Monday morning rolled in faster than Rose had hoped it would. Sunday had been his allocated rest day, but he had kept in contact with the officers from Guildford that had been tasked with speaking to the girl's foster parents. So now, eight AM found Rose slouched in his desk chair pouring over the notes that had been hurriedly typed over night for him. Not that he had discovered much more from the paperwork than he had from speaking with PC Manders on the phone the night before.

'Do we have anything new?' DI Mason's sudden question sent Rose slopping scalding tea over his hand as he jumped, looking up from the notes in front of him. He cursed, wiping his hand on his trousers.

'Sorry, Guv'ner, didn't see you there. Wasn't expecting to see you 'til later.'

'Thought I'd make an early start this morning,' Mason said with a smile, hitching up his pristine trousers before taking a seat opposite Rose in the hard-backed blue plastic chair. The office that Paul Rose shared with three other Detective Sergeants was empty save for the two men. 'What did the Guildford station manage to glean for us?' he asked, eagerly, resting his smooth hands with perfectly short, clean nails on the desk-top as he leant forwards.

'Well Trev Manders and a female PC, uh, Ellen Martin, I think,' Rose checked the notes in front of him, 'made a visit to the foster parents. Pretty much like I thought. Haven't heard a peep from her. They fostered the girl, this Eutopia, in early '97, when she was six. The girl's mother died, cervical cancer, father absent from day one, so they took her in. She had a brother, William, but he was placed into a kids' home in Croydon because the family only wanted a girl.' Rose raised his heavy grey eyebrows meaningfully as he looked up at Mason. 'Anyway,' he continued when the Inspector failed to react, 'For two years this family, Mr and Mrs Scott, fitted in with plans from social services to keep the contact flowing between the two, but they put their foot down when the boy fell in with some oiks in Croydon.'

'The usual?' the Inspector asked, pushing the wire frames of his glasses further up his snub nose as he peered over at the notes that Rose was shielding with his meaty forearm, like a schoolboy afraid of having his homework copied.

'Pretty much, Guv. Underage drinking, smoking weed, a few petty thefts from local shops. Nothing major, just teenage hijinks.' Inspector Mason raised his pencil thin eyebrows, his tone cutting as his hazel eyes fixed on Rose's.

'I don't know what you did for 'hijinks' as a teenager, Sergeant Rose, but petty crime was not on my list of fun,'

'No, Guv,' Rose said, doubting that the Inspector had 'fun' in any shape or form. He puffed, bristling the wiry grey moustache under his nose as he looked back at the typed sheet, running a fat finger down the margin to find his place. 'So, the Scott's have no trouble from the girl, they keep her separate from her brother until boom, he pitches up at her window one night, when the girl's about ten or eleven, encourages her to run away to London with him. After that they say they had no end of trouble with her.'

'Did they have a good relationship with her?' Mason asked, curiously.

'From what Manders could pick up from the foster mother, yes, mostly for the first two years or so. The relationship dissolved a little bit, just before the girl's brother turned up that night. The kids were picked up at Waterloo station after the foster father had reported the girl missing in the middle of the night and one of the station guards was alerted to them jumping a barrier or something. The call came through just as the police based at the train station were trying to get to the bottom of why two kids were out and about so late by themselves. Social services put the girl back with the Scott family but after that she just kept running away, following in big brother's footsteps.' Mason nodded, recalling the long list of charges against the skinny thirteen year old with the haunted eyes.

'But they don't keep in contact with her now?'

'No. Social services tried placing her there at various times throughout the years, thinking the familiar setting might set her straight, but seems she had other ideas. Social workers apparently tried other families too, when they could find one to have her, but it didn't help. That little bird just wanted to fly. Neither of the Scott's have heard a peep from her in the last seven years or so.' Mason nodded as he listened, leaning back against the creaking plastic chair as he placed his fingertips to his lips.

'Are they still fostering now?' he asked.

'Are they hell, Guv,' Rose said, his doughy features suddenly animated despite the uncharacteristic early start. 'They took a few more kids in after this chicken,' he motioned to the thin file marked 'Midnite, Eutopia' that was beginning to grow on his desk, 'but in 2006 there was an investigation by Social Services into the foster father, Andrew Scott, after one of the social workers raised concerns about suspected sexual abuse.' Rose eased his rotund frame back into his desk chair, the pale cotton of his shirt stretched so tight across his belly that Mason feared for one of his buttons. 'No formal complaint was ever made to the police, but Social Services blacklisted the family it seems. They weren't eligible to foster from that point on.' Rose waggled his eyebrows, his beady eyes bloodshot but bright.

