Ignoring her, they led Marlow out to the car as quickly as possible. In his bewilderment, he almost cracked his head on the roof of the patrol car as he was helped inside.

The uniformed officers went in to search the flat, while a WPC took Moyra into the kitchen and told her that Marlow had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of a prostitute. Moyra’s eyes widened and she shook her head, disbelieving.

“There’s been a terrible mistake, you can’t do this to him, it’s a mistake . . .” She broke away from the WPC and ran to the front door. She shrieked like a banshee when she realized the police were taking out clear plastic bags of clothing at a rate of knots. Marlow’s shoes, jackets, shirts, all listed and tagged, were shown to Moyra while she protested shrilly. But she didn’t attempt to stop the officers, and they remained for hours, searching and removing items. When they had finished, Moyra was taken to the police station for questioning.

She was no longer irate, but coldly angry. She hated the pigs, hated them. They had already put George inside for a crime she knew he hadn’t committed, and now she was sure they were about to frame him for murder. All the whodunnits she watched on video and the moral standpoints of Dallas and EastEnders had taught her her rights, and not to trust the bastards.

Jane lay curled in Peter’s arms, telling him about Shefford and his attitude to her; not quite openly antagonistic but near enough. It was pretty much the same with all the men, but Shefford was so macho that he took pleasure in sending her up, albeit behind her back.

It was still a new thing for her to have someone to listen to her problems. She had been in such a foul mood when she had arrived home, making love to him had taken all the tension away. It was good to have Peter, to feel loved and wanted. She told him how the Chief had given her the usual speech about waiting, but she had to make a decision soon. The longer she waited and accepted the cases no one else wanted, the more she knew she would be put upon. If Kernan didn’t give her a break she would quit. The men gave her no respect . . .

Peter laughed. “They don’t know you, do they?”

She grinned. “No, I suppose they don’t. I’ll get a break one day, and by Christ they’ll know what’s hit them then.”

He bit her ear. “Get them to play a game of squash with you, they’ll soon take notice of that determined little face. First time I played against you I thought: Holy shit, this one’s a maniac.”