Richard Owen leaned back in his chair, to peer around the filing cabinets, only vaguely aware of the rustle of his too-large car coat. All his attention was turned to the man with his hair at all angles, who stood by the door. Dressed in a dark blue suit that looked like he'd dragged it on, perhaps after wearing it out the night before, maybe with a woman; he spoke in low tones to the assembled team.

Richard thought about panthers; a barely contained force as the man owned the space and his words of frustration trapped his audience. A master story teller and raconteur with arresting qualities.

A heckle broke through the room, and Richard tipped his seat back and turned as if waking from a trance. His pen dropped and he was glad to hide his blushes as he settled back into his seat. By the time he'd collected himself, the team around the man were asking questions, the horror of the crime distilled into bare facts and reassembled into material as he watched.

For a moment, those eyes which had commanded attention turned to the lone female in the space. Owen saw a tightening of the jaw and a flicker of emotion. Gone as fast as it appeared, but for one who studied, as he did, it was absorbing.

He was the last to leave, feeding his way to the door and wondering how he, the weedy man in the wrong place got caught up in a briefing. He may not have realised what he ought to do, had it not been for two unknown men who stood by the coffee machine.

"He's meant to be the best" said one, a mid-height sandy haired man.

"When he's not pushing his weight around maybe. He's a loud mouth and I don't like his methods," The companion said with a sidelong glance over the office leaving him alone as they wandered off.

He followed their look and then met a pair of green eyes. He became aware of the rush of blood in his ears as the room shrunk. Those eyes asking and studying; just as quick, they were gone and the connection severed.

The man turned and left the room, leaving him completely alone.

Walthamstow

The manhunt was like nothing he'd seen before on this side of the pond. Every member of staff from the elite ranks of the Met was crammed into a room that was too small to house them.

James Dempsey wasn't sure why he was here as he made room for his partner, giving space to Harry from the predominantly male bodies around them. She turned towards him. He supposed he was elite. He knew that from the start, but he often wondered if America was another planet. Today was one of those days.

He had a brief sense of overwhelming testosterone that even he thought was tangible; a heady mix of Brut aftershave mingled with stale cigarette smoke and coffee. He shot her a look that he hoped was of gentle support and reached back to throw open a window. It dawned on him how much he preferred to sit in a stakeout and ruminate with Harry these days. Once, way back, he thrived on these gatherings. She moved a little closer and he quietly took comfort from her perfume.

He took a bite from a stale bun he'd grabbed on the way over and brushed the crumbs from his sleeve as his mind wandered away from what the chief know-all was saying. He'd long trained himself to keep an ear on those supposedly in charge and one on his partner, though the balance had long swayed to Makepeace. He'd already come to the conclusion that the overweight man at the whiteboard will soon reach; there will be more bodies before the psycho was found. But they won't agree on route to catch the killer; more stakeouts. Not that he minded a stakeout as long as it was with Makepeace; she bought food and he supplied coffee and blankets. Between them, they created results. Not this time. He can see the next misplaced conclusion; a honey trap with Makepeace in the hot seat. She's not said it, but he knows she knows it's coming. It's already pissed him off, since she's legit elite.

He thought about the dead women with crosses made on their torsos. Maybe this nutcase was sending them off to Jesus? Hearing voices of God and the Lord made them do it? They didn't look like religious shapes. Or maybe the were railing against who they were and how they were raised. Demanding attention.

He knows about demanding attention, flirting with women in front of Harry was like waving his arms and leaping around saying 'look at me', unable to articulate his need for her.

Dempsey took another bite of the bun and thought about what he knew. There was a case in Utah once, and then another just outside New York state. Crosses. A trail. Holy shit. It's not churches.

Suddenly he was pushing his way through the assembled police, ignoring Harry's arm on his, and a curious, but occasional jeer. Another woman was missing and he didn't care for protocol. Thankfully Spikings wasn't here.

Grabbing a pen, Dempsey made space on the white board and replaced each murder side with a cross and then keep going until all the women were mapped out and leaving a gap as London became a spidery map.

