hapter 22

Georgia Lester sat at the kitchen table, hands cradling a china cup of weak Earl Grey tea, staring unseeingly down past autumn-bedraggled herbaceous borders to the skeleton apple trees at the bottom of her cottage garden. She didn't register the perennials that were due to be cut back, the roses that would be pruned when next the gardener came. That was neither her interest nor her job. She only ever noticed the garden when it was beautiful. Ugliness she preferred to tune out. There was enough of that in her head without adding to it from outside.

What she enjoyed about her cottage was the peace. Being Georgia Lester was a tiring business. It was a constant effort to maintain the image of sophisticated beauty and elegance that the world expected from her. Of course, she had created that expectation herself, a conscious invention of a persona and style that would mark her out from the herd. But that didn't make it any easier, and these days, whenever she looked in the mirror in the morning, it seemed as if the mountain was looming higher every day. Perhaps it was time for another visit to that charming man in Harley Street who had done such a good job with that loose skin around her jawline.

But here at the cottage, she could absolve herself from the need to maintain the facade. Well, she could when she was here alone, she amended, a sly smile of reminiscence lifting the corners of her mouth. A girl did need distraction now and again, and devoted as Anthony was, he couldn't quite provide the stimulus of a taut young body with all the sexual energy that accompanied it. None of her flirtations lasted long, she made sure of that. Nor did they mean anything more to her than a kind of blood transfusion something necessary but somehow impersonal.

This weekend, however, Georgia had a different agenda. No dressing up for lovers, just working on her rewrites. Unlike most of the writers she knew, Georgia loved the revision process. It allowed her to step back from the nuts and bolts of getting her first draft on paper and focus on the quality of the writing itself. She'd established a reputation for finely crafted prose, and she always maintained that came from her attention to the detailed sentence-on-sentence shape of her book. She had three clear days of her favourite work ahead now, and she was looking forward to it.

Already, her mind was racing onwards to the section of the book she would be working on that day. The typescript was already sitting on her desk, next to the Mont Blanc Meisterstiick fountain pen she always used to make the revisions her secretary would later transfer to the computer. She wasn't even going to bother dressing yet. She'd slob around in her fluffy dressing gown, hair hidden in a silk turban, until lunchtime. Then she'd soak in the bath while she listened to The World At One. A snack for lunch, then she'd have to venture out into Dorchester. There was plenty of food in the freezer, but she'd inexplicably run out of white wine, and dinner without a glass of chilled Chablis was unthinkable. She firmly believed that writers needed the discipline of routine. And that included the small pleasures of life as well as the habits of mind that made it possible for her to turn out a book a year.

Georgia finished her tea and poured a fresh cup. She planned to make the most of these three days. When they were over, she would be plunged into an author tour to promote her latest hardback. Thinking of it reminded her that she still hadn't persuaded her publisher to foot the bill for the handsome bodyguard she'd hired before leaving London. She didn't really think anyone was after her, in spite of her protestations to dear, sweet Kit that they should take those tiresome letters to the police. But she had no objections to cashing in on the possibility. It never hurt to keep one's name firmly in the public eye. The notion that she was sufficiently significant a writer to attract the attention of a stalker would inevitably draw new readers to her, curious to discover what it was about her that was so special. And once drawn to her, Georgia was utterly convinced they would remain to devour her backlist in its entirety.

Thanks to astute planning like that, she had climbed to the top of the heap. She was well aware that her activities earned her disapproval from many of her fellows. It bothered her not a whit. They could pretend all they liked that they were too high-minded to stoop to her tactics. The reality was that they were jealous of the column inches she gathered.

Unaware that she was about to generate the greatest publicity of her career, Georgia sipped her tea and felt very, very contented.

Chapter 23

Fiona was running late. Literally. Dodging students, she swerved into her secretary's office. "Bloody Northern Line," she gasped, trying to wrestle her coat off and open her office door at the same time. She crossed the threshold, shedding jacket and briefcase and reaching for the folder of notes for the departmental meeting that had been due to start five minutes earlier, her secretary following her.

