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why they started this. “Still need proof though,” he said.

    “No one took a serious look.”

    “Two of my lads are there now.”

    “It gets worse, now I have another case for you. A woman has been murdered in Suffolk, the similarities too close to ignore. The murder of Sarah Finch occurred a few days ago. An attractive, charismatic and successful businesswoman in her late thirties. “Big country house, smart car, substantial bank account. She lived a full social life, but her men friends were all kept at arm’s length. She was a private, independent person. At the same time, she had eight computer cash and carry warehouses plus a vast army of sales agents spread all over the country. She shifted more computer games than any other dealer. For her, everything was business. Her one weakness was a young lad who looked after the garden and who confessed he was her toy-boy.”

    Sean watched her eyes momentarily close as she shuddered, then let go of her breath while looking round the bustling café, looking to the people lost in the buzz of conversation over TV, football, the price of petrol and the scratch on their car.

    “He cut open her stomach, disgorged her entrails and cut off her breasts. Suffolk CID believe he tried to imitate Jack the Ripper. However, so far they drawn a complete blank. Over one thousand people have been interviewed, including all male associates, all possible enemies. They have no linkable forensic evidence, no prints, no comparable DNA, no hate-mail, no stalkers, no nothing. Their conclusion is she met her killer by chance. Someone who then slipped back into darkness.”

    “Suffolk won’t like our interference,” Sean said.

    “We play hoping for their help with shared info. SOCA going to the local boys for assistance is good for their image. SOCA pushing in will make you no friends.”

    Sean glanced as the café door burst wide under power of a baby buggy. It preceded a woman wearing a short T-shirt and baggy tracksuit, her blancmange body quivering with each movement. She occupied one hand with a cigarette, the other with three, pre-school children, all of them whinging.

    “Poor woman,” Sean said.
     
    “Stupid woman.” Victoria rose to leave.

    “You ever talk to Sinclair?” he asked, when they emerged into the warm sun, heading for Abney Park Cemetery.

    “On the phone. He grew to be a nuisance, always telling me how I should run the investigation. I know the girl was his daughter, but the man became obsessed. In the end I refused to accept his calls. An assistant faxed him weekly. When Creech arrested the wrong suspect and looked no further, I think it broke Sinclair. That’s when he started his one-man crusade.”

    They passed through high cemetery gates, into an area of clipped lawn sprinkled with winos and the homeless. Sean let his solid frame guarantee their disinterest. Beyond the inner gravel path lay mausoleums, crosses and marble angels, a necropolis overgrown with vegetation and stunted trees. Nothing was visible of London save at the far perimeter. A council block thrust its roof above tree level.
     
    “Jesus, this is ghost forest,” he said, looking either way along a track which followed the walled boundary.

    Victoria hoisted the strap of her shoulder bag. In bright sunlight he noticed she shivered. “London cemeteries are a world within a world.” She started to walk. “This one is no longer used except for the occasional family interment. The council has no money. They can’t look after the living, never mind the dead. But it’s patrolled occasionally.”

    He followed along the path. They saw no other human being, only scraggy shrubs and graves. Even noise of traffic failed to penetrate save as a distant rumble.

    “You came here, without protection?” he asked.

    “Only once. I got flashed within twenty seconds. We may appear to be alone, but I guarantee there’s a concealed masturbator every ten yards. Necrophilia is in vogue at the