Her body was rigid with anger and as she pressed her head tight into his arm, he could feel the wet of her tears on his sleeve. 'No,' he said, after a moment. 'They can't understand. They weren't there. But you know I do. And I don't blame you for anything.'

Outside, Donovan got into her car and watched Tartaglia start up his motorbike and drive away. She let the engine idle, waiting for the heater to kick in, and sat in silence, staring through the misty window at the curving slick of the river and the dark outlines of the trees on the other side of the bank. What a fool she was, what a sopping wet, pathetic little fool. How could she have let herself go like that? What must Tartaglia be thinking of her? She hated the fact that she seemed to cry so easily these days.

She felt so stupid letting herself down, even though she knew he of all people wouldn't see it as weakness. But everything had suddenly seemed to press down on her until she could no longer hold it in. Minderedes's words had gashed things open again and she felt so angry, yet powerless to do anything about it. Try as she might to suppress the horror of what had happened, the memories and the guilt were ever-present. Whatever Tartaglia said, however much he seemed to understand, nothing could make it go away.

Again she thought of Tom he was never far from her thoughts, his shadow falling on her wherever she went. She couldn't think of him by his real name. He was just Tom. The chameleon. The beast. The vampire. Somehow he had taken on mythic proportions.

She remembered how she had been taken in by him, how she had actually once found him so attractive. The thought made her shiver. She could still see him sitting there next to her on the sofa, so very close, head slightly tilted to one side, studying her as if she were a butterfly in a killing jar fluttering its wings for the last time. The way he had looked at her in those final moments, and his voice, were indelibly burnt on her mind, the tone hardening, sharp and almost angry just before she lost consciousness: The answer was staring you in the face all the time and you haven't got a fucking clue.

It was all her fault. Everything was her fault. She should have known.

As for Tartaglia, the momentary physical closeness, coupled with his kindness, had stirred her up. Thank God he had never realised how she felt, how sometimes it made her ache just to look at him. She had thought she'd come to terms with it, blocking it all out, forcing herself to stop thinking about him in that way until it had become second nature. There never could be anything between them but friendship and a part of her was happy with that. If only she could get a grip and prove herself to him, somehow redeem herself in his eyes, maybe she could put things right again.

Cursing herself for being so feeble, she blotted her tears with the edge of her jumper and turned on the radio. They were playing Fergie's 'Big Girls Don't Cry' from her debut album. As she put the car into gear and drove off, turning left away from the river and down the quiet High Street, she listened to the lyrics and found herself smiling at the irony. Big Girls Don't Cry. It said it all, really.

10.

'Shall I be mum?' Detective Superintendent Carolyn Steele asked Tartaglia, presiding like a conjuror over the tray, complete with teapot, cups, sugar bowl, milk jug and a plate piled high with plain chocolate digestive biscuits.

Mum? He stifled a smile. With her short, broad-shouldered, athletic body and severe mannish trouser suit, there was nothing mumsy, or remotely cuddly and comfortable about her.

'How do you take yours?'

'White, no sugar, thanks.'

It was day three of the investigation. She had been up in Hendon for a meeting with her superiors and had missed the early morning debrief. She poured out the strong brew, passed Tartaglia his cup, then added milk and two sugars for herself. She passed him the plate of biscuits and he took one to show willing. As she helped herself to another, her phone rang and she grabbed it, cradling it against her ear with her shoulder as she dunked her biscuit in her tea. A male voice was just audible at the other end.

Tuning out the few terse snatches of conversation from Steele's side, Tartaglia glanced out of the window behind her at the row of small Victorian houses across the street. It had started to thaw overnight and water was dripping from the roof into the street below, little streams running down the window. The sky was ominously dark and it looked as if the heavens were about to open. Looking over at Steele, he wondered who was at the other end. Superintendent Cornish maybe, or someone else up in Hendon. Definitely someone senior, judging by Steele's deferential tone.

