Peter had hardly given Jane a thought since he left. She had been important to him for the time he had been with her, but he knew he wouldn’t see her again. There really wasn’t any point. If the truth was on the line, there was a side to her that he hated, that masculine, pushy side. She had never been his kind of woman, and he doubted if any man could cope with a woman who loved her career more than anything else. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to all the ramifications of who had done what, how and to whom, and what she was going to do about it. He wouldn’t have to hear about her “toms,” her “lads,” or that bloody George Marlow. The next girl would be young, pretty and without prospects, and he’d make sure she could cook, didn’t mind ironing shirts and liked kids.

“Boss! Karen’s photographs have arrived.”

Tennison turned from the washbasin where she was brushing her hair. “Be right with you.”

“Everybody’s waiting in the Incident Room, and . . . the Super’s in there.”

Tennison was suddenly not so cheerful. “Shit! OK, I’ll be there.”

A few moments later she found Superintendent Kernan standing in the middle of the Incident Room among a general hubbub. The moment she entered the room, silence fell.

“Sorry, guv, you wanted to see me?” She felt a flush creeping up her face.

“Just a few moments.” He gestured to the door, then said to Amson, “Carry on.”

Tennison waited for him at the door and followed him out, hearing Terry Amson saying, “Right, I want everybody to have a look at these new photographs of Karen Howard . . .” She closed the door behind her and faced Kernan.

“This was on my desk when I came in.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “They backed you one hundred per cent, refused to have Hicock take over. Did you know about it?”

Every single man had signed the petition. Tennison’s eyes brimmed with tears. “No . . . No, I didn’t.”

“Things have taken a big turn, eh? You’re lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it, sir. We’ve worked our butts off.”

“Let me have all the new information as soon as possible, and”—he smiled—“good luck!”

He strode away and she opened the door. All the men in the room had their backs to her; they were watching Maureen Havers.

“These shots were taken on the day Karen died,” said Havers, pointing to a group of photos on the notice-board. “You can see quite clearly that her nails were short. But these”—she pointed to another group—“these were taken a week before. Look at her hands.”

In the second batch Karen’s nails were long and red. Sergeant Amson turned to Jones. “Get on it, check with her flatmates, see where she got them done!”