The picture editor at the other end of the phone spoke with all the false enthusiasm of his breed. “That’s terrific. What do the pix show?”

“The murdered woman is standing in the garden of the school where she was killed. She’s laughing in a couple of them, and there’s one pic of her just straight-faced. The laughing ones are a good line to go for—carefree musician enjoying a joke unaware that within twelve hours she’ll be dead; that sort of routine. I can let you have a deep caption to go with it, say five or six paras,” persuaded Lindsay.

“Who took these, then? What’s the quality like?”

“I took them with a telephoto zoom. They’re a bit grainy, but they’ll reproduce all right.”

There was a pause. “And you’ve got them to yourself? What sort of price are we looking at?”

“£250 seems reasonable to me.”

“Including syndication rights?”

“I suppose you’ve got to get your money back somehow.”

“It’s a deal, then. Two-fifty. How are you getting them to us?”

“I’ll put them on a train to Manchester. Your desk there can pick them up, can’t they?”

“Sure thing. Phone them and let them know what train they’re on. Thanks again, Lindsay.”

She called a taxi to take her down to the station. As soon as she put the phone down, it pealed. She picked it up to hear a crime reporter baying for details. Four months ago she would gladly have given him all she had. But her brief spell as a freelance had taught her the hard fact that staff reporters don’t do favors to anyone except themselves. The only way she could be sure of making her information work for a living was to keep it to herself. As she put the phone down after a heavy exchange, she sighed. Another potential ally lost for a while. She was pleased when the taxi arrived for the small oasis of calm the trip to the station provided in the chaos of the day.