Kate and Benton had countered all questions with silence. It had required no self-discipline. They knew nothing but were confident that when AD had made his choice they would be among the first to be told. The chief for whom she had worked since she became a detective sergeant would be marrying his Emma in a few months. After the years together, he and she would no longer be part of the same team. She would get her promised promotion to detective chief inspector, perhaps within weeks, and could hope to rise even higher. The future might be lonely, but if it was, she had her job, the only one she had ever wanted, the one which had given her all she now possessed. And she knew better than most that there were worse fates than loneliness.

The call came at ten-fifty. She wasn’t due in the office until one-thirty and was about to leave the flat to deal with the routine chores which always took hours out of her free half-day: a visit to the supermarket to buy food, a watch that was being mended to collect, some clothes to be taken to the dry-cleaners. The call came on her dedicated mobile, and she knew whose voice she would hear. She listened closely. It was, as she had expected, a murder case. The victim, Rhoda Gradwyn, an investigative journalist, found dead in her bed at seven-thirty, apparently strangled, after an operation at a private clinic in Dorset. He gave the address as Cheverell Manor, Stoke Cheverell. No explanation of why the Squad were taking over, but apparently Number Ten was involved. They were to travel by car, either hers or Benton’s, and the team would aim to arrive together.

She said, “Yes, sir. I’ll ring Benton now and meet him at his flat. I think we’ll take his car. Mine’s due for a service. I have my murder bag, and I know he has his.”

“Right. I need to call in at the Yard, Kate, and I’ll meet you at Shepherd’s Bush, I hope by the time you get there. I’ll give you further details as far as I know them when we meet.”

She ended the call, then rang Benton, and within twenty minutes had changed into the tweed trousers and jacket she wore for a country case. Her grip with other clothes she might need was always packed and ready. Swiftly she checked windows and power plugs and, picking up her murder bag, turned the keys in the two security locks and was on her way.

Chapter 3

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