While Jones looked up the number, the others crowded around the photos. Still not one man had turned towards Tennison. Jones picked up the phone and started dialling.

Highly embarrassed, Tennison walked to the center of the room. “I won’t harp on, but I want all of you to know that I appreciate you backing me up . . .”

Muddyman hurtled in, shouting, “Suspect’s on the move, guv’nor, with his girlfriend! The lads reckon something’s going down!”

Jones was through to the flat. “Lady Antonia? This is DC Jones from Southampton Row police station. We need to know if Karen used a beauty parlor or hair salon, and if so do you know if she had . . . excuse me . . .” He beckoned frantically to Havers. “What do you call them?”

“Nail extensions.”

Excited, Tennison was getting into top gear. “Right, I reckon this is it, we’ve got him on the run . . .”

Jones slammed the phone down. “Yes! She went to a place in Floral Street, Covent Garden; had an account there!”

Amson, already on the move, pointed at Jones. “Check it out, Daffy! Take Rosper with you, and keep in radio contact!”

Tennison was champing at the bit. “Let’s go! Terry, you’re with me!”

She ran out, Amson on her heels. DC Jones grabbed his jacket, a rather smart double-breasted job, and bellowed to Rosper, “Let’s go!” But he paused a moment beside Maureen Havers and winked. “Good on ya, Maureen! See ya in the bar tonight.”

She watched him leave. “What a bloody prat! Since he got those suede shoes he thinks he’s Don Johnson . . .”

It was suddenly quiet, as it always was before the scream went up. Havers looked at the photographs Karen Howard’s mother had sent, glossy six-by-ten modeling shots. They had only been interested in her nails, but now she looked at the girl’s lovely face. Karen had been a beautiful girl with a freshness to her skin that shone out from the photographs. Her hair was silky, her eyes bright. It was obvious that she had still been an amateur, the poses weren’t quite right, but maybe that was what gave her an air of innocence, of childlike vulnerability.

Havers was not the only police officer, male or female, who felt protective towards such victims, as if it was their responsibility to ensure that they could rest in peace. She brushed her hand across the photograph.

“I think we’ve got him, Karen, love,” she whispered. The dead girls stared sightlessly into the empty room: Karen, Della, Jeannie, Angela, Sharon, Ellen, as if they too were waiting to rest.

Chapter 11

11

As her patrol car raced through the heavy traffic, Tennison sat next to the driver, listening in on the open channel. Amson was sitting on the edge of the back seat, trying to see where they were going.

DC Oakhill was reporting George Marlow and Moyra Henson’s every move direct to them.