'We finally persuaded her to go back home. It wasn't doing her any good sitting in that cottage staring at the wallpaper. And she couldn't be left on her own; we had to have a WPC stay with her and that didn't do the budget much good.' He sighed. 'She's better off up there. She'll have her husband and relatives, and I dare say the doctors up there can dish out the tranquillisers as easily as the doctors down here. She rings me every day, though. Sometimes I can hardly bring myself to pick the phone up.'

Heffernan bowed his head and said nothing.

Stan changed the subject. 'How's your new sergeant settling in the black chap?'

'Fine. I've actually caught him in possession of a quant.i.ty of brain cells, unlike others I could mention.'

Stan eyed Heffernan's plate enviously. 'How are your sausages?'

'Want one?'

'I can't take your last one.' His eyes gleamed as he pushed the remains of his salad to one side.

'Go on, Stan, n.o.body's watching... and your need is greater than mine. Must be going.' His metal chair clattered as he stood up. 'See you, Stan. Don't eat anything I wouldn't eat.'

Stan Jenkins raised a hand in farewell, his mouth being full of forbidden cholesterol.

As soon as Heffernan had padded into his office, Rachel descended on him, her mouth set in determination.

'Why did you let them go, sir? Shouldn't we be charging them?'

He sank down wearily into his chair. 'Who?'

'Those Australians. Surely there's been an offence committed.'

'What offence? Being Australian's not an offence ... at least it wasn't last time I looked.'

The inspector maddened her when he got into these moods. She tried to keep calm. 'The money, sir. They stole the money.'

'Borrowed it, Rach. They've promised to repay it and I don't think for one moment they've got anything to do with the murder. Still, it's worth checking, I suppose. We can have a word with those hippies they've been stopping with, establish their movements at the time of the murder. Fancy going on the hippie trail to Neston, Rach? Could transform your life.'

He looked up at Rachel, trying not to grin. The look of disapproval on her face reminded him of his Great-aunt Beatrice who did charitable work for distressed sailors and reputedly possessed the largest knickers in Liverpool. Eventually he took pity on her.

'Don't worry. Our antipodean friends are quite safe at the youth hostel and they've sworn a solemn oath not to leave Tradmouth till we've finished with them. I reckon we've scared the excrement out of them him especially. They won't budge. Look, Rach, get down to Neston to that travellers' site and see if you can track down this pair they were staying with. You've got the details.'

'Yes, sir.' Sullenly.

'Take DC Carstairs. I wouldn't recommend taking anyone in uniform. And go home and slip into something more comfortable jeans or something or they'll think you're from the DSS or Social Services. Off you go. And don't look like that. They're mostly harmless ... even the dogs.'

'Yes, sir.' Coming from local farming stock, she was unconvinced by her boss's last statement, but nevertheless went in search of Steve Carstairs to break the news. The outer office appeared to be empty, but as she closed the door a head rose slowly from behind a desk.

'What are you doing down there, Wesley? Lost something?'

Wesley looked sheepish. 'I thought I might try and get rid of... you know. I've brought a bin-bag from home and I can tape up the top and ...'

'Had a good look, then?'

Wesley looked up at her, irritated by the accusation. 'We're not all like my predecessor, you know. Some of us have better taste.'

She looked distinctly sceptical. 'Come on, Wesley, I know what men are like. I've got three brothers, the original s.e.xist pigs.'

'No boyfriend?' He couldn't resist the question.

'Not at the moment.'

Their eyes met and there was a moment of awkward silence. Then Wesley, self-conscious, turned his attention back to the bin-bag.

One of the magazines he was coaxing into the bag fell to the floor and opened itself at a particularly provocative page, the pose owing more to an anatomy textbook than the annals of erotic art. His eyes were first drawn to the obvious places, but then he saw the face, blank and dehumanised. The girl was blonde and under other circ.u.mstances Wesley would have described her as attractive. It was a face he knew well; a face he had last seen, destroyed and battered, on the pathologist's table. He bore the magazine triumphantly into his boss's office.

'So that's what Madam got up to in her spare time.' Heffernan studied the picture from every angle while Rachel looked on with distaste. 'Very observant of you, Wes, noticing her face. That's what years of expensive education do for you.'

'The publishers are an outfit in Manchester,' said Wesley, turning to the front page. 'I'll get someone to run a check on it now.'

'Looks like we're headed up north tomorrow, then. Ever been to Manchester, Wes?'

'No, sir. Can't say I have.'

