She thought of the time they had first met twenty years before. Sister Margaret, headmistress of St Anne's, had walked into the classroom in the middle of a lesson one morning, trailing a small, pale-faced girl behind her. She could still picture Rachel, a scrawny little waif, with huge, dark-shadowed eyes. Shifting awkwardly from one foot to another, she looked like a nervous pony, with her funny, ragged mane of pale blonde hair held back by an Alice band. Only later, she discovered that Rachel had chopped off her hair with her stepmother's kitchen scissors the night before coming to school.

'Is anything wrong?' Tartaglia had come over to where she was standing.

She put the photograph down, still looking at it. 'No. Nothing. It's just very odd being here, that's all.'

He gave her a nod of sympathy. 'Is everything as you remember it?'

'More or less.' She was on the point of turning away, wishing he would leave her alone, when she noticed a gap at the back of the photographs.

She frowned, trying to think back. 'There's a photo missing. It was definitely there last time I came to the flat. I particularly remember it because it was new and I hadn't seen it before. Rachel rarely ever changed the photos.'

'Can you describe it?'

'It was of Rachel, a really good close-up, taken at one of the gallery parties last year, I think. She was talking to someone, although they weren't in the picture, and laughing, looking lovely. Richard had it blown up and framed and gave it to her as a birthday present. He may have a copy somewhere. The frame was particularly nice, I seem to remember. Richard's good at that sort of thing.'

'Why did she put it at the back?'

'Who knows? I suppose she didn't want anyone to think she was vain.'

'Vain?' He looked at her curiously. 'And was she?'

Vain? Self-obsessed? Insecure? What was the difference? Rachel had certainly been very aware of the power of her looks. But Tartaglia was being deliberately provocative and she had no desire to answer him. The way he was staring at her was also provocative, almost intimate. For a moment, she saw him as a man, rather than a policeman, and it struck her again just how handsome he was. Then she reminded herself why she was there and what it was he actually wanted. She owed him no explanation of Rachel's character or of what had happened between them.

'Was she vain?' he persisted. 'You can say what you think. It's just the two of us here, off the record. What was she really like?'

'She wasn't exactly vain. But that's not what you're asking, is it?'

He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged good-humouredly. 'I'm still trying to flesh her out in my mind. I also want to understand the dynamics of your relationship. Did the two of you quarrel? Is that what this is all about?'

'I've told you everything you need to know,' she said, and turned away. Before he had the chance to ask her anything else, she walked out of the room and into the corridor. She felt like leaving, but he was right behind her. His phone started ringing.

'Can you take a look in her bedroom, please?' he asked, as he fumbled in his pocket for it. 'I'll catch up with you in a minute.'

Rachel's bedroom was the last place she wanted to see but she had no choice. Hoping that he would be held up on the phone for a while, she went along the corridor and hesitantly pushed open the door.

She wasn't sure what she had been expecting to find, but the vision that had been filling her head for so long, of a darkened, intoxicating room and two people together in that huge, richly coloured bed, was nothing like the reality that greeted her. The overhead lights were harshly bright and the bed had been stripped of all its hangings and bedclothes and reduced to a pathetic bare wood frame and mattress. She breathed a sigh of relief and stood for a moment in the centre of the room gazing around.

The old trunk, which had belonged to Rachel's grandfather, had gone from its place at the end of the bed and she wondered if the police had taken it for some reason. She made a mental note to ask Tartaglia. She walked over to one of the cupboard doors, which was open, and looked inside. She saw the dark, familiar ranks of Rachel's clothes, her shoes lined up neatly in racks beneath. It was as though Rachel had never left, as though she might return at any minute to get changed. Her familiar sweet perfume lingered in the air, no doubt coming from the clothes, and Liz closed the door quickly to get rid of it.

The sight of her own washed-out, unmade-up face in the mirrored panel of the door made her turn away and she went over to the bedside table and switched on the lamp. Feeling suddenly very tired, she sat down on the edge of the mattress, waiting for Tartaglia. Unlike her own bedside table, which always seemed to be crammed with an endless amount of stuff, Rachel's was almost clear, apart from an electric alarm clock, which ticked loudly in the quiet of the room, and a couple of books. On top was a glossy biography of Bess of Hardwick; underneath it, Irene Nemirovsky's Suite Francaise. The biography looked new and unread, but when she opened Suite Francaise, the pages fell open in the middle, a postcard with a picture of a renaissance Madonna marking the place. She turned it over. Scrawled in large, backwards-sloping writing, in heavy black ink, were the words: This reminds me of you. I see your face everywhere and I can't stop thinking about you. Why won't you answer my calls? I must see you. Please, please call me. I love you.

