‘Shut up!’ says the same boy, who has obviously been chosen as their spokesman because of his skill in disguising his voice. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘What will you do if I don’t – beat me up?’ I ask.

  They look at each other uncertainly.

  This is not how it should be happening, they are thinking. I am supposed to be terrified at the mere sight of them. I am supposed to be babbling and begging them for mercy.

  And, believe me, this calm front that I’m presenting is nothing but a front, behind which my inner core is already huddled in the foetal position. But I know – even as the fear engulfs me – that the worst thing I can possibly do is to show them that I’m frightened.

  ‘Look, boys, there are three of you and only one of me; in addition, you’re all armed with baseball bats, so whatever happens, you’re bound to hurt me,’ I say. ‘We all know that. But you should also know that I’m a highly trained martial arts expert, and before I go down, the chances are very good that I could do something really nasty to at least one of you.’

  They look at each other again through the slits in their masks, as if wondering what to do now it’s clear I have no intention of following the script they’ve been carrying around in their heads.

  ‘Go away now, and that will be the end of it,’ I say, pressing my temporary advantage while it’s still there. ‘I promise you I won’t report it to the police, and we can all pretend none of this ever happened. You can even tell Crispin Hetherington you waited for me, and I simply didn’t turn up.’

  Nor would you have turned up, if you’d only given into Philip’s fetish, says a mockingly masochistic voice from the sick part of my brain.

  For a moment, I think my appeal to them is going to work.

  Then the leader of the group stiffens resolutely.

  ‘You have to be taught not to stick your nose in where it isn’t wanted,’ he says.

  And as he speaks, he takes a step forward.

  The time for dialogue is clearly over. Now I do scream – a bloodcurdling, demented banshee scream. But it isn’t a scream for help – it’s a scream to set his ears ringing, to throw him off balance, if only for a second.

  It works.

  He freezes.

  And that’s when I make my move.

  One hand on the saddle, the other on the handlebars, I swing my bike in an arc. The back wheel catches him on the jaw, and his head jerks backwards as if it’s on a spring.

  I swing round, and at the same moment move to the left, in order to avoid the blow which I’m almost certain will be coming from the right.

  I don’t dodge quite far enough, and I feel the baseball bat bounce off the edge of my shoulder.

  I have avoided the full impact of the bat, but it still hurts like hell. Then my right arm goes numb, as my nerve endings go into shutdown mode. My right hand is no longer capable of holding on to the bike, and I feel a vibration as the back wheel hits the ground.

  I throw the bike – clumsily and one-handedly – at the feet of my attacker. He steps awkwardly over it, but doesn’t judge it quite right, and almost loses his balance. While he is still tottering uncertainly, I grab him by the front of his shirt, pull him towards me, and nut him full in the face.

  I haven’t forgotten that there is a third attacker – it’s just that I only have a limited amount of arms and legs to go on to the offensive with.

  And he hasn’t forgotten me, either. I feel his bat slam into the back of my thighs and, despite it being the last thing I want to happen, my legs decide to collapse under me.

  I am down on the ground now, and at least two of my attackers are still in good enough shape to start kicking me.

  I’m not screaming any more – I need all my energy for the twisting and turning required to avoid the blows – and as each kick lands, I find myself praying that they know what they’re doing, and can deliver the punishment beating without causing any permanent damage.

  I notice I am suddenly bathed in bright light, then I hear the car pull up. And now there are more sounds in rapid succession – car doors being opened, voices shouting, the noise of pounding feet.

  The kicking has stopped, and someone is bending down over me.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, worriedly.

  ‘What do you think?’ I groan in reply.

  I am in one of the interview rooms in St Aldate’s police station. I have a grey woollen blanket (with a blue stripe running down it) draped over my shoulders, and – periodically – I take a sip of the hot sweet tea from a mug which has ‘World’s Best Dad’ written on it in bright red letters.

  My rescuers – so it transpires – were three rugby-playing firemen, the combination of qualifications and outside interest making them ideally suited for the task in hand. My only complaint is that they were also such solidly responsible citizens that they insisted on bringing me to the cop shop, however much I protested that it wasn’t really necessary.

  So I am here, and have been examined by the police doctor, who I know from my days on the force.

  ‘Well, Jennie, the tiny little freckles that nature has given you are going to be jealous as hell of the big black freckles you’ll wake up with tomorrow morning,’ he said.

  He thought he was being funny – and I thought it would be amusing to stick his stethoscope so far up his backside that they’d have to send out a search party to get it back. But at least I can draw some consolation from the fact that if he could joke about it, it can’t be that serious.

  The door to the interview room opens, and a man walks in. I’ve been expecting someone to come and take my statement (I’m an ex-copper, I know how things work), but what I haven’t anticipated is that it would be someone of the rank of Inspector Corbet.

  I tell him so.

  ‘Well, it’s a quiet night around town, so I’ve not much to do,’ he says. ‘Besides, after our conversation at my allotment, I feel we’ve established a personal connection.’ He pauses. ‘And I suppose another point of contact between us is that you’re working for my wife.’