'It'll be a whole new experience for you. You know what they used to say? If you've never been to Manchester, you've never lived.'

Wesley looked sceptical.

It had just gone six thirty when Mr Carl switched the burglar alarm on and the salon lights off, then emerged into the grey drizzle that had brought the Indian summer to an abrupt end. Coat collar up, he made his way down the cobbled hill past shutting shops and figures with newly resurrected umbrellas, past the fenced gap in the shopfronts where they were digging up the foundations of some old house or other. There was nothing much to see for their efforts, only some old brickwork and some holes ... and that skeleton he'd read about in the local paper.

He could see the welcoming beacon of the Angel's mullioned windows. The pub was late-fourteenth-century with a smart twentieth-century clientele He found it comfortably full of post-work drinkers. The Artistic Director of Tradmouth's foremost hairdressing establishment sat on a blackened pew and waited, soothed by the music of Vivaldi. One pint... two pints; he was late, three-quarters of an hour late. Carl stood up to leave; he would phone from home, see what had happened. Then the door swung open. The newcomer spotted Carl and weaved his way through the standing drinkers. He stood there, without speech. Carl could see there was something wrong from the panic in his eyes.

Chapter 7.

The Lord has punished me. Elizabeth has lost the child. She keeps to her bed in her grief and will not see me.

This morning I went into the chamber by Jennet's and I did block up the gap in the wall lest I be tempted more to sin.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,

5 April 1623

Manchester lived up to its reputation. It was raining ... and they were lost.

Wesley stopped the engine. 'Got the A to Z, sir?'

'Don't worry. Navigation was always my strong point. Just give me a chart and I'll get us there. Don't look like that. You're in the capable hands of an officer of the merchant navy.'

'I thought it was the police force, sir.'

'That and all. Turn right and straight on. Should be the university then some hospitals on our left.'

The traffic was light. Wesley was glad he didn't have to do this in the rush hour. Heffernan navigated them successfully through litter-strewn streets lined with ancient and modern shops selling Indian food and saris; past student accommodation built in the sixties brutalist style; past Victorian redbrick shops, many selling takeaway food, catering to the burgeoning student population. They turned a corner and drove down a road of large Victorian terraces and villas, lined with mature trees. The rows of plastic bellpushes by the flaking front doors indicated that the once-prosperous houses were now divided into flats. Fallowfield had seen better days.

'My daughter, Rosemary, lives off this road,' Heffernan said quietly. 'She's at the Royal Northern College of Music' He paused for a few seconds. 'I worry about her, you know.'

'I'm sure she can take care of herself, sir.'

'You're probably right... but I still worry.' He looked down in silence at the A to Z. 'Take the next turning on your left and then it's second on the right. Cul de sac. Kempthorn Close.'

Kempthorn Close was flanked by the now-familiar Victorian terraced flats, modern metal fire escapes jutting from their facades like angular warts. At the end of the cul de sac a large villa stood in littered overgrown gardens; a recently Tarmacked drive, like a fresh scar on a wrinkled face, led to the entrance. The battered, once-imposing front door bore a number of mismatched name-plates; some tarnished bra.s.s, some dark plastic with bold white lettering. Venusian Publications was one of the latter and bore the qualification 'First Floor'. They stepped into a dingy hallway, floored with shabby linoleum, and climbed the impressive staircase. The sound of m.u.f.fled typing seeped through gla.s.s-panelled doors.

They reached their destination. Wesley was about to knock, but Heffernan had pushed the door open before his knuckles could reach the gla.s.s. A startled secretary looked up. She was hardly what Wesley would have expected an employee of a p.o.r.nographic publishing company to look like: a bespectacled, demurely dressed lady of mature years, she would have looked at home behind the counter of a suburban public library. Her mouth twitched into a nervous smile. She scented trouble, and when the visitors showed their identification her suspicions were confirmed. Heffernan explained the purpose of their visit, and Wesley watched the woman's face as she was shown the picture of the dead girl. She shook her head.

'It might have been before my time. I've only been here three months.'

'Is there anyone else I can speak to?'

"There's Mr Keffer, but he's out this afternoon.'

'Out where?'

'On a shoot.'

The inspector had an idea what he'd be shooting, and it wouldn't be pheasants. 'Where can I find him?'

'I really can't say. They tend to move around ... different locations.' She made it sound almost glamorous. 'He'll be in first thing tomorrow,' she added helpfully.

'Have you got his home address?'

'Er...'