It took her a moment to decipher the extraordinary handwriting, made even more difficult by a semi-circle smudge right in the middle of the card where someone, no doubt Rachel, had put down a wet glass or mug. The message was signed with a single cross, with no date or signature. The card was from the National Gallery, the postmark Paddington, dated about six weeks before.

'What's that you've got?'

The sound of Tartaglia's voice behind her made her start and she turned around. She hadn't heard him come into the bedroom and wondered how long he had been standing there.

He came over to where she was sitting and she passed him the card. 'This was in one of the books on Rachel's bedside table. Your people must have missed it.'

He gave a cursory glance at the front then turned it over and read what was written on the back. His expression hardened. 'Is this Miss Tenison's writing?'

'Definitely not. And before you ask, I don't know who wrote it and I've never seen it before.'

17.

'I'm intrigued to know why you're interested in this particular poem, Sergeant Donovan,' Professor Kate Spicer said, her round, brown eyes alive with curiosity as she played with the string of pearls around her neck. 'My secretary tells me you're investigating a murder.' She emphasised the word murder with apparent relish, speaking in a clipped, light Australian accent.

'I'm afraid I can't tell you very much about it,' Donovan replied. 'But the poem is a possible clue in the case. We're trying to understand the psychology or significance of it, if there is any.'

Mugs of steaming hot, milky coffee on the floor, photocopies of the poem on their laps, they were sitting together on the small, grubby green sofa in Professor Spicer's book-lined office on the second floor of number 30 Russell Square. The large, eighteenth-century building in the heart of Bloomsbury was home to Birkbeck College's School of English and Humanities. In spite of the building's clean, classical lines, the interior was a rabbit warren of staircases and cheap partitions that gave no hint of its former glory.

Dressed in a well-cut navy wool trouser suit, Spicer looked to be in her late forties or early fifties and was almost as short as Donovan, although considerably rounder, with a helmet of tight, curly brown hair, which framed an open, pleasant face. Donovan hadn't set foot in any academic establishment since leaving university, but she felt instantly transported back in time to her tutor's shabby quarters. Even the smell was the same, the mix of stale cigarette smoke, instant coffee and dusty books.

'You said it's a clue. Is it about the identity of the murderer, do you think?' Spicer asked, inclining her head a little and crossing her legs, flashing a pair of very high-heeled fuchsia pink shoes, which made Donovan smile. Spicer's room might be almost identical to her old tutor's, but she was far removed from the frayed academic Donovan remembered.

'Yes, or possibly the victim. We're just not sure. It may also be a red herring.'

'Well, let's see what we can do to help,' Spicer said, with a business-like toss of her head. 'The poem's full name is "Dolores, Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs". It's a reference to the Virgin Mary, of course, and we can go into the full meaning and symbolism in a minute, if you like. How much do you know about Charles Algernon Swinburne?' She pronounced each word distinctly, as if it was important to give him his full name.

'Not a great deal, I'm afraid. He never cropped up in any of the courses I did.'

'Then let me give you a quick overview first. As you probably know, he was a contemporary of the Pre-Raphaelites and quite a radical character in his youth. He was bisexual, alcoholic and heavily into the pleasures of flagellation which, like a lot of young men in his day, he discovered at school. He was seen by many of his peers as depraved. His work has been out of fashion for a long while, but sometimes he has the touch of genius, at least in my view. This is undoubtedly one of his finest poems. Sadly, he went badly off the boil as he got older, but don't we all?' She gave a dismissive shrug.

'When was the poem written?'

'It was originally published in a collection of poetry in 1866 and created quite a furore as the main themes are masochism, flagellation and paganism. You can just imagine how that was received in some circles.' Professor Spicer tapped the pages with her glossy red fingernails for emphasis. 'But "Dolores" was so popular, it was reprinted all on its own, which says a lot for the Victorians, I think. Of course, it doesn't have the impact today that it would have done in Swinburne's time.'

'Who is Dolores?'

