upbeat, dramatic intonation. '"I was lying there, contemplating the wreck of my dreams, convinced I had nothing left to live for. Then, out of the depths of my depression, I saw a vision." Betsy made the sweeping gesture she'd seen Jacko deploy so often with his living arm. "

"This very vision of loveliness, in fact. There, by my hospital bed stood the one thing I'd seen since the accident that made me realize life might memories be worth living."

It was a tale that bore almost no relationship to the reality Betsy had lived through. She remembered Micky's first encounter with Jacko, but not because it had been the earth-shaking collision of two stars recognizing their counterparts. Betsy's memories were very different and far less romantic.

It was the first time Micky had been the lead outside broadcast reporter on the main evening news bulletin. She'd been bringing millions of eager viewers the first exclusive interview with Jacko Vance, hero of the hottest human story on the networks. Betsy had watched the broadcast at home alone, thrilled to see her lover the cynosure of ten million pairs of eyes, hugging herself in delight.

The exhilaration hadn't lasted long. They'd been celebrating together in the flickering glow of the video replay when the phone had interrupted their pleasure. Betsy had answered, her voice exuberant with happiness. The journalist who greeted her as Micky's girlfriend drained all the joy from her. In spite of Betsy's frostily vehement denials and Micky's scornful ridicule, both women knew their relationship was poised on the edge of the worst kind of tabloid exposure.

The patient campaign Micky had gone on to wage against the sneak tactics of the hacks was as carefully planned and as ruthlessly executed as any career move she'd ever made. Every night, two separate pairs of bedroom curtains would be closed and lights turned on behind them. The lamps would go off at staggered intervals, the one in the spare room controlled by a timer that Betsy adjusted to a different hour each night. Every morning, the curtains would be drawn back at diverse times, each pair by the same hands that had closed them. The only places the two women embraced were behind closed curtains out of the line of sight of the window, or in the hallway, which was invisible from outside. If both left the house at the same time, they parted at the bottom of the steps with a cheerful wave and no bodily contact.

Giving the presumed watchers nothing to chew on would have been enough to make most people feel secure. But Micky preferred a more proactive approach. If the tabloids wanted a story, she'd make sure they had one.

It would simply have to be a more exciting, more credible and more sexy story than the one they thought they had. She cared far too much for Betsy to take chances with her lover's peace of mind or their relationship.

The morning after the ominous phone call, Micky had a spare hour. She drove to the hospital where Jacko was a patient and charmed her way past the nurses. Jacko seemed pleased to see her, and not only because she came armed with the gift of a miniature AM/FM radio complete with earphones. Although he was still taking strong medication for his pain, he was alert and receptive to any distraction from the tedium of life in his side ward. She spent half an hour chatting lightly about everything except the accident and the amputation, then left, leaning over to give him a friendly peck on the forehead. It had been no hardship; to her surprise, she'd found herself warming to Jacko. He wasn't the arrogant macho man she'd expected, based on her past experience with male sporting heroes. Nor, even more surprisingly, was he wallowing in self-pity. Micky's visits might have started out as cynical self-interest, but within a very short space of time she was sucked in, first by her respect for his stoicism, then by an unexpected pleasure in his company. He might be more interested in himself than in her, but at least he managed to be entertaining and witty with it.

Five days and four visits later, Jacko asked the question she'd been waiting for. "Why do you keep visiting me?"

Micky shrugged. "I like you?"

Jacko's eyebrows rose and fell, as if to say, "That's not enough."

She sighed and made a conscious effort to hold his speculative gaze. "I have always been cursed with an imagination. And I understand the drive to be successful. I've worked my socks off to get where I am. I've made sacrifices and I've sometimes had to treat people in a way that, in other circumstances, I'd be ashamed of. But getting to where I want to be is the most important thing in my life. I can imagine how I would feel if a chain of circumstances outside my control cost me my goal. I guess what I feel for you is empathy."

"Meaning what?" he asked, his face giving nothing away.

"Sympathy without pity?"

He nodded, as if satisfied. "The nurse reckoned it was because you fancied me. I knew she was wrong."

Micky shrugged. It was all going so much better than she'd anticipated.

"Don't disillusion her. People distrust motives they can't understand."

"You're so right," he said, an edge of bitterness in his voice that she hadn't heard there before, in spite of the ample reason. "But understanding doesn't always make it possible to accept something."

