‘It seems as if Johnson might have met someone with a dog, guv,’ she said, waving a report in the air. ‘They’ve found white dog hairs on the victim’s trousers and, better still, a dark hair that might, just possibly, belong to our killer.’ These days, when disillusionment echoed around every corridor, DS Grace Warne was a gift from the gods. When she’d first joined them, Max had attributed her tireless energy and enthusiasm for catching bad guys to her youth. He’d guessed that one of her brothers had been given a policeman’s outfit one Christmas and Grace had taken to playing with it. She’d been with him for four years now, though, had even married, yet her enthusiasm hadn’t waned. He’d never heard her complain about the endless paperwork or the many ridiculous rules and regulations. She loved her job. Max took the report from her and skimmed through it. ‘Let’s not get too excited,’ he warned her, guessing it was too late for that.
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