"There's a Spanish policeman been trying to get you," she said. She consulted a message sheet in her hand. "A Major Salvador Berrocal. He's been ringing every ten minutes for the last half-hour."

"Shit, shit shit!" Fiona muttered savagely.

"He said would you call him back as soon as possible," her secretary added helpfully as Fiona dithered between desk and doorway. "It sounded urgent."

"I've got to go to this meeting," she said. "Barnard's been trying to dump half his seminars and I don't want to be landed with them." She ran a hand through her hair. "OK. Call Berrocal and tell him I'm unavoidably detained but I'll get back to him as soon as I can. Sorry, Lizzie, I've got to run."

She raced down the corridor and skidded to a halt outside the meeting room, attracting curious looks from those who had only ever seen Fiona in cool and elegant mode. She paused for a moment, smoothing her hair and taking a deep breath to regain her composure, then swept in with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, tube," she muttered, taking her place halfway down one side of the conference table. Professor Barnard neither faltered in his convoluted sentence nor graced her with a glance.

It felt like the longest meeting in history, and Fiona had to force herself not to fidget restlessly as they ploughed through seemingly endless departmental minutiae. She managed to contain her impatience, refusing to allow Barnard's domineering presence to fluster her into accepting more than one additional seminar group. But even as she argued her case, half her mind was on Berrocal's urgent message. He must have a suspect in custody. Or so she hoped.

At the end of the meeting, Fiona scooped up her papers and swept out, earning raised eyebrows and an exchange of meaningful looks between those of her colleagues who preferred to dismiss her as being too arrogant by half. Back in her office, she asked Lizzie to hold her calls and started to dial Berrocal's number before she was even seated.

"Major Berrocal?" she asked when the phone was answered on the second ring.

"Si. Dr. Cameron?" His tone gave no clue to the nature of his news.

"I'm sorry not to have called back before this, but I couldn't get away," she gabbled. "You have a development?"

He sighed. "Not the sort I had hoped for. I am afraid we have another murder."

Fiona's heart sank. This was the news she had been dreading so much she had refused to consider it a serious possibility. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said inadequately.

"I am calling to ask if it is possible for you to come back to Toledo and consult further with us. Perhaps the information generated by this latest murder might help you pinpoint where we should be looking for our suspect now."

Fiona closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, hoping he could hear the genuine regret in her voice. "It's impossible at present. I have too many commitments here that I can't avoid."

There was a ponderous silence. Then Berrocal said, "I was afraid you would say that."

"There's no reason why I can't examine the evidence if you can fax the details to me," she said, her sense of duty kicking in ahead of her common sense.

"That would be possible?"

"I've got a very heavy schedule, but I'm sure I could make time to analyse the material," she assured him, already wondering how she would fit it in.

"Thank you," he said, his relief palpable even over the phone.

"Perhaps you could give me the bare bones now?" Fiona asked, pulling a blank pad towards her and tucking the phone between ear and shoulder.

"The body was found inside the courtyard of the Alcazar." Berrocal's voice was clipped and clinical now. "An Englishwoman, Jenny Sheriff. Twenty-two years old, from Guild-ford." He split the unfamiliar place name into two words. "She was working as a receptionist at the Hotel Alfonso the Sixth on a year-long exchange to improve her Spanish. Her shift ended at ten last night and she told a colleague that she was meeting a man for coffee in the square. She said he was fascinating, he knew all there was to know about Toledo."

"Did she mention his name?" Fiona asked.

"No. We have a barman who says he served her and a man with coffee and brandy just after ten. He remembers because he had noticed her several times before, drinking there with friends. But he didn't notice the man she was with because he was sitting with his back to the bar. The barman doesn't remember them leaving, because a group of tourists came in for drinks shortly after that."

"When was she found?"

