DCI Paul Sullivan leaned back in his desk chair, set his elbows on the padded arms and carefully put his finger tips together. "You think you can connect all the dots?" he was looking directly at the ladies who had given him a full run down on the Moore case but now he was punching holes in their logic. Ash and Scribbs were good at this; very good.

A battle of logic and intuition was always waged between these two, for Ash was very analytical, almost emotionless at times, when she dug into an investigation and Scribbs was street smart and very instinctive, an excellent foil to her colleague. He knew that these two would argue back and forth until they had all the angles figured out. "All the dots?" he repeated.

Looking at the detectives he knew they were good, even if they contrasted in thinking processes and appearance. Scribbs was wearing some iridescently glaring blouse with corduroys and purple trainers while Ash was wearing a white blouse, gray jumper, tailored trousers and shiny black boots. Her chestnut hair was carefully arranged atop her head; part of her trademark while Scribbs' blonde mop looked like it had been hacked with garden shears and messily parted on one side, with schoolgirl plastic clips holding the mess in place. Not at all two peas in a pod but they meshed like the gears of a fine watch in cases of murder.

It was mid-morning and he had far too many things ion his schedule but when Ash and Scribbs asked he immediately made room for them. "All of them?"

Scribbs smiled at the Boss. "We have a pretty good case. One - our old friend jealously."

Ash added, "Wayward wife and two, the perpetrator is a doctor and clearly knows how to give an injection. Potassium chloride Dr. Weatherall is pretty certain."

"Good tip you came up with that one Ash," threw out Scribbs.

"Studying poisoning, DI Ashurst?" the Boss asked.

Ash ducked her head in embarrassment. "No, an… acquaintance… mentioned that KCl in large doses can kill."

"I see," the Boss said, "So how do the killer and the victim meet? Ostercroft certainly didn't email this substance to the victim."

Ash exhaled softly. "We haven't made that connection, Boss. But we do know that Moore and Ostercroft had business dealings. The victim supplied the doctor with medical drugs."

"Tell me again about the break-ins."

Scribbs screwed up her face. "Same mode of entry; all three. A window was jimmied open."

The Boss shook his head. "But you haven't put Ostercroft at those houses or at the closed RAF field, assuming the victim was killed out there."

"No, not yet," Ash said. "But it must be him!"

Sullivan shook his head. "Sorry, Ash, but I don't think that magical thinking will stand up in court."

Scribbs grinned. "But Boss, we've got so much."

"Not nearly enough," the Boss muttered. He dropped has hands and stood up. "But good work so far. Keep at it."

Scribbs and Ash stood. "Thanks Boss," they said in unison.

"Now," Sullivan coughed," you did say that these robberies were all small stuff. Why's that?"

Ash sighed. "All of them were a few days apart, but the last - where nothing was stolen - was the last."

Sullivan nodded. "Ah, that was Wilshire's house, right? Where the victim was spending the night with Mrs. Ostercroft." He got an idea. "What if robbery wasn't the motive the last time?"

Scribbs chuckled. "That's what I've been thinking."

The Boss nodded. "And?"

Ash replied, "Mrs. Ostercroft says that it was dark; too dark to see who it was. She claims she has no idea who came into that bedroom that night."

"But what if it was someone she knew? Would she tell you?" Sullivan ruminated. "Lots of reasons she'd hide the truth."

"We'll work on it, Boss," Ash told him.

"Fine. But about the tracks? Both foot and bicycle?"

Scribbs looked back at him for she'd gone to the office door. "Footprints from robberies and next to the pond where the body was found are the same. Weatherall's team confirmed that."

The Boss smiled at the team. "I think you need to find those shoes. Why not ask the doctor?"

In the hall Emma held her head in her hands. "I know we don't have enough but I sure had hoped that the Boss would let us go ahead."

"You know he's right Scribbs," Ash responded. "The Boss never misses a trick."

"But for one thing," Scribbs muttered.

"What?"

"He said ask the doctor about shoes… but I think that's wrong. I think we ought to ask his wife."

Ash nodded. "Let's go visit their house."

"Let's stop at The Peasant once more," Scribbs said. "I have a hunch."

"Why? The coffee wasn't that good."

"Follow along, dear Kate. Just come with me."

The maître d's face fell when he saw them come in his establishment, but he recovered quickly. "Good afternoon. Two?"

Scribbs got out her badge and displayed it. "DI Scribbins and DI Ashurst; Middleford CID," she told him quietly. "Might there be somewhere we can talk?"

"What's wrong?" the man asked.

Ash smiled. "Somewhere we might talk?"

He grudgingly took them to a back office after assigning a waiter to man his post by the door. "Now," he sighed. "How can the restaurant help the Police?"

"Your name?"

"Peter Irvine," he answered. "Worked here for two years and we never ever had a bit of trouble with the Bill."

Emma smiled. "Well, that's good."

Ash told him, "We're investigating whether two men happened to eat here last week; on Thursday night and it might have been late in the evening."

Irvine spread his hands. "We are always busy, it's impossible to tell!"

Scribbs opened an envelope and showed him a picture of the deceased. "This man."

Irvine's eyes started from his head. "I think so. Yes, this is…" he snapped his fingers. "Moore. James Moore. He comes here often, sometimes with Mrs. Ostercroft and also with business people. He was a nice man, so sad to hear what happened." He looked around, even though only the three of them were in the broom-closet sized office. "I think Moore and Mrs. Ostercroft were…" he finished by making smacking noises with his lips.

"But that night," Ash prodded, "was he here?"

He pursed his lips. "We can find out." He turned to a computer and typed a few keys, while he muttered vague threats to the PC about its glacial slowness. "Yes. I can see he did eat here; a party of two. The credit receipt shows their meal was rung up at 10:45."

"May we have a printout of that?" Ash snapped her fingers.

Irvine blinked. "Anything for the Middleford CID. You didn't like our coffee yesterday?"

Scribbs grinned at him. "It was fine but we were busy. Had to toddle off."

That made him laugh. "On your purple trainers."

Scribbs grinned some more. "Oh you noticed."

"Makes an interesting contrast with your lime-green coat."

Ash cleared her throat. "Printout?"

"Sorry." In a moment he handed them a sheet of paper with the Moore's name and credit card data, plus the amount. "I remember now; Moore and an older man. Fiftyish or older who looked tired I recall."

Ash took the envelope away from Scribbs and pulled out the other photo inside. "Was it this man?"

Irvine nodded. "Yes. He kept checking his watch all the while and Mr. Moore drank a lot of wine – he was a connoisseur; but two bottles all by himself?"

"This man," Ash tapped the photograph of a distinguished man in a dark coat and tie, "did he drink?"

"No. Just water. It was very late, almost closing and they were our last customers. I was at the door dealing with the valet; they can be so unreliable, when Moore and this man came outside. Moore was slurring his words and I was glad that the other man took his keys away and drove Mr. Moore's car for him. I suppose they came here together."

Scribbs grinned at Ash. "Got him," she whispered.

"What's that?" Irvine asked.

"Nothing," answered Ash. "Thank you for your time."

Ash and Scribbs got into their police car and they looked at satisfaction at the photo Ash held; a photo taken from the local hospital website of their directors. The face of Dr. Thomas Ostercroft looked up at them confidently.