Finch had admitted his attacker in good faith, thought Kershaw, only to be surprised while his defences were down. If it wasn't someone from the unit, it had to be Mills. Finch must have trusted the boy enough to turn away from him. The old man had been married, but never spoke of his emotional attachments. Was it possible he had a secret; could he have found the seventeen-year-old attractive, and acted inappropriately? He tried to recall any rumours he had heard about the pathologist, but came up with nothing untoward.

Kershaw rang the detective sergeant. 'Are you still with Mills?' he asked. 'Think he's on drugs?'

'Absolutely not. Normal pupil dilation, clear speech, fast reactions, completely normal as far as I can tell. At least he's talking now.'

'Any idea how tall he is?'

'About one hundred sixty-five centimetres,' Longbright replied. 'Why?'

'Five five-he's too short, Janice. Apart from the disparity between his visit and the time of death, the bruising angle is wrong. I don't think he killed Finch. You didn't find a small brown plastic bottle on him?'

'Nothing in his pockets, but we know he took Finch's notes, even though he won't admit it. They may still be on site. He's wearing her neck chain, says she gave it to him. A piece of cheap gold plate, but there's a name engraved on it, Lilith Starr. Sounds made up. Mills says she kept a squat on the Crowndale Estate, where he lives.'

'You think he's just some opportunist thief who saw a girl he knew, followed the ambulance and plundered her dead body? Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?'

'Come on, Giles, there are crime victims in Camden Town who are stripped before they hit the pavement.'

There was a knock at the door. 'Have you finished?' asked Banbury, averting his eyes. It was bad enough that Bryant had asked him to photograph the deceased girl's neck, without him having to see the dead face of a former colleague.

'Pretty much. You can come in now.' Kershaw pulled a Mylar tarp over the body and clipped it in place. 'I tested for naltrexone and morphine. There's none in his body, but he must have been suffering periodic bouts of pain. He would only have lasted a matter of months.'

'You think he knew that?'

'He should have done-he was a biologist, although they're notoriously neglectful about their own workings.'

'Can I take another look around?'

'Knock yourself out,' said Kershaw, rubbing his eyes. 'It's gone eleven. I'm just about done here.' He looked about the spa.r.s.e room. 'I don't know-there's some trace evidence we've missed-'

'There's always something more.' Banbury peered out from behind a locker. 'You can't be expected to pick up on everything.'

'That was Finch's main criticism of me. He said I rushed things, missed obvious opportunities. I don't want to make that mistake now. This is my chance to put things right.'

The empty s.p.a.ce on the drug shelves nagged at him. He had seen the bottles lined up on them often enough, knew how much of a stickler the old pathologist had been about them. There could be other explanations; he might have accidentally broken it, or forgotten to get the naltrexone replaced after use.

'Giles.'

The young forensic scientist turned around and saw what Banbury was holding up in his hand. 'Where did you find that?'

'Your missing bottle. It had rolled right under the desk. It's been used recently.' A syringe could be inserted through the plastic cap of the naltrexone to maintain sterility, but the bottle had not been completely emptied, and a small amount had leaked out. 'When I photographed her, I noticed that the girl in the drawer had track marks on the back of her left leg. You don't suppose he experimented on her by injecting this stuff?'

'It wouldn't react on inert tissue. You need circulating blood to carry chemicals into the system. The only other explanation is that the boy came here with the specific purpose of stealing drugs, and that he somehow used it on himself, but that makes no sense. So we have a fresh mystery.'

'There's something else,' said Dan, unlocking the body drawer and pulling it out. 'I think Mills came here to ensure that his girlfriend's ident.i.ty remained secret.'

'Why do you say that?'

Banbury gingerly felt inside the body bag. 'He took her neck chain and swiped Oswald's notes. Suppose he followed her to the morgue for the express purpose of protecting her, even beyond death? Because there's this.' He pulled out Lilith Starr's left arm and indicated a paler, scarred patch on the inside, just below her elbow. 'She had a tattoo removed in the last year, not with a laser either.' He pointed to a faint red-and-blue mark on her skin. 'You can just see the edges of the original design.'

'Something traditional. Looks like it might have been a heart with a banner,' said Banbury, peering closer. 'We'll need to check the local tattoo parlours. I think there's one right on the edge of the Crowndale Estate, and there are several bas.e.m.e.nt joints in Camden Town, not all of them legal. Many of the artists have signature patterns. Maybe one of them will recognise it. Meanwhile, Mills has to remain our main suspect. If Oswald discovered who she really was, maybe it was a secret worth killing to protect.' He answered his ringing mobile, then pa.s.sed it over. 'John May for you. He tried calling yours but couldn't get through.'

