Turner's pale, gaunt face flushed. 'What the hell are you getting at? Is Alan on trial now?'

'You said he had a bit of a crusade going against Broadbent.'

'I don't remember saying that.'

Tartaglia shook his head. Even if Turner chose to have memory lapses, he remembered clearly what he had said. 'Maybe it was the whisky, but you certainly gave me the impression the other night that Gifford was hell-bent on finding Broadbent guilty and he was looking for evidence to back it up. If that's the way he was handling things, he might have overlooked something else.'

'Look, it wasn't just Alan who thought Broadbent looked guilty. We all backed him.'

Tartaglia leaned against the wall and stared up at Turner, wondering why he was being suddenly so defensive. Maybe Clarke was right about Turner's loyalty to his former boss. Even so, he was sure Turner had previously been telling the truth about the way the investigation had been handled. In vino veritas, as the saying went, and scotch had the same effect, particularly in the sort of quantities Turner had been knocking back. But there was no point in having an argument with him now about what he might, or might not, have said when under the influence. 'So you didn't actually look through all the photos yourself?' Tartaglia asked.

'Are you joking? There were thousands and thousands of bloody jpegs. I saw print-offs of the ones we kept as evidence, of course, and what was on them spoke volumes about Broadbent's character, but that's all.'

'Was it Gifford who selected which photos to keep?'

'I guess so. But it doesn't matter who did it, the photos were gone through very thoroughly, I can assure you. What's your problem?'

'I think we should look through them again, see if there's any link with the Holland Park murder. I presume copies were kept?'

Turner sighed as if it was all a waste of time. 'You'll have to check the evidence book, but unless someone kept a backup copy of his hard drive, we wouldn't have held on to more than a handful of the most interesting ones.'

'What happened to the rest of them?'

'They were all on Broadbent's computer. The computer would have been returned to him when he was released.'

'Did you remember if a copy was kept on disc?'

'No. As I said, look in the evidence book.' Turner shifted his backpack onto his shoulder and eyed him suspiciously. 'What's making you think of this now? Is it the poem?'

'Yes,' said Tartaglia. He had no problem lying to Turner; he certainly wasn't going to tell him what Angela Harper had said. Turner wasn't of a mind to listen to any doubts cast about the way the case had been handled and his first stop would be Steele's office to cause trouble.

Turner held his gaze. 'Have you been talking to anyone about the case? If so, I need to know. We don't want to get our wires crossed.'

'I haven't spoken to anyone,' Tartaglia said. It had to be a lucky guess on Turner's part, or pure cop's instinct. There was no way Turner could know about the meeting with Angela Harper. 'Look, I'm not criticising the way the case was handled-'

'Well it certainly sounds like it from where I'm standing.'

'I'm not. But the poem puts things in a different light. In spite of what common sense tells me, it seems there's a link somewhere between the two cases. That means we've got to review everything again.'

'Up to you.'

'I also think we should re-interview Broadbent, this time as a possible witness rather than a suspect.'

Turner stared at him as though he were mad. 'What on earth for?'

'Broadbent followed her around everywhere like a lovesick puppy. Maybe he saw something or someone.'

'Nothing came out in any of the interviews.'

'Maybe you weren't asking the right questions. Did you show him a picture of Jennings?'

'Of course we did. Before you go trashing our investigation, Mark, I suggest you check the files. It's all in there. And the review team found nothing new.'

'I still want to see the photos.'

Turner stared at him impassively, then shrugged. 'Fine. I'll get someone round to see Broadbent right away. Let's just hope he's kept them. Now, I've got to dash.' Turner skirted around Tartaglia and started down the stairs again.

'One more thing, Simon.'

Turner turned around, frowning.

'Where are we with finding Michael Jennings?'

'We're still trying to trace him, but at the moment we've got sweet FA. I left a message for you. Didn't you get it?'

'I got it, but I want to know exactly who you've spoken to. You've checked with the university?'

'Of course. Jennings dropped out soon after Catherine Watson's murder. Never finished his degree.'

'What about his friends?'

'Seen or spoken to them all, or at least the ones we can find. We've been through all his known contacts.'

'Someone must know where he is.'

'We've put the word around, but so far nobody knows where he's gone, or they're not telling.'

'You've checked the prisons?'

'One of the first things we did, given the gap between the two murders. But he hasn't been inside.'

'National insurance number?'

'Not officially working or on the dole, according to the systems.'

'I don't care if he's fucking Houdini. I want him found.'

Turner's expression hardened. 'Then you'll have to ask Steele for more resources. Anyway, it's probably all a waste of time. Sam's just told me about what happened this afternoon in Holland Park with that woman...what's her name...'

