He shuddered with distaste as the angel let rip with a stream of obscene invective in exchange for a white-van man’s provoking comments. Wherever had she learned such language? His granny would have known how to deal with her! Coal-tar soap and the cupboard under the stairs! Vicious old trout, his gran. He winced at the memory. But she’d have stood none of this nonsense. He almost looked furtively over his shoulder, fearing still the old lady’s challenge. “ Gary! Is that you skulking by the bins? Come out at once and show me your hands!”

Gran wouldn’t have thought much of the redhead either, but she was Gary ’s choice. Not immediately as attractive, but you’d probably have a more interesting time with this one. Shorter, more rounded, with all the cockiness of a backyard robin. Shantelle, she called herself. That was her street name. Her friend was Christalle. He’d heard them calling to each other when one or the other went off round the corner for a coffee. Enjoying the game. Stupid, really. Who did they think they were kidding? With their unblemished complexions, smooth limbs, and freshly washed hair, no one but a fool would take them for real tarts. The pros on this beat had empty eyes, raddled faces, and strawky hair, and they covered up the needle tracks with long sleeves and jeans. Still-their male clients were pretty damn thick and self-deceiving… they were easily dazzled and incapable of thinking twice about the genuineness of what was on offer. They’d buy a lottery ticket, bet on a horse, pick up a blonde by the roadside, and always believe it was nothing but their due. Their lucky day.

No surprise there, but the question that niggled him was-why weren’t these two chancers being seen off with the usual territorial aggression by the regular girls? Granted, there’d been many fewer working the streets in this part of Cambridge since the murders had started.