There was more, much more behind his words. But Micky knew when to leave well alone. There would be plenty of opportunity to broach that subject again. When she left that day, she was careful to make sure the nurse saw her kiss him goodbye. If this story was to be credible, it needed to leak out, not be broadcast. And from her own journalistic experience, gossip spread through a hospital faster than legionnaire's disease. From there to the wider community only took one carrier.

When she arrived a week later, Jacko seemed remote. Micky sensed violent emotions barely held in check, but couldn't be sure what those feelings were. Eventually, tired of conducting a monologue rather than a conversation, she said, "Are you going to tell me or are you just going to let your blood pressure rise till you have a stroke?"

For the first time that afternoon, he looked directly into her face.

Momentarily, she thought he was in the grip of fever, then she realized it was a fury so powerful that she couldn't imagine how he could contain it. He was so angry he could barely speak, she realized as she watched him struggle to find the words. At last, he conquered his rage by sheer effort of will and said, "My fucking so-called fiancee," he growled.

"Jillie?" Micky hoped she'd got the name right. They'd met briefly one afternoon as Micky had been leaving. She had the impression of a slender dark-haired beauty who managed sultry rather than tarty by an inch.

"Bitch," he hissed, the tendons on his neck tensing like cords beneath the tanned skin.

"What's happened, Jacko?"

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his wide chest expanding and emphasizing the asymmetry of his once perfect upper body. "Dumped me," he managed at last, his voice thick with anger.

"No," Micky breathed. "Oh, Jacko." She reached out and touched the tight fist with her fingers. She could actually feel the pulse beating in his flesh, so tightly was his hand clenched. His rage was phenomenal, Micky thought, yet his control seemed in no real danger of slipping.

"Says she can't cope with it." He gave a grating bark of cynical laughter. "She can't cope with it? How the fuck does she think it is for me?"

"I'm sorry," Micky said inadequately.

"I saw it in her face, the first time she visited after the accident.

No, I knew before that. I knew because she didn't come near me that first day. It took her two days to get her arse in here." His voice was harsh and guttural, the heavy words falling like blocks of stone.

"When she did come, she couldn't stand the sight of me. It was all over her face. I repelled her. All she could see was what I wasn't any more." He pulled his fist away and pounded it on the bed.

"More fool her."

His eyes opened and he glared at her. "Don't you start. All I need is one more silly bitch patronizing me. I've had that fucking nurse with her artificial cheerfulness all over me. Just don't!"

Micky didn't flinch. She'd won too many confrontations with news editors for that. "You should learn to recognize respect when you see it," she flared back at him. "I'm sorry Jillie hasn't got what it takes to see you through, but you're better off finding that out now than further down the road."

Jacko looked astonished. For years now, the only person who'd spoken to him with anything except nervous deference was his trainer. "What?" he squawked, his anger displaced by baffled astonishment.

Micky continued regardless of his response. "What you have to decide now is how you're going to play it."

"What?"

"It's not going to stay a secret between the two of you, is it? From what you said, the nurse already knows. So by tea-time, it's going to be, "Hold the front page." If you want, you can settle for being an object of pity hero dumped by girlfriend because he's not a proper man any more. You'll get the sympathy vote, and a fair chunk of the Great British Public will spit on Jillie in the street. Alternatively, you can get your retaliation in first and come out on top."

Jacko's mouth was open, but for a moment no words came. At last, he said in a low voice that fellow members of the Olympic squad would have recognized as a signal for flak jackets, "Go on."

"It's up to you. It depends whether you want people to see you as a victim or a victor."

Micky's level stare felt as much of a challenge as anything that had ever faced him on the field of competition. "What do you think?" he snarled.

"I'm telling you, man, this is the sticks," Leon said, waving a chicken pakora in a sweeping gesture that seemed to include not only the restaurant but most of the West Riding of Yorkshire as well.

"You've obviously never been to Greenock on a Saturday night," Simon said drily. "Believe me, Leon, that makes Leeds look positively cosmopolitan."

"Nothing could make this place cosmopolitan," Leon protested.

"It's not that bad," Kay said. "It's very good for shopping." Even outside the classroom, Shaz noticed, Kay slipped straight into the conciliatory role, smoothing down her hair as she smoothed down the rough edges in the conversations.

Simon groaned theatrically. "Oh please, Kay, don't feel you need to glide effortlessly into bland womanly stuff. Go on, make my night, tell me how terrific Leeds is for body-piercing."

Kay poked her tongue out at him.

"If you don't leave Kay alone, us women might well consider piercing some treasured part of your anatomy with this beer bottle," Shaz said sweetly, brandishing her Kingfisher.