'Liz Volpe?'

'That's the one. The bloke she saw's the wrong height and build for Jennings. Jennings was only about five-eight and really weedy.'

'The man she saw may not have been the killer.'

'Right.' Turner turned to go.

'Hang on a minute,' he shouted. 'You're involved in this too, Simon.'

Turner looked up at him and shook his head. 'No, I'm not. The Holland Park murder's your case, mate. Now if it's all the same to you, I must be going.' With that he thundered down the last few stairs and out the door into the car park. The door clanged behind him.

For a moment, Tartaglia stood on the stairs gazing after him. He felt like punching the wall in frustration. Turner was rarely communicative a lone operator, not a team player, was how Trevor had once described him. But tonight his manner had been even more abrupt and defensive than usual, almost evasive, as though he had something to hide. Maybe Donovan would know what was behind it and if it had anything to do with the case. Failing that, he would sound out Steele. She was usually up-front to the point of bluntness about most things. If Turner had been in her office complaining, or going behind Tartaglia's back for some other reason, he would soon find out.

'Why's he started up this witch hunt?' Turner said, kicking at the edge of the carpet with his toe as he stared morosely at the glass of whisky cupped in his huge hands. 'What's the point in trying to rake up the dirt now? Alan's dead.'

'I promise you that's not what Mark's doing,' Donovan replied. 'He's not like that.'

Sitting back deep in the corner of the small sofa, Turner frowned and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Donovan wondered what exactly had been said between him and Tartaglia, although she could imagine how Tartaglia might have behaved. When he wanted something, he didn't take no for an answer. It didn't matter who stood in his way. And Turner, in his current defensive state of mind, would see everything in a negative light.

Turner had arrived at her house that evening nearly half an hour late. He had been full of apologies, muttering something about getting held up at the office and wanting to go home first and take a shower. He had changed into jeans and a shirt and a dark blue jumper. The elbows were worn and the collar of his shirt was a little frayed, but he was looking good and she thought she could smell a fresh, lemony soap or aftershave when she pecked him on the cheek. It was nice that he was making an effort. He had even brought a bottle of good single malt from the off-licence around the corner and had seemed relatively upbeat and relaxed, the old easy-going charm coming out as he joked with Claire in the kitchen and helped to set the table. But at the first mention of the case, about the latest from the park and Liz Volpe she could kick herself for having said anything his mood had changed. It was as though a cloud had descended around him and he seemed unable to shake off the gloom.

'Why's he trying to rubbish our investigation?' Turner mumbled to himself. 'What's he up to? Is he playing politics, or something?'

'Stop being paranoid. Mark has no grudge against you that I know of. He's not point scoring or trying to get you or anyone else into trouble.'

'Pull the other one, it's got bells-'

'If he wants to review some aspects of the Watson case, it's because of the poem, because he really thinks something might have been overlooked, which didn't seem important at the time.'

'Like we cocked up, you mean,' Turner said bitterly.

'That's rubbish and you know it.'

'That's what he's getting at though, isn't it? You should have seen him tonight. He's a man on a mission.'

She shook her head in despair. 'He wants to find Rachel Tenison's murderer, that's all, and this could be a genuine lead. Just think how you'd feel in his position,' she added, although she realised as she said it that she was wasting her breath. In his current, inward-looking state of mind, Turner would find it difficult to empathise with anyone, particularly Tartaglia.

'Maybe we did focus too much on Broadbent and not enough on Jennings,' Turner said, with a dismissive grunt. 'Maybe mistakes were made. It's easy to say that now, looking back. But even if we had done things differently, the result would have been the same. We worked that case hard and there was no bloody evidence to bring even a whisper of a charge against either of them and make it stick.' He spoke quietly, but his face was red and tense with emotion.

'I'm sure you're right,' she said, noticing again his extraordinary colouring, highlighted by the rush of blood to his skin, and wondered if he had lost all perspective. 'But Simon, it's not about you and the Watson investigation. This is all about the Holland Park murder and that weird poem. That's what's worrying Mark. I just wish you could get it through your thick skull and stop taking everything personally.'

Turner shook his head disbelievingly. 'You're a sweetheart, Sam, but you're wrong. You've got a blind spot about Mark Tartaglia.'

'And you're your own worst enemy,' Donovan replied, exasperated, not knowing what else to say.

He looked over at her after a moment. 'Do you fancy him?' He mumbled the words and she almost missed them.

'No,' she said firmly, wondering why he had asked. Did everyone at work think she had the hots for Tartaglia? 'Mark's a good friend. That's all.'

He nodded and took a mouthful of whisky. 'I should never have let Wakefield talk me into getting involved in this. We had our chance when Alan was alive and it was over when the review team moved in. No point trying to wake the dead.'

