“In the case of Karen, a witness stated that she heard a man call out her name. It was the same with Jeannie. But what about Angela, the little blond one? She was killed in the shrubbery in broad daylight, a good distance from the path, which was her usual route home. So how did she get there? If someone had called out to her . . . And the one who was raped, Gilling, she said he called her name . . .”

“Point taken,” said Amson, “but you’ve got two toms, one hairdresser, a schoolgirl . . . How did he get to know their names, if he knew them?”

Havers had made her way to the front, using her elbows, and was standing by the photographs. She raised her hand, about to say something, but lowered it, not sure of her ground. She moved closer to Tennison and touched her arm.

“Boss, I think . . . It may be off the wall . . .”

“Anything, my love, I’m right up against it. What you got?”

“I did a bit of checking, but it all falls down with Gilling. She was a florist, but there’s one link with the others. It was mentioned once . . .”

“To Marlow?”

“No, not him—Moyra Henson.”

Tennison could barely hear her against the growing racket in the room. “Come on, lads, keep it down a bit!” she yelled, then turned back to Havers.

“Go on.”

“When she was brought in for questioning I typed her statement. She put herself down as unemployed . . .”

“Yeah . . . Quiet! Quieten down!”

The noise slowly subsided. Some of the men closed in on Tennison and Havers, realizing something was going on.

Havers coughed nervously. “She was picked up for prostitution, fifteen years ago, according to her record. But on that charge-sheet she’s down as a freelance beautician. If she worked when she was traveling around with Marlow, he could have met the girls that way. But Gilling doesn’t fit in . . .”

“Good on ya, Maureen!” Tennison gave her a quick hug. “We’ll check it out.”

Unaware of the tension, Jones walked in carrying an MSS internal fax sheet. “This might be useful, ma’am,” he said to Tennison. “I’ve checked back on Marlow’s past addresses. They’ve been in Maida Vale for three years, and before that they were in Somerstown, not far from St. Pancras. He’s had the Rover for twelve years, so what if he had a lock-up close to his previous flat?”

Rosper had a sudden thought. “Yeah! Those garages we’ve been painting, Marlow told us he tried to rent one, but the council leases ’em out to the highest bidder. Maybe he kept his old garage because he couldn’t get one near by . . .”

The phone rang and DI Muddyman answered it, then covered the mouthpiece. “Guv? You’re wanted upstairs, you here or not?”

“No, I’m not! Go and bring that hard-nosed cow in!”