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large Victorian semi overlooking a recreation ground cum park and I could glimpse open water, probably a reservoir, in the distance. The road had been closed, except for access to residents, but was virtually blocked by police and associated vehicles anyway.
    During the drive over Greenway had told me that Pangborne, real name either Horovic or Larovic – nothing about the woman was certain – had been born in the north of Serbia in the late sixties. Seemingly either abandoned by her parents or an orphan she had been raised by nuns, eventually leaving the convent to work as a waitress at an hotel. She and a junior chef had almost immediately run off together and started a life of crime, earning the nickname The Mad Wolves as they had tended to carry out raids, holding up filling stations and other retail outlets that were open during the night. Others joined them, all who tried to stand in their path were ruthlessly gunned down.
    Life had gone on like that for some years but when the country was in turmoil and at war the gang had split up and gone their separate ways. Pangborne had by then rid herself of her partner in crime, by shooting him dead, having met more wealthy and organized criminals, one of whom, Jethro Hulton, she lived with. She never lost her taste for killing. Hulton was thought to be the eight-year-old girl’s father.
    The Commander lifted up a section of incident tape so I could duck beneath it and said, ‘Obviously the bodies have been taken away now but you can get the gist of what happened.’
    I said, ‘May I first see where Patrick was found?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    Greenway then had to show his ID and explain who I was: clearly, the Met was running this side of things. We went down a path between the buildings that ran down the side of the house, walking carefully as there had been overnight frost and there were icy patches, emerging in a wider lane at right angles to it that gave access to garages sited at the ends of the gardens. A small area at one side had been cordoned off with more tape, the ground covered in dumped and mostly rotten grass cuttings and other garden refuse. There was a hollow of sorts in the heap.
    â€˜There,’ Greenway said. ‘He probably passed out.’
    There was nothing for us to see here and we started to walk back. I said, ‘Have you ever had any experience of truth drug?’
    â€˜I’ve never come across anyone wandering around with it in their veins but from what I can remember of training I was told it makes you feel hellishly sick and a complete zombie. Have you?’
    â€˜We had to experience all kinds of horrible things during training for MI5. You tend to lose inhibitions and that makes some people friendly and chatty although most retain self-control. You become more suggestible but less wilful. High doses can render people unconscious which is obviously what happened to Patrick, but mostly, you just want to go to sleep. And you’re saying he killed and injured several people despite having had a skinful of the stuff?’
    â€˜I did tell you that he wasn’t under arrest. How did Patrick behave during training?’
    â€˜Although tending to yarn endlessly about his army days and sing his self-control remained in charge. As I’ve already said, he was a bad subject. He’s a good liar – you have to be for undercover work.’
    â€˜Doesn’t that make you feel a bit uncomfortable?’
    â€˜We’re talking about work,’ I retorted. ‘He doesn’t lie in his private life.’
    Greenway spread his large hands in a gesture of peace. ‘Sorry. What about when he’s had a drop too much of his favourite single malt?’
    â€˜Maudlin, soppy and in love with the whole world,’ I replied.
    â€˜Um,’ was Greenway’s only response to this. ‘But he still must have told them he was an undercover cop or whoever it was wouldn’t have said he was