“Cameras?”

“Yes.”

“So if we find the same car on both roundabout cameras, separated by however long it takes to travel down Bradham Lane, and if the timing is right, then we might be on to something?”

“Yes.”

“Better stick at it then. Anything from missing persons yet?”

“Nothing. Either nobody’s missed her yet or she makes a habit of disappearing for days at a time. I’ve also initiated inquiries at schools and social services. Oh, and you might not have seen this yet.” Gerry tossed one of the morning tabloids toward Annie’s desk. “Page two.”

On the front page was a huge photograph of Danny Caxton receiving his MBE, circa 1985, and on page two was a short article about the mysterious naked girl found dead in the Yorkshire Dales. Beside it was an artist’s impression of the victim, without broken teeth and swollen lips. Annie hadn’t seen it yet. “She scrubs up nicely,” she said, shaking her head. “A pretty young girl. Jesus Christ, what a waste.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s good.” Annie tapped the newspaper. “Someone might actually recognize her from this.”

The door opened and the diminutive Jazz Singh stood there in her lab coat, brandishing a buff file folder. “Before you ask,” she said, “I worked late last night, as did everyone in toxicology. This is a particularly nasty one and whatever you need, you know . . .”

“Thanks, Jazz,” said Annie. “What’ve you got for us?”

Jazz sat down in Doug Wilson’s empty chair. “We’re still waiting for the DNA results to process,” she began, “but it looks as if there were three distinct samples of seminal fluid in the girl’s body. All secretors.”

Annie’s jaw tightened. Three. The magic number. Gang bang. It was three men who had tried to rape her once. She flashed on the image of the naked girl being assailed from all sides, in all orifices, by three men turned to animals by lust. Maybe they had jobs, families, loved their mothers, but that night, whether under the influence of drugs or not, they had become inhuman, bestial, and had violated and humiliated a vulnerable young girl.

“How can you tell how many there were if they were all mixed up?” she asked.

“We have our little secrets. You use Y-STR to separate them. The Y chromosome. The male line. And STR means short tandem repeats. They’re—”

Annie held her hand up. “All right, all right. Sorry I asked. You’ve blinded me with science.”

“That didn’t take long.”

“Three men, you say? Christ.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Jazz, as if reading Annie’s thoughts. “What can I say? I only deliver the news. I should have DNA profiles before the end of the day, then at least we can check them against the database.”

“They won’t be there,” said Annie. “They never are.”

“Don’t be so negative. At least we’ve got three shots this time.”

“True. Anything else?”