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out the funeral party after Woodley’s. If they don’t know the victim then Marty Stapleton is right in the frame along with Reggie Thomas and the rest of Woodley’s scumbag crew. Trueman’s circulating pictures of the victim to all units asking for any sightings of her in and around the area where Woodley was attacked, and at the hospital and the marshes. He’s also sent the video over to the video-enhancement unit for close-up shots of the victim. I’ve told him I want a frame-by-frame analysis of every toerag who attended Woodley’s funeral. I want to know if one of them so much as glanced in the victim’s direction. If a fly landed on Maureen Sholby’s big tits yesterday I want to see it rubbing its legs and its eyes bulging with glee. Marsden’s taking over here. He’s on his way.’
    Horton climbed on his Harley and headed back to the station, where no doubt Agent Eames would be waiting for him in the incident suite. Within ten minutes he had parked the Harley and was about to step inside the rear entrance when an attractive blonde woman in her early thirties hailed him.
    ‘Inspector Horton?’ she asked in an educated voice that Cantelli would have called posh.
    ‘Yes,’ he answered cagily while rapidly trying to place her. Swiftly he took in her navy blue trousers and striped blue and white blouse. She was carrying a short cream casual jacket. She didn’t look like a social worker but she could be a lawyer, which was worse. No handbag or briefcase, though. Her fair hair was cut short and styled around a clear-skinned fair face with a hint of make-up. And her eyes were confident and a very deep blue.
    ‘I’m Agent Eames. I’ve been assigned to assist in the investigation.’
    Horton took the proffered hand not bothering to disguise his surprise. Uckfield was in for one too. Her grip was firm and her eye contact steady.
    Crisply she continued. ‘I’ve got the photographs of the victim from Sergeant Trueman and the address of Amelia Willard’s next of kin from DC Walters: Patricia and Gregory Harlow, 42 Bunyon Road.’
    ‘Then what are we waiting for?’
    She eyed the helmet in his hand and his leather Harley Davidson jacket with a slight frown.
    ‘Do you have a car, Eames?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Pity,’ he muttered, and catching her smile followed her towards it.

THREE
    ‘I don’t remember seeing a woman of that description at my aunt’s funeral,’ Patricia Harlow announced brusquely, after Horton had made the introductions. They were standing in the scrupulously clean and methodically organized podiatry surgery in the front room of the 1930s bay and forecourt house. It smelt of disinfectant. The news of a brutal murder seemed to have had little effect on the squat, square-faced woman in front of Horton. Normally such news as he’d brought would have triggered a barrage of questions, or at least a muttering of concern and sympathy, but Patricia Harlow in the short white overall and dark trousers seemed more concerned about sweeping up her previous clients’ nail clippings with the long-handled dustpan and brush. He had difficulty putting an age to her. The deep lines either side of her discontented mouth and the two smaller ones etched between her eyebrows made her appear more early fifties than late forties but he could be widely off the mark.
    She’d kept them waiting for ten minutes, while attending to a client, and her next one, an elderly lady with softly curled grey hair and lively eyes, was waiting in the hallway outside, no doubt straining her ears for any gossip after she’d heard him announce who they were. A fan whirred gently in the far corner by the window but it did little to dispel the heat and only seemed to waft the disinfectant around.
    At a nod from Horton, Eames pulled out the photograph Trueman had given her. ‘Perhaps if you’d just take a look,’ she said politely.
    With an irritable sigh Patricia Harlow relinquished the dustpan and brush and snatched at the