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young girl before showing his ID and asking to see Annie Lees.
    The sergeant's face creased into a grin. 'What, has she been fare-dodging now, then?' he asked.
    Wright smiled coldly. 'She's a witness in a murder investigation,' he said.
    The sergeant's grin vanished. 'I know that, son. I was just pulling your leg.'
    The door opened behind Wright and Reid joined him at the counter. From somewhere he'd managed to buy a portion of fish and chips. 'Hello, Reg,' said Reid, shoving a chip into his mouth.
    'Bloody hell, Tommy Reid,' said the sergeant. 'What've you been doing with yourself?'
    Reid offered his fish and chips and the sergeant helped himself to a handful of chips. Reid gestured at the fish and the sergeant broke off a piece. 'Same old rubbish,' said Reid. 'I thought you'd retired.' v 'Next year. You on this murder enquiry?'
    Reid pushed a chunk of fried cod into his mouth and nodded.
    'I'll let you in,' said the sergeant. He disappeared from behind the counter and unlocked a side door. Reid and Wright went inside. 'Second interview room on the right,' said the sergeant.
    Annie Lees was sitting at a table, her hands cupped around a mug of weak tea. She looked up as the two detectives walked into the room. 'Where are my things?' she snapped.
    Wright stopped in his tracks. 'I'm sorry?'
    'My things. They said I could have my things.' She scrutinised Reid with wary eyes. 'What's that you're eating?'
    'Fish and chips. Want some?' Reid put what was left of his meal on the table and wiped his hands on his coat.
    The old woman picked up a chip between her first finger and thumb and inspected it closely before taking a bite.
    'Annie, did you see anyone near the tunnel?' asked Wright.
    The old woman's eyes narrowed. 'What tunnel?'
    Wright sat down opposite her. 'The tunnel where you found the body.'
    She averted her eyes and concentrated on selecting the best chips. She ate several more before speaking. 'I've already told that other detective everything.'
    'Other detective? What other detective?'
    'Gerry. He's such a nice young man, isn't he?'
    'Gerry Hunter?'
    'Inspector Gerry Hunter,' she said, stressing the title.
    'He's very young to be an inspector, isn't he? Are you an inspector?'
    Wright's jaw tensed. 'No,' he said. 'I'm not an inspector.'
    Dean Burrow was bored out of his skull, but the three women sitting opposite him would never have known. Burrow had smiled his way through more than a decade of television interviews, rubber chicken dinners and factory* openings. He'd perfected the technique with the aid of a style coach, the same woman who'd shown him how to walk with authority, how to shake hands sincerely, how to show concern and sympathy when the occasion warranted. He smiled and from time to time he nodded to show that he agreed with them, giving them all equal eye contact so that none of them would feel slighted. They'd wanted to talk to him about abortion, a subject close to Burrow's heart, and they represented a group of more than five hundred churchgoing middle-aged women from Burrow's home state. Five hundred votes was worth ^twenty minutes of anybody's time.
    Burrow had been consistent on his views on abortion. In public he was against it; in private he thought it was a necessary evil: his own wife had had an abortion soon after they'd married, and his former secretary had been persuaded to have one three years ago. Both women had agreed to the abortions for'financial reasons his wife because they were struggling to meet the payments on their first house; his secretary because he'd paid her fifty thousand dollars. She wasn't his secretary any more; she'd opened her own beauty salon in Cleveland and Burrow remained convinced that she'd deliberately become pregnant in the first place. Burrow wondered what his three visitors would do if they discovered that their pro-life senator was responsible for two aborted fetuses.
    The woman who'd been doing most of the talking, a stick-thin black woman with swept-back hair