Sitting there, waiting for her to finish, it was hard to remember that, only three months before, this had been Trevor Clarke's office. So much had changed in that time and the room itself was almost unrecognisable. The filthy Venetian blinds had been removed, the windows cleaned, and the air smelled fresh, no longer infused with the usual mixture of stale smoke, chicken pot noodle and cheap aftershave. Even the old battered desk had been rejuvenated, its surface more or less clear, pens in a leather holder, files neatly stacked to one side.

He noticed a large black and white photograph of Rachel Tenison sitting in the in-tray. He had no idea where Steele had got it from or what it was doing there, although he assumed that it was for press use and probably provided by Patrick Tenison. He reached over and picked it up. It looked like a professional studio shot and a good one at that, much clearer and more revealing than the few family snaps he had seen. Pale blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face and her lips were slightly parted as though she was about to speak. There was a sweet, girlish prettiness about her broad forehead and small, rounded features, but the way she held her head, looking directly at the camera with an upward tilt of her chin, was challenging. And there was a light in her eyes, a mischievous sparkle, as if she was flirting with the photographer, which he found instantly beguiling. For a moment his thoughts turned back to her barely furnished bedroom with its huge bed, its mirrors and the locked trunk, and again he wondered what she had really been like.

Steele slammed the phone down in its cradle. 'That was the Kensington and Chelsea Borough Commander again. Poor man's being plagued by a posse of retired majors, maiden aunts and nannies complaining about Holland Park being shut. He's desperate for us to release the crime scene.'

He put down his cup and saucer with a rattle. 'Christ! A woman's been murdered and all they can think about is walking their bloody dogs.'

'Only to be expected, really,' Steele said dryly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. Tartaglia wasn't sure if she was writing off mankind in general or just the well-heeled inhabitants of Kensington. 'Any idea when we can reopen it?' she added, putting the last piece of biscuit into her mouth.

'Should be today. Forensics have more or less finished. There's no sign anywhere of Rachel Tenison's clothing and there was too much foot traffic on the path near where her body was found to pick up anything significant. Now the snow's melting, there's probably not much point in keeping it closed.'

Steele yawned and helped herself to another biscuit. 'Good. I'll let him know. But that wasn't why I wanted to see you. There's something that needs looking into.' She took a small bite of the biscuit, chewing it carefully and thoroughly before continuing: 'I had a journalist on the phone this morning, asking if we thought there might be a link with the Catherine Watson case.'

Tartaglia gave her a blank look. 'Catherine Watson? Doesn't ring a bell.'

'No, it probably doesn't. It was about a year or so ago and it was handled up in Hendon. I don't remember the exact details, other than that the woman, a teacher I think, was found murdered in her flat. It was very close to where I live, only a few streets away, which is why it particularly sticks in my memory. I remember worrying at the time that we had some nutter loose in the area, although luckily there was no repeat.'

'Which journalist are we talking about?'

'Jason Mortimer, so it's worth taking seriously.'

'He thinks he's got a story?' Tartaglia asked thoughtfully. Mortimer was a heavyweight crime reporter on one of the dailies and the mention of his name had usually been enough to make even Trevor Clarke, who had little time or respect for the press, sit up and take notice.

'I get the impression he's just fishing, but we obviously need to find out one way or another if there's any substance to it before he digs up something more concrete and splashes it all over his rag.' She gave a little involuntary twitch, as if stung by something, possibly imagining the headlines.

'Did Mortimer tell you why he thought there might be a link?'

'No. He was quite cagey, which could mean anything. If he's had a tip-off, he's not divulging. But what I do remember is that Catherine Watson had been tied up and tortured before she died. It was really quite horrific and the details were not in the public domain. Why Jason's picked up on it I don't know, and he's not saying. But given it's him, it's worth seeing if there are any similarities with the Holland Park murder. The files are coming over later this afternoon.'

'Did they catch whoever did it?'

She shook her head. 'DCI Alan Gifford was the SIO. My team was in the next-door office and I remember it all going on. In the end, they drew a blank. The review team went over it all quite thoroughly, but as far as I'm aware it was never solved.'

'Have you spoken to DCI Gifford?'

