'Sometimes they do, but usually not. As I said, this type of person is devious. On the surface, there's nothing to hint at what is locked away beneath.'

Tartaglia rubbed his lips thoughtfully, wondering if after all Liz had been telling the truth. 'Is there anything else I should know?'

Williams leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped in front of him, the spotlight just catching the top of his head. 'Ethically this is a very tricky situation, but given what's happened, there is something which may have a direct bearing on your investigation and it ties in with what we have just been discussing. It's the reason I rang you. I'll go and get my case notes.'

He got up from the chair and went out of the room, returning after a few minutes with a thick yellow file. He sat down again, put on a pair of reading glasses, and started leafing slowly through the dense typewritten sheets.

'I make notes during each session, then dictate these reports immediately afterwards, with my observations. That way they're usually more or less verbatim. Ah, yes, here it is, July 24th.' He glanced down the page and turned over the next sheet. 'We spent much of the session talking about Rachel's relationship with her stepfather. He was very repressive, a bully by all accounts, although she would never admit it. She was finding the whole thing quite difficult so I let her sit for a while in silence. About five minutes passed, then she said, completely out of the blue, "I went to a bar last night and I picked up a man. We ended up going back to my place together and having sex."' Williams peered up at Tartaglia over the rim of his glasses. 'This is the first time she had ever mentioned a sexual experience.'

Tartaglia frowned, trying to stifle his excitement. 'Do you think she was telling the truth or just trying to get a reaction out of you?' If Rachel Tenison really was in the habit of picking up men in bars, the field of possibilities had opened wide.

'Both, I'd say. She knew as well as I did that this was something totally new in terms of our discussions.'

'What happened next?'

'I asked her if the experience had been enjoyable and she replied that it was "good". I then asked her if she had ever done it before and she said "no".'

'But she was lying?'

'I'm certain of it, but I let it go.'

'Why lie to you? Why bother to mention it in the first place, if she didn't want to talk about it honestly?'

'Because she was playing a game. She wanted to arouse my interest.' Williams looked back at his notes. '"Tell me about what you did before you went to the bar," I then asked. She said she came home and was about to pour herself a drink when she realised she fancied a cocktail and that she wanted somebody to make it for her. She said she knew a place close to where she lived, with a barman called Victor who made great martinis. She said he knew just the way she liked them. Then she described slowly and in a lot of detail how she got changed, right down to the perfume and the colour of her lipstick. The preparation was careful, deliberate and ritualistic, which also suggested that this was an habitual practice.' Williams looked up at Tartaglia again and added, 'It was also clear she was trying to titillate me.'

Williams's face was expressionless, as if it meant nothing to him personally. Tartaglia pictured her, slender and pretty, with her lovely cloud of pale blonde hair and a provocative look in her eye. What was it like, just the two of them face to face in that dark room? It was an intimate situation, door closed, blinds down, removed from the outside world. He imagined her there, hour after hour, talking about herself, sitting just where he was now, Williams opposite. So close. Had Williams wanted to do more than just listen? Were psychoanalysts open to normal male responses? Or did they have some mechanism for blocking them off? It was interesting that Williams had never once referred to the fact that Rachel had been an attractive woman. He spoke of her as intelligent, controlled, self-contained, but not attractive, let alone beautiful, as if such a quality didn't register on his radar. Professional ethics aside, surely Williams couldn't be oblivious to what was in front of him?

'It was illuminating,' Williams continued, deadpan. 'I wrote down almost word for word her account of going into the bar. Would you like me to read it?'

'Please.'

'This is what she said.' He cleared his throat. '"I felt a buzz as I walked in. The lights were dim and the music was good and loud. The room was already pretty full and most of the tables were taken. Several people were sitting along the bar and I found an empty stool near the end and ordered a vodka martini. There was a huge mirror over the bar and I could see the whole room reflected in it. I was listening to the music, just sipping my drink, when I saw a man standing a little further along the counter. He must have just come in, as I hadn't noticed him before. He was good-looking, in his twenties, olive-skinned and well built, with wavy black hair. I watched him for a few minutes and he seemed to be on his own. He joked a little with one of the barmen as though he knew him, although I had never seen him before, and he bought a beer. He downed almost all of it in one and I thought he must be very thirsty. He was wearing jeans, and a tight T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms and he had a tattoo of a dragon on one of them. I wondered if he was into martial arts.