"This morning, the custodian who opens up for the rest of the staff at the Alcazar found the staff entrance unlocked. When he walked into the courtyard, he saw her lying there. She had been stabbed several times in the stomach. Our preliminary report indicates that the murder weapon was probably a military bayonet. The death matches those of many of the Republicans killed by Franco's forces when they relieved the siege of the Alcazar in the Civil War. This ties in with the theme you identified of tourist scenes associated with violent death. And there is a further connection. Like Martina Albrecht, her vagina had been mutilated after death by repeated insertions of a broken bottle. And finally, there was also a city tourist map from the hotel in her pocket. So, I think there is little doubt that we are dealing with the same man. Delgado or whoever." His voice was edgy with frustration.

"No signs of forced entry?" she asked.

"No. It looks as if he must have had keys. We are working on that angle. He may have a friend who has access to the keys, or he may have somehow acquired his own set. We'll be checking all the key holders home addresses. It's possible that wherever he's hiding out might be near one of them. He could have made an illegal entry and got his hands on their keys that way."

Fiona sighed. 'I'm really sorry about this, Major. When you told me you had a suspect, I hoped that would be an end to it."

"Me too. But Delgado seems to have disappeared into the landscape.

Every police officer in the city has his name and his picture, but we don't have a single sighting of him to follow up."

"It must be very frustrating for you." She frowned as she spoke, trying to snag something at the edge of her consciousness.

"It is. But we will keep on trying. I will fax the material over to you as soon as it becomes available."

After she put the phone down, Fiona stared at the wall, waiting for her subconscious to throw up whatever was lurking there. Nothing came. Then the phone rang again, pulling her back to the immediate demands of the work she was supposed to be doing.

In spite of her best efforts to concentrate, only part of her mind was focused on her seminar group that morning. Berrocal's problem niggled in the corner of her brain. Frustrated by her inability to drag to the surface whatever nugget was lurking just out of reach, she spent her lunch break in the nearby swimming baths, ploughing up and down mindlessly, trying to reach the semi-trance state that exercise could produce. But still it eluded her grasp.

Walking back to the department, she summoned up the image of the Alcazar in her mind's eye. Perhaps that would help her unlock the puzzle. The imposing building stood on the highest point of the old town, the perfect position for a fortress, a situation that had been exploited by every occupying power since the Romans. It dominated the city, bigger than anything else in the line of sight, its four-square geometry a reproach to the higgledy-piggledy appearance of the rest of the buildings that rambled down the slopes towards the Tagus.

But it had never been a lucky building. It had burned down several times and been seriously damaged in the Civil War, when Franco's men had bombarded it for months. From a distance, it was a forbidding sight, its walls apparently lacking the ornate decoration of its skyline rivals, the cathedral and San Juan de los Reyes. The only breaks in its severity were the four circular turrets that adorned the corners, each with a Disneyland flourish of roof.

Inside the high walls, it was a different matter. Each of the exterior facades was decorated in a different architectural style. Fiona had never toured the Alcazar, but she had seen photographs, and she'd found it almost absurd that so elaborately stylized a building should have ended up as Army offices with a museum tacked on to them.

Even so, it had still managed to acquire a new layer to its bloody history. Now it was a crime scene. The resting place for the latest victim of a ruthless killer she was supposed to help catch. An objective she was apparently some distance from achieving.

In spite of her mental nagging, still her mind refused to release its inspiration, and by mid afternoon Fiona had given up. She decided to work late, dealing with the correspondence that had piled up to dangerous levels in her in-tray. Kit was out for the evening, doing an event at a bookshop then going for a drink with Steve, so there was no urgency about getting home. When she finally left her office, she ran into a couple of part-time lecturers from the anthropology school who persuaded her to come for a drink at the staff club.

She was on her second glass of wine when the conversation veered off at a tangent. Two of her colleagues were pouring scorn on the notions of a third about funerary customs in West Africa. Some electrical current sparked in Fiona's brain and suddenly she knew what she needed to tell Berrocal. With a mumbled apology, she jumped to her feet and hurried back to her office.

Of course, when she got through to the Spanish police, Berrocal was out of the office. She didn't want to leave her hunch as a message with a minion, because she was aware how bizarre it would sound. Equally, she didn't want to wait until morning. She switched on the computer and went straight to her e-mail program.

