'How do you know you can trust me?' asked Pascoe.

'For a start you wouldn't be pussyfooting around about promising if it didn't mean anything,' she answered.

'A psychologist already,' mocked Pascoe. 'All right. I promise. But all bets off if she's just stuck a knife into her boy-friend or robbed a bank. OK?'

'Now we're talking about crimes,' said Penelope Latimer. 'Hold on.'

While he waited Pascoe picked up his internal phone and got through to Wield.

'You ever heard of something called a snuff- film?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Wield.

'Don't keep it to yourself, Sergeant,' said Pascoe in his best Dalziel manner.

'In the States mainly,' said Wield. 'Though there are rumours on the Continent. No one's ever picked one up as far as I know, so obviously there's no prosecution recorded yet.'

'Yes, but what are they?'

'What they're said to be is films made of someone dying. Usually some tart from, say, one of the big South American sea ports who no one's going to miss in a hurry. She thinks it's a straightforward skin-flick. By the time she finds out wrong, it's too late. The scareder she gets, the more she tries to run, the better the picture.'

'Better! Who for?'

'For the bent bastards who want to see 'em. And for the guys who make the charge.'

'Jesus!'

'Hello? You there?' said the woman's voice from the other phone.

'Thanks, Sergeant,' said Pascoe. 'Yes, Miss Latimer?'

'It's Linda Abbott. Address is 25 Hampole Lane, Borage Hill. That's a big new estate about twelve miles south of here, just north of Leeds.'

'Local, eh?'

'What do you think, we fetch them from Hollywood?'

'No, but I reckoned you might cast your net as far as South Shields, say, or Scunthorpe.'

Penelope Latimer chuckled.

'Come up and see us some time, Inspector,' she said throatily. "Bye.'