'I know.' Heffernan had heard of the procedure but wasn't well up on the detail. Nor did he want to be. 'What's that for exactly?'

Wesley, amazed at his boss's sudden interest in gynaecology, explained in simple terms, the only kind he knew.

'Only I've been trying to get in touch with Colin Bowman all morning but he's out. Some meeting or other. Have a look at this, will you.' Heffernan chucked the post-mortem report across the table. 'Page five, last paragraph.'

Wesley read aloud. ' "Scarring of both fallopian tubes most likely caused by pelvic infection." '

'Could that infection be caused by childbirth?'

'Yes. And other things: abortion, s.e.xually transmitted disease, all sorts of things. But certainly infection after childbirth.'

'Is that the sort of thing they look for at the clinic? I mean, can that cause infertility?'

Wesley nodded. It was a subject Pam was always reading up on, almost to the point of obsession. 'Is it important?'

'No idea. Probably not.' He stared at the report open on his desk. 'But where's this child Colin Bowman said she had? It must be somewhere. Get Rachel to run a check on all the hospitals and clinics in the areas she's been known to live in, and all the adoption agencies; she obviously didn't have a kid in tow in Morbay.'

Wesley nodded as the inspector sorted through the jumble on his chaotic desk and produced a piece of paper the face of a man. They looked at the picture jointly created by the regular police artist, a solemn, ponytailed young man, and Karen Giordino's public-spirited neighbour. The face of a dark-haired man in his thirties with no distinguishing features. He looked disconcertingly ordinary the elusive John.

'Get it put in all the local rags. Someone's bound to recognise him.'

Wesley nodded. It was easy to remain anonymous in the metropolis, but South Devon out of season ... He said as much to the inspector.

'Don't you believe it. Maybe that was true a few years back but now there's a floating population all round the coast ... if you'll pardon the pun. Lots of people coming and going. Doesn't make life any easier.'

After a perfunctory knock, Steve Carstairs burst in. 'Phone call for you, Sarge,' he said sulkily. 'A Neil Watson ... says it's urgent.'

Wesley excused himself and took the call. Neil sounded more annoyed than worried. It was one more delay for the dig, using up valuable time. Wesley promised to be round there as soon as he could. He returned to his boss.

'Another skeleton, sir, at the dig in St Margaret's Street. The archaeologist in charge is a friend of mine. He says it all looks contemporary with the site.'

'We'll still have to go through the motions. Do the necessary, will you. Get Dr Bowman to p.r.o.nounce life extinct and all that. You'd best get up there but don't be long.'

'I'll make sure everything's done to Home Office regs, sir.'

Wesley left the room, trying hard not to show his enthusiasm for the task ahead. A bit of time spent with Neil on the dig would be a welcome diversion.

Heffernan heard the phone ringing in the outer office and once more Steve was the bearer of tidings, this time good.

'There's been a message from the PC posted at the dead girl's flat, sir. A bloke arrived in a minicab and turned tail as soon as he saw him. He got the minicab's number.'

'Well, you know what to do,' Heffernan snapped. A display of initiative now and then wouldn't have gone amiss with DC Carstairs.

'Shall I interview the driver, sir?'

'What a good idea. Off you go.'

Carstairs bit his lip and closed the door behind him.

Rachel was hovering by the door. 'I had a look through the dead girl's things yesterday, sir, like you asked. She had some good clothes. Fashionable.'

'Like the stuff she was wearing when she died?'

Rachel hesitated. 'Not really, sir. The stuff in her flat was more ... you know, flashy.'

'So she wanted to look the picture of respectability, eh?'

Rachel shrugged. 'Maybe.'

'You'd better go with Steve and hold his hand, Rach. Someone's got to. Let me know what you turn up. I'm off to see Mrs Giordino.'

'When's she going home?'

'I don't know, and I haven't liked to ask.'

Heffernan lifted his coat off the standard-issue inspectors' coatstand. It was a chilly day.

'Where's he off to, Rachel?' asked Steve outside, as he donned his jacket.

'Visiting the bereaved. Full of good works, our inspector. Come on.'

'Where to?'

'We're off to find that minicab. I'm coming with you.'

Rachel marched out of the office. Steve Carstairs followed behind, studying her legs.

Carl paid the minicab driver and navigated his way down the driveway of the white-stuccoed cottage, avoiding the rusty skip full of building rubble. He hammered with his fist on the gla.s.s front door. There was no answer. He hammered again till the gla.s.s shook, then watched as the dark shape in the hall grew larger. The door opened.

'I heard you the first time. Have you got the bag?'

'I couldn't. The police were outside.'

's.h.i.t. I need those b.l.o.o.d.y clothes. Come on in. I was just going to have a shower.'

Carl stepped into the narrow, woodchip-papered hallway, nearly tripping over a child's tricycle that lay in wait behind the front door. He looked at his companion's stained towelling dressing gown and bleary eyes.

'You look awful.'

'Those b.l.o.o.d.y builders were here first thing this morning banging and crashing. I hadn't slept all night and I'd just managed to get off.'