'She's a beautiful, cruel and libidinous pagan goddess. She has absolutely no compassion or humanity.' Spicer put on a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, which were hanging on a beaded chain around her neck, and scanned the pages. 'Listen to this,' she said, raising one hand. 'He says: Ah beautiful passionate body, That never has ached with a heart, and he describes her as "Our Lady of Torture" and "Deadly Dolores", but of course he's relishing his pain, absolutely wallowing in it. Look at lines 180 and 181: Pain melted in tears and was pleasure, Death tingled with blood and was life. That should give you the flavour.' She glanced up at Donovan over her glasses, with a smile.

'It certainly does,' Donovan said, wondering how it related to Rachel Tenison.

'There's another bit I want you to hear.' Spicer quickly flicked through the pages until she found the place. 'Here it is: By the ravenous teeth that have smitten Through the kisses that blossom and bud, By the lips intertwisted and bitten Till the foam has a savour of blood, By the pulse as it rises and falters, By the hands as they slacken and strain, I adjure thee, respond from thine altars, Our Lady of Pain.'

Spicer looked up at Donovan again and clasped her hands enthusiastically. 'Now, isn't that quite wonderful? It has a whiff of the real Black Mass recalls the Marquis de Sade, of course.'

'It's certainly very striking.'

'Yes, but ignoring all of that sensationalistic stuff, it's essentially a love poem.'

'A love poem? I haven't read it right through but it doesn't seem very romantic to me.'

'Ah, but it is, in Swinburne's own particular way. Take these lines: In the daytime thy voice shall go through him, In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache; Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him Asleep and awake.

'That's rather nice, don't you think?'

Wondering if she had missed the point, Donovan gazed down at the photocopied pages, scanning the lines again and noting how the words 'blood' and 'death' and 'sacrifice' ran through them as a leitmotif. 'Well, it all seems pretty twisted to me,' she said, after a moment.

Spicer smiled. 'Each to his own, surely. Forget your preconceptions, Sergeant. However abnormal it all appears, if you're looking for the essence of the poem and what it means in the context of your murder, I tell you it is truly about love.'

Not knowing how she was going to explain that interpretation to Tartaglia, Donovan said: 'You mentioned that Swinburne's out of fashion now. Is he still studied at university? I'm wondering how somebody might have come across the poem.'

'Anyone who's doing nineteenth-century English literature would know of it, certainly. It's very much of its time and I certainly include references to Swinburne and "Dolores" in my lectures. There's also a wider audience to consider. The name and general characteristics of the Lady of Pain were borrowed by the Dungeons and Dragons role-playing game, although of course the poem doesn't come into any of that.' Professor Spicer folded her hands on her lap and leaned forwards towards Donovan. 'Are you absolutely sure you can't tell me anything more, Sergeant Donovan? I'm going to die of curiosity, otherwise.'

Donovan smiled, wishing she could explain, but the poem was one of many things that had to be kept out of the public domain. 'It's probably not giving too much away if I say that the poem was sent to a woman, who's now dead, and we don't know who sent it.' It was distorting the truth a little but she wanted to appear helpful.

'Well, I don't need you to tell me that the sender's male, do I? Is he the killer, do you think?'

Donovan smiled. 'I can't say any more. I'm sorry.'

Spicer put a finger to her lips, looking thoughtful. 'Of course, he's totally obsessed, poor chap. Do you know Keats's "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"?'

'Vaguely.'

'Well, in just the same way, Dolores knows no mercy. Was your victim a bit of a femme fatale?'

'More of a mystery.'

'Mystery. There you go. That's part of the allure. Pity the man that falls in love with her.' Spicer sat back against the soggy cushion of the sofa with a happy sigh, as if she'd solved the puzzle.

'Hang on a minute. If we come back to the poem and the reason why someone might have sent it, what sort of message is he trying to give? There's no anger or bitterness. As you say, the man's really into his pain.'

'That's Swinburne for you.' Spicer reached down to the floor and picked up her mug, sipping at it thoughtfully. 'But even in the modern context, the same must hold true. I think whoever sent it is telling her that he loves her, in spite of whatever she's put him through. Human nature is perverse, Sergeant. Just think how many people you know who fall for the wrong person even though they know it's the wrong bloody person. Doesn't matter how much advice you give them, the more the silly creatures get hurt, the more they keep going back for more. It's as though they want the pain. Of course, I'm just reading between the lines here and using my imagination. But if he's your murderer, maybe, finally, he's had enough. The poor little worm turns.'

