'Come with me.' Delaney took her none too gently by the arm and marched her along the corridor. He opened the door to an interview room and pushed her into it, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He crossed his arms. 'Start talking.'

'No, I won't start talking. Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?'

'My name is Jack Delaney. I'm a policeman.'

Melanie snorted. 'I know who you are, for f.u.c.k's sake, what I want to know is what the h.e.l.l you think you're doing?'

'You kiss your mother with that mouth?'

Melanie took a deep breath and smiled, full wattage. 'I tell you what, let's go back outside, let my cameraman through and we'll do this properly.'

She walked up to the door but Delaney made no motion to move out of her way.

'You mentioned the buckle.'

'So?'

'So how did you know about it?'

'If you don't let me out of this room right now you'll have bigger problems to worry about than that.'

Delaney gripped her upper arm. She kept herself in very good condition, that much was clear, but she gasped as he tightened his grip. 'No details have been released about the belt buckle. Why don't you tell me how you know about it?'

Melanie met his gaze, unfazed. It was a long time since any man had scared her. 'How about you take your hand off the merchandise?'

Delaney released his grip. 'Believe me, whatever you've got to peddle, I'm not in the market for, honey.'

'I got a call. The belt buckle. He told me to ask you what belt buckles were for. He said it was a clue. Seems he was right.'

'Who was it?'

Melanie smiled. 'Back in the market, are we?

'Just answer the f.u.c.king question.'

'I don't know. Male voice, could be twenties, could be thirties.'

'You didn't get his number?'

Melanie shook her head. 'It was withheld. He said he was the artist responsible for this morning's installation piece on Hampstead Heath.'

'What else did he say?'

'He said you were obviously no student of art history so he was going to have to give you some more clues.'

'He actually mentioned me by name?'

'Yes.'

And that was it?'

'Just that and the belt buckle. He said he'd be in touch with me again.' Melanie rubbed her upper arm. 'This how you treat everyone who has information for you?'

'You came in here pointing a camera and looking for a story. Not exactly trying to be a model citizen.' Delaney moved away from the door but Melanie Jones did not try to leave.

'You have your job to do, Jack. I've got mine. You're smart?' She made it a question. 'You'll see how we can help each other here.'

Delaney shook his head. 'Like you helped Alexander Walker last month?'

Melanie tilted her head slightly, looking up at him. 'Is that what the att.i.tude is all about?'

'He was a poster boy for the worst kind of corruption in the police and you wanted to make him a media celebrity.'

'We're both on the same side here, Detective Inspector. You got any children?'

'What's that got to do with anything?'

'Financial security, Jack . . .'

'Don't call me that.'

'For life. For you, for your family, for your children. The inside story on how you brought down Alexander Walker. And how you worked with me to bring down a serial killer.'

'He's not a serial killer. And I work with you the day Johnny Cash starts his comeback tour.'

Melanie Jones shook her head, deadly serious now. 'We have to work together, whether you like it or not, Detective Inspector. He's contacting me and this guy is a serial killer. You know it, I know it and, more importantly, he knows it.'

Delaney would have responded but the door burst open and Superintendent George Napier barrelled past him into the room. He smiled apologetically at the reporter.

'I am really sorry about this, Miss Jones.'

Delaney glared at him. 'With respect, sir. I am conducting an interview here.'

'No you're not, Delaney. Your interview is over.'

Melanie Jones brought the full force of her professional smile to bear. 'It's quite all right, Superintendent. The detective inspector and I were discussing the case.'

'It's not all right, Miss Jones. I will not have members of the press treated in such a cavalier fashion in my station. Your cameraman has told me how you were manhandled, Miss Jones.'

'A small misunderstanding.'

Delaney held his boss's gaze. 'No misunderstanding on my part, sir. I don't care if she's press, public or a member of the royal frigging family, she has information on an ongoing murder case then she gets treated just the same by me.'

Napier goggled at him. 'Have you listened to a word I have said, Inspector?'

Delaney smiled sardonically at Melanie Jones. 'I'm just doing my job, sir.'

