“I’m sorry but there’s nothing more that I can officially do. We had no choice but to let Lady Helen go.” said Detective Michael Jenkins, with regret. “She attacked myself [JIMP#4] and nearly killed my son [JIMP#6] and you say there’s nothing you can do!” I shouted in exasperation.

Jenkins smoothed his light brown hair, slightly thinning and spoke so softly that he was almost whispering “The order came from high up. We had no choice. She must have friends in high places”. “One law for the rich another for the poor” I replied bitterly “Give me her address. I need to see her”. “I don’t think that would be wise” he replied. Briefly I explained how I was investigating a series of break-ins at Bristledown Manor, the home of Sir Humphrey Smthye-Jones. I told him how some of the remarks made by Lady Helen during the torture of my son indicated an interest in the matter. “Okay, I’ll go along with you. This is unofficial mind you” Jenkins agreed.

We drove to Lady Helen’s home. A large white stone detached house, probably Georgian, well isolated from any neighbours. It was three stories high with a wide staircase leading to a ornate doorway in the middle floor. We climbed the steps to the doorway and rang the doorbell. We waited ... and rang again. The sound of a bolt moving and the turning of the handle preceded the opening of the door. A haggard middle-aged Asian cleaning woman stood in the doorway. I was shocked at the sight of her wretchedness. She was almost skeletal looking, loose brown skin hanging off painfully thin arms and legs. She wore a short sleeved top that only came to her midriff and baggy leggings that came to her knees, neither did she wear shoes. Around her waist and draped over her shoulder was another piece of cloth. The material of her clothing was worn and faded. Jenkins showed the woman his warrant card and told her “We wish to talk to Lady Helen Windthorpe. Is she in?”. The woman sprouted a fast torrent of words in some Indian language. “La-dy Hel-en. Is - she - inside” Jenkins spoke slowly and gestured, as if someone who didn’t speak English would understand it if you spoke slowly!. The woman look baffled and we were treated to another rapid stream of words we did not understand. Jenkins gave up and push his way pass. I followed with the woman shouting and probably cursing.

The hall was long with a high ceiling. It was sparsely decorated with only a few pictures and stonework on show. We entered a room on the right and looked around. This seemed to be a reception room and it too was sparsely furnished. “Perhaps her ladyship hired her on purpose so she couldn’t understand anything incriminating said or say anything about it” I said. “More likely an illegal immigrant brought over for cheap slave labour. I’ll get an interpreter up from West London to question her” Jenkins replied. This room too was decorated to give a light airy feel without the clutter or extravagant trappings of the rich that one normally finds in the houses of the upper classes.

The next room was a study. There was a desk, a PC, printer, photocopier and fax machine. Around the walls were shelves upon shelves of books on all sorts of subjects ranging from romantic fiction to business studies. I turned on the PC only to get “Keyboard locked. Press F1 to continue”. I could have frigged the keylock given a few minutes, but not with a Police detective in the same room. I moved to the desk and looked through the papers piled neatly in a tray tree. One folder was a dossier on a local Councillor named Cole. I showed this to Jenkins “Bobby saw a 4 wheel drive outside when he escaped with COLE1 as the number plate. Maybe she’s blackmailing him”. I took the folder together with other interesting papers to the photocopier and started feeding the contents through it. “Before this job, I was hired by a rival councillor to look into corruption in Cole’s party. A supermarket chain wanted to open another out-of-town store when there was already three others in the area and despite the fact that it was killing the high-street. Cole’s party had the majority and voted it through. After some digging I followed councillor Fred Collier, to a secret rendezvous with a representative from the supermarket chain”. “Yeah I remember reading about that in the local rag. Collier was forced to resign” Jenkins replied. “Collier was only the scapegoat but I couldn’t find anything to tie in Cole” I said. I removed the last of the originals from the copier, and returned them to where I found them on the desk.

As we left the study a female voice with a Scottish accent said “Oi! what the heck do you think you’re doing here?”. We turned and saw a young woman in her early twenties walking down the hall towards us. She was about 5’6” with a good solid body, by no means slim - a pleasant Rubenesque figure. She had black shoulder length hair that framed an attractive round face. She wore glasses through which she glared at us with sultry looking blue-grey eyes with thick black eyelashes. She had a medium sized nose, slender lips and a few freckles. She was wearing skin tight riding trousers that clung to her thick but shapely legs in a pleasant fashion. On her feet she wore tough ankle length outdoor boot. She also wore a rough chequered shirt and there was plenty of it as she had a huge chest. She was like a human set-square, vast slopes of breast angling at almost 45 degrees from her body hanging low over her lower ribs. She must be a good 60” at least. A hint of deep cleavage showed in the V of her shirt neck.

“Police detective Jenkins” Michael said showing her his warrant card. She turned to face him. Her side profile was breathtaking, those breasts stuck out almost a foot from her body. “We are investigating matters relating to Lady Helen. And who may you be?” he asked. I probably should have gone to look in the next room but the view was riveting, not to mention stimulating. “I am Sarah MacKensie and I look after Lady Helen’s horses” she replied. I thought I could smell joshsticks burning and followed the smell to a door across the hall still keeping my eyes on the chesty young woman.

“Do you know anything of Lady Helen’s whereabouts?” Jenkins asked. “No, she doesn’t tell me, only the occasional order. Only she did tell me after her morning ride that she would be away on a business trip for a few weeks” she replied. “Business, what business is she in?” I asked. She looked at me with those captivating eyes “I don’t know. She’s never told me and she’s not the type who likes talking to those of a lower station than herself”. That sounded like the snooty upper class attitude that really pissed me off when I encountered her. “That will be all for now madam. If we need to speak to you again where can we get hold of you?” Jenkins asked. Sarah gave her address and telephone number and then turned to walk back down the hall.

Jenkins followed as I entered the room from where the joshstick smell came from. Unlike the sparse airy rooms of the rest of the house that we had been in, this room was stacked from top to bottom with all sorts of Indian artefacts and decoration. This seemed significant so I took out my mini- camcorder and scanned it over the contents of the room. “Looks like she’s into India art in a big way” Jenkins said “I remember hearing that her parents or grandparents were out in India”. “Sir Humphrey also has loads of Indian antiques at the manor, his great grandfather was also out there. Maybe he has something that they wanted badly enough to steal”. In the corner, the cleaning woman was on her knees in front of a shrine burning incense chanting...

Scott hid in the bushes and watched the front of the house for about 10 minutes. Jim Priest was still inside with that other man who he’d guessed was some sort of policeman when he’d flashed his warrant card to the Indian woman who’d opened the door. His new boss [JIMP#5] had told him where Priest now lived and his client. So Priest had escaped West London for the more rural home counties. Away from the low flying planes landing or taking off from Heathrow. Away from the heavy car congestion and their fumes. Away from the Asians and the whole communities they destroyed (Scott is a racist). Away from the race riots. Away from the high levels of street crime, burglary and joy-riders. Scott hated Jim even more because he was still stuck in the city, he could never afford to move, not that he wanted to.