'Where are they now?' Carl looked around.

'How should I know? They're a b.l.o.o.d.y law unto themselves. They knocked off at lunch-time. The police didn't see you, did they?'

'Shouldn't think so.'

'Only I don't want them here. I don't want them asking all their questions. It's bad enough ...'

'Okay, John, okay.' Carl opened a can of lager from the stock on the sideboard and handed it to his companion. 'I understand, believe me, I understand ...'

Desk Sergeant Bob Naseby recognised the woman who had just shuffled in, swathed in woollen scarves, grey and brown, like a giant moth seeking the light of the reception desk. He sighed and drew himself up to his full height. He wished they wouldn't let them out they only caused trouble.

'I've seen him again.' She looked Naseby straight in the eyes with the absolute conviction of the deranged. 'Where's that Inspector Jenkins? I want to talk to him.'

'Now then, my luvver. Who did you see and where?'

'I want to see Inspector Jenkins.' She bit her lip petulantly. 'I want the mechanic, not the oily rag.'

'All right, all right. No need to be like that. I'll just ring through for you.'

She stared at him, a stare of intense hatred. Bob picked up the receiver. He was a patient man. There was no answer.

'There's n.o.body there right now. Take a seat over there. I'll try again in a minute.'

She leaned forward. For a moment he thought she was going to spit at him.

'I'll not go away in a corner and shut up. You're trying to stop me seeing him. You tell him I've seen the boy. You tell him I know where Jonathon Berrisford is.'

Bob Naseby dialled again.

Chapter 12.

Last night I did have my pleasure of Elizabeth who doth give me her a.s.surance she is once more well. But I sinned in my thoughts for I did in my imaginings have my will of Jennet. I would the mind were controlled with as much facility as the body. It may be that I should send Jennet from the house.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,

15 May 1623

'If she asks to see me again, Bob, tell her I've gone on a round-the-world voyage ... retired ... anything.' Inspector Jenkins watched the swing door shut on his departing visitor.

'I used to have that problem thirty years back, women chasing after me.'

Stan Jenkins swung round and saw Gerry Heffernan grinning.

'It's that woman again, Gerry, the nutcase. The one who says she's seen the kid. It's getting so she won't leave me alone.'

'Fancy a pint? She won't find you down the Tradmouth Arms.'

Jenkins looked sheepish. 'Beer's out, I'm afraid. The diet.'

'Slimline tonic, then. Come on. You look as though you need it.'

Jenkins hesitated for a moment, then followed Heffernan out through the swing doors. Bob Naseby smiled to himself as he watched them go, wondering how long Jenkins would take to crack, given the proximity of the Tradmouth Arms' best bitter.

One taste of slimline tonic was enough. Jenkins went to the bar and ordered himself a pint. The pub was pleasantly full but not overcrowded. Locals on their lunch hour, relieved that the tourist season was over and they could get a seat, tucked into the landlord's much-acclaimed crab sandwiches. Heffernan and Jenkins did likewise.

They sat in amiable silence, jaws munching. Stan Jenkins spoke first. 'How's your new sergeant? Still shaping up okay?'

'Fine.' Heffernan took a sip of his beer. 'He's a good bloke. Did you know he's got a degree in archaeology?'

Stan shook his head. 'How's he getting on with the others?'

'Very well on the whole. But I've heard through the old station grapevine that our DC Carstairs has been making a few racist remarks to his buddies in the canteen you know the sort of thing. At least Wesley outranks him so he can't say much to his face. I'll have a strong word if things don't settle down once the novelty wears off.' He sighed. 'I put it down to bad influences.' He sat back and drank deeply. 'So what did your girlfriend have to say?'

'My girlfriend? What do you mean?'

Jenkins looked quite put out. If Heffernan didn't know better he would have said he'd touched on a guilty nerve. 'The woman who keeps following you about.'

'Oh, her,' Jenkins said with some relief. 'She just keeps saying she's seen Jonathon Berrisford, that's all. She believes it and all, poor cow.'

'Maybe she has.'

'What?'

'Maybe she has seen him.'

'Come on, Gerry. She just pa.s.ses a kid of about the right age in the street and comes straight to us. Ten years ago she would have been locked up. I mean, I feel sorry for her, but it's wasting our time.'

'So is it always the same kid or what?'

'How should I know? By the time we get there the kid, whoever he is, is long gone. I put a couple of uniforms to keep watch on the area but they come up with nothing. There's nothing to come up with. She's a nutter.'

'Same story today?'

'She's branching out. She reckons she saw the kid go into a house with a man. We'll follow it up. No choice. It's a million-to-one shot but it's all we've got. I won't tell the Berrisfords, though. I don't want to get their hopes up.'

'What are they like, the family?'

'Hard to say under the circ.u.mstances. Seem like a decent couple. Middle-cla.s.s, father a wine merchant or something like that. He's the stoical type, doesn't show his feelings much.'

Heffernan downed the last of his pint. 'Any chance they're involved?'