'Wait outside, Delaney. I'll speak to you later.'

Delaney nodded pointedly at the reporter then walked out, closing the door loudly behind him, and took a moment to compose himself. He'd have liked to have gone back inside and slapped his boss but he knew what the consequences would be, and although in times recently past he wouldn't have much cared, right now he needed his badge and the authority it brought. He still had personal matters to take care of and his warrant card was going to help do just that.

He walked through to public reception area where the long-haired cameraman was watching him with a smug and amused expression on his face as he lounged against the counter. 'Your boss had a word with you, did he?'

Delaney walked up to him, the smile on his lips far from friendly. He grasped the camera out of his hands, slid the broadcast-quality Betacam tape out of it and put it in his jacket pocket.

The cameraman was outraged. 'You can't do that!'

Delaney ignored him and nodded at Dave. 'Napier will probably be looking for me in a minute.'

'Want me to tell him where you'll be?'

'Tell him I got called away. Urgent business.'

Dave smiled knowingly. 'Have one on me.'

Delaney c.o.c.ked his finger at him, pulled an imaginary trigger and headed towards the entrance.

The cameraman called after him. 'Oi!'

Delaney ignored him, walking outside and closing the door behind him, silencing the cameraman's outraged protests.

He looked up at the sky and thought about what Melanie Jones had told him. The moon was low in the sky, leaking a sulphurous light over the dark car park; a few clouds scudded over it as he watched, throwing a shadow over his face, but his eyes still glittered.

Derek Watters had been a prison officer for twenty-two years and married for twenty-three. He had left school at the age of sixteen and worked in a number of different jobs over the next year or so, never really settling into any of them. But after walking into a recruiting office, he had decided that when he turned eighteen he was going to join the army. His mates threw him a big party at the local pub, the Roebuck, to celebrate his eighteenth and give him a bit of a send-off before he took the Queen's shilling. Derek's mates had all had a whip-round and organised for a strippergram as well. A girl whose real name was Audrey but was calling herself for the purposes of erotic entertainment Sergeant Sally Strict. She was nineteen, dressed in a policewoman's outfit and had b.r.e.a.s.t.s like coconuts, the young Derek Watters had thought. Heavy, full, magnificent. Exotic fruit indeed.

Derek had always been more of a headlamps than a b.u.mper man, still was. And Audrey's headlamps on that night dazzled him. Literally. She'd made him walk around the pub on all fours barking like a dog and then given him eighteen lashes with a soft suede whip. One for each of his years. Then given him his birthday treat. She hadn't done a full strip, she was just a fun telegram girl she'd said. But she had gone topless and let him cradle his face in her ample bosom. It was the best night of Derek's life thus far.

It turned out that Audrey was a student, training as a nursery nurse. The strippergram work was just to help pay for her fees. Derek had taken her card and a couple of days later he'd finally sobered up and found the courage to call her up and ask her out on a date. To his delight she had said yes. And on the third date she'd taken him home to her digs at college. Donned the policewoman's uniform once again and then took it off for an audience of just one. Took it off very slowly. All of it this time. And if Derek had been happy before he was fit to burst now.

But that 'now' was twenty-three years ago, he thought bitterly as he trudged up past the hordes of office workers who were spilling down the short steps into Piccadilly Circus station. Twenty-three years ago; and three weeks after her strictly non- Metropolitan Police regulation knickers had hit the floor of her eight foot by eight foot bedroom, he had got the phone call. He was having Sunday dinner at his parents' at the time, roast pork and parsnips, thinking life didn't get much better. No, it got worse.

Audrey was up the stick, he was the father, and his plans for joining the army were right in the s.h.i.tter.

She wouldn't hear of him joining up. She wanted him home with her, not swanning off overseas whenever Maggie wanted to win another election. She wanted them to get married as soon as possible, and it wasn't just one baby she wanted, it was three. And there was no way she was walking up the aisle looking like Alison Moyet with a pillow stuffed under her jumper. Derek wasn't even thinking about marriage let alone a family but abortion was out of the question, seemingly. Audrey had her way; they got married and had three kids. Derek's application to join the police force was turned down and he ended up in the prison services. And the worst of it was, she refused to wear the uniform ever again. After her third baby her stomach had thickened and her back broadened and her once coconut-like b.r.e.a.s.t.s were now like flabby pumpkins that were long past their Halloween best.

