“I’m sorry,” Annie said. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

“That’s all right. And I’m secretly flattered that you still think I’m a contender.”

Annie tapped him on the arm. “I’m sure you are,” she said. “But I’m bloody starving, so how about we skip that other drink here and have one when we get where we’re going? Does your offer still stand?”

“The West End awaits us,” said Brooke.

“Any chance we can go via South Kensington?”

It was late Saturday night, Kev Templeton thought gloomily, and he was supposed to be shagging that gorgeous new redheaded clerk in Records, the one with the big tits and legs right up to her arse, but instead he was driving up the M1 in rain so heavy that his windscreen wipers could barely keep up with it.

Still, this was the next-best thing, he told himself, if not even better. The thrill of the chase. Well, not exactly a chase, but at least he was out of the office, on the road, tracking down a lead, driving through the night. This was the life. This was what he had joined the force for. Water cascaded from the windows, lightning streaked across the sky and he could hear the thunder even over the Chemical Brothers CD he was playing at earsplitting volume.

He knew they didn’t take him seriously back at headquarters, just because he was young and took a bit of pride in his appearance. They all thought he was some sort of club-crazy dandy. Well, he liked clubbing, and he liked to look good, but there was more to him than that. One day, he’d show them all. He’d pass his boards and rise up the ranks like a meteor.

Who did they think they were, anyway? Gristhorpe was due to retire any moment now, and he hadn’t done any real detecting in years, if ever. Banks was good, but he wasn’t a team player and he seemed to be quickly writing himself out of the script due to personal problems. Annie Cabbot wasn’t as shit-hot as she thought she was. Too emotional, Kev thought, like she was always on the rag. The only one that really scared him was Winsome. Awesome, as he called her secretly. She’d go far. He could see her as his sidekick when he made superintendent. Could see shagging her, too. Just the thought of it made him sweat. Those thighs.

He had first driven nonstop to the end of the motorway, then turned around, hitting Toddington and Newport Pagnell service stations on the northbound M1 already, showing Jennifer Clewes’s photo around without any success. He hadn’t eaten at either of the first two service stations – and now, as he approached Watford Gap, it was going on for midnight and he was feeling peckish. Needed a piss, too. He might as well stop there at the Road Chef. From what he had learned over the years, motorway cafés were all overpriced, and there wasn’t much to choose between them.

All the roadside cafés seemed to have a slightly seedy aura at that time of night, Templeton thought; or maybe Watford Gap services were always like that. It was something to do with the lighting and the clientele. Not many nice middle-class families on the road at that hour. Not many old folks, either. Most of them, with the odd exception of a commercial traveler or a businessman on his way home from a late meeting, looked like villains. You probably wouldn’t go far wrong, Templeton thought, if you made the occasional swoop on motorway cafés. Bound to net a few faces from the “Wanted” posters, at any rate. Maybe he’d pass on the idea to the brass. Then again, maybe not. They’d only steal the credit themselves.

A man came into the toilet and stood next to Templeton at the urinal, though there was plenty of free space elsewhere. When he started to open a conversation – the usual line about big knobs hanging out – Templeton zipped up, whipped out his warrant card and shoved it in the man’s face so hard he staggered back and lost directional control, pissing all over his shoes and trouser bottoms. “Fuck off, pervert,” Templeton said. “And think yourself bloody lucky I can’t be bothered to arrest you for soliciting. On your bike. Now!” Templeton clapped once, loudly.

The man turned pale. His hands shook as he zipped himself up and, without even pausing to wash his hands, ran for the door. Templeton washed his hands with soap under hot water for thirty seconds exactly. He hated poofters, and as far as he was concerned they’d made a bloody big mistake when they made homosexuality legal all those years ago. Opened the floodgates, they did, just as they did with immigration. As far as he was concerned, the government should send all the poofters to jail and all foreigners back home – except Winsome, of course; she could stay.

Up in the restaurant, Templeton ordered a cup of tea and sausage, eggs and beans, figuring you can’t go wrong with something as basic as that, and carried his tray to the first empty table he saw, trying to ignore the smears of ketchup on the surface. The eggs were overcooked and the tea was stewed, but other than that the meal wasn’t too bad. Templeton tucked in with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

When he had finished, he went up to the counter and spoke to the young Asian lad who worked there. His name tag identified him as Ali.

“Were you working here last night about this time?”

“I was here,” said Ali. “Sometimes it feels like I’m always bloody here.”

“I’ll bet it does,” said Templeton, pulling the photo of Jennifer Clewes from his briefcase. “By the way, I’m DC Templeton, North Yorkshire Major Crimes. Did you happen to see this woman in here?”

“Bloody hell, is she dead?” Ali asked, paling. “I’ve never seen a dead person before.”

“The question is: Did you see her?”

“What happened to her?”

Templeton sighed theatrically. “Look, Ali, we’ll get along a lot better if I ask the questions and you answer them, all right?” he said.

“Yeah. All right. Let’s have a look, then.” Ali reached out his hand, but Templeton held on to the photograph, keeping it just within his field of vision. He didn’t want Ali’s greasy fingerprints all over it.

Ali screwed up his eyes and looked at the photo longer than Templeton thought he needed to, then said, “Yeah, she was in here last night. Sat over there.” He pointed to a table.

“What time?”

“Can’t remember. It’s all the same when you’re on nights.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yeah. I remember thinking what’s a good-looking bird like that doing all alone on a Friday night, like.”

“Did she seem upset or frightened in any way?”

“Come again?”

“How did she behave?”

“Just normal, like. She ate her sandwich – well, half of it, at any rate. I can’t say I blame her. Those ham-and-tomatoes do get a bit soggy when they’ve been sitting-”

“Did anyone approach her at all?”

“No.”

“Speak to her?”

“No. But the bloke at the table opposite was definitely giving her the eye. Looked like a bit of a pervert to me, too.”

“What do perverts look like?” Templeton asked.

“You know. Creepy, like.”

“Right. How long did she stay?”

“Dunno. Not more than ten, fifteen minutes, I suppose. Look, aren’t you going to tell me what happened to her? She was all right when she left here.”

“Anybody follow her?”

“The bloke opposite, the pervert, went out not long after her, but I wouldn’t say he was following her. I mean, he’d finished his sausage roll. Why would he want to hang around?”

Templeton gazed over the decor. “Why, indeed?” he said.

“Most people here, they’re usually in a hurry, see. Quick turnover.”

“And no one else took an interest in the woman?”

“No.”

“She make any phone calls?”

“Not that I saw.”

“This pervert, had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“Can you describe him for me?”

“He was wearing a dark gray suit, like a businessman, wore glasses with black rims, and he had a long, jowly sort of face, with a long, thin nose. Short brown hair, light brown. Oh, yeah, and he had dandruff. Reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who. Not the dandruff, I mean, the face.”