'"He looked my way and I caught his eye in the mirror and he smiled. He had nice, even, white teeth and a lovely mouth. He raised his glass to me and I smiled back, then turned away to my drink. But he didn't take his eyes off me. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He was challenging me to look round, seeing if I was up for it. I turned my head ever so slightly towards him across the bar and, for a moment, we just held each other's gaze. Then I smiled again, gave him a little nod and got up. I left some money on the bar for my drink and walked out. I didn't turn around but I knew he would follow."'

Even though Williams's voice was deep and masculine, Tartaglia felt as though she was talking directly to him. He pictured her sitting at the bar, her hair framing her face, looking into the mirror, catching his eye and smiling. For a moment, he imagined himself smiling back, watched her slide slowly off her stool and walk out of the bar without a backward glance, knowing that he would follow.

'That was all,' Williams said, looking up. 'But it gives you the general picture.'

'You said these were her words,' he said, a little bewildered. 'How can you remember so accurately? Did you tape it?'

'No. I'm blessed with perfect recall, something which I find very useful in my profession.'

'You're lucky,' Tartaglia said, thinking of his father who had a similar type of memory. Sadly, he hadn't inherited it. 'Did she talk about what happened after?' He imagined the darkened anonymous bedroom with its huge bed and the black studded trunk at the end.

Williams shook his head. 'She wouldn't go any further and I didn't press her.'

'She meant it as a tease?'

'Maybe, but she didn't realise what she had given away in return. A whole new layer had opened up. I had glimpsed inside the box, the hidden life, and had confirmation of something I had suspected for a while. I hoped in time we might explore it further. But she only came for a couple more sessions and she refused to talk about anything other than her parents.'

'When was your last session?'

Williams checked his notes. 'August 10th. She then sent a cheque and a polite letter thanking me for my help and saying that she felt much better. It was another lie, of course. The real reason was that I had got too close.'

Thoughts buzzing, Tartaglia rubbed his face with his hands and got to his feet. Williams followed suit.

'Did she mention the name of the bar?'

'No. But based on her description of what happened, it will be somewhere close to where she lives. Within easy walking distance.' He escorted Tartaglia into the small hallway.

'We'll need copies of all your notes,' Tartaglia said, handing Williams his business card. Their eyes met and again he found himself wondering what Williams had really felt about Rachel Tenison.

Williams inclined his head. 'I'll get my secretary to bike them over to you later today.'

Tartaglia stopped by the door and turned back to face Williams. 'Do you think she was aware of the risks in what she was doing?'

'I'm sure she was completely aware, Inspector. That's what it was all about. And the danger would have heightened the thrill.'

Thundering down the stairs two at a time, Tartaglia thought of the contrast between what the world saw of Rachel Tenison, what her family and friends knew of her, and what lay beneath. Hers was a secret form of rebellion against the straitjacket of what was expected, a resistance to ties and commitment. He couldn't blame her and for the first time he felt a glimmer of understanding as well as sympathy. He had had more than his fair share of one-night stands in the past and he knew how addictive it could be. It was something he tried not to dwell on, something he struggled to put out of his mind some nights when he lay awake and alone in bed. Sometimes he was tempted to pull on his clothes again and go to one of the bars near his flat and try his luck. But what then? There was no lasting satisfaction, only the emptiness that had been there in the first place. And yet as he pictured her face again, her words flowing over and over through his mind, a part of him wished he had known her, even just for one night. He thought of the poem and its strange imagery. Our Lady of Pain. Not Dolores. Rachel.

