LITMIR.BIZ

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makes a prearranged rendezvous with her new dealer. He doesn’t show, so she goes to Marshall Street Baths where she knows she can score.’

      ‘It’s all chained up,’ said Jessie disagreeing.

      ‘If the addicts and dealers can get in, so can anyone.’

      Jessie didn’t think so, not in those heels.

      ‘We think something happened to her inside the building,’ said Moore.

      ‘I see,’ said Jessie. And she did. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked. Knowing the answer. It was in those knowing looks.

      ‘Nothing. It’s DI Ward’s case. It’s a high-profile assignment, Driver, so it’s probably better handled by Mark until last year’s debacle is forgotten about.’ Jessie tried to remain passive. ‘Aren’t you pleased? You didn’t seem very interested in it yesterday.’

      She wasn’t pleased. Being uninterested and being uninvolved are two different things. She’d messed it up with Moore, she admitted, and it was her own fault, but she couldn’t understand why Mark was so happy to put the boot in. Just in case she was being paranoid, she tried a final litmus test. Principles of reason.

      ‘Ma’am, there was nothing in Anna Maria’s body language to indicate that she was waiting for anyone,’ said Jessie. ‘The poor creatures in Marshall Street Baths aren’t going to attack anyone. They’re there because they’ve got the money, they’ve scored, and the only thing they can think about is the fix, which once administered renders them impotent.’

      ‘That does not apply to the dealers,’ contradicted Mark. ‘And Anna Maria stood out like a sore thumb.’

      ‘Exactly. You don’t buy drugs in broad daylight in a fake-fur coat and six-inch heels.’

      ‘You didn’t see what she was wearing when she got busted last time,’ Moore interjected.

      Jessie knew when she was outnumbered. ‘So what are you going to do?’

      ‘Search Marshall Street Baths,’ said Moore. ‘As soon as possible.’

      ‘And you really expect to find her in there?’

      This question was followed by an exchange of glances between Ward and Moore. ‘We just hope it’s not too late and she’s still alive.’

      They’d failed the test. She wasn’t being paranoid.

      A thousand arguments and counter-arguments revolved around Jessie’s head as she returned to her office. We think something happened to her? We hope she’s still alive? We? Moore had only been in the building twenty-four hours and already they were a ‘we’. Where the hell was Jones? Surely he wouldn’t leave her like this, surely he’d have given her a heads up, some warning that DCI Moore was one of those women who pulled the ladder up behind them. Obviously Jessie wasn’t going to appreciate Moore’s legs folded provocatively over her desk, so of course Mark should get the case. It stood to reason, thought Jessie as she unconsciously pulled the slides out of her hair and let her fringe fall across her eyes. She would have been willing to dance to Moore’s tune, but not if she was the only one dancing. Jessie slumped into her chair, deflated and a little scared. Jones had made the differences between Mark and herself work. Under his guidance, Ward and Driver were quite a good balancing act. Not good cop, bad cop, but old cop, new cop. With Moore and Ward in bed together, it would turn what had been complementary back to being contrary. A horrendous thought passed through Jessie’s head. Mark and Moore in bed together, actually in bed together.

      ‘If that happens, I’m putting myself in for a transfer,’ she said aloud.

      ‘If what happens?’

      Jessie looked up. Mark had pushed the door open with his foot. He was holding a box of files.

      ‘Gee, thanks for the support back there, Mark.’

      ‘What did you want me to do, climb up on the gallows next to you?’

      ‘No. Just act like a reasonable human being and take your nose out of Moore’s arse.’

      ‘Oh dear, are you a little worried because you’re not the teacher’s pet any more.’

      ‘Mark, listen to yourself.’

      ‘You’ll put yourself in for a transfer if what happens?’

      She tried to defuse the tension by smiling. ‘Don’t get all excited, I’m not going anywhere.’

      But Mark didn’t want it defusing. ‘If what happens?’

      ‘If you find Anna Maria’s body in Marshall Street Baths,’ she replied coolly.

      ‘Would you be willing to make that into an official wager?’

      ‘What is wrong with you? You’ve been bolshie for days,’ said Jessie.

      ‘It isn’t rocket science. If we find her body at the baths, you get your arse transferred out of here.’

      ‘And if you don’t?’

      ‘Name it,’ he said confidently.

      It dawned on Jessie then what Mark was doing with the box of files. They were his files, from his office. His old office: the matching shoebox across the hall from hers.

      ‘I get your office.’ He looked back over his shoulder and smiled. ‘No, Mark. Your new office. Upstairs.’

      ‘Who told you?’

      Jessie smiled sadly to herself. Was his professional opinion of her really so low? The fact she’d seen him sitting at Jones’ desk in the presence of the new DCI, the fact that he was now carrying a packing box, these giveaways were obviously not enough. ‘A white rabbit,’ she said. ‘Okay. Deal: my transfer for your office.’ Jessie stood up.

      ‘Are you prepared to shake on it?’ demanded Mark.

      ‘Is this for real, Mark?’

      Mark set the box down on Jessie’s desk.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, putting out his hand. Somewhat dazed, Jessie shook his hand. As she did so, he laughed. ‘And by the way, Jessie, this isn’t a transfer out of CID, this is a transfer out of West End Central. That way I can get you out of my hair once and for all.’

      ‘Mark, you haven’t got any hair.’

      Mark glared at her. It was her turn to shrug. ‘What? You started this. Remember that, won’t you?’

      Mark had officers stationed around the perimeter of the building, up on the roof and on the top storey of the Poland Street car park. The drug squad had sent a team and they now joined Mark’s men outside the chained double doors of the old public baths. Everyone was wearing body armour. The handcuffs glinted against the black flak jackets, radios crackled with expectation. A SOCO team waited by their van. The street was cordoned off, which gained the attention of workers in the adjacent offices. Everyone was waiting for the whistle.

      Jessie sat in the surveillance room and watched it all live via a video link. She was tuned in and ready to go. A slightly stooped man with a thick moustache inserted a key from a large selection into the padlock that held the chains in place. He turned the key and pulled; the chain slithered to the ground like a boa constrictor dropping from a tree. The team entered in twos. Jessie watched as the video camera followed them in. The first room was a foyer complete with a wood-and-glass kiosk. One of the doors hung haphazardly from its rusting hinge. The floor was laid with intricate diamond-shaped tiles worked into a graphic design, the type you see in the entrances of elegant Victorian terrace housing. Peppermint. Cobalt. Burnt sienna. Black and white. The once majestic windows were coated in grime and protected by a thick wire mesh. The camera automatically adjusted to the reduction in light. They’d gone through the portal of a time machine and entered a long-forgotten era. Victorian bath houses, where the great unwashed came to bathe en masse. The team moved further into the building. The screen went fuzzy, then a new image

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