'We speak to the press when I say. We clear on that, Inspector?'

'Sir.'

Delaney turned to leave, pausing at the door as the superintendent called him back.

'One more thing, Delaney.'

'Sir?'

'I am well aware what happened between you and my predecessor. Diane Campbell argued very strongly for bringing you back into the fold. I think you should know that I had grave misgivings but allowed myself to be persuaded by her. I hope you are not going to let me down.'

'Just let me do my job, sir. That's all I ask.'

The superintendent stood and picked up the file, nodding a dismissal to Delaney. 'Go and do it then.'

Delaney shut the door behind him. Napier walked across to a filing cabinet and put the folder in the top drawer. He looked at himself in the mirror and smoothed his hair with the flat of his hand. He kept himself in very good condition. A punishing fitness schedule, good bone structure and clear, ebony skin made him look younger than his fifty-two years, but the white hair above his ears told the true story. As he looked at his temples critically, he considered, yet again, dyeing his hair, but then discounted it, as he always did. Gravitas was far more becoming in a career policeman than vanity. And George Napier was nothing if not ambitious.

He sat back behind his desk and thought about the surly policeman who had just left his office. He wasn't sure there was a place for people like him in the force any more, but time would tell: Jack Delaney could be a help or a hindrance to him. And most of the people who had spoken to the superintendent said Delaney was a first-rate detective with good instincts and a great success rate. If his foot danced a little outside the touchline now and again that was fine by him, as long as he didn't drop the ball. But if he did lose it in the tackle, if he became more of a liability than an a.s.set, then George Napier was going to come down on him like an All Blacks front line. Guaranteed.

Delaney paused at the drinks cooler filling a cup as DI Jimmy Skinner approached. Delaney was still considered tall, at six feet, but Jimmy Skinner had a good few inches on him. He was a lot thinner, though, and pale-faced from too many nights playing Internet poker. His wife had left him the previous January because he had refused to walk away from an online game at midnight to hear Big Ben chime the New Year in and kiss her on the final bong. He had felt quite justified, however, as he was holding two aces with a third on the flop. But his wife didn't see it that way, and now he had even more time on his hands. 'You've simply got to know when to hold them, know when to fold them,' he had told his divorce lawyer, who had told him that it was his b.a.l.l.s his wife was holding, fiscally speaking, and that she was going to cut them off. Which she proceeded to do, leaving Skinner a fiscal soprano.

Skinner helped himself to a cup of water and looked at Delaney. 'You spoke to the new big cheese then?'

Delaney drank his water in a long gulp almost feeling the liquid rehydrating his veins. 'Yup.'

'What do you make of him?'

'Remember the old joke about how to become a policeman?'

'Grow a t.i.t on your head and paint it blue?'

Delaney threw his cup in the bin. 'You're looking into the Norrell thing, I hear.'

'You tag along any time you want to, Jack.'

Delaney nodded. 'Appreciate it, Jimmy.'

'You were due to see him this morning?'

'First thing, yeah.'

'Seems like a h.e.l.l of a coincidence he was taken out before you got there then.'

Delaney grunted. 'I don't believe in coincidences.'

'You think he genuinely knew something about your wife's death?'

'Nothing in it for him if he was making it up.'

'Kevin Norrell was never a gra.s.s.'

'Yeah, well, your perspectives change when you're standing naked in a shower surrounded by hardened criminals. No pun intended.'

'True.'

'Or when there's a contract out on you.'

Skinner looked at him, a little surprised. 'You think that was the case?'

'I think as soon as he started offering to sing like a canary, someone wanted to snap off his beak and clip his wings. Permanently.'

'He was meant to go down hard. That's for certain. But if they thought he was dealing kiddie p.o.r.n . . . ?' He shrugged. 'Could just be that, cowboy.'

'It's too neat. Someone in there wanted him shut up and quickly.'

Delaney and Skinner walked back towards the CID offices. 'You saw one of the guys who attacked him?'

'Martin Quigley. But he isn't saying anything. Norrell smashed him up pretty good with a lavatory bowl. Fractured his jaw in three places.'

'Helpful.'

'But he can write. He claims they took Norrell out as a matter of course, like they would any other kiddie fiddler, given half the chance. No other agenda.'

'You believe him?'

'I don't know. He might have been roped in. He's just as much an ape for hire as Norrell himself. Paid to hurt not to think. And Norrell was involved with Walker who was involved big time in kiddie p.o.r.n. It's a good cover story if you have another reason for wanting him dead.'

Delaney said goodbye to Skinner, stuck his head round the CID office door and beckoned to Sally Cartwright. 'Come on, Constable, you're with me.'

Sally stood up from her desk, a little flushed, quickly closing down the report she had been reading on her computer. She picked up her jacket from the back of her chair and joined Delaney.

He looked back at her computer as her screensaver came on. 'What are you working on?'

'Just catching up with some paperwork.' She avoided his eyes and headed briskly out to the corridor. 'Where are we going?'

'South Hampstead Tube.'

'Sir?'

Delaney walked beside her and held out a photofit picture that the computer artist had generated from Valerie Manners' description of the flasher on the common. 'Our man might have been wearing a suit, she said?'

'Apparently. Under his mac,' Sally confirmed.

'So what does that tell us?'

'That flashing isn't just a blue-collar crime and he's probably not a student.'

'Exactly, he's up too early in the morning for a start. Maybe he was giving his John Thomas a quick airing before putting in a hard day at the office . . .' He looked at Sally and smiled. 'As it were.'