From: Fiona Cameron <fcameron@psych.ulon.ac.uk>

To: Salvador Berrocal <Sberroc@cnp.mad.es>

Subject: Re: Toledo murders

Dear Major Berrocal,

A thought has occurred to me about where your suspect may be hiding out, although it is probably grasping at straws.

As we know, he is obsessed with the history of Toledo, which is now linked in his mind with the business of death. Where do death and history intersect? In graveyards. I wondered if there was the kind of cemetery in or near Toledo where there are large tombs or funerary vaults. If so, he could be camping out there.

He obviously has some sort of shelter, since he is managing to remain well enough groomed not to attract adverse attention to his appearance. I think he could possibly have broken into a mausoleum or family vault which he is now using as a base of operations.

If you have no other leads, it might be worth examining this possibility.

I will be at home later this evening, where I intend to go through the material you promised me.

Good hunting!

Best wishes

Fiona Cameron

Chapter 24

Kit closed the last of the books with a flourish and put down his pen. "Thanks, pal," he said to the bookseller who moved the pile of hardbacks to one side.

"Do you mind doing some of the paperbacks as well?" the woman asked.

"Happy to." He glanced across to Steve, who was browsing the true crime section. "I'll not be long," he called.

"No problem," Steve said, pulling a book about forensic anthropology from the shelf.

"I thought it went well," he said absently as he signed.

"It was great," the bookseller enthused. "It's the first time we've done a whole week of themed events, and it's been terrific. We've really put on sales, not just at the events but during the day as well."

"That's because you've promoted it so well in the store," Kit said. "The windows look the business, and that pulls the punters in. It was a good audience tonight."

The woman pulled a face. "Apart from the nutter in the front row."

"You always get one."

"Oh, I know, but the way he kept going on about poor Drew Shand and Jane Elias ... what a sicko. Doesn't it worry you that weirdos like that are reading your books?"

Kit stood up and shrugged. "Not really. It's the ones who keep their mouths shut you have to worry about. Isn't that right, Steve?"

Steve looked up, startled. "Sorry, you speaking to me, Kit?"

"Yeah, I was saying it's not the nutters who mouth off that want watching. It's the ones that don't let on that they're candidates for the locked ward that really cause the problems."

Steve snapped the book shut. "That's right. The perfect murders are committed by people who are smart enough to make them look like accidents and strong enough to keep their mouths shut afterwards."

Kit snorted. "Unlike that bloke in Sheffield who cut his wife's head off and brought it round to show the girlfriend how much he loved her."

The bookseller shuddered. "You're making that up."

"I wish he was. Truth is usually much more horrible than even his fiction," Steve said. "You done, Kit?"

They walked down the hill from the bookshop in companionable silence. By unspoken consent, they turned into the first pub with beer that Kit classified as decent, an establishment where no expense had been spared to make it look like a 19305 public bar, all bare floorboards and wooden chairs. All it lacked was sawdust on the floor. As they elbowed their way to the bar, Kit finally spoke. "You don't think there's any connection between Drew Shand and Jane Elias being murdered, do you?" he asked.

"I don't know enough about either case even to speculate," Steve responded. He pushed through the drinkers and caught the barmaid's eye. "Two pints of bitter, love."

Kit grinned. "Lack of knowledge never stopped Fiona. She reckons it's about as likely as Man United getting relegated from the Premiership. But she might just be saying that to stop me worrying."

Steve took a mouthful of his beer then grinned. "And you think I'm going to contradict her? And risk bringing down the wrath of God on my head?"

"You know what your trouble is, Stevie? You let Fiona get away with far too much. You defer to her like you do to nobody else I've ever seen you with. But with a woman like Fiona, you can't afford to roll over. Give her an inch and before you know it, her flag's flying over the whole world."