Simon put his hands up. "OK. I'll behave, just as long as you promise not to beat me with a chapati."

There was a moment's silence while the four police officers attacked their starters. The Saturday night curry looked like becoming a regular feature for the quartet, the other two preferring to return to their former home turf rather than explore their new base. When Simon had first suggested it, Shaz hadn't been sure if she wanted to bond that closely with her colleagues. But Simon had been persuasive, and besides, Commander Bishop had been ear-wigging and she wanted to avoid a black mark for being uncooperative. So she'd agreed and, to her surprise, she'd enjoyed herself, even though she had made her excuses and left before the nightclub excursion that had followed. Now, three weeks into the Job, she found she was actually looking forward to their night out, and not just for the food.

Leon was first to clear his plate, as usual. "What I'm saying is, it's primitive up here."

"I don't know," Shaz protested. "They've got plenty of good curry houses, the property's cheap enough for me to afford something bigger than a rabbit hutch, and if you want to go from one part of the city centre to another, you can walk instead of sitting on the tube for an hour."

"And the countryside. Don't forget how easy it is to get out into the countryside," Kay added.

Leon leaned back in his seat, groaning and rolling his eyes extravagantly like a terrible caricature of a Black and White Minstrel.

"Heathcliff," he warbled in falsetto.

"She's right," Simon said. "God, you're such a cliche, Leon. You should get off the city streets, get some fresh air into your lungs.

What about coming out tomorrow for a walk? I really fancy seeing if Ilkley Moor lives up to the song."

Shaz laughed. "What? You want to walk about without a hat and see if you catch your death of cold?"

The others joined in her laughter. "See, man, it's primitive, like I said. Nothing to do but walk about on your own two feet. And shit, Simon, I'm not the one that's a cliche. You know I've been stopped driving home three times since I moved here? Even the Met got a bit more racially enlightened than thinking every black man with a decent set of wheels has to be a drug dealer," Leon said bitterly.

"They're not stopping you because you're black," Shaz retorted as he paused to light a cigarette.

"No?" Leon exhaled.

"No, they're stopping you for being in possession of an offensive weapon."

"What do you mean?"

"That suit, babe. Any sharper and you'd cut yourself getting dressed.

You're wearing a blade, of course they're going to stop you." Shaz held out her hand for Leon to give her five and, amid the hoots of laughter from the other two, he made a rueful face and hit her hand.

"Not as sharp as you, Shaz," Simon said. She wondered if it was only the heat of the spices that was responsible for the scarlet flush across his normally pale cheekbones.

"Speaking of sharp," Kay chipped in as their main courses arrived, ' can't get anything past Tony Hill, can you?"

"He's smart, all right," Simon agreed, sweeping his wavy dark hair back from his sweating forehead. "I just wish he'd loosen up a bit. It's like there's a wall there that you get right up to but you can't see over."

"I'll tell you why that is," Shaz said, suddenly serious. "Bradfield.

The Queer Killer."

"That's the one he did that went well and truly pear-shaped, yeah?" Leon asked.

That's right."

"It was all hushed up, wasn't it?" Kay said, her intent face reminding Shaz of a small furry animal, cute but with hidden teeth. "The papers hinted at all sorts of stuff, but they never went into much detail."

"Believe me," Shaz said, looking at her half-chicken and wishing she'd gone for something vegetarian, ' wouldn't want to know the details.

If you want to know the whole story, check out the Internet. They weren't constrained by technicalities like good taste or requests from the authorities to keep things under wraps. I'm telling you, if you can read what Tony Hill went through without having second thoughts about what we're doing, you're a fuck of a sight braver than I am."

There was a moment's silence. Then Simon leaned forward and said confidingly, "You're going to tell us, aren't you, Shaz?"

He always arrived fifteen minutes ahead of the agreed time because he knew she'd be early. It didn't matter which she he'd chosen, she'd turn up ahead of schedule because she was convinced he was Rumpelstiltskin, the man who could spin twenty-four-carat gold out of the dry straw of her life.

Donna Doyle no longer the next one but rather the latest one was no different from the others. As her silhouette appeared against the dim light of the car park, he could hear the clumsy childish music crashing in his head. "Jack and Jill went up the hill, to fetch a pail of water ... "

He shook his head to clear his ears, like a snorkeller surfacing from a coral reef. He watched her approach, moving cautiously between the expensive cars, glancing from side to side, a slight frown creasing her forehead, as if she couldn't work out why her antennae weren't pointing her to his precise position. He could see she'd done her best to look good; the school skirt that had obviously been folded over at the waist to show off shapely legs, the school blouse open one button further than parent or teacher would ever have allowed in public, the blazer over one shoulder, hanging thus to obscure the backpack of school supplies. The make-up was heavier than the night before, its excess weight catapulting her straight into middle age. And her hair glinted glossy black, the swing of the short bob catching the dull gleam of the car park lights.

