Tara Hatch was a formidable woman. A stunning Aryan beauty and an hourgla.s.s figure masked a tempestuous nature and a voice that could strip paint. She'd been a model when she first met Matthew, then a rising star in the last days of a hated, radical government. If there was one thing Matthew Hatch had a weakness for it was the blonde models who frequented the society parties of Knightsbridge and Kensington. A whirlwind romance followed, during which time they holidayed on the Riviera on her father's yacht. They made love for the first time at dusk, as dolphins leapt around them. Then they got married, and things were never quite that awesome again.

Tara stood facing Matthew. 'Ah, the master has returned from carrot-cruncher land,' she announced.

'Shut it,' snapped Hatch. 'I'm just not in the mood.'

'You never are,' agreed Tara.

'Then you'll just have put up with it.'

'Oh, I've put up with a lot for you, Matthew. I've put up with Daddy's disapproval. I've endured your mood swings and your blasted depressions. I'm not even bothered when our former friends call us traitors any more.'

'Yeah,' said Hatch, with something approaching a genuine smile. 'Crossing the floor was about the one good idea you've ever had.'

'I've kissed babies for you. I've stood by you, like a politician's wife should.' Her voice took on the slow, measured tones she used for her innumerable interviews. 'Of course I stand by Matthew. His decision is courageous, but I think he will be vindicated in time.'

'You're the only person I've met who can beat me for bulls.h.i.t.'

Tara ignored his remark. 'I've even turned a blind eye to your s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g your PA.' Her fingers tightened around the gla.s.s of vodka in her hand.

'One affair, darling. Not bad for an MP.'

'Don't lie to me!' she shouted.

Hatch sighed. 'Look, if this is the best you can come up with after a weekend away then I'll get the doctor to increase the strength of your happy pills.' He turned to the correspondence that awaited him, muttering 'Frigid b.i.t.c.h'

under his breath.

'Oh, that's good!' exclaimed Tara angrily, flinging the gla.s.s at Hatch.

He was used to her aim now, and ducked out of the missile's path easily.

'Down, and a smidgen to the left,' he said, offering her his own gla.s.s for a second attempt.

Tara moved menacingly towards him. 'Maybe I should find myself a real man,' she said in a low voice. 'Somebody who doesn't shoot blanks the whole time.'

Matthew Hatch raised a fist as if to strike her; Tara's eyes invited him to do so, mockingly. A tap on the door silenced them both. For people who fought so regularly, and so often, they could be surprisingly discreet.

Matthew casually picked up the stem of the broken gla.s.s and dumped it on the table while Tara straightened her hair and made for the door.

'Come,' said Matthew casually.

'We'll continue this another time,' said Tara, as the door opened. She left, casting an ominous glance at the new arrival.

Melanie Jenkinson was Hatch's personal political adviser.

She was a matronly woman in her early thirties who wore her dark hair pulled tight into a bun. A pair of very unflattering black-rimmed spectacles dominated a severe face that any ex-public schoolboy would have been terrified of. Despite appearances, she was one of Matthew Hatch's closest friends, a warm and generous woman who had stuck by her mentor during his difficult years in the political wilderness. Her patience, and skilful reading of the climate of the country, had steered him through one crisis after another until now, finally, she had dragged him towards real power. They had also enjoyed a brief and torrid affair three years ago, which began during an official visit to Eastern Europe, and ended in a night of terrifying thunder and lightning at his parents'

home in Hexen Bridge.

Melanie closed the door and gave Matthew a quizzical look.

'Tension?'

'The usual.' He stared out of the window, a faraway look in his eyes. 'One day,' he said softly, 'she'll go too far.'

'Matthew,' said Melanie urgently, 'I have some grave news.'

Hatch turned briskly. 'Well?'

'The Proteus Research building near Birmingham has been bombed. Ten dead, including Jeffrey Squire. n.o.body's claimed responsibility yet, but...'

'b.l.o.o.d.y animal-rights activists,' said Hatch, sitting down, the colour draining from his cheeks. 'Terrible.'

'It gets worse. The warning included a reference to the CJD research they're carrying out. n.o.body's supposed to know about that, Matthew. There's been a leak somewhere, and the PM thinks it must be at this end. He's going ballistic, and the other EC countries have already lodged an official protest.'

'd.a.m.n them all,' said Hatch gruffly. 'Research is research.'

'Not in this area. Too sensitive. Too many skeletons in closets.'

'It'll blow over,' said Hatch, reaching for the telephone on the edge of the desk. 'I ought to phone Jeff's widow. What must she be feeling? Her husband sacrificed to save some blasted monkeys.'

'Your own position is being questioned,' continued Melanie, doggedly.

'What?'

'Some journalist has already looked up Proteus's board of directors, found your name and Squire's...' Hatch swore under his breath. 'I'm already investigating the circulation of memos and confidential reports at this office, Matthew. I have one or two ideas where the leak might have originated.'

'No need,' said Hatch, deep in thought. 'Leave it with me.'

Melanie nodded curtly, and stepped out of the room. Hatch sat quietly, drumming his fingers against the desk. Given that he trusted his own team, and that there was no way that Squire or any of his people would have compromised themselves, only one person remained.

Rebecca Baber.

That slippery, calculating little b.i.t.c.h had wormed her way into his bed and taken more than a good time away with her.

He should have realised sooner, of course, but when you've known somebody since they were three years old, it's hard to see into their dark corners.