"Old habits die hard," Steve said, aware that Kit was marking his territory as obviously as an un doctored torn cat. He knew his friend was right. When the shape of his relationship with Fiona had been forged, he hadn't understood that she needed someone who would stand up to her and challenge her. Now, it was too late to change. Worse still, it had become the established pattern of his personal relationships with women. He could be tough with female colleagues and subordinates, never making any allowance for their gender. But as soon as the possibility of romance entered, Steve reverted to the wimp who had failed to win Fiona. He didn't like it, but he didn't have sufficient time or motivation to change it. Even supposing he could.

Steve snapped out of his thoughts and tuned back into what Kit was saying.

"I don't need humouring. I just need to know whether you think I should be watching my back, with these threatening letters going the rounds."

They made their way to a table in the corner that they knew from experience was in one of the dead spots of the sound system. They could have a conversation there without risking laryngitis or eavesdroppers. Steve took a cigar from his breast pocket and lit up. "Run that past me again, Kit. I couldn't hear you over the racket at the bar."

Kit shook his head. "You weren't listening. You were thinking about women. I was telling you about these death threat letters that seem to be going the rounds among some of us crime writers. I've had one, Georgia Lester's had one. Fiona suggested I ask around to see if anybody else has had one, and I sent out some e-mails today about it. So far, I've got three others admitting to it. Jonathan Lewis, Adam Chester and Enya Flannery. And my agent's had one too. And they all sound like they've been written by the same person. Plus, Enya and Jonathan both said they'd had similar messages on their answering machines. Though the voice was too muffled to recognize, even if they'd know the person."

"And you're wondering if there's a connection to these two murders? If there's somebody out there with a grudge against crime writers?" Steve tried not to look as incredulous as he felt. He knew Kit had a healthy ego about his own work, but he hadn't realized that he and his fellow writers actually thought they were important enough to provoke someone to serial murder.

"Well, it had crossed my mind," Kit said. "I don't think that's unreasonable in the circumstances. One crank letter is easy to dismiss, but six makes me a bit uneasy. And I wondered if you could maybe put a call in to your oppos on the other side of the Irish Sea and maybe check out if Jane Elias got one of these death threat letters."

"Kit, the papers are full of Jane Elias's affair with this Garda Siochana officer. Frankly, I'd have thought that had a lot more to do with her murder than anything else. From what I hear, Pierce Finnegan made plenty of enemies over the years, inside the tent as well as outside. There's no better way of getting to someone in law enforcement than going for the people they love. So no, I don't think you should be losing sleep over the idea that somebody might be coming after you."

"But you'll make the call? To put my mind and Fiona's at rest?" Kit eyed

Steve over the rim of his glass. If he wouldn't do it for friendship, he'd do it for his quaint notion of courtly love. Kit would have put money on it.

"I'll see what I can find out," Steve said. He knew he was being manipulated, but it was more effort to fight it than he could be bothered expending.

Kit nodded, satisfied. "That's all I wanted to hear. Fiona's saying she doesn't think there's likely to be a connection, but I'm not sure if she really thinks that or if she's only saying it to keep me happy. I sometimes feel like Fiona thinks I'm some fragile little flower that needs protecting from the wind and rain."

Steve spluttered a mouthful of beer over the table. "Fuck's sake, Kit," he got out. "You're about as fragile as the Forth Bridge."

Before Kit could respond, their peace was shattered by an announcement that a live Irish band was about to start playing. Kit drained his pint and stood up. "Let's get out of here. Come back to ours, it's only ten minutes' walk."

Neither of them noticed the bearded man who had sat at the back of the bookshop event abandoning his half-drunk pint of Guinness and following them out of the pub at a cautious distance. He'd left the shop before the signing and waited patiently in a nearby doorway until Kit and Steve had left. He'd walked down the hill in their wake and when they entered the bar, he'd loitered outside for long enough to allow them to buy their drinks and settle down. Then he'd attached himself to three other men heading for the bar, bought himself a drink and found a seat where he could see the back of Kit's head and Steve's profile.

