She turned around to face him and folded her arms again. 'Do you remember my telling you about the dinner I had with Rachel a couple of months ago, the last time I saw her?'

'I remember.'

'Well, it was after that dinner. Back at her flat. I started to tell her about some problems I'd been having with someone I'd been seeing. He was married. I wasn't sure what to do and wanted some advice, but she just brushed me off quite brutally, and I'll never forget what she said.'

'Go on.'

'"Why can't you bloody well find someone of your own for a change." That's what she said.'

'That's a very strange remark. What did she mean by it?'

Liz shrugged. 'Maybe she was empathising with his wife. Anyway, she then told me that the man was using me, that he didn't care about me at all.'

'How would she know that? Was he someone she knew?'

Liz shook her head and looked away. 'I tried to make light of it, but it was as if I'd slapped her. And the way she looked at me. God, it was frightening. I'd never seen her so angry before. She told me I was irresponsible and frivolous and didn't care about the damage I caused. I still remember her words. "You're just playing at it, like a kid with a new toy. You don't care about anyone but yourself. You don't know what it is to really want someone, to really love them."' Liz grimaced. 'It was as if I was cheap and heartless.'

'This was all because of this man?' he asked, puzzled.

'That's right.'

He thought of Rachel Tenison, with her fragile, delicate beauty, wondering why she had cared so much. For someone who was apparently so controlled and emotionally shut down, as well as sexually promiscuous, it was an extraordinary reaction, particularly with a woman who was supposed to be such a close friend. Bitterness and jealousy were the words that came to mind, yet they seemed so out of character with the little he knew of her. 'Are you sure there's nothing else?'

She looked away as though she didn't like the question. 'That's all she said.'

'Well, she sounds very angry about something, as if it was personal. Could she have been thinking of her relationship with Richard Greville? You weren't...'

'Certainly not,' she said, looking affronted. 'I've never had anything to do with Richard in that way.' With one last glance out of the window, she drew the curtains tightly across and turned back to face him. 'Anyway, I didn't want to hear any more, so I left. As I told you, it was the last time I saw or spoke to her. That's why there were no calls or emails between us.'

It still didn't make sense, as though she was only giving him half the story. 'What happened after that?'

She put her hands to her head. 'Jesus. Why can't you leave it alone?'

'Because I need to understand everything. Tell me what happened.'

She marched over to the coffee table and poured herself a fresh glass of wine. 'If you must know, I got a letter from her about a month later. I recognised her handwriting on the envelope but I was still angry so I tore it up and threw it away without reading it.'

'Why didn't you mention all this before?'

'Why? Because it's painful thinking about it,' she said, eyes blazing. 'Also, what happened between me and Rachel has absolutely nothing to do with her murder. And it's nobody's business but mine.' She took a gulp of wine.

'What was she like?' he asked after a moment, feeling as though he had completely lost his bearings. 'What she was really like.'

'What are any of us like? How can we define it?'

'But you knew her. I didn't.'

'Count yourself lucky,' she replied, with a sudden sharpness of tone that took him by surprise. 'Look, I've got a splitting headache and I've had enough of these questions.'

He stared at her for a moment, noting how tired and pale she looked, then nodded and got to his feet. He couldn't force her to speak to him. 'Tell me one thing. You had no further contact with her after that?'

'That's right. Not until she rang me and said we needed to talk. She must have heard that I was coming over again. We agreed to meet and you know the rest.'

'There's nothing else?' he asked, searching her face vainly for some sort of intimation of the truth.

She shook her head, but he still didn't believe her.

Liz saw him to the door and closed it firmly behind him. As she heard the sound of his footsteps retreating down the stairs, she leaned back against the wall and hugged herself.

Christ, what a balls-up. She knew she hadn't sounded at all convincing, but Tartaglia had caught her unawares. Going back to Rachel's flat had been unnerving and she felt suddenly exposed. She had the impression that he saw right through her, saw her weaknesses, her guilt and her lies.

Her head was aching as if it would explode and she pressed her fingers hard on her temples, trying to replay the conversation in her mind, worrying about what she might have inadvertently let slip.

She was jerked out of her thoughts by the sound of the front door buzzer. He must have come back again. More questions. How was she going to get through it?

Reluctantly, she picked up the intercom. But the voice she heard was Jonathan's.

'Liz? Let me in, will you?' he mumbled.

Although she had no desire to see him, it was a relief to hear his voice and not Tartaglia's.

She buzzed him in and, leaving the door to the flat ajar, went back into the sitting room to tidy up. Just as she emerged, hands full with the dirty glasses, ashtray and half-empty bottle, Jonathan appeared in the hall in front of her.

He slammed the door behind him. 'Why is it I get the impression you're avoiding me?' he asked, following her into the kitchen. 'You haven't returned any of my calls.'

'I'm not avoiding you. I just haven't felt like seeing anyone.'

'But I'm not anyone.'

Rather than reply, she turned her back on him, dumped the bottle on the counter, then rinsed the glasses and ashtray before putting them in the dishwasher.

'See you've been having company,' he said. 'Getting cosy with the Law, are you?'

'No.'

'Funny, 'cause I recognised the bloke with the black hair who came out of here. I knew who he was straight off. It was the fucking detective who gave me such a hard time. Told you about him, didn't I?'

'You did,' she said, washing her hands. 'That's about all you told me.'

'What did he want?'

She turned to face him, shaking her hands dry and wiping them on her jeans as there was no tea towel. 'He wanted to ask me some more questions about Rachel. Did he see you?'