Hatch picked up the phone and dialled a number. As he waited for an answer he cursed again. Taken in by a vicar's daughter. Unreal.

'Phil?' he said urgently when the other phone was picked up. 'Listen, mate, I've got a job for you.'

Chief Constable Denman swept into the room, and a million trifling conversations ebbed away. His uniform was immaculate, the b.u.t.tons gleaming like diamonds. The a.s.sembled officers sat upright in their seats, straightening ties and tucking in shirts and blouses.

'I want to keep this short,' said Denman. He stood at the head of the table, hands held behind his back. 'I have a radio interview in forty minutes, and then a meeting with the Home Secretary. Now, Shanks. Chief Inspector Ross has kept me informed. You know how important Shanks is to me, so I thought I'd drop in and have a word. I don't think the c.o.c.ky little b.u.g.g.e.r is on to us, but time is clearly of the essence.

James, what's the latest on Green?'

DI McMahon was a good-looking young man who'd accelerated through the ranks under Denman's tutelage, just before Denman himself had been promoted 'upstairs'. He looked up from the folder in front of him. 'Still unwilling to testify, sir. I think Shanks's boys have been putting the choke on him, but it's difficult to prove. I've hinted we'll be lenient with the burglary charge if he squeals, but -'

'Do more than hint,' said Denman. 'Give him a copper-bottomed guarantee if you want. Just get that man in court.'

'Sir.'

'Brian, I've heard you've made progress on the stolen electrical goods.'

DC Kennedy, seeming to enjoy the opportunity to wear jeans and T-shirt in the station, looked up with a wide grin.

'Yes, sir. We were told about a lorry-load of VCRs and DVDs destined for Shanks's chain of ex-rental shops. We trailed the vehicle to a lock-up on one of his estates, and then the goods themselves right into one of his warehouses. Photographic and video evidence, the lot. Jeremy Beadle wants to use some of the material on his next show.'

There was laughter, but it was not shared by Denman. 'I had hoped to get him on something more serious than receiving stolen goods, but it'll still carry a prison sentence.

That's good. And the CPS are convinced?'

'Yes, sir. We'll start proceedings any day now.'

'Excellent. Paul, what's the latest on the internecine drug conflicts?'

'The Yardies are still fuming, sir,' replied DI Paul Hill, whose expensively tailored suit looked as much a uniform as Denman's formal attire. 'They and Shanks have carved up the city between them, but now Shanks's tribe is moving into Yardie territory. I've got a few good contacts there, and hope to be able to get a result pretty soon.'

'Including actual interception of consignment?'

'I hope so, sir. There's a shedload of Colombian on its way, plus enough crack to keep his pushers supplied for the next decade. And we've just had word that he makes synthetics on site. Supposedly he's got a chemist drop-out from the university producing stuff to order somewhere in Everton, but n.o.body's talking.'

'More than enough in that summary to nail him for good,'

commented Denman.

'Let's hope so, sir,' replied Hill.

'Well done,' said Denman, scanning the room for further contributions, although none were offered. 'I want you all working on these lines of inquiry as hard and as fast as you can. If previous experience has taught me anything, it's that you can't skewer Shanks just the once. We need to hit him hard, with multiple charges. And then finally the streets will be safe again.' And with a final nod, Denman was gone.

The remaining officers began to file out of the conference room in their teams. DC Fielder paused in the doorway, turning back to Hill, who remained seated, deep in thought.

'Coming, guv?'

'I'll be along in just a minute, Mick.'

Fielder smiled and left, leaving Hill alone in the room. Hill pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, and stared at it momentarily as if he'd never seen it before, his brow creased with concentration. Then, with feigned casualness, he strolled towards the window. With his back to the door, he tapped in a number, holding the mobile to his ear.

'Tell Shanks,' he snapped when someone answered at the other end, 'if he's going to have a pop at Denman, he'd better do it now.'

Ace pa.s.sed the war memorial with a curious sideways glance.

'Back for more, boys,' she said with a grin, patting the stones tenderly. 'I wish you lot were here. I might get some straight answers then.'

She found the Reverend Thomas Baber tending to his begonias in the front garden. He was a picture of childlike contentment, entirely absorbed in his flowers. Ace decided to try the 'little Dorothy' act once again, hopeful that it would get her further than the day before.

'h.e.l.lo,' she said brightly. 'Lovely day, isn't it?'

Baber snapped up to his full height, seemingly taken aback. 'Err... Yes, yes it is,' he said, wiping the dirt from his hands. 'I'm afraid Rebecca is in school today, so...'

'Actually, it was you I came to see,' said Ace with a dazzling smile.

'Oh,' said Baber.

'I wonder if it would be possible for me to have a look at the church records. Parish registers, that kind of thing.'

'They're church property,' said Baber quickly. 'I'm afraid -'

'It's for research,' cut in Ace before he could get any further with his refusal. 'The Doctor's writing a book on the history of the area, and your help would be much appreciated. We'd include an acknowledgement to yourself and the church, of course, wording to be agreed at a later date. And there could be a small payment...'

'What are you looking for?' asked Baber, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

'Anything I can get, basically,' she said.

Baber seemed to consider this for a long time. Ace could imagine the turmoil in the man's mind. Her request was reasonable enough, but there must surely surely be some reason that he could contrive to refuse her. At length the cleric shrugged and said, 'I have nothing to hide.' be some reason that he could contrive to refuse her. At length the cleric shrugged and said, 'I have nothing to hide.'

'I didn't say you had,' responded Ace automatically, but Baber wasn't really listening.