Mr. Harvey, a cocky little man in his fifties, showed them the well-equipped production line, stopping now and then for a word with the men on the floor.

“We employ three hundred salesmen up and down the country,” he told Tennison, while Jones all but disappeared head-first into one of the mixing vats. “We guarantee to match any color you want; the difficult shades are still mixed by hand.”

Tennison looked around with interest. “George Marlow always worked from London?”

“He started with the firm in Manchester. We moved our headquarters down here in eighty-two, and George came with us, but he kept his old routes. Had all the contacts, you see, and of course they still had family and friends up north . . .”

“They? Did Marlow travel with someone else?”

“Moyra always went with him on his trips . . .”

“How far back do your staff records go?” asked Tennison.

“Since we moved here. We had a computer system installed, but we’ve got all the files . . .”

“Would they include the hotels your salesmen used, expenses and so on?”

“This company is run like clockwork,” said Harvey proudly. “We like to know where our men are and what they’re doing.”

“We will need to examine them,” Tennison said, clocking Jones’ incredulous reaction. “Just Marlow’s, of course.”

Harvey looked puzzled, but said mildly, “Just so long as we get them back.”

Tennison was starving when she arrived back at the station. She grabbed a sandwich and tried to eat it in her office, but she was interrupted by Maureen Havers, who had contacted the Rape Center about Marlow’s earlier victim and managed to find out who she was.

“She wanted her identity kept secret, but it’s Miss Pauline Gilling, ma’am, from Rochdale. She’s been having counselling after a nervous breakdown, and the people in Rochdale say it would only aggravate the situation if we started asking questions.”

Tennison spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. “I could be in line for a breakdown myself . . .” She took a sip of coffee. “Get back on to them and don’t take no for an answer.”

She finished the rest of her sandwich and started gathering items for the team meeting. “Oh, and Maureen, you don’t know where I am if the Super asks, OK?”

They were all there. Otley was pinning black-and-white photographs of Della Mornay’s and Karen Howard’s bodies on the notice-board. There were also blow-ups of the marks on their arms. He turned to the waiting men.