  There’s another pause, to allow me to say something.

  I don’t.

  ‘You are still working for my wife, aren’t you, Miss Redhead?’ he says finally.

  ‘How are the flowers on that allotment of yours coming along, Inspector?’ I ask him.

  ‘They’ve not grown much since you last saw them, which is hardly surprising since that was only yesterday. Are you still working for her?’

  Well, if he won’t take the hint and drop the subject, I suppose I’d better give him an answer.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am still working for her,’ I say.

  ‘And have you made any progress?’

  ‘If I have – and I’m not committing myself one way or the other on that,’ I say carefully, ‘I’m sure you’ll be the second person to learn about it.’

  ‘After you’ve told my wife,’ he says.

  ‘After I’ve told my client,’ I correct him.

  He nods. ‘You’re quite right, of course, it’s your duty to inform her first.’ He opens his notebook and produces a pen from his pocket. ‘Would you like to tell me about the attack now?’

  ‘There were three of them,’ I say. ‘They were armed with baseball bats, and they were waiting for me outside my flat.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  ‘Not really. It was all over so quickly.’

  ‘Would you care to make a guess at their ages?’

  ‘From the way they moved, I’d say they were somewhere between twenty and forty.’

  ‘That’s not really very helpful,’ he says – but he writes something down anyway.

  I shrug. It hurts a lot!

  ‘I’m sorry if you think it’s not helpful,’ I say, ‘but it’s really the best that I can do.’

  ‘Did you get a look at any of their faces?’

  Ah, now here’s the thing – when you’re trying to catch a badger, the last thing you should do is talk about it to someone who is likely to come along and shine a bright light in the badgers’ sett. And when you’re investigating the Shivering Turn (in the hope of finding out exactly what happened to Linda Corbet on Friday night), the last thing you should do is tell her father that your attackers were wearing Shakespeare masks, because that will automatically make him suspect that they were students, and from there it’s only a small step to him suspecting the right students – and trampling all over your case.

  ‘Well?’ Inspector Corbet says – and I can tell he’s doing his best not to sound impatient.

  ‘They were wearing ski masks,’ I say.

  He frowns. ‘That makes things much more difficult. Would you recognize their voices if you heard them again?’

  ‘They didn’t speak.’

  ‘They didn’t say anything at all?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Let’s approach things from a different angle, to see if that gets us somewhere,’ he suggests.

  ‘All right,’ I agree.

  ‘Do you think this has anything to do with my daughter’s disappearance?’ he asks, trying to sound official, but coming across as a fretful father.

  ‘Why would it have anything to do with that?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admits, ‘but I don’t like coincidences.’

  ‘All I’m trying to establish with my investigation …’ I say. I stop. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you what it is I’m trying to establish. The only thing I can say is that I can see no reason why that should lead to me getting beaten up.’

  I must be getting much better at lying to him, because he merely nods again.

  ‘Can you think of anyone at all who might hold a grudge against you?’ he asks.

  I pretend to think about it.

  ‘No, I honestly can’t,’ I say finally. ‘I wouldn’t claim to be universally popular …’

  ‘Which of us is?’ he asks, and gives me an encouraging smile.

  ‘But though I can think of a number of people I’ve annoyed over the last year or so, I can’t picture any of them being so pissed off that they’d hire thugs to beat the crap out of me.’

  He sighs. ‘So, to sum up, you can’t describe the people who attacked you, and you’ve no idea why they would have done it.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ I agree, pleased that I’ve been able to lead him up a blind alley.

  But he hasn’t finished yet.

  ‘Baseball’s not exactly our national sport, is it?’ he asks.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘So there can’t be too many sporting goods shops in the Oxford area which sell baseball bats – and any shop which sold three at the same time is bound to remember the customer.’

  Oh no, I don’t want him investigating the sporting goods shops. I really don’t want that.

  ‘It’s not my business to tell you how you should be doing your job …’ I begin.

  ‘No,’ he agrees, ‘it isn’t.’

  ‘But it seems that you’ll just be wasting valuable police time, because whoever attacked me was far too professional to make such an elementary mistake as to buy all three bats from the same place.’

  ‘They’re not that professional, or you wouldn’t still be walking around,’ he counters.

  ‘They were interrupted.’

  ‘And professionals would never have attacked you in a place where they could be interrupted.’

  He’s right, of course – one hundred per cent right – and I can only hope that I can complete my investigation before he completes his.

  ‘I’ll have a statement typed up with all the information you’ve given, and you can sign it in the morning,’ he says.

  Inspector Corbet closes his notebook and, with that action, the expression on his face changes. It is an almost imperceptible change, but now, instead of looking like a compassionate yet professional policeman, he seems to be more the kindly concerned uncle.

  ‘The doctor tells me you’re fit enough to go home, if that’s what you want to do.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But I think it might be better if you stayed here for a while – possibly overnight.’