When Donna was almost level, he pushed open the passenger door of the car. The sudden interior light made her jump even as she registered his shockingly handsome profile cutting a dark line through the bright rectangle. He spoke through his already lowered window. "Come and sit with me while I tell you what all this is about," he said conversationally.

Donna hesitated fractionally, but she was too familiar with the open candour of his public face to pause properly for reflection. She slid into the seat next to him and he made sure she saw him carefully not looking at the expanse of thigh her moves had revealed. For the time being, chastity was the best policy. Her smile was coquettish yet innocent as she said, "When I woke up this morning, I wondered if I'd dreamed it all."

His answering smile was indulgent. "I feel like that all the time," he said, building another course of bricks on the false foundation of fake rapport. "I wondered if you'd have second thoughts. There are so many things you could do with your life that would be a greater contribution to society than being on TV. Believe me, I know."

"But you do those things too," she said earnestly. "All that charity work. It's being famous makes it possible for TV stars to raise so much money. People pay money to see them. They wouldn't be shelling out otherwise. I want to be able to do that. To be like them."

The impossible dream. Or rather, nightmare. She could never have been like him, though she had no notion of the real reason why. People like him were so rare it was almost an argument for the existence of God. He smiled benevolently, like the Pope from the Vatican balcony. It pushed all the right buttons. "Well, perhaps I can help you make a start," he told her. And Donna believed him.

He had her there, alone, co-operative, in his car, in an underground car park. What could have been easier than to whisk her away to his destination?

Only a fool would think like that, he'd realized long ago, and he was no fool. For a start, the car park wasn't exactly empty. Businessmen and women were checking out of the hotel, stowing suit carriers into executive saloons and reversing out of tight spots. They noticed a lot more than anyone would expect. For another thing, it was broad daylight outside, a city centre festooned with traffic lights where people sat with nothing better to do than pick their noses and stare slack-jawed at the inhabitants of the next car. First, they'd register the car. A silver Mercedes, smart enough to catch the eye and the admiration. Or, of course, the envy. Then they'd clock the flowing letters along the front wing that announced, Cars for Vance's Visits supplied by Morrigan Mercedes of Cheshire.

Alerted to the possible proximity of celebrity, they'd peer through the tinted windows, trying to identify the driver and passenger. They weren't going to forget that in a hurry, especially if they glimpsed an attractive teenager in the passenger seat. When her photograph appeared in the local paper, they'd remember, no question.

And finally, he'd got a busy day ahead. There was no space in his schedule for delivering her to a place where he could exact what was due. No point in drawing attention to himself by failing to keep appointments, not turning up for the public appearances that were so carefully constructed to give Vance's Visits maximum exposure for minimal effort. Donna would have to wait. For both of them, it would be the sweeter for the anticipation. Well, for him, at least. For her, it wouldn't be long before reality turned her breathless expectation into a sick joke.

So he whetted her appetite and kept her on the leash. "I couldn't believe it when I saw you last night. You'd be absolutely perfect as the co-host. With a two-handed show, we need contrast. Dark-haired Donna, fair-haired Jacko. Petite Donna, hulking great brute Jacko." He grinned, she giggled. "What we're working on is a new game show involving parent and child teams. But the teams don't know they're in the show until we turn up to whisk them off. A total surprise, like This is Your Life. That's part of the reason why we need to be so sure that whoever I end up working with is absolutely trustworthy. Total discretion, that's the key."

"I can keep my mouth shut," Donna said earnestly. "Honest. I never told a living soul about coming here to meet you. My mate that was at the opening last night with me, when she asked what we were talking about for so long, I just said I was asking whether you had any advice for me if I wanted to break into TV."

"And did I?" he demanded.

She smiled, beguiling and seductive. "I told her you said I should get some qualifications behind me before I made any decisions about a career. She doesn't know enough about you to realize you'd never come out with all that boring shit that I get off my mum."

"Good thinking," he told her appreciatively. "I can promise you I'll never be boring, that's for sure. Now, the problem I've got is that I'm desperately busy for the next couple of days. But I've got Friday morning free, and I can easily set up some screen tests for you. We've got a rehearsal studio up in the north-east and we can work there."

