Peter Lovesey - The Circle

'Sounds awesome. I'd love to meet her some time. Oh God, why am I making all the running?'

He made some of the running himself. He put his arm round her and kissed her, a real kiss, and it felt good.

After Bob had left, Thomasine made herself a coffee and then went back to the computer. A pulse was beating in her head. She wasn't ready for sleep and didn't want to spend the next few hours in an emotional state like one of her teenage students. So she gave her full attention to the computer, surfing the net for references to Lanarkshire Press, clicking on anything that came up. It took her into some sites she wouldn't normally have gone near. She was used to 'spam', the unwanted e-mail, much of it obscene, that she had to delete each time she opened her inbox, but visiting dubious websites was unavoidable if she was to find out more about Kiddlewick, Chalybeate, or whoever he was. If it had to be so-called erotica, she was going there. Good thing her classes didn't know she was accessing stuff like this, she thought.

She found the all-important link at about one fifteen in the morning. A site was offering secondhand magazines for sale and you could click for more information — obsessively copious information that listed the entire contents of every issue, together with the names of publishers, editors, writers and photographers. No pictures, mercifully. Here, in a monthly called Innocents, published by Lanarkshire Press, was the name Edgar Blacker, editor.

This, she was certain, was why the police had been so interested in Chalybeate, the one-time publisher of porn trying to shake off his past and pursue a political career. They'd found the link with Blacker, and when Bob had mentioned the fitness magazine at Miss Snow's, they'd seized on the possibility of a second link, to the arsonist's next victim. Was Miss Snow into physical culture? Unlikely. Thomasine thought it more likely that she'd bought the magazine because of its Chalybeate connection. Maybe she'd done some digging herself when Blacker was first invited to the circle. She was secretary, so she'd have discussed it with Maurice at an early stage.

Satisfied, she turned off the computer and went to bed.

In the morning Hen drove out with Stella Gregson to the Sussex police evidence depository. Every police force has to provide storage for the millions of items and tons of paper used in investigations. Even after a case has gone to court and a conviction is secured, all the main materials, including items not produced in the trial, are retained, kept in plastic boxes in case of an appeal or a reinvestigation.

These buildings were the size of warehouses, strictly functional, boxlike and secure. The one unlocked for them was the second largest on the site and contained thousands of magazines and books seized in raids authorised by the obscene publications legislation.

'Welcome to wankers' world,' Hen said.

'You've made my day, guv.'

'There's a lot of hardcore stuff here, but luckily we're not looking for that. When a raid takes place they don't have time to sift through everything, so they clear the shelves and bring it all back here, the mild as well as the really gross.' She turned to the custodian, a veteran with a face like a blocked sink. The porn had long ago lost all appeal for him. 'Where can we find nineteen eighty-two?'

'They'll be dusty.' He escorted them around the metal stacking system and pointed to a row of boxes reaching up to the roof beams. 'The ladder's over there, in eighty-six.'

'Fine.' To Stella, she said, 'Lanarkshire Press publications, remember. From memory, that would include Innocents, Headlights and Hot Buns.'

Stella groaned. 'Couldn't you have asked one of the men, guv?'

'They'd be useless at spotting a face. Think about it.'

'Yes, but-'

'You don't have to look at the squidgy bits.' From her bag she produced a photo of a young woman in a top hat, tailed jacket and tights. 'This should help. I did some phoning late yesterday. Amelia Snow, circa nineteen-eighty, courtesy of the Megastar Theatrical Agency'

Stella gave it a look. 'She's very young. I'm not sure I'd have picked her out.'

'But you will now — if she's here.'

'So am I on my own?'

Hen pointed to the No Smoking sign. 'I wouldn't last ten minutes. That's the way it is, sweetie.'

'How will I get back?'

'Don't worry. I won't forget you.' She opened her bag again and took out some polythene gloves that the SOCOs used. 'You see, I'm looking after you.'

It was a pity Bob was at work. Thomasine woke up too late to call him with her news about Lord Chalybeate. Thanks to school holidays she didn't have to go in. Instead she cooked some breakfast and then strolled into town and looked along the magazine shelves in Smith's. But not for the Times Educational Supplement.

The Bodybuilder was a monthly so there was a good chance that the issue Miss Snow had owned was still on sale. No difficulty finding it in the sports section. The bronzed hunk on the front stood out from the cricketers and footballers. She shelled out her two pounds fifty, and went next door to Starbucks for a quiet read. She had a good look round first to make sure one of her little bubble-gummers wasn't sitting across the way.

This was the right issue. Inside was a three-page illustrated article about Marcus Chalybeate under the heading LUCKY GYMS. No reference, of course, to his less exalted career as plain Mark Kiddlewick. The piece was all about his brilliance in foreseeing the boom in fitness. 'It is fair, to claim Marcus Chalybeate has done more to improve the health of the nation in the last ten years than the combined efforts of seven Secretaries of State for Health.' It continued in the same vein. Rather boring, really. Except it left no doubt in Thomasine's mind that this was a man who could be terribly damaged if his days as a purveyor of porn were revealed. What had Hot Buns and Headlights done for the health of the nation?

But she almost knocked over her coffee when she saw the picture of his Sussex home, 'a barn conversion at Bosham, near Chichester'. Just down the road. Wasn't opportunity one of the key elements in a crime, along with motive and means? This, surely, raised Chalybeate to favourite in the suspect stakes. She couldn't wait to see the place. Couldn't wait, and wouldn't.

Stella had been given some tacky jobs in her years in the police, but this was the tackiest by a long way. Even the feel of the old magazines between her polythene-covered fingers was unpleasant. They smelt musty, they were stained, the paperclips had rusted and the pages dropped out when handled. All that, she tried telling herself, would have been true of a batch of old knitting magazines. You couldn't blame the subject matter for the state they were in.

Certain copies, luckily, could be put to one side straight away. Headlights catered for breast fanciers, men who'd never matured past infancy. Without exception the models had enormous boobs. Did they have implants in 1982? In abundance, it seemed. She pitied the poor models. How could you get comfy in bed with all that to tuck away? Mercifully, the picture of Amelia Snow in Cats showed a normally proportioned woman, so the entire stack of Headlights could be returned to the shelves, along with TNT (Two Nifty Tits) and BSH (British Standard Handful).

'Grow up, guys,' she said aloud.

She started turning the pages of Innocents, which at least featured models she recognised as her own species. Innocent most of them were not, she thought. Their attempts to look inexperienced were about as convincing as chocolate pennies. Some, she guessed, must have had a few drinks before going in front of the camera because the lipstick was badly applied or the hair needed fixing. If nothing else, it supported the story that Blacker used alcohol as the persuader.