think we might both rather enjoy it. Come to my office after we've got back from Hendon.'
'Of course, Inspector.'
A thick file labelled Grantham Tower dropped into the waste paper bin. Jem sighed. So much for the biggest potential account; the only worthwhile business on the horizon, in fact. She stood at her desk absent-mindedly rubbing her bottom and watching the computer screen as the cursor ran down the names of the few sales leads remaining in her database. She became aware of the sounds of the other employees of Executive Environments arriving in their offices; her secretary would arrive at any moment. There must be time for one more look, Jem thought, and, twisting her head over her right shoulder, she used one hand to pull up her pleated skirt and the other to squeeze her knickers into the crease between her buttocks. The lines had almost disappeared; the smooth, rounded inverted heart of which she was justly proud looked as good as new.
The telephone rang; automatically she picked it up.
'Sales office,' Jem said, readjusting her clothes.
'Jem, is that you? It's Mike.' 'Yes, Mr McKenzie, it's me.'
'Are you alone?'
'Yes. Yes, Tracey hasn't shown yet.'
'Good. I need to see you. Right away.'
'In your office?'
'No. I'm in the car park. I'm calling from the car. Can you get down here straight away?'
'Sure thing, MM. I'll be right there.'
Jem took a swig of black coffee, turned off the computer, fluffed her hair, touched up her lipstick, and made for the door. When the Managing Director wants you in his office first thing Monday morning, it's important, she thought. But when he wants you in the car park, it's serious.
As Jem stepped out of her office, she saw Lesley threading her way between the seating units that were artistically scattered across the carpeted reception area. Lesley looked demure in a pink pencil skirt and a white cardigan.
'Good morning, Lesley,' Jem called out. 'I'm glad to see you've decided to forgo your weekend taste in clothes.' Jem felt immediately guilty as the tall blonde blushed, stammered a greeting, and fled into Mike McKenzie's outer office. Maybe I should tell her she looks great in leather, Jem thought as she continued towards the smoked-glass front doors.
'Hold it there.' Inspector Larson interrupted the civilian boffin, who was beginning to expound on the theoretical relations between fields of data that had been stored under differing software applications. 'Let me get this straight. You were operating outside the parameters of your brief, right?'
'Strictly speaking, yes. But I did it in my own time, and -'
'Never mind about that. Who else knows about this?'
'No one. Your Chief Inspector didn't seem particularly interested.'
'He told me it was a wild goose chase. I think perhaps he was wrong. Let's ge{ back to the cases. All missing persons. All unrelated. So what's interesting about that? If they're unrelated -'
'Apparently unrelated,' the young man broke in, his spectacles wobbling excitedly on his nose. That's the whole point. I was trying to use the relational aspects of HOLMES 2 to discover a pattern behind apparently unconnected data.'
'And you found one, I take it.'
'HOLMES found it. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I get the impression that missing persons are often investigated a little less ... I mean, sometimes you don't really bother to ...'
'We've got better things to do than to waste our time looking for runaway kids, bored husbands, and people who probably don't want to be found anyway.'
'Exactly. No one looks at the old files, of course. Closed cases. And you're right - I've asked HOLMES to check -most of the missing persons are teenagers, old people, recidivist criminals, middle-aged men. HOLMES couldn't find a pattern there.'
'But?' Lucy was becoming impatient.
'But there is a pattern within one particular sub-group of missing persons. Women, aged twenty to thirty-five, married, social group AB. Not a large sub-group. So far HOLMES has printed out