“Suspect leaving taxi now, with Henson. Entering Great Portland Street station. They’ve split up, she’s gone down to the trains and he’s coming out on the north side, over.”

DI Haskons cut in. “I got him! I’m on foot, heading down the Euston Road, outside Capital Radio, repeat, I’m on foot. He’s hailed another bloody taxi, over.”

“I’ll take the woman . . .” Oakhill’s voice faded out.

“We’ll go straight to Euston, see if we can head him off at the pass,” said Tennison.

George Marlow leaned in at the taxi window to speak to the driver, and pointed towards Euston. Then he hopped in the back, but the taxi made a left turn towards Camden Town.

A plain car, driven by DC Caplan, slotted into the traffic behind the cab. His passenger, DI Muddyman, reported, “OK, we’re there. Suspect in black cab, heading for Camden Town. No, right, he’s turned right, towards Euston again. We’ve got him, we’ve got him now, turning right again, back towards the Euston Road, over.”

DC Jones rushed out of the Floral Street beauty salon and stuck his head through the car window to talk to DI Burkin.

“They had her down for a full day on the second of January, the day before that modeling job where she had the long nails. But she didn’t book a manicure, and they don’t do these nails, whatever they’re called. One of the assistants, a Dutch chick, says she recommended a woman in the market.”

“Shit,” Burkin said. “We can’t get the car in there. You leg it, and I’ll meet you in Southampton Street.”

The black taxi weaved its way down a side street and reached the corner of Euston Road. There were two vehicles now between it and Muddyman’s unmarked car.

The cab edged into the solid traffic on the Euston Road. Marlow was out of the door on the far side and had disappeared into a junk furniture store before any of them could blink.

“Shit! This is Muddyman. Marlow’s out of the cab, taxi is empty, repeat, Marlow again on foot. Biker, come in, biker . . .”

Outside the junk shop the cyclist in the skintight Lycra pedal-pushers slowed down and bent to fiddle with his toe-clips. He spoke softly into his radio.

“He’s out, heading along the Euston Road again, on foot, over.”

On the opposite corner, Muddyman was out of the car and following, keeping a good distance from Marlow.

Oakhill came close to losing Moyra Henson in the crowded complex of tunnels and staircases at Baker Street, and had to force the doors open to board the southbound Jubilee line train.