Tomorrow's ghost

frowned at her.

'Yes, Mr Hedges?'

'Why the wig, Mrs Fisher?'

Frances blinked at him. 'Is it so obvious?'

'No.' He shook his head. 'It's very professional.'

He was making a point: he was informing her that ex-Chief Inspector William Ewart Hedges wasn't to be trifled with. But if he wasn't already a hostile witness, why did he have to make that point?

Hostile as well as cautious?

'Then - why the question, Mr Hedges?'

He nodded. 'You're not wearing a wig in your photograph. But it's the same style, and the same colour, your hair. Young ladies don't usually wear mouse-brown wigs ...

But perhaps I shouldn't ask?'

Frances made the connection. The implication of her presence was the re-opening of a nine-year-old case which had never been solved. And that could either mean that there was new evidence, or that Inspector William Ewart Hedges hadn't done his job properly nine years before.

Hostile, then. So at least she knew where she was.

She smiled again. 'That's all right ... As it happens, I'm blonde underneath.'

'Blonde? Good gracious!'

'Why 'Good gracious', Mr Hedges?'

He pursed his lips disapprovingly. 'You haven't got the face for it, if I, may say so ...

without wishing to be personal - the figure, but not the face, Mrs Fisher.'

He was telling her that blonde, on her, would be vulgar. (Which, of course, was the exact truth: Marilyn had been nothing if not vulgar.) He was also establishing his superiority, and that would never do.

She took the warrant card from him, and as she did so Mrs Fisher was born. Marilyn Francis would have laughed, and would have given him something to look at. Mrs Fitzgibbon would have been embarrassed, and might have blushed. But the arrogant Miss Warren would have been angry, and Mrs Fisher and Miss Warren were sisters under the skin.

'I have my job to do, Mr Hedges.' She put the card into her bag and snapped the bag shut. 'The Assistant Chief Constable has told you why I'm here, I take it?'

He started to nod, but Mrs Fisher didn't give him time to admit that the ACC (Crime)

- or maybe it was the ACC (Operations) - had indeed disturbed his leisurely retired breakfast with a phone call.

'What did he tell you?' asked the frowning Mrs Fisher.

'Not a lot,' said Hedges defensively.

Attack, attack, attack!

'Nine years ago. You were in charge of the case.'

'Yes.'

'Do you recall it?' Mrs Fisher pressed her point.

'Yes.'

'You recall it? After nine years?'

'Yes - ' His eyes clouded momentarily ' - I remember it.'

Sod Mrs Fisher, decided Frances instinctively. After a very short acquaintance she didn't like Mrs Fisher. What was more important, this man would remember nine years ago and Colonel Butler for his own reasons, and not because Mrs Fisher was a hard little bitch with a wig and a warrant card and the ACC's blessing. It would be Frances, not Mrs Fisher, who made William Ewart Hedges talk.

'It's a long time, Mr Hedges,' said Frances. 'But it's important that you do remember.'

He looked at her strangely, as though he was seeing her for the first time - and seeing Frances, and not Mrs Fisher, or anyone else out of her bag.

The fine art of interrogation David Audley had always maintained. It's a game, and it's a duel, and it's a discipline, and it's a job like any other. But in the end it's an art. And that means, in the end - or it may be the very beginning - you may have to risk losing in order to win.

'It's important for Colonel Butler,' said Frances.

Hedges frowned at her. 'Colonel - ?'

Nine years ago, thought Frances. It had been Major Butler then, and although the ranks hadn't mattered after that, it would be Major Butler that Inspector Hedges remembered.

'Major Butler,' corrected Frances.

* * *