She shook her head. DCI Tennison had already told her that another officer had to accompany her for the identity parade, to avoid any suggestion of bias. Helen gave Sleeth a nervous smile and sat in the chair he indicated, facing the one-way glass and the twelve men in the line-up. Sleeth gave Helen a small wink as he tested the microphone that linked them to the identification room.

The twelve men stood in a row, facing the observation window. Each man held a number in front of him; George Marlow was number ten. They were all dark haired and more or less of a size with Marlow, and two, like him, had a deep six o’clock shadow.

“Would you all please turn to your right,” Sleeth said into the microphone.

Helen looked at each man in turn, frowning, then made another request. Sleeth announced it.

“When I call out your number, please take one pace forward and say the name “Karen” clearly. Number one, step forward please.”

Number one turned slowly and obeyed. “Karen!”

Helen shook her head and Sleeth said, “Thank you, number one, you may step back.” He consulted with Helen and continued, “Number eight, please step forward and say the name ‘Karen’.”

The eighth man’s voice was indistinct. “Louder, please, number eight,” said Sleeth.

“Karen!” shouted number eight.

In the corridor outside the observation room, Tennison and Otley waited nervously. She was pacing up and down, smoking. The door opened and DI Sleeth came out.

“She wants a closer look,” he told Tennison, and led Helen to the main room. Tennison made no attempt to speak to her.

Otley tapped Tennison on the arm and gestured towards the observation room. It was against the rules, but she couldn’t resist. They scurried furtively inside to watch.

Helen was moving slowly down the line of men. She paused in front of number two, but only for a second. She stopped at number ten, George Marlow.

“Come on, Helen, that’s the one!” Tennison almost shouted in her excitement. Sudden panic made her check the sound system; it was set to receive only. She sighed with relief and whispered through gritted teeth, “Come on, number ten, number ten . . .”

George Marlow stepped out of the line, holding his card in front of him and staring straight ahead. Tennison’s spine tingled; it was as if he knew he was looking directly into her eyes.

“Karen!” he called loudly.

Tennison dragged on her cigarette as the tension in the viewing room built up. Otley leaned forward, gritting his teeth. She was staring too long at Marlow, taking too long . . . He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Come on, sweetheart, that’s him, yes . . . You’ve got him!”