“Moyra Henson, I am WPC Southill. We would like you to accompany us to the Southampton Row—”

Moyra swung her boutique bag to slap Southill in the face, then went for her, kicking and spitting, screaming that she wanted to be left alone. Her screeching drew everyone’s attention: shop assistants rushed out to see what was going on, customers rammed into each other on the escalators, as Moyra’s screams echoed throughout the mall. Her face was puce with hysteria.

She seemed to cave in suddenly, her back pressed against the window, hands up.

“I just want to be left alone, ahhhh, please, please leave me alone! Don’t touch me! I’ll come with you, just don’t touch me!”

She started to retrieve her fallen purchases and stuff them into the torn boutique bag. She had hurled her handbag to the floor, spilling cosmetics, wallet, mirror all over the marble floor, and she insisted on picking everything up herself. She was crying now, her mascara running down her face, her hysteria over.

She allowed herself to be led to the waiting patrol car where she sat, sniffing noisily, her nose all red, and stared out of the window. As the car moved off and the siren started up, she seemed to gather her senses, taking a hankie from her bag and blowing her nose. WPC Southill watched closely as she pulled out a perfume atomizer and gave Oakhill the nod to check it.

“It’s perfume, Chanel, and it’s very expensive. Cost over thirty quid, and I only use it sparingly—I mean, too much and you overdo it. So if you don’t mind giving it back? What’d you think I was gonna do, spray it in the driver’s eyes and make my escape? Screw you, screw the lot of you, you’re all wankers!”

She spent the rest of the journey to the station checking her wallet, counting her money and repacking everything in orderly fashion. But she didn’t say anything else; she felt there wasn’t any point.

The lock-up was cavernous. Water dripped constantly, forming pools on the floor, and the shape of it amplified the eerie sounds of the trains overhead. The place stank of damp, ancient oil and many other things.

The far end was pitch dark. Near the center of the empty space Tennison could just make out a large, shrouded shape in the gloom. She chose to ignore the little scuttling, splashing noises of the rats.

“Everybody watch where you stand,” Tennison ordered, her voice echoing. “Lights, are there any lights?”

Fluorescent lights blinked on slowly, casting a cold blueish light which reflected in the puddles. Tennison advanced, picking her way slowly and carefully until she reached the middle. She lifted the old tarpaulin by one corner, exposing gleaming chrome and gold-brown paintwork.