"Anyway, she's with the firm of Ford, Reeves and Mitchell." Blackstone gave an address on Park Square. "That help?"

"Very much," said Annie. "It even sounds familiar. Would that be Julia Ford's practice?"

"Indeed it would," said Blackstone.

Julia Ford was a hotshot solicitor who specialized in high-profile criminal cases. Annie had seen her name and picture in the newspapers from time to time, though they had never met. "Thanks, Ken," she said.

"My pleasure. And don't be a stranger."

"I won't."

"Say hello to Alan from me, and ask him to give me a ring when he has time."

"I'll do that," said Annie, not at all sure as to when she would get the chance. "Bye." She ended the call and concentrated on the road. They were coming to the eastern edge of Leeds, where the tangle of roads and motorways merging and splitting almost rivalled Birmingham's Spaghetti Junction. Annie followed the signs to the city centre as best she could and, with Ginger's help, ended up completely lost. Eventually, they found a car park near the back of City Station and, with only some vague idea of where they were, left the Astra there and walked the rest of the way. It was easy enough when they got to City Square, with its old post office turned into a restaurant, the statue of the Black Prince and torch-bearing nymphs, and a pedestrian area where people sat at tables eating and drinking when the weather was good. Even today, one or two brave souls had ventured out into the open.

They walked along Wellington Street for a short distance, then turned up King Street and made their way over to Park Square. The buildings were mostly Georgian, and the solicitors' offices hadn't been modernized that much inside. A receptionist sat clicking away at her computer in the high-ceilinged entrance hall and asked them what they wanted.

"We'd like to see Constance Wells, please," Annie said, showing her warrant card.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I'm afraid not."

She picked up her telephone. "Let me see if Ms. Wells is available right now. Please take a seat." She gestured towards the L-shaped sofa with the table of magazines. Annie and Ginger looked at one another, then sat. Annie picked up Hello! and Ginger went for Practical Mechanics. They hadn't got very far when the receptionist called out. "She says she can see you in ten minutes, if you'd care to wait?"

"Of course," said Annie. "Thank you."

"Probably just sitting twiddling her thumbs making us wait," said Ginger.

"Or twiddling something else," Annie added.

Ginger laughed, a deep guffaw. The receptionist glared at her, then went back to her computer. The time passed quickly enough, and Annie was just about to find out the secrets of the latest megastar divorce settlement when the receptionist's phone buzzed and she directed them towards the first office at the top of the stairs.

Constance Wells appeared lost behind the huge desk. She was a petite woman with wispy dark curls, probably somewhere in her mid-thirties, Annie guessed. Filing cabinets and bookcases rested against the walls, and her window looked out over the square. A framed illustration of a scene from Hansel and Gretel hung on one wall. Annie admired the delicate colours and fluid lines. It was quality work. A couple of hard-backed chairs had been placed before the desk. "Please," she said, gesturing. "Sit down. How can I help you?"

"Karen Drew," Annie said.

Constance Wells blinked once. "Yes?"

"She's dead."

"Oh, I..."

"I'm sorry to be so abrupt," said Annie, "but it's why we're here. Karen Drew's death. Murder, rather. It raises a few questions."

Constance put her hand to her chest. "I do apologize," she said. "You took me quite by surprise. I'm not used to such things. Murder, you said?"

"Yes. Karen was murdered yesterday morning on the coast not far from Mapston Hall. Someone took her for a walk and didn't bring her back."

"But...who?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," said Annie. "So far we're not having a lot of luck."

"Well, I don't see how I can help you."

Annie turned to Ginger. "That's what everyone says, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Ginger. "Quite frankly, I'm getting sick of it myself."

"I can't help that," said Constance Wells. "It happens to be true."

"We understand that you're her solicitor and that, among other things, you handled the sale of her house."

"Yes."

"An address would help, for a start."

Constance Wells managed a tight smile. "I think I can help you with that," she said, walking over to a cabinet. She was wearing a green pastel skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse with a ruffled front. She opened a drawer, extracted a file and gave them an address. "I can't really see how that will help you, though," she said, sitting down again.

"It's a start. Can you tell us anything else about her?"

"As Ms. Drew's solicitor," Constance said, "all communications between us are strictly privileged."

"Ms. Wells, you don't seem to understand. Karen Drew is dead. Someone slit her throat from ear to ear."

Constance Wells turned pale. "Oh...you..."