"That's where you'll find them," Dempsey said finally as he circled the spaces. "There was a case in New York almost the same that I worked on. Murderer was a guy who didn't engage, socially but he was dammed clever. Planned it all out, knew what we'd do and how we'd react but forgot about the pattern his murder sites created. They're not crosses they're markers. It ain't religious."

"This isn't New York." The man at the white board pointed out the obvious as he lit a cigarette and wheezed at the effort. Dempsey regarded him as the sort of man who might have been his partner. Overweight, fulled by ham sandwiches, lunch time beers and mashed potato with a side of cow. Hopeless at leg work and originality. Desperate to claim his last hurrah before retirement.

"That's kinda obvious." Dempsey leered.

"Detective Inspector Sturgeon, meet Lieutenant Dempsey." Harry made the introductions. Desperate men make easy persuasion and Harry knew this as she elegantly soothed both their colleagues and him. But Dempsey watched closely as they took to the phones, sat down at desks and make a plan. He hadn't missed Sturgeon's gaze at Harry and he felt angry.

"We were thinking you'd be useful..." Sturgeon began, ignoring Dempsey, propping his chin on folded hands.

"Yes, I know I am, as Dempsey's partner and an elite officer." Harry said politely, a hint of ice in her tone. "Of course, the lazy route would be to use me as bait, and I'm sure you're above all that, Detective Inspector."

Sturgeon observed her for a moment, as he chewed his lip. That's my girl, Dempsey bit his lip to stop the grin.

"I did think you could team up with Joyce..." Sturgeon hesitated.

Harry leant on the desk, "Perhaps you didn't hear me? I'm Dempsey's partner. I'll go through the details with him, we'll get a plan together and we'll let you know. Better the one you know than the one you don't."

Sturgeon started to stay something that Dempsey thinks is 'fiesty' but shuts up when he realises he has no ally. He heaves himself off the chair and disappears into the meagre crowd of officers who remained in place.

"He's gonna kill again soon." He told his partner, saving himself from the urge to lay one on the other man, realising the irony. He was hardly innocent of that crime.

"I know Dempsey," Harry replied and he breathed out at last. They may not have started well but she knew how to pull him back from becoming the criminal time and time again. Beside him, she stood and looked at the map, encouraging him to ask questions; and then of each other to see what had been missed, gently ribbing without the distrust that came from their first cases. He had come to rely on her more than ever.

"Sir?"

Dempsey looked irritatedly around him as he heard the voice. He'd ignored it the first time, aware that Harry was biting back a grin at the oddity of her partner being termed as such. This time the interruption was more insistent."What?"

"I thought you'd like a coffee."

The smell of hot liquid broke his thoughts Dempsey looked apologetically and ruefully at the young man who was holding it. "Thanks."

The younger man wore big glasses, with pale blond hair and looked like he'd dressed in a suit from a dead man. There was something about him that looked familiar but Dempsey was unable to place him. "Have we worked on something together?"

"I don't think so." The man sounded as nervous as his manner and Dempsey realised that he was probably admin. He'd never make police without a lot of strings being pulled. He reminded Dempsey of a younger Fry, who had all of the nerves but a determination and strength. This man lacked it in spades.

"It's not sir, it's Dempsey." He said finally, unable to think of another way to keep the conversation going, even if he wanted to. He realised the coffee was just as he liked in, frothy milk. A propensity that Harry teased him about since his taste changed after sleeping in squats and investigating Simmons. He'd mainlined milky coffee to keep warm and dispensed with his usual strong black ever since.

This reminded him of his partner's sudden absence and he looked around for her.

"She went to get a fax I think." The young man said, his voice wobbling over the words.

"What's your name?" Dempsey looked up as Harry returned; she was so much better at smalltalk than he was.

"Dick…or rather…" He said with a blush. Whatever else he had to say was lost as the phone rang and Dempsey took the call.

"Yeah, we'll be there." He said aggressively, "Fifteen minutes. I want every access blocked. Surround it."

He took off with Makepeace, almost bouncing from the walls; a predator who had found his prey. His coffee was cooling and forgotten on the table.