Outside, it was still raining heavily and the traffic was backed up all the way along Harley Street. It took him a minute before he spotted Feeney, car idling on a yellow line further down the road. He climbed into the passenger seat and told her the gist of what Williams had said. 'I want you, and whoever's available, to check out all the bars within walking distance of her flat. We're looking for a barman called Victor. Get some help from the locals. Somebody, somewhere must have seen her.'

'What about you?'

'I'm going back to the office. I need to look at the Catherine Watson files. If there is a link, maybe we can shortcut the whole process.'

As he climbed out of the car, he heard his mobile ringing and ducked into a doorway to answer it.

'I'm in St James's,' Donovan said a little breathily. He could hear the thud of her footsteps on pavement, traffic in the background. 'I've just been seeing some of the people Rachel Tenison used to work with at Christie's.'

'Anything interesting?'

'No, not really. Nothing recent anyway.'

He told her about what Williams had said.

'Do you want me to go and give Karen a hand?' she asked, when he had finished.

'No,' he said, checking his watch and realising with annoyance that Turner still hadn't returned his call, even though the court session must have already ended. He explained to Donovan what Steele had told him that morning about the Catherine Watson case. 'I want you to help me review it. Find Simon Turner, wherever he is, and get his input. He's the only one to hand who knows the case.'

13.

'Nice to see you, Sam.' Simon Turner greeted Donovan with his easy, lop-sided smile. 'It's been a while since we had a jar together. Almost thought you'd been avoiding me.'

'Just busy, that's all,' Donovan said, although it wasn't exactly true. She hadn't felt much like socialising with any of her work colleagues lately, even Turner, whom she liked more than most.

He sat sprawled in a dim corner of the White Hart, an almost empty glass in one huge hand, a cigarette clamped in the other, looking like a throwback to the Vikings with his brutally short, white-blond hair and strange pale eyes. She set down her bag on a chair and peeled off her coat. She had had quite a bother getting hold of him, leaving two lengthy messages before he had finally returned her call and agreed a place to meet. She wondered how long he had been sitting there.

'I'll get us some drinks,' she said, scooping up her purse from her bag. 'It's a whisky isn't it?'

He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette in an already full ashtray. 'Mmm. Glenmorangie, please. Make it a double if you're buying, and plenty of ice, no water. It's been one shit of a day. And a couple of packs of peanuts while you're at it. I'm bloody starving. Here, take this,' he said, suddenly delving deep in his pocket and fishing out a crumpled twenty pound note. 'Can't make a lady pay, can I? Even if you are here on business.'

'It's OK. You can get the next round. I'm sure we'll be having more than one.'

He shrugged good-humouredly and stuffed the note away.

She went up to the panelled bar, eventually managing to attract the attention of a sullen-faced barmaid with a tousled beehive of dyed black hair. She ordered a glass of house white for herself and whisky and nuts for Turner. The counter was in need of a good wipe, and she was careful where she rested her hands while she waited. It certainly wasn't the sort of place she would normally choose for a drink and she assumed Turner had selected it purely on location, as it was only a few blocks down the road from the Old Bailey.

With its dingy furnishings and swirly-patterned carpet, it was one of a dying breed of London boozers, a mock Victorian relic, circa nineteen-eighty. The room wasn't particularly full but the air reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, the imminent smoking ban failing to make any impact so far. Personally, she preferred the modern look that was sweeping through the city, pubs like the White Hart cleared out and transformed with candles, velvet, bare floors and comfy sofas. They were all more or less interchangeable, but at least they were pleasant to be in, although few had the character and genuine atmosphere of the Bull's Head in Barnes.

She paid, getting little more than a curt nod from the barmaid, and brought their order back to the table.

'So why was it such a bad day?' she asked, sitting down opposite Turner.

He flexed his muscular shoulders as if they were stiff and tore open a pack of nuts, pouring himself a large handful, which he tossed into his mouth. 'One of the key witnesses has gone AWOL,' he mumbled, chewing vigorously. 'And on top of it all, the judge kept us late because he can't sit tomorrow. He's on holiday, so screw the rest of us. At least I'll have the chance to catch up on some paperwork.' He grimaced, then chased the nuts with a large slug of whisky.