'I thought they were going to leave us to handle this,' said Kershaw. 'Anyone would think they were still at the PCU, not stuck in a b.l.o.o.d.y blizzard.' He took the call, mainly listening to instructions. 'He wants us to take a shot of Lilith Starr's face and send it on to Colin and Meera. A job for you, I think. I'll tell you what, though. Those old boys aren't in charge of this investigation. It's not something that can be handled from long distance. We're right here, on the ground. They won't be able to take the credit if we're the ones who manage to sort it out.'

'They're not after credit, Giles,' said Banbury. 'They were already working with Oswald when you and I were at primary school. They want to do something for him. Show some respect for once.' He was embarra.s.sed by his colleague's display of ambition. 'I'll get the shot.'

28

FORt.i.tUDE Princess Beatrice's social secretary, Rosemary Armstrong, was an astonishingly angry woman. Among the things that angered her were socialists, untidiness, public transport, modern architecture, poor handwriting, economic migrants, curry houses, scruffy people who refused to better themselves, council houses, the residents of London, all of whom were rude and wanted something for nothing, foxhunt saboteurs, litter, shop a.s.sistants who spoke badly and people who didn't carry fresh handkerchiefs. Most of all, she was angry about existing in a substratum of upper-middle-cla.s.s folk who had not attained the higher rank of lords or ladies. To be so close to the wellborn and find the station forever out of reach was like a corrosive poison rotting her soul. To temper this pain, she indulged herself in things she liked, which included dinner parties, pearls, life peers, limousines, Victorian teddy bears, holidays in Barbados, decent society, big hats, matching luggage, flowers, traditional English cooking and Pulling Yourself Up By Your Own Bootstraps.

Perusing the schedule for the Princess's visit to the PCU with distaste, she wondered if there was any way she might be able to get the trip cancelled, before recalling that the Princess was Oskar Kasavian's second cousin once removed. The unit was apparently some kind of left-wing experimental think tank, and the thought of mingling with the personnel there made her hackles rise. Princess Beatrice had made some unfortunate remarks about the quality of British police recruits in the press, and it was to be hoped that her public appearance would repair some of the bad feeling, but Kasavian was on record voicing his hatred of such organisations; she wondered why he had been so insistent about fast-tracking the Princess on a visit.

She decided to give Leslie Faraday a call.

'Mrs Armstrong, how delightful to hear from you.' She could tell Faraday was wetting himself with excitement to receive a call from a lady positioned so close to royalty. 'I well remember our meeting at the Cafe Royal Metropolitan Police Benevolent Society Dinner in September 1998, when my wife had the good fortune to win a year's subscription to the Tatler Tatler on the tombola-' on the tombola-'

Rosemary Armstrong hated being called a 'Mrs' when she should have been a Right Hon, and had no time for obsequious chitchat. She steamrollered over the minister's pleasantries, cutting him off in mid-flow. 'The Princess Royal's visit to this police unit, I see it has been scheduled for Thursday afternoon from five P.M. P.M. until six until six P.M. P.M. The Princess is attending a dinner in Kensington at six forty-five The Princess is attending a dinner in Kensington at six forty-five P.M. P.M., so I think we can shave half an hour from her appearance, yes? So five. P.M. P.M. to five-thirty to five-thirty P.M. P.M., yes? And no formal presentations to staff, only the division heads, yes? We'd prefer not to have lilies or tulips in the presentation bouquet, best to stick with a small-bud pastel English arrangement. Get your florist to take a tip from Sissinghurst, which the Princess patronises. Still water and a selection of China teas during the photo opportunity; I'll fax you a full list of requirements, yes? No "Meet the People" walkabouts, no presentation on the future of national policing, just a few opening pleasantries, a tour of the refurbished offices, "This is the operations room," a quick demonstration of the latest technology, et cetera, photo opportunity and out, yes?'

'Well, I suppose we can squeeze the schedule down to half an hour,' said Faraday, who had no idea just how unprepared the unit was to receive royal visitors, 'but I do think it's a shame when-'

'Jolly good, that's all settled, then, yes? We shall have a chance to chat further on Thursday afternoon, no doubt.' Over my dead body, you ghastly little man, Over my dead body, you ghastly little man, she thought, replacing the receiver before he had a chance to reply. she thought, replacing the receiver before he had a chance to reply.

In the white Vauxhall van, Madeline lay awake, holding onto the jammed door handle. Ryan was buried under her arm once more, snoring lightly, untroubled by the cold.

