The assembled detectives muttered, “Yes, sir,” then the group they started to split up, some drifting outside for a much-needed cigarette, others settling back at their desks.

“One more thing,” said Banks. “DCs Bowmore and Singh. In my office. Now.”

After a brief meeting with Area Commander Hartnell – who definitely gave her the eye – and Banks, who seemed uncomfortable about the whole thing, DI Annie Cabbot read over PC Janet Taylor’s file as she waited in the small office assigned her. Hartnell himself had decided that as Janet Taylor was coming in voluntarily, and as she wasn’t under arrest, an office would be a far less threatening environment for the preliminary talk than a standard grungy interview room.

Annie was impressed by PC Taylor’s record. There was little doubt that she would find a place in the Accelerated Promotion Course and make the rank of inspector within five years if she was cleared of all charges. A local girl, from Pudsey, Janet Taylor had four A-levels and a degree in sociology from the University of Bristol. She was just twenty-three years old, unmarried and living alone. Janet had high scores on all her entrance exams, and in the opinions of those who had examined her she showed a clear grasp of the complexities of policing a diverse society, along with the sort of cognitive skills and problem-solving abilities that augured well for a detective. She was in good health and listed her hobbies as squash, tennis and computers. Throughout her student career she had spent her summers working for security at the White Rose Centre, in Leeds, both manning the cameras and patrolling the shopping precinct. Janet had also done voluntary community work for her local church group, helping the elderly.

All of this sounded quite dull to Annie, who grew up in an artists’ commune near St. Ives surrounded by oddballs, hippies and weirdos of all sorts. Annie had also come late to the police, and though she had a degree, it was in art history, not much use in the force, and she hadn’t got on the APC because of an incident at her previous county, when three fellow officers had attempted to rape her at a party following her promotion to sergeant. One succeeded before she had managed to fight them off. Traumatized, Annie had not reported the incident until the following morning, by which time she had spent hours in the bath washing away all evidence. The DCS had accepted the words of the three officers against hers, and while they admitted that things had got a little out of hand, with a drunken Annie leading them on, they said they had retained their control and no sexual assault had taken place.

For a long time, Annie hadn’t much cared about her career, and no one had been more surprised than she had at the rekindling of her ambition, which had meant dealing with the rape and its aftermath – more complicated and traumatic than anyone but her really knew – but it had happened, and now she was a fully fledged inspector investigating a politically dodgy case for Detective Superintendent Chambers, who was clearly scared stiff of the assignment himself.

A brief tap at the door was followed by the entry of a young woman with short black hair, which looked rather dry and lifeless. “They told me you were in here,” she said.

Annie introduced herself. “Sit down, Janet.”

Janet sat and tried to make herself comfortable on the hard chair. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night, which didn’t surprise Annie in the least. Her face was pale and there were dark semi-circles under her eyes. Perhaps beyond the ravages of sleeplessness and abject terror, Janet Taylor was an attractive young woman. She certainly had beautiful eyes, the color of loam, and the kind of cheek-bones that models hang their careers on. She also seemed a very serious person, weighed down by the gravity of life, or perhaps that was a result of recent events.

“How is he?” Janet asked.

“Who?”

“You know. Payne.”

“Still unconscious.”

“Will he survive?”

“They don’t know yet, Janet.”

“Okay. I mean, it’s just that… well, I suppose it makes a difference. You know, to my case.”

“If he dies? Yes, it does. But don’t let’s worry about that for the time being. I want you to tell me what happened in the Paynes’ cellar, then I’ll ask you a few questions. Finally, I want you to write it all down in a statement. This isn’t an interrogation, Janet. I’m sure you went through hell down in that cellar, and nobody wants to treat you like a criminal. But there are procedures to be followed in cases like this, and the sooner we get going, the better.” Annie wasn’t being entirely truthful, but she wanted to set Janet Taylor as much at ease as possible. She knew she would have to push and prod a bit, maybe even go in hard now and again. It was her interrogation technique; after all, it was often under pressure of some sort that the truth slipped out. She would play it by ear, but if she needed to badger Janet Taylor a bit, then so be it. Damn Chambers and Hartnell. If she was going to do the bloody job, she was going to do it properly.

“Don’t worry,” said Janet. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I’m sure you haven’t. Tell me about it.”

As Janet Taylor spoke, sounding rather bored and detached, as if she had been through this all too many times already, or as if she were recounting someone else’s story, Annie watched her body language. Janet shifted in her chair often, twisted her hands on her lap, and when she got to the real horror, she folded her arms and her voice became flatter, lacking expression. Annie let her go on, making notes on points she thought relevant. Janet didn’t so much come to a definite end as trail off after she said she had settled to wait for the ambulance, cradling PC Morrisey’s head on her lap and feeling the warm blood seep through on her thighs. As she spoke about this, her eyebrows rose and wrinkled the center of her forehead, and tears formed in her eyes.

Annie let the silence stretch for a while after Janet had fallen silent, then she asked if Janet would like a drink. She asked for water and Annie brought her some from the fountain. The room was hot and Annie got some for herself, too.

“Just a couple of things, Janet; then I’ll leave you alone to write your statement.”

Janet yawned. She put her hand to her mouth but didn’t apologize. Normally Annie would have taken a yawn as a sign of fear or nervousness, but Janet Taylor had good reason to be tired, so she didn’t make too much of it on this occasion.

“What were you thinking about while it was happening?” Annie asked.

“Thinking? I’m not sure I was thinking at all. Just reacting.”

“Did you remember your training?”

Janet Taylor laughed, but it was forced. “Training doesn’t prepare you for something like that.”

“What about your baton training?”

“I didn’t have to think about that. It was instinctive.”

“You were feeling threatened.”

“Damn right I was. He was killing Dennis and he was going to kill me next. He’d already killed the girl on the bed.”

“How did you know she was dead?”

“What?”

“Kimberley Myers. How did you know she was dead? You said it all happened so fast, you barely caught a glimpse of her before the attack.”

“I… I suppose I just assumed. I mean, she was lying there naked on the bed with a yellow rope around her neck. Her eyes were open. It was a reasonable assumption to make.”

“Okay,” said Annie. “So you never thought of yourself as saving her, as rescuing her?”

“No. It was what was happening to Dennis that concerned me.”

“And what you thought was going to happen to you next?”

“Yes.” Janet sipped some more water. A little of it dripped down her chin on to the front of her gray T-shirt, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“So you got your baton out. What next?”