'Which do you reckon came first, sir? The book or the expression? I've often wondered.'

'What are you on about?' Delaney asked, puzzled.

'John Thomas and Lady Jane. Lady Chatterley's Lover.'

Delaney threw her a look. 'I know you've got a degree and all that s.h.i.te, Detective Constable, but do you think you could save the book-club chit-chat for your weekend dinner parties and concentrate on the case?'

'You reckon he was heading for the Tube?'

'He lives or works near here. And given the timing it is more likely he was on his way to work somewhere out of the locality.'

'So you think he lives somewhere near the heath?'

's.e.xual predators like to operate within a comfort zone. Somewhere they know well. So if something happens they know where to run to.'

'And the murdered girl. Does she live locally, do you think?'

The desk sergeant called out as they headed to the front entrance. 'Good to see you back, Jack.'

'Cheers, Dave.' He opened the front door for Sally. 'I don't know about the girl. It depends if it was an opportunistic or planned killing. Time of death will help.'

'Not going to be wandering on the heath in the dead of night you mean.'

Delaney nodded as they walked over to Sally's car. 'It's unlikely.'

'Mind you, it was a full moon last night.'

'Meaning?'

Sally fished out her car keys and opened the driver's door to her car. 'Well, it brings out the crazies. And her being a goth. Maybe there's a connection. The mystic power of the moon and all that.'

Delaney got into the car next to her and stretched his legs forward. 'The moon might play a part in paganism. Witchcraft, Wicca, that kind of thing. Not sure it applies to goths.'

'No. But the belt buckle. I've been thinking about it.'

'What about it?'

'Looking at the photos more closely both sides had a representation of the Green Man. Big pagan symbol.'

Delaney nodded thoughtfully. 'Maybe, and there may have been a full moon last night, but you'd never have been able to see it. Not with all that cloud cover and rain.'

'I suppose not. So, it looks like the body was dumped there. She could have come from anywhere.'

'"Ill met by moonlight, proud t.i.tania."'

Sally looked across at him, frowning as she fired up the engine. 'Sir?'

'What? You surprised I know a little Shakespeare? They do have schools in Ireland, you know.'

'Yeah, I do know that. Put your seat belt on.'

Delaney sighed and pulled the strap across. 'And it's c.o.c.kney rhyming slang.'

'What is?'

'John Thomas. So the expression came first.'

'Oh.' Sally smiled. 'So what does it rhyme with?'

Delaney considered for a moment, then sighed and flapped his hand. 'Just drive the car, Constable.'

'On average two and a half million people use the tube system every day and I'm guessing something like b.l.o.o.d.y plenty of them use South Hampstead station,' Delaney said as he stood up from the computer, rubbed his sore eyes and yawned.

Sally paused the CCTV footage and looked up at him, amus.e.m.e.nt quirking the corners of her mouth. 'Must have been some night.'

Delaney yawned again, putting his hand in front of his mouth. 'You have no idea.'

Sally gestured at the computer screen. 'We're up to twelve o'clock.'

Delaney nodded and stretched his eyes. 'Let's get these photos in front of the nurse, see if she recognises any of them.'

Sally collected three photos that had been printed out of some possible men that matched the description of the flasher they had been given by Valerie Manners and stood up.

Kate Walker was sitting at her computer typing up her notes for the post-mortem on the mystery woman. She pushed the print icon and some moments later picked up a ten by eight, black-and-white close-up of the woman's neck. Someone had slashed her hard enough to slice the flesh clear to the bone. What kind of anger could have fuelled such brutality? Even if the attack was s.e.xually motivated it still came down to anger. Impotent rage, maybe, as it was clear the woman had not been s.e.xually a.s.saulted. No evidence of it at least. The irony of the thought was not lost on her and she shivered again, thinking about the possibility that it could have been her dead body being examined by one of her colleagues. How close a tightrope to death we walk in life, she thought. How fragile the human body is. How soft and defenceless against true purpose, true will to hurt. And yet we dance on the tightrope blindfolded, and laugh while we do it. Only Kate didn't feel like laughing today. She wasn't sure she ever would again. The telephone rang suddenly, shrilly. She started, her heart thumping in her chest, and s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone up, taking a moment or two to steady her shattered nerves before answering. 'Kate Walker.'

'Kate, it's Caroline Akunin.'

Kate took in a deep breath. 'Go on.'

'I haven't got the blood work back . . .' She paused.

'But?' asked Kate.

'But, I ran a check on Paul Archer.'

'And?'

'He's out on police bail at the moment, Kate. Pending trial. He's already been charged with rape.'

Kate was puzzled for a moment. 'What do you mean?'

'His estranged wife. She's charged him with rape. The court case is coming up this week. He's a rapist, Kate.'

Kate nodded, taking it in, she couldn't speak for a moment. 'I'm coming in to White City now for a briefing, I'll come and see you while I'm there.'

She hung up the phone and collected the photographs and her printed out notes. She stood up and winced, holding a hand to her stomach and had to fight the urge to throw up again.

Valerie Manners looked impatiently at her watch and scowled at Danny Vine, the uniformed constable who was stood by the door of the interview room at the front part of White City police station. It was a featureless, plain room, with a rectangular table, six plastic chairs and a couple of windows looking out to the car park. Not a particularly pleasant place to spend any length of time. She looked at her watch again. 'How much longer are they going to be?' she snapped.