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results of the post-mortem.’
    ‘Is it true that Mrs Farrell was the subject of a sex attack?’ Bulldog knew his job. Lob in a question based on simple guesswork and with any luck you could stir up an uproar which might just lead to the dropping of a little gem.
    ‘Any such rumours are purely speculation,’ Swift said.
    ‘OK, but this killing is sounding a bit like one we had last year in the area. A middle-aged woman stabbed in the living-room of her home by an intruder. Do you think there’s a connection?’
    ‘I can’t comment on that at this stage.’
    ‘If there is a similarity, will you be liaising with the team who worked on that death?’ Bulldog wasn’t for letting go.
    Swift would not be drawn. ‘If we find any connection, we will, of course, make contact with the team conducting that investigation.’
    ‘That investigation has been a bit of a damp squib, hasn’t it?One or two arrested, but no one charged. It doesn’t give the local people much confidence …’ Bulldog buttoned his lip, his point made.
    Swift gave an internal sigh. He knew the Bulldog would be slipping a few broadsides into his article, drawing attention to the disappointing performance of the police in a similar murder investigation to the one recently committed. ‘I think we need to concentrate on the death of Moira Farrell,’ he said. His glance moved away from Bulldog and swept the audience. ‘Can we move on please?’
    A woman reporter wearing a bright red jacket, put her hand up.
    ‘Any suspects yet, Chief Inspector Swift?
    ‘Not as yet.’
    ‘Any leads?’
    ‘We’re exploring all the relevant avenues.’ Swift was aware of sounding like a pre-programmed robot.
    ‘Motive?’ Red jacket was beginning to look a little smug.
    Swift imagined her tapping out an article subtly castigating his team for not coming up with very much during the precious twenty-four, so-called golden hours, of a murder investigation. ‘We don’t yet have a specific motive.’
    There were further attempts to discover details of the killer’s modus operandi, the inevitable demands to know how soon a suspect might be named. Unruffled and firm, Swift parried each one.
    And then a young woman on the second row jumped up to speak. She was tiny, wearing battered biker’s leathers, her short black hair sticking out in all directions. ‘Dr Farrell worked in the gynaecology department at the hospital, didn’t she? I’ve heard that there’ve been some difficulties in that section. Staff at each other’s throats, daggers drawn.’
    Swift felt a tingle of instinct run down his spine. The listening audience drew in a collective breath of tension. ‘And your question is?’ He levelled a steady gaze at the woman. She looked no more than a girl, hardly out of her teens.
    ‘No question, Chief Inspector. Just a thought to kick-start your 38 investigation.’
    The audience was emitting a bumblebee buzz. All eyes were now on the girl, who sat down, her cat-like features mainly unreadable, although Swift sensed a manipulative gleam of triumph in her eyes.
    ‘Rather than indulging in what is simply speculation,’ he responded, ‘I’d like to remind all of you present that we shall be appealing to the general public to help us by coming forward to talk to us if they saw anyone outside Dr Farrell’s house in the early hours of yesterday morning, between five-thirty and around six o’clock. This was a sudden and vicious attack on a defenceless woman. The killer is dangerous, so if any members of this group, or anyone else hearing this appeal have any information, however insignificant it might seem, we would invite them to contact us. We will, naturally, promise complete confidentiality.’
    Judging it time to wind things up he glanced at the deputy chief constable, who instantly took the hint, rising to his feet. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Ladies. Thank you all for your time.’
     
    Watching Swift advance across the car-park, Doug fired the engine of