He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and he tugged abstractedly at the knot of his tie. Once undone, he yanked the plain blue tail of silk free of his collar and tossed it onto the table as if he never wanted to have anything more to do with it again. He looked unusually tired, his large, pale face gaunt, shoulders sagging, another cigarette already between his fingers.

'How are things with Nina?' Donovan asked, noticing that he wasn't wearing his wedding ring.

A shadow crossed his face and he took a long drag on his cigarette, puffing out a series of perfect rings before answering. 'She's bloody left me, that's what. Walked out and gone to stay with some friend or other while we work out what to do with the flat.'

'Oh, Simon, I am sorry,' Donovan said, trying to sound it, but not in the least surprised.

They had always seemed an ill-matched couple, Turner so relaxed and easy-going, Nina prickly, serious and driven. Never one to let herself go, she didn't have much of a sense of humour and Donovan had never really warmed to her. She didn't know all the details, except that Turner had once indiscreetly let slip that his relationship with Nina had evolved from a drunken one night stand when they were both working up in Hendon. But when Turner had transferred down to Barnes, he had been on his own and that was when Donovan had got to know him. Then after a few months Nina had started appearing in the pub after work and Donovan gathered things had started up again. Next thing she knew, Nina was pregnant and they were heading down the aisle. Then there had been some problem and Nina had lost the baby.

He frowned. 'Have you seen her at all?'

'Briefly. She was the CSM on the new case we're working, but you know how it is. We didn't get a chance to talk. I didn't realise anything was wrong. What happened?'

He sighed heavily. 'All my fault really. Wasn't giving her the proper time and attention, apparently. Wasn't there for her when she needed me.'

She assumed he was referring to Nina's miscarriage. 'You think she'll come back?'

He shook his head. 'Seems she's got some new bloke. Can't blame her. I mean, who in their right mind would put up with what we do, eh?' He shrugged, as if it were all par for the course. 'Anyway, you didn't come here to listen to me droning on about my sodding personal life. You said you wanted to know about the Catherine Watson case. Let's get it over with, then we can let our hair down. So what can I tell you?'

She gave him a brief outline of the Holland Park murder, then explained about the press tip-off. Turner listened thoughtfully, working his way through another cigarette and the remains of the whisky.

When she had finished he got slowly to his feet and stretched his arms and shoulders. 'On second thoughts, maybe I need another drink. Can I get you one too?' Loomingly tall, he gazed down at her as he fumbled in his pocket for his money.

'Why not?' she said, noticing that her glass was almost empty. She had already decided that she wasn't going back to the office that evening. 'Although I'd rather have a glass of red. The white was like vinegar.'

He lumbered over towards the bar and leaned heavily on the counter as if exhausted while he waited to be served. From the back, she noticed that his trousers were even more baggy and shapeless than usual and he looked as though he had lost quite a bit of weight. She liked the way he didn't seem to care a toss about his appearance, wearing his suits as if they were to be lived in and used. She wondered what Turner was really feeling about Nina. It was difficult to tell. His whole manner was of someone who didn't mind much about anything, who took most things in life carelessly in his stride as if his focus was elsewhere. A bit of a dreamer, was what her granny would have said.

The black-haired barmaid came over after a moment. The sour look gone, her face suddenly animated, she and Turner talked like old friends as she measured out his whisky and then the wine. At one point, he said something that caused the girl to toss her head and give him a full, brilliant smile before sliding him the drinks. Turner returned the smile with interest, put a note on the counter, then waved her away as she made as if to give him change. Whatever else was going on in his life, at least his old charm hadn't deserted him.

'You got her to smile. I certainly couldn't,' Donovan said irritably, as he brought the glasses back to the table and flopped down on the bench with a loud grunt.

Turner shrugged as if it was unimportant and took a slug of whisky. He lit a cigarette and leaned forward. 'OK. Let's get down to business. The stuff about a link's interesting we never solved the case, as you know. But from what you've told me so far, I'm not getting the vibes.'