We could die here, she thought. she thought. At the rate this snow is falling, we'll be buried beneath the drifts soon At the rate this snow is falling, we'll be buried beneath the drifts soon. For a split second the idea seemed almost appealing, to slip away into the frozen darkness and have all her problems resolved. Then she glanced back at Ryan's calm features and knew she would fight to protect him, whatever the cost.

How far was it to the nearest town? Those who had been equipped for such an emergency had long ago set off on the road, before it had become entirely impa.s.sable. Now it was too late, deep into the night, and all they could do was wait for the rescue services to arrive. Her breath blossomed in misted arabesques. She could hardly feel her lips.

At least the glittering signatures of frost on the windows prevented Johann from seeing in. Judging by the noise of the maelstrom outside, he was too concerned with his own safety now to try and find them. Kate Summerton had warned her that psychically sensitive women could develop extraordinary connections to the men with whom they made love. She felt a growing sureness about their bond now; within a few hours it would be light, and he would come to track her down once more. He wanted no salvation, only protection from exposure, but she was determined not to surrender the incriminating packet of horrific photographs.

It would be important to keep up their strength. She remembered there was a bar of chocolate in her pocket; it was better than nothing. And perhaps others were still trapped in their vehicles. Surely someone would be able to help her. She pressed her eyes shut and concentrated. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I'm sending out a message for help Whoever you are, wherever you are, I'm sending out a message for help.

With the collar of her padded jacket pulled over them both, she shifted Ryan closer to her breast and tried to sleep.

29

CONNECTION Janice Longbright had asked everyone else to leave the room. Once the door closed, she turned down the light a little and sat beside Owen Mills. She knew that he would only ever view her as the enemy, even if he had done nothing wrong. Sometimes, though, it was possible to lower the barriers set in place by age, race, gender, and authority just a little, enough to allow common gestures of grace to pa.s.s between two lives.

'Owen, I want to talk to you, not because my job demands it, but because I want to understand a little more. It's hard to imagine this as neutral territory, isn't it?' She looked up at the glaring light panels. 'I hate this room as much as you do. Probably more, because I see it nearly every day. G.o.d, it's depressing in here.' She moved a little closer. 'Seeing that we have to talk, would you rather be somewhere else?'

'Whatever. The quicker I can get away.' He threw her a sullen glare.

'Let's see how we get on. I can wrap this up more quickly if you give me an answer. Silence implies guilt, you know? At least if we talk, we can clear the air. How did you come to meet Lilith Starr?'

'Saw her around on the estate.'

'You probably see a lot of people on the estate, but you don't have to talk to them. What made you choose her?'

Silence. Mills folded his arms defensively. Longbright narrowed her eyes, thinking. 'You asked her out?'

Nothing.

'You dated her?'

'Dated. What is that?'

'All right then, went out with went out with. You went out with her.' She stopped and watched him. 'You were still going out with Lilith Starr.'

Silence, she saw, was starting to mean yes.

'How long have you been going out with her?'

Downcast eyes. A sigh, a refolding of the arms. 'Seven, maybe eight months.'

'You still at school?'

'They got nothing to teach me.'

'You went to St Michael's, Camden? I've been there a few times. Can't say I'd blame you for leaving. A real dump.' The room had grown cold. April brought them take-out coffees. Beneath his padded nylon sweats, Owen was small. He had the look of a boy who had been teased, then bullied and finally ostracised by those around him in cla.s.s. In Camden, kids sometimes killed each other for living in the wrong postcodes. 'I guess you and Lilith looked out for each other. A private thing. We all need someone who'll do that, Owen. The streets can be pretty bad, especially in winter. Did you think she was going to stay out all night on Monday?'

'No, man, she had a crib. The place was fine.'

'So it came as a surprise when she didn't return.'

No answer.

'She had a tattoo removed. Didn't she like it anymore?'

'No.' Emphatic.

'What was it, the name of an old boyfriend?'

No answer.

'I was thinking of getting one once, a picture of Sabrina-an English glamour model from the fifties with a tiny waist and a big bust, you won't have heard of her. I changed my mind when I discovered that her real name was Norma Ann Sykes.'

'Bust. You use weird words.'

'Everyone needs to find the language they're comfortable with, Owen. I haven't seen this removed tattoo, but apparently it's a real mess. How did she get rid of it?'

'Cut it off with a penknife. The tattoo guy wanted too much to take care of it.'

'When did she do that?'

'Soon after I met her.'

'Was it because of you? Did you ask her to do it?'

No answer.

'Where did she go to get it done? That place in the market?' Janice looked up at the ceiling, thinking. 'Lilith Starr. If I was planning a career in show business, it's the kind of name I'd pick. What made her choose that one?'

