One

      Debbie Harker strode into the hotel room without knocking. The man inside looked up quickly. He was middle-aged and wore a perpetually alarmed expression, which deepened when he saw her. “I’m just checking that everything’s all right, ma’am,” he said hastily.

      “No need to call me ‘ma’am,’ George,” Debbie told him, tossing her purse onto the bed and moving around to study the room. She had a brisk, purposeful manner that instantly dominated her surroundings and her companion. “I’m not in the police anymore. I’m a private investigator now.”

      “Yeah, so you told me on the phone. You could have knocked me down with a feather when you said you wanted to hire me to take some photographs.” George became awkward. “After all, you know my specialty...”

      “Rude pictures,” Debbie confirmed.

      “Artistic studies,” George tried to protest.

      “Knock it off, George. I’ve seen your work, remember. That’s why I had to ask you to recommend a venue. I want some pics that will place a gentleman in a very awkward situation.”

      George’s alarm deepened. “You mean, blackmail?”

      “In a way. We’re going to blackmail a blackmailer, a nasty piece of work called Elroy Speke. He specializes in women who did a bit of nude modeling when they were young but have put it behind them now. Speke buys up the old pictures and threatens to publish them. My client is one of those women. I aim to put a stop to his little game once and for all. Are you sure this place is suitably equipped?”

      “Perfect. That mirror behind you is two-way. My stuff is on the other side.”

      Debbie regarded the large mirror on the front of the wardrobe. From this side it looked perfectly normal, but George showed her the inside of the wardrobe that was actually a tiny, concealed room where his camera had been set up. Debbie stepped inside and closed the door. She found she had a good view of the bedroom, which was comfortable in an anonymous fashion. Apart from the double bed there was a wardrobe, a table, a small refrigerator and an armchair. The tones of the carpet, curtains and bedspread were variations of brown and biscuit, and there were no ornaments anywhere.

      She stepped back into the bedroom and glanced out of the window, enjoying the sense of anticipation that a difficult job always gave her. It was a longing for that heady sense of excitement that had made her join the police force ten years ago, at the age of eighteen. But she’d soon found that police work had its share of dull routine. She’d climbed the ladder as far as detective sergeant, where her propensity to ditch routine in favor of inspiration had made her superiors tear their hair out.

      “And just who the hell are you to chuck the book aside whenever it suits you?” Chief Superintendent Manners, her mentor and guide, had bawled. “The book is there for a reason.”

      “If I’d stuck to the book you wouldn’t have Slasher Gibbs in the cells now,” she retorted with spirit.

      “No, and I wouldn’t have the chief commissioner breathing down my neck about your unorthodox methods, either. Detective Sergeant Harker, this is your last chance. I’m taking you off the streets and putting you behind a desk until you cool down.”

      Debbie set her chin. “I didn’t join the force to do paperwork, sir.”

      Manners breathed hard and his face turned a dangerous puce. “You will do paperwork if I say so. Is that clear?”

      “Yes, sir. And I quit.”

      She left that day and set up in business as a private investigator. In six months she’d enjoyed some modest success, helped along by a few crumbs sent her way by Manners. But this was her most challenging assignment yet and she was looking forward to it.

      Despite her confident manner she’d experienced a few initial qualms about going in for blackmail. But after hearing Jane Quinlan’s full story she had no doubt that right was on her side. “I was nineteen years old when I posed for those damned pictures,” Jane had told her in despair. “I was a student. I needed money for food and to pay the rent.”

      She’d gone on to make a successful career as a lawyer and was now preparing for her marriage to a prominent politician. But the news of her engagement had brought Elroy Speke crawling out of the woodwork, flourishing photographs that Jane had long forgotten about.

      “I’ve tried offering him money,” Jane said wretchedly. “But he’s not interested. He wants ‘favors.’”

      They’d been sitting in the cubbyhole Debbie called her office. It was just big enough for a table, two chairs and a coffee percolator. Debbie filled another cup and offered it to Jane. “You mean, he’s such a worm that he can’t get women any other way?” she asked.

      “No, it’s not that. If he wasn’t such a rat I’d say he’s quite good-looking. But he seems to get his kicks from women who are afraid of him. Also, I think he’s trying to revenge himself on his wife.”

      “What’s he got against her?”

      “She’s rolling in money and he hasn’t a penny of his own. He’s got a flashy car, plus a wardrobe full of silk shirts and handmade shoes, and she paid for the lot. He hates being dependent but he hasn’t got the guts to walk out and live off his own wits. So he ‘evens the score’ by using her money to buy these pictures and then sleep with his victims.”

      “You mean, she knows?”

      “Goodness, no. He gets back at her in his head. She’d chuck him out like a shot if she found out.”

      “Then why not tell her?”

      “I threatened to. Speke just laughed and said, ‘Prove it. It’s your word against mine.’ And he’s right.”

      “Then we have to get some proof that he can’t deny,” Debbie had said thoughtfully. “And there’s really only one way to do it.”

      So the plan was born. Debbie had contacted Elroy Speke, offered him a set of “very interesting pictures,” and asked him to meet her at a discreet hotel in a quiet part of London. She’d gotten the name of the hotel from George, who was a mine field of information about dubious premises. Now there was nothing to do but