Henderson, whom Matt had nicknamed The Stroud Sow, had gone a vile shade of dirty white. Her skin was exactly the color of a peeled banana, but much less appetizing.

     Liz had a special seat for the women. They must be properly cowed and humiliated to be convinced to hand over money on a regular basis and the seat was a major instrument of their suffering. An old birthing chair, patented in the 1950s, it had levers and cogs to realign her victims. They sat down as fat women, and she turned them into vast mounds of supine blubber. The ultimate refinement of this nastiness was the way the women were reflected back to themselves in the chair's chrome surfaces and levers. She polished it herself and transported it in a van Matthew drove. Few women survived the chair with self-esteem intact.

     Once the Stroud Sow was installed, Liz pulled on surgical gloves and resumed her patter. In the back of her head she could hear dear JosÈ singing 'Some Enchanted Evening'. The Sow might wish it was 'I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair' but a simple rinse and run wasn't going to work for her - she was about to invest in a high maintenance regime.

     'Of course, you're very lucky to have caught me. In a month's time I'm closing my private practice. I shall be running a fascinating research program for a pharmaceutical company - it will take up all my time. I shall support any clients already on my books but I shall not take on any new ones. Now ...'

     She poked vaguely at the Sow's nethers with a wooden tongue depressor. Then with great care and ceremony she placed the instrument in a clear bag, labeled it, and stripped off the gloves. Only then did she return the victim to an upright position.

     'We should have results within a week, or - if you wish to pay for premium service - I can have the analysis completed by six this evening. Rapid analysis costs seventy pounds for the lab and my courier costs are another hundred, so adding in my time to call you at home tonight ... let's say £200?'