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a scuffed desk and wooden chair filling most of the space, then back into the rear of the property, a large area with a small kitchen off to one side. Two others sat at a table, drinking tea. The walls were clad in pitted woodchip, which in turn was overlaid by maps and photographs and all the trappings of a crime-scene briefing room. Along one wall two desks had been placed, on which computers had been set, and a third desk was stacked high with box files and folders. It looked as though the trio had just moved in and not yet fully unpacked.
    â€˜So.’ The tall man turned now and surveyed Alec and Travers. ‘Nick Travers I know already; you I know by reputation.’
    Worrying, Alec thought.
    â€˜DI Eddison,’ the man said, extending his hand.
    Alec shook, murmured something about being pleased to meet him. In truth, he was annoyed. What was going on here?
    Eddison pointed at the dark-haired man still seated at the table. ‘DS Munroe,’ he said and, indicating the blond, ‘DI Parks. Sit down and I’ll get the kettle on.’
    â€˜Why are we meeting here?’ Travers asked.
    â€˜Because it’s private,’ Munroe said. ‘Because it’s about midway between where Neil Robinson was in prison and where that journalist died, and because there are bigger concerns that don’t need to be the subject of canteen gossip.’
    Alec raised an eyebrow and glanced at his boss. Travers’ face was expressionless, or at least would seem so to the casual observer. The slight tic at the corner of his mouth told Alec that Travers was as unamused as Alec.
    Parks laughed softly, and Alec reviewed the man more carefully. Pale eyes set in a round face that, with the slightly waving blond hair, should almost have been cherubic but was in fact anything but. He was the sort of man, Alec found himself observing, who would have looked right with a crew cut and an earring. He corrected himself almost at once. That wasn’t right either; there was something more behind the eyes than mere thug. Something feral.
    Alec sat at the table and, reluctantly, Travers drew out a chair and plonked himself down close by. ‘I’m told you want me to review the Robinson case. From my angle, I mean?’ Alec let the question hang.
    Munroe nodded; Parks sipped his tea. ‘We’ve read your report, scanned the files. There were some loose ends when you signed off on it?’
    â€˜True, there were. It was decided that I’d taken things as far as I could, that we needed to bring in an expert eye. My then boss decided that as we’d got enough for a conviction for the con Robinson was running – that and a GBH – we should cut our losses and let someone else tie up anything left hanging.’
    â€˜A decision you didn’t like,’ Parks commented.
    Alec smiled. ‘I don’t like unfinished business,’ he said. ‘It feels odd not to wrap everything up properly. Though,’ he added, ‘on this occasion I couldn’t argue with the logic.’ He glanced at Travers. His boss was watching Eddison as he moved about the small kitchen. Watching as though the presence of the man upset him, made him uneasy. Alec, puzzled, wondered just what had happened when they’d last met at whatever conference it had been and if more had been delivered than a conference paper. Somehow, it was difficult to equate this big, rather slow-moving man, who looked like a long-retired rugby player or punch drunk heavyweight boxer, with an erudite presentation on some obscure element of cyber crime.
    â€˜I’m told Jamie Dale was murdered,’ Alec said.
    He felt, rather than saw, Travers flinch, and wondered if Travers was even meant to know that, never mind impart the information. And if not, why not?
    â€˜She was,’ Munroe agreed. ‘Nasty way to die. She tried to make a phone call, got through to emergency services but she was unable to tell them where she