He grimaced and closed his eyes as though he was trying to block it all out.

She wondered what it would take to get him back to normal. How long to get over a short, misspent marriage? That was what was really eating him, not Tartaglia, though Turner would never admit it. Better to focus the anger on Tartaglia than lose face and admit the real cause. Nina. That woman had a lot to answer for.

She had seen her only the day before, having a sandwich with Karen Feeney in one of the cafes along Barnes High Street. They were sitting together at the counter in the window, so deep in conversation that Donovan had gone in and ordered her coffee without either of them looking up and noticing her. Nina had her elbow up on the counter, half-shielding her face with her hand. Her expression was tense and from what Donovan could see, she looked as though she had been crying. Donovan had tried listening in to what they were saying, but there was too much background noise to hear much, although she had definitely caught Turner's Christian name being mentioned several times. Wondering if Nina knew the state he was in, or if she cared, Donovan had half felt like going over and speaking to her. But what was the point? She wasn't close to Nina and it wasn't her place to get involved.

She had asked Karen about it afterwards and, although Karen was careful not to give too much away, she had said that Nina was very upset. When Donovan had asked why Nina should be upset when she was the one who had run off and apparently had someone else, Karen had replied that it wasn't true. That she had only left because he was making her miserable and she hoped it would bring him to his senses.

'She hasn't got anyone,' Karen had added. 'Simon's making it all up.'

'Why would he do that?' Donovan had asked.

'He's looking for sympathy, I suppose,' Karen said, with such a pointed look, that Donovan had stopped there. The last thing she needed was gossip going around the office about her and Simon Turner, although she would believe his version of events any day over Nina's.

Claire put her head around the sitting room door. She was wearing an apron patterned with small pink and red hearts and brandished a large wooden spoon in her hand as though she meant business.

'Right, you two, supper's ready.' Claire looked from Donovan to Turner. 'Feels like I've walked in on somebody's funeral. What's the matter?'

Turner looked embarrassed and mumbled something.

Donovan stood up. 'Just work, that's all.'

'Come on then, cheer up,' Claire said, smiling. 'Life's not that bad. It's Saturday night and we've got the most delicious lasagne to eat, with lemon steamed pudding and custard to follow. I've even got some music lined up so we can party.'

Turner got to his feet and gave her the ghost of a smile. 'Sorry. I'm not very good company tonight.'

'Don't worry,' Claire said, cheerily. 'You can come and have a laugh at my attempts at cooking. Most people do.'

23.

Viktor Denisenko, Rachel Tenison's favourite barman, paced around his small bed-sit like a caged animal, making Karen Feeney feel unusually nervous. She stood watching him, her back to the closed door, waiting for him to calm down.

He turned to her with a look of helplessness, his big hands swinging uselessly at his sides. 'I didn't kill her, I tell you, I didn't kill her.'

'Let's not go through all that again,' she said, firmly. 'If your alibi checks out, you don't need to worry. Now, please sit down.'

He shook his head, as though he didn't believe her, and continued to pace, muttering to himself in what sounded like Russian. The room was cold, no sign of any heater, but he was sweating. Tall and powerfully built, his presence made the space seem even more cramped. Dressed in jeans, old trainers and a baggy sweatshirt, he was in his late twenties, with very short dyed blonde hair and a shadow of dark stubble on his chin. He fitted the general description of the man seen by Liz Volpe in Holland Park a few hours before. However, according to Denisenko, he had only just come off his shift at the local pizzeria an hour before. Minderedes was busy checking with the restaurant, but for the moment she assumed Denisenko was telling the truth.

They had had difficulty tracking down Denisenko, eventually finding him through one of the other barmen where he used to work, who clearly bore him a grudge for some reason and seemed delighted that he might be in trouble. Judging from the almost total absence of any personal items just a razor and toothbrush on the basin and a T-shirt thrown over the only chair it didn't look as though he had been living there long. Located in the no-man's-land of boarding houses and cheap hotels close to Paddington Station, it was like every bed-sit she had ever been in, including the one she had first lived in only a few streets away when she first moved to London. Once part of a grand first floor room, the ceiling was high, with a view from the window of a terrace of similar pillared, white-painted houses, but the place was cheerless, rendered impersonal by the endless stream of people passing through. The air reeked of damp and the wind rattled the sash like a train passing.

'You want a cigarette?' she asked, taking a pack of Silk Cut from her bag and wondering how she was going to get him to relax and talk.

'I don't smoke.'

'Well, please sit down. You're making me giddy.'

'Giddy?'

'Dizzy, you know,' she twirled her finger in the air to show him. 'My head's spinning, watching you.'