Now, he pursued them through the night streets, careful to keep well back. He smiled to himself. His caution was a waste of time, really. The stupid fools didn't have a clue. When they turned into a gateway, he stopped in his tracks, pretending to tie his shoelace. Then he continued down the street, glancing to one side as he passed the house they'd gone into. He couldn't help a spasm of jealous anger as he took in its elegant proportions. If he had his way, Kit Martin wouldn't be enjoying his smug and cosy life for much longer. He had plans to make things much less comfortable for Mr. bloody Martin.

They arrived to find Fiona in the kitchen finishing the pen he puttanesca that Kit had left for her. "You're back early," she said.

"We thought we'd try and catch you with your secret lover," Steve teased.

Fiona poked her tongue out at him. "Too late. She's just left."

"The Paddies invaded the pub," Kit said. "You know how I hate that bloody bogus bogtrotter music." He snagged two bottles of Sam Smith's Organic Bitter from the drinks cupboard. "So we thought we'd come back and spoil your evening."

"You're too late for that as well. Salvador Berrocal called earlier to tell me there's been another body in Toledo, so I've been ploughing through Spanish scene-of-crime reports and entering data on the computer instead of indulging myself with a long hot bath."

Kit pulled a face. "Bummer," he said.

"How was the gig?" Fiona asked.

"Not a bad turnout, considering I didn't have a new book to promote. Sold a fair few books and signed every bit of stock I could lay hands on."

"He's being modest again, He had them in the palm of his hand. They loved him. All the women wanted to take him home and all the blokes wanted to take him for a pint," Steve said as he sat down opposite her.

"And you two got to be the lucky ones," Kit said. "Somewhere in your youth, or childhood ..."

"We must have done something ferociously wicked," Fiona responded. "How's things with you, Steve?"

He made a gesture with the flat of his hand to indicate, so-so. "We got a lucky break on a serious racist attack down in Brick Lane, three lads in custody and one of them singing like a diva. That's about the best of it. Blake hasn't come back from Spain, but we've had a look through his finances and there's nothing to indicate any blackmail proceeds. The only large payment into his account is the money he made from selling his story to the papers. He took a chunk of that out in cash, which is presumably what he's spending in Spain."

"Scumbag tabloids. Makes you sick," Kit commented.

Fiona sighed. "He's technically an innocent man. There's nothing to stop them paying him."

"He's not innocent if he watched Susan Blanchard get killed and said nothing," Kit protested.

"We don't know that, though. It's only my theory," she reminded him.

Seeing she'd pushed her plate away, Steve took out a cigar and lit up. "I did take my own advice about a second trawl through the eyewitnesses, however."

"Any joy?" Fiona asked.

"Well, it's early days yet, but there might be something. I read through the original statements again, and I noticed that one person mentioned seeing a cyclist coming from that general direction. She was walking her dog, and she remembered this cyclist because he was going much faster than people on bikes generally do on the Heath. We didn't follow it up at the time because Blake emerged as such a strong suspect so soon."

Fiona frowned. "You know, I remember making a note of that when I was on the case officially. I think I might even have mentioned it in my preliminary report," she said thoughtfully.

"So have you interviewed her again?" Kit asked.

"I went to see her personally," Steve admitted. He held his hands up as if to stem a protest from Fiona. "I know it's pathetic, a detective of my rank going out and taking witness statements, and I know I should be able to delegate, but if we screw up again and I'm left carrying the can, at least this time it'll be my can."

"What did she have to say?" Fiona asked.

"She didn't have a lot to add. Her walk had already taken her past the shrubbery where the murder took place, and she's still racked with guilt because she was wearing a Walkman. She's convinced that if she hadn't been listening to the Mozart Requiem, she'd have heard something and been able to raise the alarm. Anyway, about ten minutes later, a bike came up behind her and raced past. She took notice partly because cycling isn't really permitted on that part of the Heath at that time of the day, although some people ignore the rules. But mostly she remembered him because of his speed. He was going like the clappers, she said."

Fiona sighed. "Not much chance of a decent description, then."

Steve shook his head. "I'm afraid not. She only saw him from behind and she doesn't know anything about bikes so we don't know whether it was a racing bike or a mountain bike. She remembers he was wearing a helmet and proper lycra cycling gear. Black trousers, she thinks, and a dark top. Maybe purple or dark-blue or even maroon."

