“Plenty,” she couldn’t restrain herself from saying lightly. She decided he didn’t deserve an explanation. And he’d only laugh even more derisively if she told him she was a detective constable. He’d always affected a disdain for the conventional, the conservative, the mundane. He’d projected a bohemian image, perpetually surprised and disconcerted to find himself in a classroom. No, she’d stay in the character she’d assumed, the better to torment him. “The financial reward is much better than anything you could get from teaching. And, honestly, there’s not a lot you can do with a degree in English, is there, sir?” She regretted that the automatic “sir” had slipped out.

“Honestly?” he spoke with emphasis. “No, I suppose not. You chose the dishonest and lazy option, I see. Don’t you want to know where I’m taking you?”

She didn’t answer, but she was quite certain she knew. She would have to brace herself for an uncomfortable scene when they got there. He wasn’t taking her home. He had no way of knowing about the flat she shared in the city-he was heading out to the country to one of the villages ten miles away to the southwest. To her mother’s house at Shepton. He was going to dump her on her mother’s doorstep again just as he had ten years ago. And deliver another telling-off.

Then it had been a gentle finger-wagging: “Afraid your daughter’s had a little too much to drink at the disco, Mrs. Kenton. I’m sure you’ll find the right words to say to her… when she’s sober enough to hear them, of course. We wouldn’t want this to happen again, would we?”

And this time what would he come up with? “Found your daughter selling her body on the streets, Mrs. Kenton. I’m sure you’ll find the words to discourage further excursions into immorality.”

Chris suppressed a giggle. Her mother was smart. She’d take the situation in at once, feel embarrassed for his mistake, make all the right conversational noises, and the upshot would be the same as last time. When he’d refused her polite offer of a cup of tea and left, she and her mum would stand in the hall, eyeing each other until they heard the sound of his car moving off and they’d fall about laughing.

He enjoyed her silence and then said: “I think you’ve guessed.”

He put his foot on the accelerator, sliding neatly between lorries heading for the motorway, then, at the last moment, he nipped down a sidestreet, turned, and reentered the traffic flow in the opposite direction. “Turn on a sixpence, these cabs,” he announced cheerfully. “I shall never drive anything else. You can get them for a song, you know, at the London car auctions. Change of seating arrangements essential, of course.” He cast a satisfied glance at the passenger seat with its leather upholstery. “Rather unfriendly to carry people about in the back. And a quick change of license plates and you’re anonymous. Never get stopped by the Plod.” He cleared his throat. “Change of plan,” he added. “I’ve decided what to do with you.”

“Whatever it is, this is kidnapping. You are holding me here against my will and I have given you due warning.” She was proud of the firmness of her tone.

Her abductor was less impressed, apparently. “Who’s going to listen to the bleatings of a common prostitute? Come off it! Occupational necessity, isn’t it? Getting into cars with men? But this is your lucky day. I came along quite by chance and I may even be able to save you from a lifetime of sin. Who knows? Life’s too short and too precious to spend it in the gutter.” He flashed another cold glance. “On drugs, are you? No? Surprised but pleased to hear that. You’re not too far gone. You look as though there might still be time to save you from yourself, as they say.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “Remember Henry IV?

“Dial? Hour? Death?” The words tolled like a funeral knell in her head and Chris felt a trickle of cold horror creep along her spine.

For the first time since he’d picked her up, it occurred to her to wonder what business he could possibly have, driving down Eastern Avenue through the red-light district. Sick in her heart, she realised that this man whom she had always mistrusted was not taking her home to her mother in Shepton as she had naively assumed. He seemed to have other plans for her.

The detective inspector was trying to keep the lid on the pot of bubbling emotions. “That’s enough, Shantelle! Er… Sarah! Not your fault. When Nature calls and all that… Not one hundred percent your fault… let’s say forty-nine. Fifty-one for Chris. Why the hell didn’t she put up a fight or get off a scream? She’s always ready enough to have a go at me… Something not right here… Get me the replays up on screen. We’ll take another gander. Where’s that cab got to? You’re joking! Hell! He’s given us the slip? Anyone traced the number? A London-registered cab?” He groaned. “A poacher! That’s all we need! Now we’ll have the Met swarming all over our patch! Track ‘im! He’s most likely on the M11 by now, heading south.”

An exclamation of dismay from the redhead distracted him.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sarah! Look, love, do us all a favour, will you, and stop blubbing! Go home. Take the rest of the shift off. After you’ve made your statement. Go back to the station… you’re in no fit state… is there a squad car around? Get a lift back, love…” He paused and added awkwardly, seeing her shoulders shake: “Try not to worry! She’ll be all right. Tough girl, DC Kenton. Go and put some clothes on-that’ll make you feel better.”

The inspector waved her away. The sympathetic eyes of the rest of the squad followed her as, white-faced and suddenly awkward, Sarah slipped a pink cardigan over her bare shoulders and stumbled out of the office in her sparkling high heels.

“Now where are you going? I’m getting fed up with this!”

“You know where. But first, we’re going to drive around for a bit. Get to know each other again. I want to hear your story, Chris. Find out what led you into this disgusting mess. Try to understand. You may not have guessed it, but you were always one of my favourite students. Not the cleverest-but the most individual.”

“You disguised your esteem pretty well,” she said, unbelieving.

“I’m good at disguise,” he reminded her.

They drove out into the country, past the fruit farms. They passed a signpost to the left: Shepton 6 miles Foxfield 6 miles .

“Your neck of the woods, if I remember rightly?” he commented.

He drove straight on. “I thought we’d go via Grantchester.” Suddenly he was speaking with the heavy kindliness of an uncle proposing an outing. “Such a beautiful village. All of England is there, I always think. Now, if one were dying, these are the images one would want to carry with one, wouldn’t you agree?”

“One would agree,” she replied, determined to be tiresome.

“I’d want to say goodbye with, imprinted on my mind’s eye, meadows full of silvery moon pennies, chestnut trees, swans preening on mysterious dark stretches of river, and… and… here it comes now! The church! Check the time, Chris-I don’t want to take my eyes off the road… tricky bend coming up… wouldn’t be much fun if we both ended up splattered on the churchyard wall, would it? But it wouldn’t be bad to be hearing the words of Rupert Brooke as one expired, either… What was it he said?