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it’s the only chance we’ve got.’
    The lifeline had presented itself at the last possible moment. Marlowe grabbed it with both hands.
    â€˜That’s your considered opinion, is it, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Let us be quite clear about this – you’d advise me to take no further action at the moment, other than allowing you and your team to re-investigate the Judith Maitland case?’
    â€˜That’s correct.’
    Marlowe could not resist taking in a gulp of air. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If that’s your considered opinion, I’ll let you play it your way. You have three days to produce some sort of result. But I warn you now, Chief Inspector, that if any of the hostages are killed in those three days, I will hold you personally responsible.’
    Oh, I’ve no doubts about that, Woodend thought. No doubt at all, you slippery bastard!

Four
    T he office which Woodend shared with his sergeant was thick with smoke when the Chief Inspector entered it – and it didn’t take a detective to work out why. At least a dozen dead cigarettes were already crammed into Monika’s small ashtray, and two more – rapidly burning themselves down – were balanced precariously on the edge of her already-burn-scarred desk.
    Monika herself had the phone jammed between her chin and shoulder, and was making copious notes on the pad in front of her. When she saw Woodend, she gave him as much of a nod as was consistent with keeping the phone in place, then returned her full attention to listening and writing.
    The Chief Inspector walked over to the window. Below it was the car park, and in two of the visitors’ spots stood an Army jeep and Rover 2000.
    The vehicles were a perfect match to their owners, he thought. Colonel Danvers’ jeep declared unequivocally what he was – blunt, straightforward and perhaps a little crude. Slater-Burnes’ Rover, on the other hand, was powerful without being ostentatious – the sort of vehicle which could manoeuvre around you without you even realizing it had happened.
    Woodend’s thoughts shifted from the unwelcome visitors’ cars to his seated sergeant.
    The poor lass had had a really rough time over the past couple of years, he reminded himself.
    First there had been the revelations about her childhood – revelations under which a lesser woman would have sunk without trace. Then, even before she’d had time to come to terms with them – or perhaps, on reflection, it was
instead of
coming to terms with them – she’d begun her love affair with Inspector Bob Rutter, Woodend’s protégé, whom he’d brought with him from his days in Scotland Yard. The Rutter–Paniatowski affair had ended disastrously, of course – as it was always bound to. And worse was to follow. With her own life still lying in pieces around her, Monika had found herself investigating the murder of Bob Rutter’s blind wife, Maria – a murder which a few people, at the very least, had probably initially believed she had had a hand in. And as the final icing on the bloody cake, Rutter had suffered a – not entirely unexpected – nervous collapse, and gone away on sick leave.
    Woodend turned away from the window. Monika Paniatowski had put down the phone, and was looking at him expectantly.
    Aye, it had been a lot for her to handle, Woodend thought, and it was a miracle that she’d coped with it as well as she had.
    â€˜Would you like to hear what I’ve got so far, sir?’ the sergeant asked her boss.
    â€˜Why not?’ Woodend replied. ‘Since I’m here anyway, I suppose I might as well solve yet another mystery which has baffled the criminal experts on five continents.’
    Paniatowski grinned – almost as naturally as she would have done before her downward spiral had begun.
    â€˜Judith Maitland,’ she began, reading from