'You don't see any similarities?'

'Yeah, there are some, enough for someone on the outside to be asking the question. But I'm not sure yet. I'd have to take a much closer look.'

'Tell me about the Watson case, then.'

He pulled hard on the cigarette before replying. 'Catherine Watson was murdered almost a year ago to this day. She was a university lecturer in her late thirties, taught English, if I remember right. She was single, by all accounts a nice, intelligent, decent woman, much loved by her family and friends, almost a saint if you believe some of them. Kind to small animals and children sort of thing. She lived in a ground floor flat up near Cricklewood tube, did extra coaching in her spare time to make ends meet, had the odd relationship, but nothing long-lasting or meaningful. A bit of a loser on the romantic front, is how I'd sum her up. You know the saying "always the bridesmaid, never the bride", well, that was Catherine. I read her diary. I read her letters. Whatever her friends said about her independent spirit, about her being fulfilled on her own, from what I could see, she was sad and lonely.'

'Then the week before she died, she's on the phone telling her married sister up in Manchester that she thinks she's in love with someone. The sister, who's heard it all before, listens politely but doesn't ask any questions. Before you ask, we never found out his name or if he even existed. He might have been a figment of Watson's imagination. Anyway, Saturday night comes, Watson lets somebody into her flat and the next morning, bingo, she's dead. The door had been left ajar and her neighbour finds her. She'd been stripped naked, bound, gagged and sexually assaulted, then strangled with a pair of her own tights. Unfortunately, whoever did it used a condom and removed the evidence from the scene.'

He paused to stub out his cigarette and take some whisky, swirling the ice around in the glass before continuing: 'It was my first case as a DI and I remember it vividly.'

'Did you have any suspects?'

'Sure. The neighbour who found her, for starters. Name's Malcolm Broadbent. He was a very odd bloke, lived alone on the floor above. Had quite a soft spot for her, by all accounts. Used to wash her car, carry her shopping in, do odd jobs around the house for her if she wanted. And he kept an overly close eye on her comings and goings, or so one of her former lovers said.'

'But you had nothing on him?'

He ran a big hand through his tufted blond hair and shook his head. 'No. His prints and DNA were all over the crime scene. But as I said, he often visited Catherine Watson's flat. To make things worse, he tried to revive her when he found her, thought she was still alive.'

'And she wasn't?'

'Dead as a dodo. Had been for hours.'

'How could he think she was still alive?'

'Broadbent said she moaned when he picked her up. But it was just a lie, like most things he told us. Anyway, he was screaming blue murder, wailing like a banshee, asking for someone to come and help him. He made so much noise, he had all the occupants of the house and neighbours tramping in and rubber-necking, nobody thinking it might be a good idea to keep them out. Then someone dialled 999 and a full emergency crew stormed the flat to try and revive her. At least then some bright spark spotted that she was starting to stiffen up like a board and must therefore be dead. Someone from the local station arrived on the scene and sent the lot of them packing. But the damage had been done. The crime scene was totally fucked, from a forensic point of view.'

'You think Broadbent trashed it deliberately?'

'Well, it certainly looked suspicious.'

'You arrested him?'

'Yeah, several times in fact. He had no alibi for that night, but as he lived alone and rarely went out, that wasn't unusual. We searched his flat, found a whole load of porn. We also found photographs of Catherine Watson, and some other women who we never managed to ID, taken with a telephoto lens.'

'He was peeping?'

'Not really. They were just ordinary women, walking along the street, chatting with friends, shopping, you know, everyday stuff, nothing kinky. What was interesting was they all looked a bit like Catherine Watson, same physical type. He watched them from a distance and snapped away, said it was an exercise for a photography course, although we couldn't find any evidence of his doing one. The man lied through his teeth about a lot of things. But taking photos in public places isn't against the law and you can't hang a man for his fantasies. The SIO, Alan Gifford, was convinced he was our man, absolutely rock hard sure. But in the end, we had to let him go. Apart from Broadbent's general weirdness, we had no real evidence, certainly nothing that would stand up in court.'