‘Well, at the moment, sir, there’s not that much to go on. We’re hoping that forensic will show something up. I’ve already arranged the door-to-door, it’s within a mile radius. The usual thing. Every male from fourteen to sixty-five will be interviewed - their make of car checked, where they work, where they were between six thirty p.m. and seven a.m. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve made DS Dawkins the office manager. She’s good.’

Superintendent Ratchette raised a bushy grey eyebrow. ‘I bet that went down well, didn’t it?’

‘Not really.’ Kate laughed ruefully. ‘Two women on a big case. Makes male CID eyes red just thinking about it!’

Ratchette laughed out loud. He liked Kate Burrows.

‘Well, whatever you think, Kate, it’s your case. If you could just keep me informed of any developments, as and when they occur?’

‘Of course, sir. But I don’t like the feel of this one. Geraldine O’Leary worked at Rudys wine bar, but from what I can gather she was not a woman who encouraged men, although she was good-looking and would obviously attract them. We’re checking out all the customers anyway. Most are local men. Her husband was babysitting last night and a woman called Conroy called around at seven-thirty to collect an Avon order and stayed chatting till gone eight when Geraldine O’Leary’s mother came round to drop off some Christmas presents. There’s no way it’s the husband. His alibi is watertight.’

Ratchette nodded at her.

‘Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.’

Kate stifled a yawn. It had been a long day and it still wasn’t over.

‘I have a feeling this is going to be a tough one, sir, a very tough one.’

George walked into his house and was grateful for the warmth of the central heating. He was freezing. Under his arm he had the local paper. He could hear Elaine clattering around as she cooked. Taking off his overcoat, he hung it up in the hall cupboard and silently entered the kitchen.

Elaine turned from the sink and jumped.

‘Oh, George! You gave me a start. I didn’t hear you come in!’

She waved her hand in front of her face as if cooling herself down.

He smiled.

‘Sorry, dear.’ He sat at the table and looked at the paper. He smiled wider. Across the front page in large black letters was one word: MURDER.

Settling himself into his chair, George began to read. This morning the body of a woman had been found in Grantley Woods. She had been raped and murdered . . . He felt the familiar excitement flow through his veins. The victim was a Mrs Geraldine O’Leary, a thirty-two-year-old mother of three.

The poor children! The poor, poor children. Shaking his head, he began to read again.