'You think that lends substance to your theory, don't you Sergeant?' Mason asked.

'It's just one brick in the foundation of this girl's motive, Guv. Messy childhood leads to messy adulthood. Abuse in her earlier years could send a chick over the edge when presented with a similar situation in later life. Post-traumatic stress or whatever.'

'I disagree completely. Nevertheless, what have you got on the new CCTV?'

'From the service station, Guv? Not a great deal, actually.' Rose slid five A4 sized photos from beneath the plain brown cover of the file. He lay the stills out in order in front of Mason, the eerie green glow of the images showed two cars, one parked behind the other at the pumps. The car to the most left side of the picture, closer to the camera, was a dark Mercedes that Mason couldn't recognise, the other a fairly recent Saab. The second shot showed the driver of the Saab, a heavy set and balding man in his late 40's standing beside it, one arm hooked up to rest on the roof of his car as he climbed from the driver's seat, the Mercedes driver's door was caught half open. Then the startling face of the Mercedes driver filled half the screen as the man crossed close to the camera and was perpetually frozen in the act of scowling darkly at the driver behind. The man's features were partially obscured by the crazy shadows cast onto the forecourt by the broken service station striplights, but even Mason could read the heavy intent etched into the otherwise handsome face. The fourth photograph captured the fear in the Saab owner's eyes as he was pinned to his bonnet by the throat, the imposing giant of a man leaning over him. A dark flurry at the bottom left of the picture evolved into a dark haired girl in photograph number five, at the man's side now with both her hands clasped around his meaty forearm, her lithe frame straining backwards in an obvious attempt to pull him away.

'That's definitely our chicken,' Rose said, needlessly pointing her out in the last photograph.

'Eutopia Midnite. But who is this?' Mason asked, running a slender finger down the figure of the man she was with. 'Do we have an ID on the man he was trying to strangle?'

'Not yet, Guv, was going to run the number plate through DVLA later today. I did watch the CCTV though. I'm no good at lip-reading, but there doesn't seem to be a great amount said between the two men. It does seem to be an unprovoked attack at this point. This bloke didn't even bother reporting it; it was the service station lackey that rang it through after recognising the girl from an earlier news report. Guess that e-fit artist worked out alright after all, he actually got quite a good match.' Rose pulled another picture from the file and laid it side by side with the last photo to compare the faces.

'What about this car?' Mason asked, his finger drifting across the shiny surface of the photograph to rest on the dark Mercedes. Rose let out a low whistle from between his teeth.

'Pricey little beauty, that one. Mercedes SL65 AMG, nought to sixty in four point two seconds. Set you back around a hundred and forty six grand. Wouldn't mind one of those myself, actually.'

'Thank you, Sergeant, I wasn't planning on purchasing one. Have you run the number plate yet?' Mason asked, scathingly.

'Course, Guv. Thought I might like to get a side line in on whatever that bloke does for a living if he can afford one of those,' Rose grunted, thinking of his battered green Rover 25 that sat in the car park.

'And?' Mason asked, habitually pushing the thin frame of his glasses further up his nose with an elegant finger, a gesture of impatience that Rose had come to recognise.

'Not much joy actually. The car is registered to an address in Kensington, Queens Gate Terrace. Nice place. Bit too pricey for me on my pittance. But both the car and the address, a rented flat, actually, were registered in the same name to a bloke called Alexis Caelum. Can't find him on PNC or any other database, so he's either clean or using an alias.' Rose leant forward in a conspiring manner as they both looked down at the CCTV still that showed the snarling yet strangely alluring face of the allusive male. 'Not bad for an hours work though, eh, Guv?' Rose asked with a lewd wink at the Inspector.

'There's more of the day left yet, Sergeant.'

Later that afternoon, Inspector Mason's bespectacled face appeared from around the edge of his office door as Rose strolled unhurriedly past.

'Sergeant Rose, might I have a word?'

''Course, Guv. I was just on my way to make a cuppa, though. Fancy a brew?' Rose asked, waving a chipped Liverpool FC mug at the Inspector. 'White with one, isn't it?'

'Uh, yes, please,' Mason agreed, making no mention of the fact he knew it was the Sergeants fourth cup of tea in the space of the last hour and a half. He didn't mind if it meant productivity was increased that afternoon, though he did make a mental note to speak to the Detective Chief Inspector about introducing a tea fund. Mason had a feeling that if the officers were encouraged to pay per cup they might be less quick to hover in the tea room. He settled himself behind his desk, smoothing down the lilac shirt and deep purple tie he was wearing, straightening his glasses as Rose reappeared shortly afterwards with his well-used Liverpool mug in one hand a plain brown mug in the other that looked like a china throwback from the 1960's, usually reserved for visitors. Rose nodded at the mug as he sat down and took a slug of tea.

