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we have to treat Nola Cameron’s fears seriously. The unfortunate thing is that the Cameron family have been the focus of attention in that area for some years now. The oldest boy, Derrick, was accused of stabbing a white youth to death. He was sent to prison on the basis of that confession, made here in this station. Now there are doubts about the safety of that conviction.”
    Dark glances were exchanged between the men. Tennison raised her voice to cut short the rumbling murmurs.
    “A campaign led by Jonathan Phelps—Labour’s candidate in the by-election—to have Derrick’s case brought before the Court of Appeal is gaining a lot of support from all sorts of people. So . . . there’s a lot of anger and bitterness, and resentment against the police. It looks like we can rule out the present owners, so our first priority is to locate all former occupants of Number fifteen. Let’s get down there straightaway and see what information we can gather.”
    There was a general movement. Climbing to his feet, DI Burkin glanced around, a grin on his handsome, slightly battered face, the result of several bouts in the boxing ring, which made him the current holder of the south Thames Metropolitan title. “Passports at the ready, lads . . .”
    “Frank, you know that’s out of order,” Tennison snapped, wiping away his grin. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
    Silence fell. Tennison’s gaze swept around the room, her face stony. “I don’t want the Camerons—and that means aunts, uncles, all of them—interviewed at all. As far as the other residents go, remember this: if we go in there expecting aggro, start leaning on people, we’ll get it. So it’s easy does it.” She came around the desk, raising an eyebrow and softening her tone to take the sting out of her rebuke. “You’re all graduates of the Rank Charm School, right? I want a list of all former residents of the Honeyford Road area over the last ten years . ”
    Groans and muttered oaths. That kind of follow-up meant days of futile legwork, endless hours tramping the streets, knocking on doors, and getting blank stares and shaken heads. In short, a lot of hard work for minimal return.
    “I’ve asked DS Haskons to be office manager.” Tennison looked toward Muddyman, leafing through a dog-eared copy of the A to Z directory. “Tony—a name for this operation.”
    “The first N is Nadine Street, Guv.”
    “Very nice. So it’s Operation Nadine then.”
    Somebody snapped his fingers and started to sing an old Buddy Holly number “Nadine, Honey, Is That You?” and the others took it up, joining in the chorus.
    Already halfway to the door, Tennison rapped out, “Right, let’s go . . . Jonesy!”
    While the team got on with the house-to-house, Tennison, with DC Jones trailing in her wake, went down two flights to the Forensic Science labs, situated in an annex at the rear of the station. Two white-coated technicians were scooping mud from the plastic containers, mixing it with water into a thin soup, and sieving it. Any resulting fragments, even the tiniest specks, were placed on sheets of white blotter for Gold to examine later.
    Gold looked a bit pale and drawn, but his enthusiasm was undimmed, and so was his industry. He’d separated the various items of clothing and artifacts found with the body and lined them up in shallow trays on the bench. He went along, detailing his finds to Tennison, while Jones took notes.
    “I’ll get all this stuff bagged for you as soon as possible if you want Mrs. Cameron to look at it.” Gold lifted some woven material with a rubber-gloved hand. “The sweater remains—pretty color, don’t you think?” He moved along. “Bra, pants, labels, some studs from her Levi’s, Adidas sneakers, and so on. Not very helpful, I’m afraid . . .”
    One of his assistants came up, holding a small fragment in stainless steel tweezers. Gold squinted at it. “Looks like a piece of skull. Get it sent