'I don't think so. Why does it matter?' He caught hold of her arm and pulled her towards him. 'Aren't you going to give Johnny-boy a kiss?'

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and tried to pull away but he held onto her, nuzzling her cheek before kissing it. His stubble scratched her skin and she could smell alcohol on his breath.

'Mm. You smell good. I like that perfume you're wearing.'

She pushed him away. 'Don't start all that again. Do you want a drink, or not?'

He leaned back against the counter and shrugged good-humouredly. 'What's the fuzz doing drinking wine with you, anyway?'

She took a clean glass out of the cupboard and passed it to him, sliding the open bottle along the counter towards him. 'Trying to find out my innermost secrets.'

'Trying to make me jealous, more like.' He poured what was left in the bottle into the glass, filling it almost to the top. 'You like to wind me up, don't you? Do you fancy him?'

She folded her arms and stared hard at him. 'He told me you had a drink with Rachel the night before she died. You never mentioned it.'

'Is that a crime?'

'No. But why didn't you tell me?'

'Darling Lizzie, there are shed-loads of things I don't tell you.' Watching her intently, he took a swig of wine. When she didn't reply, he added, 'Seriously, I didn't think it was important.'

'But the police do.'

He threw up his hands in the air, sloshing some wine on the floor. 'For Christ's sake, just because I had a quick drink with Rachel the night before she died, they now think I fucking killed her.'

'They think you had dinner with her after your drink.'

'Not you as well?' he said, thrusting his glass towards her as though it were his finger. 'Get this straight. I did not have dinner with Rachel that night, or any other night, OK?'

'Maybe not. But did you fuck her?'

He took a mouthful of wine, swilling it around in his mouth before swallowing, as though considering the matter.

'I said, did you fuck her?'

He met her stare. 'If I did, would you shop me to your policeman friend?'

'I don't know,' she said, wondering if he was joking.

'Come on, Lizzie, what's it to do with you? I'm a free agent, aren't I? At least that's what you're always telling me, right?'

'Just answer me this, Jonathan. Did you screw Rachel that night? Just say it.'

He sighed and put down his glass. 'Course I didn't. Why would I?' He came over to where she was standing and took hold of her hands, staring down at her with bloodshot, watery eyes. 'Whatever you think, I've never had the hots for Rachel. Not really. Anyway, I wouldn't do that to you.'

She shook her head and pulled away. 'But you did before. And you both kept it secret until Rachel let the cat out of the bag by leaving her bedroom door open.'

He sighed again. 'Jesus, that was ages ago! What's this all about? What's got into you?'

As she looked at him, she pictured him and Rachel in bed together as she had found them that morning, the surprised look on his face, the triumphant look on Rachel's. She remembered how hurt she had felt, and betrayed. She wished she could trust him now, but instinct told her not to.

'What's the matter?' he asked, with genuine concern, reaching over and stroking her hair. 'What has she done to you?'

'Nothing. How can she do anything now? I'm just remembering the way she was. Not the sugar-sweet paragon that everyone is remembering. It makes me sick. I'm talking about the real Rachel, the one who liked to pull everybody's strings, make everyone dance to her tune. Did you dance again for her, Jonathan? That's what I want to know. Were you the one in her bed that night?'

He looked at her earnestly. 'I tell you, it wasn't me. Why does it matter so much to you? Is there something you're not telling me?'

'No.'

'Then give me a break, will you?' He grabbed his glass, took another sip, then slammed it down with a grimace. 'This wine tastes like shit. Now what about something decent to drink?'

'Did you kill Rachel? That's what I want to know.'

He put his head on one side and grinned. 'No, I didn't. Did you?'

18.

Rain was lashing down when Donovan left Professor Spicer's building. Having forgotten her umbrella, she ran as fast as she could, picking her way through the heavy traffic that clogged Russell Square, to one of the side streets where she had left her car. She fumbled in her bag for the keys, unlocked the driver's door and jumped in. She switched on the ignition and fan and, waiting for the mist on the front window to clear, brushed as much water as she could out of her hair, gazing at the dark forms of the passers-by scurrying along the wet pavement. What she knew about Rachel Tenison's psychology fitted perfectly with the references to sadomasochism in the Swinburne poem, and what Professor Spicer had said about obsession and it being a love poem, albeit a very bizarre one, also struck a chord. But how any of it linked in with Catherine Watson's murder was less obvious.

She took out her mobile and dialled Turner's number, but there was no answer and after several rings she was diverted to voicemail. She left a message, then called Tartaglia. He picked up almost immediately. She heard loud voices and music in the background.

'Am I disturbing you?' she asked.

'No. I've just got home.'

'What's that noise?'

'It's The Belly of the Beast. It's a Steven Seagal film,' he added, as though she ought to have known.

'How can you watch that trash.'

'Listen, some of his early films are great.'

'What is it you actually like about them?'

'Well, he kicks ass and he's invincible. And he's on the side of right.'

She could hear the smile in his voice. 'Bully for him. If only real life were that simple. Just don't start growing a ponytail.'

'No chance of that,' he said with a laugh.

'Anyway, sorry to interrupt your viewing but can you turn it down for a minute? I can't hear myself speak.' He muted the sound and she filled him in on what Professor Spicer had said. 'If nothing else, the poem seems to be a clue to Rachel Tenison's character, her sexual tastes, et cetera. But there's one thing I don't get. If she and Catherine Watson were killed by the same person, why wasn't something similar found on Watson's body?'

'As far as I'm aware, there wasn't anything, but you should check with Simon. Have you spoken to him recently?'

'I can't get hold of him. He's not answering his phone.'