"Mrs. Crosby," I said and put away my badge. "You think there's been a murder?"

The old dear gazed at me with pale watery eyes. "Not yet. You should go over there now and save him."

"Save who, Mrs. Crosby?"

"Mr. Darke, next door."

"My partner has already searched the grounds..."

"She's already inside," she said urgently.

"She?"

"The murderess. You must save him."

I figured the old duck was a bit lonely and wanted some company. The desk sergeant had warned me that she was renowned for false alarms. She once had a Tactical Response Group at her door to protect her from a vampire. She'd gone quiet these last few months but it seemed tonight she'd reverted to her old ways.

"Please save him. He's ever so kind to me."

We were standing by an open window which overlooked a three-story gothic mansion bathed in silver moonlight. "Did you see someone go in?"

Mrs. Crosby nodded. "She's up to no good." She held up a key. "It's his back door key," she explained.

"Why do you have a key to his house?"

"For when he's away. I feed his cat."

How cozy. Alarm bells were ringing in my head, though. The rocks on her fingers told me the old lady was loaded. She wouldn't be the first rich octogenarian befriended by a nice young neighbor who suddenly ended up in the will.

"He keeps me company," she said coyly; a glimpse of her as a vibrant young woman sneaked through the wrinkles.

Uh-oh, this could be even worse. "How old is Mr. Darke?"

"About your age," she said, her gaze dropping to the naked fingers of my left hand. "He's not married either," she said wistfully. "I think he's lonely."

Double uh-oh. The old dear was a matchmaker. I better get out of here now or else she'd have me married off to this wonderful Mr. Darke and offering to babysit the kids.

"Do you know who went into his house?"

"Claudia, the young hussy. I knew she was up to no good. Spreading those lies about him."

"Is Claudia an old girlfriend? An ex-wife?"

"My boarder. Until I saw her for what she was. A gold digger. She only wants his money."

"And so you kicked her out?"

"It was only what she deserved for telling lies."

I looked out at the house. There were lights in the upper windows but the ground floor was in darkness. The bare branches of the gnarled oak trees that surrounded the house sent spidery shadows creeping across the lawn.

I saw Bishop, my partner, patrolling the backyard a second time, checking doors and windows, the halo of his torch beam sweeping across the walls like a miniature searchlight.

"It looks quiet," I said a heartbeat before a shot rang out. We both jumped.

"Oh dear," the old lady muttered.

I snatched the key from her trembling hands and bolted for the door. I called for backup on my mobile as I raced across the front yard. I hurdled the old lady's hedge and scrambled up the path.

With my Glock 9 mm drawn, I slowly approached the big double doors. The doors were shut but when I pushed on them, they swung open. From within the house I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. There were grunts and a female cry of frustration. A sudden silence and then the sound of fine crystal smashing on the floor, reminding me of ice cubes crackling in scotch.

"Stop it!" a male voice grunted and the struggling resumed. I directed my torch along the hall. The sounds were coming from a room on the left.

I moved slowly and, standing at the door with the torch held away from my body, directed the beam inwards.

Rolling about on the floor were two people. The man was bigger but it was the slighter of the combatants who was on top, flailing away at the man's face like a manic windmill.

I swept the torch beam across the room. There was no one else there.

"Stop! Police!"

They didn't stop. I strode in and one handedly picked the female up by the collar and hoisted her into the air.

She was short with long blonde hair tied back in a severe ponytail. She was light, fifty kilos if she was lucky, but her body was as tense as a coiled spring. She twisted in my grasp and kicked me in the shin. "Stop it!" I growled and dragged her away from the body on the floor.

"Don't move!" I shouted at him. "I'll shoot if you move an inch."

He froze and put his hands on the top of his head.

I held the snarling assailant against the wall and waited for Bishop. He arrived thirty seconds later and took the woman off my hands, cuffing her in one smooth movement. I like Bishop, he's a good operator.

I found a light switch and flicked it on. Lying on the floor looking up at me was a dead ringer for Cary Grant.

"Can I get up now?" he asked in a deep and cultured voice.

"Don't move," I commanded him and rolled him onto his stomach. I patted him down, feeling the firmness of his body and his tight buttocks. I'd already noted his stomach was firm and his thighs were like shapely tree trunks. I figured he must work out.

I reached into the back pocket of his slacks and extracted a good quality leather wallet. I opened it up and looked at the driver's license. Michael Darke. It rang a bell, but not very loudly.

I could feel the heat of his body through his high-collared shirt. My senses were aroused, my skin tingling and the heady scent of his musk made my head swim. He watched me with amber, catlike eyes that held an amused and cynical glint. Every few moments he'd flick his eyes to the female who Bishop had on a couch. Bishop was busy bagging a revolver which he'd picked up off the floor.

"Get up," I ordered.

The man climbed gracefully to his feet. He was at least six foot six and as he looked down at me he said, "I'm Michael Darke."

I had another flash of recognition but still couldn't place him. "Are you the homeowner?"

He nodded. "This is my house."

"You mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

"I can't really say."

I hoped he wasn't taciturn by nature. "You know this woman?"