Her Hps parted, her eyes glowed in the dimness of the car interior. "You mean it? I can be on telly?"

"No promises, but you look the part and you've got a beautiful voice."

He shifted in his seat so he could fix her with a direct gaze. "All I need to prove to myself is that you really can keep a secret."

"I told you," Donna replied, consternation on her face. "I've said nothing to anybody."

"But can you keep that up? Can you stay silent until Thursday night?"

He put his hand inside his jacket and produced a rail ticket. "This is a train ticket for Five Walls Halt in Northumberland. On Thursday, you catch the 3-Z5 Newcastle train from the station here, then at Newcastle, you change to the 7.50 for Carlisle. When you come out of the station, there's a car park on the left. I'll be waiting there in a Land Rover.

I can't get out to meet you on the platform because of commercial confidentiality, but I'll be there in the car park, I promise. We'll put you up for the night, then first thing in the morning, you do the screen test."

"But my mum'll panic if I stay out all night and she doesn't know where I am," she protested reluctantly.

"You can phone her as soon as we get to the studio complex," he told her, his voice rich in reassurance. "Let's face it, she probably wouldn't let you take the screen test if she knew, would she? I bet she doesn't think working in TV is a proper job, does she?"

As usual, he'd calculated to perfection. Donna knew her ambitious mother wouldn't want her to throw her university prospects away to be a game-show bimbo. Her worried look disappeared and she peered up at him from under her eyebrows. "I won't say a word," she promised solemnly.

"Good girl. I hope you mean that. All it takes is one wrong word and a whole project can crash. That costs money, and it costs people's jobs too. You might say something in confidence to your best friend, but she'll tell her sister, and her sister will tell her boyfriend, and the boyfriend will tell his best mate over a frame of snooker, and the best mate's sister-in-law just happens to be a reporter. Or a rival TV company executive. And the show's dead. And your big chance goes with it. Let me tell you something. At the start of your career, you only get one bite of the cherry. You screw up, and no one will ever hire you again. You have to have a lot of success under your belt before the TV bosses forgive a bit of failure." He leaned forward and rested a hand on her arm as he spoke, invading her space and making her feel the sexual thrill of his dangerous edge.

"I understand," Donna said with all the intensity of a fourteen-year-old who thought she was really a grown-up and couldn't understand why the adults wouldn't admit her into their conspiracy. The promise of an entree into that world was what made her so ready to swallow something as preposterous as his set-up.

"I can rely on you?"

She nodded. "I won't let you down. Not with this or anything else."

The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. She was probably still a virgin, he reckoned. Something about her avidity told him so. She was offering herself up to him, a vestal sacrifice.

He leaned closer and kissed the soft, eager mouth that instantly opened under his primly closed lips. He drew back, smiling to soften her obvious disappointment. He always left them wanting more. It was the oldest showbiz cliche in the world. But it worked every time.

Carol wiped up the remaining traces of chicken jalfrezi with the last chunk of nan bread and savoured the final mouthful. That', she said reverently, ' to die for."

"There's more," Maggie Brandon said, pushing the heavy casserole dish towards her.

"I'd have to wear it," Carol groaned. "There's no room inside."

"You can take some home with you," Maggie told her. "I know the kind of daft hours you'll be working. Cooking's the last thing you'll have time for. When John was made up to DCI, I considered asking his Chief Constable if the family could move into the cells at Scargill Street since that seemed to be the only way his kids would ever get to see him."

John Brandon, Chief Constable of East Yorkshire Police, shook his head and said affectionately, "She's a terrible liar, my wife. She only says these things to guilt-trip you into working so hard there'll be nothing left for me to worry about in your whole division."

Maggie snorted. "As if! How do you think he ended up looking like that, eh?"

Carol gave Brandon a shrewd look. It was a good question. If ever a man had been born with a graveyard face, it was Brandon. His countenance was all verticals, long and narrow; lines in his hollow cheeks, lines between his brows, aquiline nose, iron-grey hair straight as the grid line on a map. Tall and thin, with the beginnings of a stoop, all he needed was a scythe to audition for Death. She considered her options. It might be

"John' tonight, but on Monday morning it would be back to, "Mr. Brandon, sir." Better not push her informal relationship with the boss too far. "And there was me thinking it was marriage," she said innocently.

Maggie roared with laughter. "Diplomatic as well as quick, eh?"

she got out at last, reaching across to pat her husband's shoulder. "You did well to get Carol to abandon the fleshpots of Bradfield for the back of beyond, my love."