"I'm sorry if I shocked you," said Annie. "But believe me, it nearly shocked me right out of my breakfast." She hadn't had any breakfast yesterday, she remembered, having flown from Eric's flat like a bat out of hell, but Constance Wells wasn't to know that.

"Yes, well, I...look, I really can't help you. I'm bound by...I only acted for Karen in her business affairs, the house sale, but I think you should...would you excuse me for a moment?"

She got up and dashed out of the office. Annie and Ginger stared at one another.

"What's with her?" Ginger said. "Off to be sick? Taken short?"

"No idea," said Annie. "Interesting reaction, though."

"Very. What do we do?"

"We wait."

It was almost five minutes before Constance Wells came back, and by then she seemed more composed. Ginger had stayed in her chair, but Annie was standing by the window looking down on Park Square, people watching. She turned when she heard the door open.

"I'm sorry," said Constance. "I suppose that was rude of me, but it's, well, it's all rather unusual."

"What is?" Annie asked.

"Karen's case. Look, Julia, that's Ms. Ford, one of our senior partners, would like to see you. Can you spare her a few moments?"

Annie and Ginger exchanged another glance. "Can we?" Annie said. "Oh, I think so, don't you, DC Baker?" And they followed Constance down the corridor.

5.

Templeton hated grotty old pubs like the Fountain. They were full of losers and tossers drowning their sorrows, and an atmosphere of failure hung in the air along with the stale smoke and ale. Just being in such a place made him cringe. Give him a modern bar, chrome and plastic seating, pastel walls and subdued lighting, even if the beer did come in bottles and the music was too loud. At least he didn't walk out smelling like a tramp.

The place was almost empty at three in the afternoon, only a few pathetic diehards with no lives worth living slobbering over their warm pints. A young man in jeans and a grey sweatshirt, shaved head and black-rimmed spectacles, stood at the bar polishing glasses. They still looked dirty when he'd finished.

"You the landlord?" Templeton asked, flashing his warrant card.

"Me? You must be joking," the man said. He had a Geordie accent. Templeton hated Geordie accents, and he heard far too many of them around Eastvale. "The landlord's away in Florida, like he is most of the time. I don't think he's set foot in the place more than twice since he bought it."

"What's your name?"

"Jamie Murdoch."

"Manager, then?"

"For my sins."

"You look too young."

"And you look too young to be a detective."

"I'm a quick study."

"Must be."

"Anyway, much as I love a bit of banter, I've got a few questions for you about Saturday night."

"Yeah?"

"Who was working?"

"I was."

"Just you."

"Aye. Jill called in sick, and we couldn't get anyone else at short notice."

"That must have been fun, on your own on a Saturday night?"

"Hilarious. Anyway, it happens often enough. This about the poor wee lassie who got killed?"

"That's right."

He shook his head. "A tragedy."

"Did you serve her?"

"Look, if you're asking me were her and her friends intoxicated, they might have had a few, but there was no way they were so drunk I would have refused to serve them."

"Do you know they got kicked out of the Trumpeter's before they came here?"

"No, I didn't. They must have been rowdy or something. They were well behaved enough here. It was the end of the evening. Things were winding down. It wasn't them causing the trouble."

"But someone was?"

"Isn't someone always?"

"Tell me about it."

"Nothing much to tell, really." Murdoch picked up another glass from the dish rack and started drying it with the tea towel. "It was Saturday night, wasn't it? St. Patrick's Day, too. There always seems to be something, even on a normal Saturday. You get used to it. Didn't Elton John have a song about it? 'Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting'?"

"Don't know that one," said Templeton. "And this time?"

"Gang of yobs from Lyndgarth got into a barney with some students in the pool room. Eastvale's version of town and gown. It came to nothing. Lot of sound and fury signifying nothing."

"Where'd you get that line from?"

"It's Shakespeare. Macbeth."

"Go to college, do you?"

"I've been."

"So, tell me, an educated lad like you, how does he end up working in a dive like this?"

"Just lucky, I suppose." Murdoch shrugged. "It's all right. There are worse places."

"So back to Saturday night. You're here behind the bar all alone, you've just calmed down a fracas. What happens next?"

"The Lyndgarth lot left and the girl and her friends came in. They knew some of the other students, so some of them started playing pool and the rest just sat around chatting."

"No incidents?"

"No incidents. That was earlier."

"The fracas?"

"And the vandalism."

"What vandalism?"