The reception area of Southampton Row nick was a hive of activity. A woman was in tears because her Saab Turbo had been either towed away or stolen, and she swore to the desk sergeant that it had been legally parked. Two punks, wearing torn jeans and leather jackets, were being released after a night in the cells. The mother of one of the boys, a Princess Anne lookalike in a camel coat and Hermès scarf, was berating him in a voice that could have shattered glass.

“How could you be so stupid? This will ruin your chances of university! How could you do it . . . Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”

Three of the men from the identity parade were leaving, pocketing their eight quid expenses, and in the midst of it all DCI Tennison was thanking Helen Masters, thanking her when she could have screamed the place down with frustration.

Arnold Upcher was guiding George Marlow through the crowd, but suddenly Marlow turned back and pushed his way past the punks towards Tennison.

“Excuse me, Inspector,” he said softly, and touched her arm.

Refusing to look at him, Tennison moved quickly, through the door which led behind the reception desk, reappearing next to the desk sergeant. Marlow faced her across the broad counter.

“Inspector Tennison! You’re making my life a misery! I was dragged out of bed at four o’clock this morning with no explanation. You’ve got people watching me night and day, tell me why? You know I’m innocent. If you’ve got something personal against me, tell me now, what did I ever do to you?”

Upcher, disapproving, grabbed his arm to drag him away. Tennison gave Marlow a long, hard stare, then turned her head to find two men taking great interest in the transaction.

“Inspector Tennison? Daily Express, can you spare us a few seconds?”

With a gesture to the desk sergeant, Tennison said, “Get them out of here!” The reporter was moved on by a uniformed officer at the same time as George Marlow, protesting, was being manhandled out of the door by Upcher.

“She’s got something personal against me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

Scenting a story, the reporter turned his attention to Marlow.

Everywhere Tennison went that day she encountered men with sore heads and matching tempers. Burkin was the worst for wear; his triumph the night before had been paid with a cut eye and lip. Tennison found the resulting lips irritating.

“Where the hell is Jones?” Tennison demanded. “I need him with me.”