'Can't. Gifford's dead. He retired about six months ago I went to his leaving do and within a couple of weeks he keeled over from a heart attack, poor guy. But speak to Simon Turner next door. He was Gifford's DI, before he moved to Barnes.'

Simon Turner now worked for DCI John Wakeley, who headed up the other murder investigation team based in Barnes. Turner's office was across the divide, on the other side of the building, but there was no sign of him. A young female detective, who Tartaglia assumed was a new recruit, was sitting just outside Turner's office eating a sandwich at her desk. She told him that Turner was tied up all day at the Old Bailey, giving evidence in a murder trial. Tartaglia took a note of Turner's mobile number and left a message asking him to call.

Back in his own office, he had barely sat down when Feeney appeared in the doorway.

'I think I've found the bloke Rachel Tenison had a drink with the night before she died,' she said, looking pleased with herself. 'There are only three entries in her contact list with the initials JB and I've spoken with two of them and ruled them out. The only one left is somebody called Jonathan Bourne. I've tried his number twice but the phone seems to be permanently engaged. He lives in Notting Hill. I thought I'd go over there now.'

'Greville mentioned that she had a friend called Jonathan. I think I'll come with you.' He was already on his feet.

11.

An icy drizzle had set in by the time they left Barnes Green. Feeney was a fast and efficient driver and Tartaglia could see the frustration building as she was forced to manoeuvre her way, stopping and starting, in and out of the heavy traffic. Tartaglia sat in the passenger seat, watching the windscreen wipers move rhythmically back and forth, brushing away the sleet. By the time they got to Notting Hill it was nearly two-thirty. Jonathan Bourne lived in a converted former Post Office, just off the Portobello Road. The building was several storeys high and had been divided into a number of flats. Feeney pressed the buzzer for Bourne's flat but there was no response. As they waited, a plump woman in a long, dark coat and flat-heeled boots opened the front door to the block and came out.

'Do you know which floor Jonathan Bourne is on?' Feeney asked. 'He's not answering the bell.'

'That's probably because he can't hear it,' she said with a grimace. 'He's on second and he's definitely in. Got his music on full volume, as usual. I live below him, more's the pity. Can't get to sleep a lot of the time but nobody seems to want to do anything about it. Council are bloody useless.' She assumed a disgusted expression as she pushed past them and turned up the street.

The lift was out of order and they took the stairs. As they reached the second floor and heaved open the fire door, a blast of music came at them down the corridor like a gust of hot air. 'Johnny Come Home' by Fine Young Cannibals, something Tartaglia hadn't heard for a good ten years.

Bourne's flat was at the end. Tartaglia pressed the bell outside, then knocked, but getting no response, he started to pound on the door with his fist.

'Police. Open up,' he shouted.

He continued to hammer. A few moments later, the door opened and a tall, pale-faced man, with a dishevelled mop of thick, reddish-brown hair, peered out. He was naked, except for a small green towel, clasped around his middle.

'What the fuck do you want?' the man shouted over the music.

Feeney held up her warrant card. 'Police. Are you Jonathan Bourne?'

'Hang on a sec.' The man disappeared behind the door. Within seconds the volume was turned down and he reappeared.

'What do you want?' he said, holding the door ajar. 'I'm busy.' His speech was a little slurred.

'I'm Detective Inspector Tartaglia and this is Detective Constable Feeney,' Tartaglia said. 'We need to speak to you.'

Bourne squinted at the warrant card. 'Can't you come back another time?'

'No. We need a word with you now.'

'Look, it's not convenient.'

'We can either do it here, or you can come with us to the local station. Your choice.'

'Can't it wait? I'm in the middle of things. You know.' Bourne raised his brows meaningfully and jerked his head towards the room behind him.

'No, it can't wait, Mr Bourne. But I'd rather you went and put some clothes on first. And turn off the music.'

Bourne fixed him with a bleary stare. 'Is it the noise? Have the fucking neighbours been complaining again? Because if so-'

'No Mr Bourne,' Tartaglia interrupted. 'It's not about the noise. It's about Rachel Tenison.'