  ‘It’s never been a particular ambition of mine to spend a night in the cells,’ I tell him.

  He laughs. ‘If you stay, I’ll have a bed made up in one of the offices. You’ll be quite comfortable there. There are hot showers too, and I’ll assign one of the WPCs to assist you, if you think you need it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say, ‘but I’d like to go home.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll arrange for one of my officers to drive you, and make sure you get home safely,’ he says. ‘I’ll also instruct the patrol units to pass by your house every half-hour.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I tell him. ‘Whoever attacked me won’t be back.’

  ‘Better to be safe than sorry,’ Corbet says. ‘And it’s not open for debate – I’ve made my judgement, and that’s what’s going to happen.’

  ‘OK,’ I agree.

  As we’re driving along the Iffley Road, I suddenly remember that cunningly hidden in my office is a small stash of pot to be used only in case of emergency. I debate whether or not this is actually an emergency, and reach the rapid conclusion that it’s close enough.

  ‘I need to stop by my office, and pick up something that I’ll need overnight,’ I say to my driver, who is a thirtyish, solidly built constable called Ben. ‘Will that be all right?’

  ‘Do whatever you want, sweetheart,’ he replies. ‘I’ve been instructed by the powers-that-be to treat you like a visiting VIP.’

  When we pull up in front of my office, he says, ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ I tell him. ‘You stay here and have a smoke, or listen to the radio.’

  ‘I’ve given up smoking, and there’s nothing on the wireless at this time of night,’ he says.

  ‘You could always stick your hand in your pocket and play pocket billiards with yourself,’ I suggest.

  He grins. ‘What, and remind myself of my tragic limitations in the genitalia department?’

  ‘Size doesn’t matter,’ I assure him.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ he counters, but he settles down in his seat and closes his eyes.

  With every step I take up the stairs, I discover a new ache, and it’s going to feel worse in the morning. But that, I suppose, is the price you pay when you decide to follow the exciting career path of private investigator.

  I open my office door, switch on the light, and realize that someone has visited the office in my absence.

  Actually, it’s not a brilliant deduction, because I’m pretty sure that before I left I didn’t tip everything off the shelves on to the floor, and then turn the desk over. I’m fairly certain I didn’t smash my telephone, either, yet there it lies, broken, amidst the debris.

  The only thing that hasn’t been flung, crushed or trampled is my chair, and that’s only because my caller had a message for me, and wanted to make sure I didn’t miss it.

  The message is pinned to the back of the chair. It is in block capitals.

  STAY OUT OF IT, it reads.

  Stay out of it?

  Out of what?

  Could my gentle caller be referring to the Lamb and Flag?

  Or perhaps he meant the public swimming baths?

  No, thinking about it, it’s much more likely that he meant I should stay out of the Linda Corbet investigation.

  I bend down beside the fallen desk, run my hand along the bottom of the footrest, and am relieved to find my fingers making contact with the small package that is taped there.

  My stash! Halleluiah, he hasn’t taken my stash!

  I make the interesting discovery that walking down the stairs is even more painful than walking up them has been. I take it slowly and carefully.

  One step – ouch!

  Another step – ouch!

  When I get back to the police car, Ben opens his eyes and says, ‘You are my VIP, so I’m not complaining in any way, shape or form, but you seem to have been up there a long time.’

  ‘A friend of mine has rearranged my office, so it took me a while to find what I was looking for,’ I explain.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Ben says.

  I climb gingerly into the passenger seat and stretch out my legs to test how much they hurt.

  It has not been a good day.

  TWELVE

  It is yet another bright May morning, and as I examine the space which just yesterday I called my office – and can now best be described as a disaster area – the sun’s rays stream through the window and coat the devastation in a golden glow. It is a noble effort on the part of old Sol to spread optimism – but it doesn’t work for me.

  I am not here alone. Standing next to me is Sergeant George Hobson, ex-lover, friend and one-time colleague, who I have asked to accompany me because I know he has the expertise that comes from serving three long, hard years in the burglary squad.

  George looks around him, and then begins to slowly shake his head from side to side in what I take to be bafflement.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I ask.

  ‘The pattern,’ George admits. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever come across one like it before.’

  I look around the room myself – at the broken lamp, the scattered papers, the kettle, the coffee mugs and the pens.

  ‘I don’t see any pattern,’ I admit.

  ‘Most people wouldn’t see it – but then they wouldn’t be looking at it through the eyes of someone applying the George Hobson Theory of Businessmen and Anarchists.’

  ‘The George Hobson Theory …’ I begin.

  ‘Forget it,’ George says – and I’m almost certain that he’s blushing.

  ‘I’d like to hear it,’ I tell him.

  He is blushing – there’s no doubt about it.

  ‘Look, Jennie,’ he says, ‘I’m just an ordinary working copper. I haven’t got a degree in criminology – I haven’t got any letters after my name – so I don’t know why I even mentioned this daft theory of mine.’