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in the staff car park when she put her case in the boot of the small blue Peugeot at quarter past five. They belonged to two older blokes who were running after-school clubs. The men wouldn’t even see her leaving – and why should they be interested if they did? No need to become paranoid; that was a guaranteed method of drawing attention to yourself and your actions.
    The lane which ran past the top of the corporation park. That’s where they’d arranged to meet. Beside the third big tree past the gates, rather than at the gates themselves; he’d laughed at her when she’d stressed how important it was to be discreet about this. But she had a lot more to lose than he had. She hadn’t said that to him, but she hoped he realized it.
    She was scared that he wouldn’t be there, that she’d have to wait and be conspicuous in her bright blue car. She’d always liked the colour until now. But tonight it seemed garish and far too noticeable in this quiet place. But he was there, bless him. Waiting for her, transferring his weight from one foot to the other and pretending to stare into the park on the other side of the big oak tree.
    He was in the car almost before she had slid it to the kerb beside him. She glanced behind them, saw no one on this quiet road, and drew him swiftly to her. He kissed her more expertly than she had thought he would, his tongue hard and exploratory against her teeth, his hands caressing her shoulder blades and pressing her willing torso against his. She wanted the embrace to go on and on, but she pulled away from him after a long, exquisite moment. ‘That was good!’ she said breathlessly, wondering if she could check for any observers without offending him.
    He smiled and said, as if he couldn’t believe this, ‘Mrs Potts!’
    â€˜It’s Freda here!’
    She wanted to kiss him again, to feel the uneven, breathless intimacy of him. He’d cleaned his teeth for her. And his body was very excited. She ran her hand down the inside of his thigh, feeling the warmth of the flesh beneath the thin denim of his jeans. Then she grasped his erect and very excited member, exulting in the gasp she heard from him at the move. No need to worry about her name here. His hormones were rampant and she was in charge of them.
    Hormones dictated everything, in a boy of sixteen.
    It was late in the day before Bert Hook got the chance to speak with Lambert alone. ‘Did you put the Chief Constable right on things?’
    â€˜On a few things. I told him DS Hook was a bloody nuisance. An egghead who refused to become a DI.’
    â€˜Do I look like an egghead?’
    The burly Hook held his arms wide in mute appeal. His features had the ruddy and weather-beaten hue of an outdoor man. His powerful physique had struck fear into the hearts of many a batsman as he had turned at the end of his pace-bowler’s run. He looked like the archetypal village bobby, open to all, reliable as an oak in small matters, slow-moving and slow-thinking.
    â€˜That’s just it, Bert. You present yourself as a thicko and yet you’re subtle as a fox underneath. Dangerous man for a CC – he might even see you as a mole in his organization, not a fox. It’s only fair that I should warn him against men like you.’
    â€˜Did he say that you should be pensioned off and digging your garden?’
    â€˜Not in so many words. He gave me coffee in china cups, so I was naturally suspicious. But he seems to be prepared to let us proceed as we’ve done in the past. So long as we produce results.’
    â€˜They all say that. It’s like a nervous tic, with the top men. They have to say that to cover themselves. It’s in case they want to bollock you and change the system, when they’ve got their feet securely under the table.’
    â€˜There you go again, thinking for yourself, offering your opinions. I’m not sure the latest manual allows a