'This is a murder inquiry, madam.'

She drew a card from an index on her desk and wrote down an address.

'We might need to speak to you again, Mrs, er ...'

'Webster. I've only been here three months ...'

With her pleas of ignorance ringing in their ears, Heffernan and Wesley clattered their way down the uncarpeted staircase.

Pamela Peterson had had misgivings when her then boyfriend had shown an interest in joining the police force. The nightly portrayal on television of hardened cops with broken marriages and a drink problem had sounded warning bells. She had grown used to the anxiety and erratic hours over the years, but she still felt a stab of anger as she put the phone down.

She debated whether or not to ring her mother, but decided against it. Then she considered calling Maritia, her sister-in-law. The prospect of talking her problems over with a qualified doctor was tempting. But Maritia might be on duty, or too tired to be sympathetic. Besides, Pamela wasn't really in the mood to talk to anyone. She had a bath and went to bed.

How could Wesley let himself get stuck in Manchester tonight of all nights, when tomorrow was so important? Everything depended on tomorrow.

The bar at the St Dominic Hotel a name that had attracted Heffernan with its solid monastic a.s.sociations added a whole new dimension to the concept of blandness. The walls were laminated, the bar was laminated, the lager tasted as though it had been created in a sterile environment using laminated barley. The greenery, growing up the trellis at the side of the bar, looked decidedly artificial.

Keffer had proved to be elusive. Twice they had returned to bang on the door of his flat in the up-market modern block with its decorative wrought-iron balconies probably inspired by the architect's annual holiday to the Continent. There had been no sign of Keffer or any other human habitation in the carpeted communal corridors. All was silence. So much for Northern neighbourliness.

Heffernan looked down at his lager, urine-sample gold. He didn't feel like drinking any more. He had hoped for a paternal drink with Rosemary, but when he had rung to tell her he was up in Manchester she had claimed a prior engagement, a date with some young man very likely unsuitable. He took another unsatisfying gulp from his gla.s.s. Wesley was upstairs on the phone, probably trying to appease an irate wife. Heffernan had been there. Now, as he drained his gla.s.s and looked round the lonely bar, he realised how much he missed Kathy. He wished he were up there talking on that phone; he wished he had somebody to appease. He took his gla.s.s back to the bar and climbed the stairs to his room.

They set out early next morning. Producers of p.o.r.nographic magazines didn't strike Heffernan as potential early risers, but you could never tell.

Keffer's block of flats seemed just as deserted at half past seven in the morning as it had done the evening before, the only difference being that there were more BMWs parked in the residents' parking s.p.a.ces.

This time they were lucky. After five minutes of earnest doorbell-ringing their endeavours were rewarded by the appearance of a bleary-eyed man in his forties. A short towelling robe, insecurely fastened, fell open to reveal a pair of garish red boxer shorts decorated with a yellow slogan which, Wesley guessed, was probably rude, but he wasn't prepared to study it long enough to read it. They produced their warrant cards and the bleary eyes widened into suspicious wakefulness.

They were led into a darkened living room. It looked as though someone at least had had more fun the previous evening than Heffernan and Wesley had experienced at the St Dominic Hotel. An empty wine bottle stood on the tiled coffee table amongst tumbled lager cans, overspilling ashtrays and dirty gla.s.ses. The fuggy air reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume. Keffer made himself decent and drew the curtains back. The place looked more squalid in the grey daylight.

Heffernan addressed the wary Keffer with impeccable formality. 'Ever been to Devon, sir?'

'What's this? Tourist board making house calls now?' Keffer smirked at his own wit.

'Just answer the question please, sir.'

Keffer shook his head. 'Florida's more my scene.'

'We're investigating the death of a young woman. She was found near Tradmouth. Know where that is, sir?'

'No idea.' He looked as if he might be telling the truth.

'I wonder if you'd have a look at this photograph, sir.' Heffernan nodded to Wesley, who handed the photo over. They watched Keffer's reaction.

'Karen ... it's Karen.'

Heffernan's eyes shone with the excitement of the chase. 'Karen who?'

'She's not, er ... is she?'

'What can you tell me about her?'

Wesley got his notebook out and prepared for some serious writing.

'Look, I didn't know her well and it was three years ago ... more. She only modelled for me a couple of times tasteful stuff, you know.' Wesley raised his eyebrows. 'She was a nice kid, just a bit short of cash; you know how it is.'

'No, I don't. You tell me.' Heffernan leaned forward, challenging.