"Speaking of which, how are you settling in?" Carol asked.

"Well, this is a police house," Maggie told her, waving a hand at the brilliant white walls and paintwork, a depressing contrast to the hand-marbled paintwork Carol remembered from their Bradfield dining room. "But it'll have to do us. We've rented out the house in Bradfield, you know? John's only got another five years till he has his thirty in, and we want to go back there. It's where our roots are, where our friends are. And the kids will all be out of school by then, so it's not like they'll be uprooted again."

"What Maggie isn't saying is that she feels a bit like a Victorian missionary among the Hottentots," Brandon said.

"Well, you've got to admit, East Yorkshire's a bit different from Bradfield. Plenty of scenery, but there's not a decent theatre within half an hour's drive of here. There seems to be only one bookshop on the whole patch that sells more than the bestsellers. And as for opera you can forget it!" Maggie protested, getting to her feet and gathering the empty plates.

"Don't you feel happier about the kids growing up away from the influence of the inner city? Out of the reaches of the drug lords?"

Carol asked.

Maggie shook her head. "They're so insular round here, Carol. Back in Bradfield, the kids had friends from all kinds of backgrounds Asian, Chinese, Afro-Caribbean. Even one Vietnamese lad. Out here, you stick to your own. There's nothing to do except hang around on street corners. Frankly, I'd take a chance on them having the sense to stay out of trouble in the inner city as a trade-off for all the opportunities they had in Bradfield. This country living is well over-rated." She marched through to the kitchen.

"Sorry," Carol said. "Didn't realize it was such a sore point."

Brandon shrugged. "You know Maggie. She likes to get it off her chest.

Give it a few more months, she'll be running the village, happy as a pig. The kids like it well enough. How about you? What's the cottage like?"

"I love it. The couple I bought it from did an immaculate restoration job."

"I'm surprised they were selling it, then."

"Divorce," Carol said succinctly.

"Ah."

"I think they were both more upset about losing the cottage than the marriage. You and Maggie will have to come over for a meal."

"If you ever find the time to shop," Maggie said darkly, walking back in with a large cafetiere.

"Well, worst comes to worst, I'll send Nelson out to bring us a rabbit back."

"He's enjoying the opportunities for murder that living in the country offers?" Maggie asked drily.

"He thinks he's died and gone to feline heaven. You might crave the inner city, but he's turned into a country boy overnight."

Maggie poured coffee for John and Carol, then said, "I'm going to leave you pair to it, if you don't mind. I know you're dying to talk shop and I promised Karen I'd pick her up after the pictures in Seaford. There's enough coffee there to keep you both awake till dawn, and if you feel peckish in a bit, there's home-made cheesecake in the fridge. But Andy's due back around ten, so you'd better help yourself before then. I swear that lad's got worms. That or hollow legs." She swooped down on Brandon and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "Enjoy yourselves."

Unable to resist the feeling that she'd been set up by professionals, Carol took a sip of her coffee and waited. When it came, Brandon's question was hardly a surprise. "So how are you settling in on the ground?" His voice was casual, but his eyes were watchful.

"Obviously, they're wary of me. Not only am I a woman, which on the evolutionary scale in East Yorkshire comes somewhere between a ferret and a whippet, but I'm also the Chief Constable's nark. Brought in from the big city to crack the whip," she said ironically.

"I was afraid you'd get lumbered with that," Brandon said. "But you must have known how it would be when you took the job on."

Carol shrugged. "It's not come as a surprise. But there's been rather less of it than I anticipated. Maybe they're all still on their best behaviour, but I think the Seaford Central Division CID are a not bad crew. Because they were stuck out in the boondocks before the reorganization and nobody was paying much attention, they've got a bit lazy, a bit sloppy. I suspect one or two might be spending a bit more than they're earning, but I don't think there's any deep-rooted, systemic corruption."

Brandon nodded, satisfied. Trusting Carol Jordan's judgement had been a steep learning curve for him, and he'd known instinctively she was the one senior officer he wanted to tempt away from Bradfield. With her setting the tone in Seaford, word would spread through other divisions and the CID culture would adapt accordingly, given time. Time and a certain amount of stick which Brandon wasn't afraid to apply. "Anything on the books that's causing you a problem?"

Carol finished her coffee and poured herself another cup, offering the pot to Brandon, who refused with a shake of the head. She frowned in thought, gathering her arsenal of information. "There is something," she said. "Since we're talking informally?"

Brandon nodded.