‘Ben!’

Three faces turned towards her; the fourth slumped against the wall' oblivious to her presence' waiting for the blow that would bring him to the floor' ready for the boots to go in.

Fry began to move forward' then paused and froze' thinking furiously. She had two choices. What she ought to do was to announce herself as a police officer, call for assistance' attempt to make an arrest before Ben Cooper was too badly injured' if she could. But to do so would make Cooper's behaviour a matter of public record. He deserved a chance. Maybe no more than one chance. But a chance.

She did have a second option. It was dangerous' but if she was going to do it' she had to do it now. She ran into the alleyway' feeling the energy already pouring into her limbs' drawing in the deep breaths that expanded her lungs and quickened her muscles. The three youths turned towards her' astonished at her charge.

‘Who's that?'

‘It's a woman.'

‘She must be another copper.’

A copper!’

She could smell them in the darkness' see their shapes moving towards her through the shadows. Her brain began to flood with memories. It was the same old film that had run and rerun through her mind constantly' no sooner reaching its climactic end than it would start all over again. She felt hot and dirty' and suddenly hurting. A great rage came over her' swamping her resistance' and she badly needed something to hit out at.

The youths were grinning' even as they breathed hard through their flared nostrils and gaping mouths. They weren't taking her seriously' even though she was now within reach. One of them turned away to give a final kick at Cooper's battered body. Fry reacted. She hit him in the kidneys with a jumping lunge punch' swept his legs from under him and broke his nose with a vicious knifehand strike.

With a startled shout' a second youth came at her from the left. But he had hesitated too long, and she diverted his swinging fist with an upper forearm block. She swivelled' cracked his kneecap with a side-snap kick and knocked him out with an elbow strike to the jaw.

Then an arm closed round her throat as she was grabbed from behind. The third youth was strong and much taller and heavier than she was. The impact of his body forced her up against the wall, trapping her arms and banging her forehead on the bricks. When she was firmly pinned, her attacker shifted his grip and began to squeeze her throat. A miasma of beer fumes filled her nose and his breath pressed hot on the back of her neck. The feel of his body pushed up against hers and the smell of his sweat-soaked hands in front of her face brought back all the remembered terrors, all the black nightmares that had haunted her for over a year, the demons that gibbered and shrieked at the back of her brain every time she closed her eyes or found herself in the dark.

Now panic drove her to excess. She took a deep breath through her nose before folding suddenly forward at the waist, kicking backwards into his groin with her heel and driving her elbow hard into his solar plexus. He grunted in pain, and his grip loosened. She spun round, using a full rising block to break his grip completely. As he stumbled backwards, she aimed a spearhand strike at his exposed throat, releasing the kiai shout from her diaphragm as the technique focused on the soft target.

From the moment she launched the final blow, she knew that it would be fatal.

*

Harry hadn't expected them to take his clothes away. It was years since he had stripped naked in front of strangers. Standing in the tiny surgery in E Division Headquarters, he watched in bafflement as each item he removed was carefully bagged, labelled and sealed. First they took his cap, his suit jacket and his trousers.

Then his beautifully polished shoes and his socks. They took his shirt and even his tie. They examined each piece of clothing meticulously, feeling into the pockets and the seams with their latex-gloved hands.

The surgery smelled powerfully of disinfectant, with a faint underlying taint of old vomit. Despite the warmth, the old man shivered as his white, shrunken thighs and sinewy arms were exposed to the harsh glare of the strip lighting. The hair on his legs was grey and coarse, and there were bare white patches on his calves where the skin was as smooth as a baby's, waxy and pallid, as if it had never seen the sun.

With each layer that was stripped away, Harry retreated a little bit more into an inner remoteness. A detached calm descended over him like a series of veils that concealed his inner self, preserving and even heightening his dignity. He stared fixedly ahead, ignoring the Scenes of Crime officer and the detective who took and examined and folded his clothes. He remained completely silent, his thin lips clamped shut, uttering no protest. The detective logged every item, writing carefully on the labels as if pricing up a pile of second-hand clothes that Harry was donating for a charity shop.

Finally they made him take off his vest and his underpants. They seemed particularly interested in his Y-fronts, turning them inside out and closely inspecting the folds of the front flap for stains before sealing them away with the rest of his clothes.

When Harry was completely naked, they gave him a white waxed paper overall that felt icy cold against his bare skin and rustled as he moved. The sleeves barely covered his wrists, and the collar left his white neck and throat exposed.

They explained to him again that he was a suspect in an allegation of rape. They asked him if he was sure that he agreed to provide samples for analysis, which would help to eliminate him from enquiries. He agreed, not following the meaning of their phrases, thinking they were talking about his clothes, which already sat in a stack of plastic bags ready for the forensic laboratory. But worse was to come.

‘Have you any ailments?' asked Dr Inglefield, pulling on his disposable gloves.

Harry stared at him. 'I've had my check-up. I go to my own doctor, thanks all the same.'

‘I need to know if you have any ailments. Any skin conditions — psoriasis, eczema, herpes? Do you suffer from diabetes or haemophilia? Any sexually transmitted diseases? Hepatitis? Are you HIV-positive?'

‘I'm fit,' said Harry gruffly.

‘Are you under medication at all? Who is your GP? And you're sure you have no ailments? Nothing at all? It would be unusual in a man of your age . .

Harry shook his head.

‘Very well, then. Visual examination first.'

‘What's all this in aid of? I thought you'd just want to ask your questions.'

‘That comes later.’

They made Harry sit down while the doctor examined his head. His thin hair was combed through to obtain loose hairs, which went into small plastic bags. Then a couple of hairs were plucked out, the doctor scrutinizing them against the light to make sure the roots were still attached before dropping them into another bag. The DC attached more exhibit labels for the doctor to sign.

Harry waited stoically, giving them no further response, his face grave and dignified as if he was sitting in church waiting for a tedious sermon to be over. After a while, his manner began to affect the detective and the doctor, and they became nervous and silent as they went about their business.

Dr Inglefield produced a set of swabs like large cotton buds, which he scraped over Harry's open palms and between his fingers.

‘Open the suit, please.'

‘What's this for?'

‘I need more hair samples.’

Harry didn't move.

‘Pubic hair. Mr Dickinson?’

Very slowly, Harry stood up and unfastened the front of the paper suit. The doctor bent to examine his shrunken genitals. Again he produced the comb. He had to pull it through Harry's pubic hair several times before he was satisfied. Then, with his gloved fingers, he plucked a grey hair. Harry flinched — the first involuntary movement he had made since he had entered the surgery.