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reached a dead end. No witnesses from the cafeteria or garage. Nothing.”
    “The MO is different, too,” Annie pointed out.
    “Yes,” said Gristhorpe. “Jennifer Clewes was shot, not stabbed, and she wasn’t sexually interfered with, at least not asfar as we know. But you think there could be some connection, DC Jackman?”
    “Well, sir,” mused Winsome, “there are some similarities: stopping at the services, being forced off the road, a young woman. There could be any number of reasons why he didn’t assault her this time, and he could certainly have acquired a gun since his last murder. Maybe he didn’t enjoy stabbing. Maybe it was just a bit too up-close-and-personal for him.”
    “Okay,” said Gristhorpe. “Good work. We’ll keep an open mind. Last thing we want is to let a serial killer slip through our hands because we don’t see the connection. I take it you’ll be activating HOLMES?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Winsome. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System was an essential tool in any major investigation. Every scrap of information was entered into the computer and connections were made in ways even a trained officer might easily miss.
    “Good.” Gristhorpe stood up. “Okay. Any –”
    There was a knock at the door and Gristhorpe called out, “Come in.”
    Dr. Wendy Gauge, Dr. Glendenning’s new and enigmatic assistant stood there, looking as composed as ever, that mysterious, self-contained smile lingering around her lips the way it always did, even when she was bent over a corpse on the table. Rumour had it that Dr. Gauge was being groomed as Glendenning’s successor when the old man retired, and Annie had to admit that she was good.
    “Yes?” said Gristhorpe.
    Wendy Gauge moved forward. “I’ve just come from the mortuary,” she said. “We were removing the victim’s clothing and I found this in her back pocket.” She handed over a slip of lined paper, clearly torn from a notebook of some sort, whichshe had thoughtfully placed in a transparent plastic folder. “Her killer must have taken everything else from the car,” Dr. Gauge went on, “but…well…her jeans were very tight and she was…you know…sitting on it.”
    Annie could have sworn Dr. Gauge blushed.
    Gristhorpe examined the slip of paper first, then frowned and slid it down the table for the others to see.
    Annie could hardly believe her eyes, but there, scrawled in blue ink and followed by directions from the A1(M) and a crude map of Helmthorpe, was a\ name and address:
     
    Alan Banks
    Newhope Cottage
    Beckside Lane
    Gratly, near Helmthorpe
    North Yorkshire
     

    By the time his colleagues back in Eastvale were speculating as to what his name and address were doing in a murder victim’s back pocket, Banks was in London, making his way through the early Saturday afternoon traffic, past the posh restaurants and Maserati showrooms, towards his brother Roy’s South Kensington house, just east of the Gloucester Road. It was years since he had driven in London, and the roads seemed more crowded than ever.
    He had never seen where Roy lived before, he realized, as he drove under the narrow brick arch and parked in the broad cobbled mews. He got out and looked at the whitewashed brick exterior of the house with its integral garage next to the front door and a mullioned bay window above. It didn’t look big, but that didn’t matter these days. A house like this, in thislocation, would probably fetch 800 K or more on today’s market, Banks reckoned, maybe even a million, and 100 K of that you’d be paying for the privilege of having the word “mews” in your address.
    All the houses stood cheek by jowl, but each was different in some detail – height, facade, style of windows, garage doors, wrought-iron balconies – and the overall effect was of quiet, almost rural charm, a nook hidden away from the hurly-burly that was literally just around the corner. There were houses on all three sides of the cul-de-sac, and