So, he was going to put the touch on the copper and his CID mate. The information he had should be worth a couple of C notes and he was going to put the money to good use. A feisty little Irish tart he liked to visit when he had enough folding squirrelled away.

He smiled to himself as he pulled out his mobile phone and stood outside Boots on the north side of Piccadilly Circus, turning the collar of his raincoat up as the wind had freshened. There was moisture in the chill air. An hour ought to do it, he figured. Give him time to get some cash from DI Jimmy Skinner, a couple of drinks to set the ball rolling and then round to the auburn-haired strumpet for another round of Sergeant Strict and the love truncheon. He punched in the number and grinned expectantly.

Delaney took a sip of his Guinness and wended his way through the crowd at the Pig and Whistle over to a back table where Sally Cartwright and a bunch of other people were sitting, He nodded to some of them, all uniform, all fresh-faced and eager. Cops really were getting younger these days, he thought.

'Glad you could make it, sir.' Sally pulled out a chair for him. 'I think you know most people.'

'Sure.'

Delaney nodded generally and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the pain in his shoulder throbbing and reminding him that his own youth was far behind him. He took another pull of his Guinness. Creamy a.n.a.lgesic by the pint gla.s.s.

Sally gestured at the young, black constable. 'This is Danny Vine.'

'Nice to meet you again, sir.'

Delaney flashed him a quick smile as he shook his hand, pain lancing into his shoulder and making him regret it. 'Please don't call me sir. Not in here, anyway.'

'Sure.'

'And this is Michael Hill.'

She smiled at the blond-haired man in his mid-twenties. Delaney picked up the slight catch in her voice and the sparkle in her eye. Danny Vine had compet.i.tion. He nodded at the man, not risking another handshake. He recognised him from somewhere, but couldn't quite place him. 'I know you?'

'You'd have seen me earlier, sir.'

'Like I said, no sirs. When you're out of uniform I'm just plain old Jack Delaney.'

'I'm not uniform.'

'Oh?'

'I'm the police photographer.'

Delaney nodded a little guiltily. 'Sure, I thought I recognised you.' The truth was he hardly noticed any of the myriad support staff when he was working. Especially if they were all kitted out in white s.p.a.cesuits. Some detective.

'Any developments on the case, Inspector?' Danny Vine asked. He was clearly eager to show he was keen. Sally had better look out, Delaney reckoned. Youth and energy were dangerous enough, particularly when you added testosterone to the mix.

'Nothing new. We'll track down who she is tomorrow with any luck. Give us somewhere to start.'

'How are you going to do that?'

Michael Hill this time. Delaney sensed that they weren't really interested in talking to him per se, but thought that if they got on his good side they'd get on the good side of Sally Cartwright.

He was relieved to see Bob Wilkinson coming in and heading up to the bar. He smiled apologetically at Sally. 'Sorry, got to have a word with Bob.'

Sally nodded back distractedly but Delaney could tell she had other matters on her mind. Young love, he thought as he worked his way back through the noisy hubbub, G.o.d and all his angels save us from it.

'Inspector.'

'Get us a pint, Bob, for Christ's sake.'

Bob smiled at the barmaid and jerked his thumb at Delaney. The barmaid, a b.u.t.ton-nosed temptress called Angela something, Delaney never could remember, grinned at him as she poured a fresh pint of Guinness. 'Shot with that, Jack?'

'No. Being a good boy tonight.'

Angela laughed, a throaty, husky laugh that started somewhere low. 'Can't see that somehow.'

Delaney winked at her. 'Turning over a new leaf. Jack Delaney. Modern man.'

'Yeah, you and Hugh Hefner.' She put the pint on the counter. 'Let it settle and if you want a top-up give me a whistle.' She moved off to serve some others at the end of the bar. Her hips swinging like a Tennessee two-step.