Bourne looked surprised. 'Rachel? Ah, silly me. Should have thought of that.' He frowned. 'Course, you said you were detectives, didn't you. You'd better give me a minute.'

He left the door open and Tartaglia and Feeney followed him into a large, open-plan room with two tall windows overlooking the street. Bourne padded across the floor, switched off the music, then stooped to collect a trail of discarded clothing before disappearing through a door in the far corner of the room into what Tartaglia assumed was the bedroom. Bourne slammed the door behind him. Moments later a toilet flushed and they heard muffled voices through the partition wall.

Waiting for Bourne to re-emerge, Tartaglia gazed around. A small modern kitchen area was tucked to one side of the front door, divided from the rest of the room by a breakfast bar piled high with empty wine bottles, dirty plates and glasses. The rest of the room looked like a cross between one of the bric-a-brac shops they had passed in the Portobello Road and a taxidermist's workshop, with a couple of stag's heads on the wall above the door and domed glass cases full of stuffed birds dotted about on tables. In one corner, a pair of mangy-looking stuffed monkeys clambered up a wooden branch that had been turned into a lamp and, on the desk beside it, a human skull wearing a purple fez served as a paperweight.

A strong, familiar smell hung in the air. Walking across the room, Feeney just behind him, Tartaglia saw the telephone handset lying on the floor by the window, next to a pile of cushions, along with a half full bottle of wine, two unfinished glasses and a pub ashtray with the remains of a joint.

'Someone's been having themselves a little party,' Feeney said, folding her arms disapprovingly. 'And at this hour of the day too.'

Tartaglia stifled a smile. In Feeney's well-ordered life there was a correct time and place for everything and he imagined that drinking and the like was strictly reserved for after dark.

Within minutes a scrawny, weary-eyed blonde emerged, dressed in a pair of tight jeans, heavy boots and a leather motorbike jacket. She walked unsteadily past Tartaglia and Feeney as if they were invisible, collected a crash helmet from behind a chair and made her way out the front door. Shortly after, Bourne reappeared wrapped in a flowing red velvet dressing gown.

'Shall we?' he said, waving his hand vaguely towards the sitting area.

Without waiting, he flopped down heavily in the middle of the sofa, leaving Tartaglia and Feeney to take the two ancient-looking armchairs opposite. Although Tartaglia couldn't picture Bourne in a suit, or any particular clothes for that matter, his auburn hair might easily appear dark brown in the dim light of La Girolle. He wondered if Henri Charles would recognise him.

'You know that Rachel Tenison has been murdered?' Tartaglia asked, as Bourne lounged back against the cushions and crossed one long, pale leg over the other.

'Yeah, I heard,' Bourne replied, rubbing his eyes. 'So what is it you want?'

'We're trying to trace Miss Tenison's movements after she left work last Thursday. I understand you saw her that night.'

'That's right. We met up for a drink.'

'Where was this?'

'Her place.'

'Her flat, you mean?'

Bourne yawned. 'Where else?'

'I just want to be clear, Mr Bourne. The two of you were friends then?'

'Yeah. I've known Rachel knew Rachel from university.'

'So it was a social visit?'

'Not really. I'm a journalist. I'm doing a piece for one of the Sunday magazines. It's about Nazi looted art and the Simon Wiesenthal Foundation. Her gallery's been involved in the recovery of a particular painting and I needed to talk to her about it.' As he spoke, he fiddled with the long, tasselled belt of his dressing gown.

'What time did you get there?'

'About seven. Had a couple of glasses of wine, had a bit of a chat, then I left.'

'What time was that?'

'Bit before eight.'

Feeney frowned. 'That was a pretty quick drink.'

Bourne glanced wearily over at Feeney. 'What's quick? I was there about an hour. Anyway, she said she had to meet someone for dinner.'

'Who was that?' Tartaglia asked.

Bourne frowned. 'How the hell should I know?'

'She didn't mention anyone by name?'

'No. None of my business, was it?'

'So you left?'

'Yeah. When she saw what time it was, she practically poured my glass of wine down my throat and booted me out the door. Said she was going to be late.'