Liz settled back into the depths of the large, leather armchair with her glass of wine, tucking her stockinged feet up underneath her. 'If Rachel was killed on the Friday morning, what was she doing the night before? You said she had a drink with someone. Have you found out who it is?'

'We're gradually piecing it together,' Tartaglia replied noncommittally from the sofa opposite. 'Do you mind if I have a cigarette?'

'Feel free.'

He took the pack from his pocket and lit up. They were in the sitting room at Liz's brother's flat. They had been right through Rachel Tenison's apartment, but Liz had spotted nothing else of interest, apart from the missing photograph and the postcard. Sensing that she was finding the whole situation difficult, he had suggested that they go somewhere else to talk. He had further questions to ask, but rather than take her to an interview room in a police station, which would probably make her clam up, he had accepted her invitation of a drink.

'Why won't you tell me what you've found?' she asked. 'You want me to help, don't you?' Her tone was accusatory and her eyes were fixed on him, as if somehow she could force him talk.

He drew on his cigarette, and decided that if he gave a little, it might encourage her to open up. 'OK,' he said. 'I'll try and be a bit more open with you. What we know is that between seven and eight on Thursday evening, she had a drink in her flat with someone called Jonathan Bourne.'

'Jonathan?'

'You know him?'

'Yes. Yes, I do.'

'Hang on a minute. I told you a few days ago that she had a drink with someone with the initials JB. Why didn't you say anything?'

She looked at him blankly. 'I don't remember that.'

He didn't believe her. Thinking back to her reaction that particular morning, he knew that the initials had meant something to her. 'Come on. You can do better than that.'

She shrugged as if it was unimportant. 'Honestly, I don't remember. Anyway, loads of people have the initials JB.'

'What, loads of people you know?'

'But Jonathan's the last person...'

'What are you saying?'

She put down her glass. 'Well, he and Rachel didn't get on. It all goes back to when we all shared a house together at university. He's very messy, used to make a lot of noise, use up everybody's stuff and not replace it. You know the sort of thing and no doubt you've worked out by now what Rachel was like. He really used to wind her up and they had terrible rows. I was always stuck in the middle, trying to keep the peace.'

'He's still a friend of yours?'

'Yes. A good friend.' She paused. 'Do you know why they were having a drink? Was it something to do with work?'

'That's what he said.'

'Well then.' She folded her arms, as if that was the end of the matter. 'Look, Inspector. Jonathan's no more of a murderer than I am, or perhaps you have me down as a suspect too.'

'If you were a suspect, we wouldn't be having a cosy chat like this.'

She smiled. 'OK. Sorry. But you can't condemn Jonathan for having a drink with Rachel. She wasn't killed until the next morning.'

He inhaled some more smoke, still looking at her, feeling that she was trying to convince herself as much as him. 'After meeting Jonathan Bourne, Miss Tenison was seen having dinner with a man in a restaurant in Kensington. Jonathan Bourne says it wasn't him, but we're not sure if he's telling the truth.'

'Why would he lie about that?' she said flatly.

He noted her lack of surprise or curiosity, as though she had an idea who the man was.

'Look, I've been open with you. Now I need you to come clean with me. I want the truth and I'd prefer to hear it from you here, rather than down at the local nick. But it's your choice.' Avoiding his eye, she reached for her wine again. 'You know that you're mentioned as a beneficiary in Rachel Tenison's will?'

'Yes. Patrick Tenison told me.'

'Do you know she decided to change her will a couple of months ago? That she wasn't going to leave you anything?'

She choked, cupping her hand over her mouth. 'No. He didn't tell me that, but it doesn't surprise me.' She cleared her throat, swallowing heavily, and put down her glass again. 'I suppose I'd better come clean, as you put it. As you rightly suspected, we had a quarrel.'

'What happened?' he said, irritated that she didn't appear in the least bothered at having said nothing about it before.

She gave a heavy sigh and rubbed her eyes, then ran her fingers back through her hair, scraping it back so forcefully off her pale face that she looked almost deranged for a second. 'I'm sorry. I don't like thinking about it,' she said, standing up and walking away towards the window. She stared down at the street below.

'I need to know,' he said.