'Sorry, Guv, couldn't find your mug,' he apologised.

'That's fine, don't worry. I wanted you to read the post mortem report on our two men from the Short Street case.' Mason slid a file across the desk to Rose before picking up his tea and taking a sip of the steaming brew, watching as the other man picked up the report and began to read in laborious silence.

By the time the Sergeant had finished reading Mason had finished tea. Rose sat back in his chair, resting the open file on his knee as he crossed one leg over the other.

'Well?' Mason asked, expectantly. 'What do you think?'

'I think it's a load of shit, if you ask me, Guv. Pardon my French. The knife wound to Ash's throat, how can they be so sure it was that particular blade that caused it?' Rose flicked through the pages of the report to take another look at the glossy photograph pinned to the back of the file.

'Carbon dating from trace evidence found in the neck wound. Didn't you read page four?'

'I skimmed it, Guv. Techie points like that don't interest me.' Mason pressed his thin lips together in irritancy.

'This knife was reported stolen from the Roman exhibition at the Natural History Museum sometime in July 2000, but it dates back to sometime in 300 AD.'

'Ooh, rusty. So we're looking for a murderer with a penchant for ancient Rome?' Rose asked.

'Not exactly. We don't know for sure that whoever stole this knife killed these men.'

'Was anything else taken with the knife, Guv? I don't remember hearing anything about this, would have thought the National History Museum would be a pretty big job.'

'Only a gold bracelet from around the same period. It wasn't a big job at all; mostly an open shut case because there was no sign of any break in and apart from those two artefacts nothing else was disturbed or reported missing. From the old statements taken at that time the Curator believed it to be an inside job and wrote the items off for insurance purposes.'

'This case just seems to get weirder,' Rose muttered. 'So, what I do gather from this report is that Ash had his throat cut and bled to death with this knife and the other one, Davey, died from impact related injuries? Though there was no sign that his car had moved from the spot it was found at, with the engine still on. There were no tyre marks to suggest the vehicle had to brake suddenly so therefore no reason as to how his injuries occurred?' A deep frown crinkled Rose's lined forehead as he looked at his senior for clarification.

'That's right. If you had read page five, however, you'd notice the coroner mentioned suspicious and extensive bruising to Davey's back which occurred before his death, like he'd been pushed by something, though the coroner specifically points out the bruises do not equate to those caused by another vehicle.' Rose whistled low through his yellowed teeth as he flicked to page five and glanced over the included photograph of the dead man again.

'Must have hit him with the force of a steam train to get those bruises.' Mason nodded. 'Our chick couldn't have done that, not unless she had sledgehammers for hands. Now him, on the other hand,' Rose pointed at the CCTV stills that were pinned to the incident board behind Mason's desk, his stubby finger singling out the snarling man at the service station. 'He looks like a bruiser.'

'What I could gather from that information, Sergeant, is that Ash's throat wound was caused by a right handed person of about six foot six to six foot seven inches in height who was stood in front of our victim at the time, merely inches away from him, given the trajectory. Also, it wasn't instantly fatal, in that it missed the jugular.'

'An accident?' Rose asked, flicking back to the beginning of the report, wondering how he had managed to miss that point, 'So we're dealing with an amateur.' Mason's good breeding caused him to mask his sigh of exasperation by clearing his throat.

'Do you solve many crimes by jumping to conclusions, Sergeant Rose?'

Rose turned crimson and bristled his moustache, which was vying for space on his face with the greying stubble beginning to grizzle his cheeks and chin. 'It could have been a deliberate action. It would have taken the man longer to die that way. Perhaps there was something the murderer wanted him to see before he died? Perhaps he just wanted the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.' Mason pondered out loud, pretending not to notice his Sergeant's red cheeks. Paul Rose might be a blundering buffoon in some respects, but Mason knew he was committed to the job and his old school policing generally did bring in results, no matter how many people he upset along the way.

'How are your leads coming along, Rose?'

'No joy, Guv, as of yet. We had a few uh, ladies, down in custody earlier, mostly from being picked up last night. All of them are old to the scene and not one recognised this Ash bloke as a pimp, so trying to find some other starting point.' Mason nodded as Rose heaved his bulk from the chair and crossed the room.

'Keep on it, Rose, you're doing a good job. And, uh,' he called as Rose was half out the door already, tapping the now empty brown mug on the desk, 'Lovely tea. Thanks.'