'I'm not telling you anything more about her. You didn't know her.'

Longbright kept her voice soft and low. 'I know she went out last night meaning to come straight back, then maybe met a couple of friends, maybe had a drink, got a little high, got wasted, forgot the time. She suddenly felt tired, arms and legs really heavy, dragging at her so she just wanted to rest, and sat down to get her breath back for a moment, but the night turned really cold. She meant to get up, knew you were waiting, didn't want to let you down, just five more minutes, you were already looking for her, but by then it was too late. Five minutes made all the difference between living and dying. You could have saved her if she'd let you, you're really angry that she could have been so d.a.m.ned dumb. Five minutes to save a life, who wouldn't be angry? It had happened before, her staying late somewhere, but this time was different. She wanted to chill and she really chilled, chilled, so much that she died. The whole thing could have been avoided. Just bad circ.u.mstances.' She looked across and saw a silver thread on his cheek. so much that she died. The whole thing could have been avoided. Just bad circ.u.mstances.' She looked across and saw a silver thread on his cheek.

'Finish your coffee, Owen,' she said gently. 'I'm going to let you go home soon. I hope this doesn't have to go any further. You've been through enough, kid.'

It seemed that, whether they liked it or not, Colin Bimsley and Meera Mangeshkar were destined to be yoked together during their hours of work, even out of the office. Colin thought they should make the best of it and at least try to get on, but Meera was still fighting him every step of the way.

As they walked along the balcony checking door numbers, she found herself fascinated by her partner's inability to pa.s.s plant pots or bicycles without tripping or becoming entangled. He was so determined to follow in his father's footsteps and become a detective that the natural barrier of sheer inability seemed to elude him.

Banbury's photograph of Lilith Starr had come through to Bimsley's mobile. The picture showed a puffy-faced girl with fiery red hair, a rather flat nose and small eyes, pouted lips and a formative double chin. She reminded the DC of Marilyn Monroe's morgue shot. Photographs of the dead were never flattering; as the muscles relaxed, gravity dragged at the face to produce alarming effects. Neither of them was sure why Bryant and May had been so keen to get the photo sent.

'Number seventeen is just here,' Bimsley called, stopping before a council red door with a chipboard square fixed across a missing gla.s.s panel. 'Looks as if she was squatting.'

He prised the loose wood from the window and reached in, opening the door. The flat was clean and bare, with strings of red plastic Christmas lights taped around the edges of the ceilings. The kitchen held a portable electric ring and an ancient microwave oven. A grubby sleeping bag and a chair covered in bright polyester undergarments indicated the bedroom. The few pieces of furniture looked as if they had been scavenged from the street, but several-a bedside stand, a sofa unit, a coffee table-had been amateurishly restored to good condition. What was missing was any clue to the ident.i.ty of the squatter.

'There must be something here,' said Meera, wrenching open a wardrobe door and pulling tiny T-shirts aside. 'Everybody leaves a few signs behind.'

'Be careful with her belongings,' warned Colin. 'She took the trouble to press her clothes and hang them up.'

'She's dead, Colin; she doesn't care what happens to this stuff anymore.' She kicked aside a pair of worn high-heeled boots and rooted about in the back of the wardrobe. 'Nothing of any value here. There never is. White-trash clothes and junk jewellery. Crack wh.o.r.es will try to sell their family photo alb.u.ms for drug money.'

'You have a pretty ugly view of people, you know that?'

'I don't go around with my head in the clouds, if that's what you mean. Last summer, over in Parkway above the Adidas shop, two junkies kept an old woman tied to a bed for three weeks while they systematically emptied out her bank account and tortured her to death. When she was gone, they put her body in a bin bag and threw it into the Regent's Ca.n.a.l. You think my view of them should be something other than ugly?'

'It's just that we don't know anything about this girl, except that she probably split from home and came here nine months ago. Looks like she tried to keep this place decent.'

'She'd need to, if she was turning tricks on the premises.' Meera spoke over her shoulder while she was trying the second bedroom door. The Alsatian mongrel that leapt out had been maddened by starvation and confinement. Mangeshkar yelled in surprise as the dog sprayed spittle, twisting its head to bite her throat, knocking her to the floor.

In the next second Bimsley reached the animal, forcing his elbow into its jaw, bringing his other arm around to grip it in a headlock. 'Hold the door open,' he shouted, lifting the thrashing animal from its feet. 'Then get out of the way.'

He struggled along the hall and hurled the Alsatian onto the balcony, where it regained its feet and charged the front door, but was unable to reach them through the narrow gap.

Bimsley returned to the bedroom and pulled Meera to her feet, checking her neck and face. 'You all right?'