"Like that narrows it down," Kit said.

"However ..." Steve held up one finger and smiled. "She has agreed to be hypnotized to see if there's anything else lurking in her subconscious about this cyclist. And, when we reinterviewed the other witnesses who came forward and asked specifically if they'd seen anyone cycling that morning, we got one other hit. A nanny was sitting on a bench at the bottom of the hill when he went past her. She said he was going so fast she thought he wouldn't be able to make it round the bend, but he cleared it and headed for the exit on to Heath Road."

"How come you didn't pick that up first time round?" Kit asked, never reluctant to put Steve on the spot in spite of their friendship.

Steve looked embarrassed. "She's Filipino. Her English is pretty good, but it isn't her first language. When we spoke to her before, we didn't have an interpreter. The DC who did the preliminary interview decided she had nothing useful to tell us, so he didn't bother setting up a second interview with an interpreter. This time, we did it properly."

"And did you get some useful product?" Fiona asked.

Steve took a long pull from his bottle of beer and nodded. "Sort of. She reckons he was wearing goggles and a helmet and a dark outfit. She thought it was a mountain bike. She reckoned it looked like the one her employer has. We've identified the make and model, though of course she might be wrong about that."

"That's pretty good recollection after all this time," Fiona said thoughtfully. "How much prompting did it take?"

"Almost none," Steve said with a hint of bitterness. "As soon as she was asked about a cyclist, she started nodding and got quite excited. She said she'd tried to tell the policeman who came before, but once he'd established she hadn't seen Blake, he'd lost interest. In our defence, I have to say we didn't get her on the first appeal for witnesses. It was about ten days or so later that she came forward. Her employers had been away the week of the murder and she was nervous about coming to the police without their permission. So by the time she made herself known to us, Blake was already our prime suspect."

"Not much of a defence," Kit commented. "And you have the nerve to get pissed off when I put the occasional dozy detective in my books. So where do you go from here?"

Steve fiddled with his cigar. "I'm tempted to bring Blake in and ask him to make a witness statement."

Kit snorted in derision. "I can imagine the statement you'd get from Blake. I'd lay money that it would contain the words "fuck" and "off"."

Steve threw a mock-punch at Kit's shoulder. "Don't mince your words, Kit, tell us what you really think."

Ignoring them, Fiona said slowly, "You'd have to handle it very carefully. You've taken the public position that you're not actively seeking anyone else in connection with this. If you pull Blake in for questioning, it would be very easy for him to shout harassment since by your own admission,

the investigation is closed. If you defend yourselves by saying the inquiry is still ongoing, then you alert the real killer to the fact that you're looking for him more actively than you ever were."

"But we'd have to balance that against what Blake might tell us," Steve argued.

"I think Kit's right. I don't think he'll tell you anything useful," she said, shaking her head. "He's got too much to lose if he really did witness the murder." She counted off the points on her fingers. "One, he risks prosecution for obstruction of justice for not revealing what he has known all along. Two, he loses the edge he might have if he knows the killer's identity and wants to blackmail him. Three, he loses the power of his secret fantasy. And four, he loses the public protestation of innocence that's already earned him a lot of money from the newspapers and will net him much more in compensation from the Home Office."

"So if it was up to you, you'd leave him alone," Steve said baldly.

Fiona raised her eyebrows. "I didn't say that. I just said I wouldn't question him about the murder."

Steve smiled. "On the other hand, if the traffic division know that when he drives through King's Cross at thirty-one miles an hour, they should check he hasn't been drinking ..."

Kit shook his head, pretending sorrow. "That would be harassment," he observed.

"Only if we're clumsy about it. And I intend to keep tabs on him when he does come home."

Fiona gave a nod of approval. "It's an outside chance, but he still might lead you straight to a killer."

Steve's face was grim. "I've seen slimmer chances pay off. Believe me, if Francis Blake has anything to hide, I'm going to find out what it is."