Annie began to feel relieved. A bollocking, that was all she was going to get.

“On the other hand…”

Annie’s spirits sank again.

“We don’t have all the facts in yet.”

“Sir?”

“We don’t know whether you were seen by the kidnapper or not, do we?”

“No, sir.”

“And we don’t know exactly when Luke Armitage died.”

“Dr. Glendenning’s doing the postmortem sometime today, sir.”

“Yes, I know. So what I’m saying is that until we have all the facts I’ll postpone judgment. Go back to your duties, detective inspector.”

Annie stood up before he changed his mind. “Yes, sir.”

“And, DI Cabbot?”

“Sir?”

“If you’re going to keep on using your own car on the job, get a bloody police radio fitted, would you?”

Annie blushed. “Yes, sir,” she mumbled, and left.

Michelle got off the InterCity train at King’s Cross at about half past one that afternoon and walked down the steps to the tube, struck, as she always was, by the sheer hustle and bustle of London, the constant noise and motion. Cathedral Square on a summer holiday weekend with a rock band playing in the marketplace didn’t even come close.

Unlike many of her contemporaries, Michelle had never worked on the Met. She had thought of moving there after Greater Manchester, after Melissa had died and Ted had left, but instead she had moved around a lot over the past five years and taken numerous courses, convincing herself that it was all for the good of her career. She suspected, though, that she had just been running. Somewhere a bit more out of the way had seemed the best option, at least for the time being, another low-profile position. And you didn’t get anywhere in today’s police force without switching back and forth a lot—from uniform to CID, from county to county. Career detectives like Jet Harris were a thing of the past.

A few ragged junkies sat propped against the walls of the busy underpass, several of them young girls, Michelle noticed, and too far gone even to beg for change. As she passed, one of them started to moan and wail. She had a bottle in her hand and she banged it hard against the wall until it smashed, echoing in the tiled passage and scattering broken glass all over the place. Like everyone else, Michelle hurried on.

The tube was crowded and she had to stand all the way to Tottenham Court Road, where Retired Detective Inspector Robert Lancaster had agreed to talk to her over a late lunch on Dean Street. It was raining when she walked out onto Oxford Street. Christ, she thought, not again! At this rate, summer would be over before it had begun. Michelle unfurled her umbrella and made her way through the tourists and hustlers. She turned off Oxford Street and crossed Soho Square, then followed Lancaster’s directions and found the place easily enough.

Though it was a pub, Michelle was pleased to see that it looked rather more upmarket than some establishments, with its hanging baskets of flowers outside, stained glass and shiny dark woodwork. She had dressed about as casually as she was capable of, in a mid-length skirt, a pink V-neck top and a light wool jacket, but she would still have looked overdressed in a lot of London pubs. This one, however, catered to a business luncheon crowd. It even had a separate restaurant section away from the smoke and video machines, with table service, no less.