It was only 7.30 on a cool July morning and the station was quiet, most personnel on daytime shifts having not yet arrived. Stratton was looking good in a closely fitting navy suit and a cream silk blouse. Her long hair was loose, framing her face and lying on her shoulders. There was an air of steely determination about her, a quality which had not been nearly so much in evidence on the last occasion they had spoken. ‘I’ve just had information from the Burley-in-Wharfedale team,’ she told him. ‘They’ve had a look at Christian Hartwell’s flat. It’s been broken into.’ ‘Right. Any further information?’ ‘The forensic team are going in to see what they can come up with. The report from the uniform PCs who went in mentions that there was a TV stand in the living room, but no TV.’ ‘That sounds like a break-in with intent to steal,’ Swift said. ‘Or a clever way to make it look like one.’ The sudden thought of the big new TV in Mrs Hartwell’s sitting room came into his mind – something to ponder on later.
