She shook her head and sipped her wine. 'The wine's really nice,' she said after a moment, deciding it was time to change the subject and wanting to encourage him to stay a while. 'Not that I'm an expert.'

'Me neither. My family imports wine from Italy, but according to my dad, I don't know the difference between the cheapest Chianti and a Sassicaia. That's rubbish, of course, not that he'd give me the opportunity of proving him wrong.'

'Well, I certainly can't tell the difference. And I hate all the fuss people make about wine.'

He looked suddenly thoughtful, as if his mind was elsewhere.

'What is it?' she asked. 'You're not still worrying about the park, are you?'

'Nothing like that. I was just thinking that you don't look very Italian.'

She smiled, relieved to talk about anything other than Rachel. 'Only half. My mother's English. My parents split up when I was very young and I was brought up over here. My Italian's lousy.'

'Do you still see your father?'

'Occasionally, when I go to Italy to visit family. He runs a restaurant in Siena. What about you? At least you look the part.'

'Fourth generation, usual story. My great-grandfather came over to Scotland in the eighteen-nineties from a little village in the Abruzzi hills. They eventually settled in Edinburgh and that's where most of them have stayed, apart from me and my sister.'

'Is she in the police too?'

'Christ, no,' he said, half-choking on his wine. 'What a thought. Nicoletta would never fit into anywhere as regimented and process-driven as the Met. Modern-day policing has no room for mavericks, and she's one hell of a maverick, in both the best and the worst senses. She teaches Italian at London University. In her spare time she runs a husband and two kids.'

'Does she look like you?'

'Apparently, although I think she looks a lot like Ronnie Ancona, without all the make-up and stuff, and I certainly don't.'

'No, you don't.' He seemed so normal and nice, but what a strange world he inhabited, dealing with violent death on a daily basis. It was a far cry from everything familiar to her and Italian blood was probably all they had in common. 'What about you? Do you have a family, I mean?'

'No. I'm not married, never even come close. That's a bit of a sore point, at least for my mother and my sister. Just because I'm in my late thirties and on my own, they think there's something wrong with me.'

Liz laughed. 'They sound just like my mother. She's also so bloody judgemental, as if she has an unblemished track record. She's currently on her third husband. It's enough to put anyone off. Wouldn't it be nice if they got on with their own stuff and left us all alone?'

'If only,' he said, with real feeling.

'Of course, I make a whole load of stupid mistakes, but at least they're mine. And maybe one day I'll learn. Maybe one day I'll get better at this whole thing.'

He smiled, his dark eyes creasing at the corners. It was the first time since they had arrived that he looked properly at ease. 'I've done some pretty crazy things too,' he said. 'Really stupid. But if you don't take risks, you never get anywhere and it's what stops life from being dull. I just don't enjoy having my sister commenting on it all and analysing it. She fancies herself as an amateur psychologist, does Nicoletta.'

Liz wondered if he felt he was taking a risk being there with her, chatting about things as though they were two normal people and not involved in a murder case. Although he didn't seem at all awkward, she sensed he was treading carefully, something holding him back. Maybe he was worried about the lines getting blurred. Maybe in spite of what he said, he liked to play safe.

The image of the red roses still stuck her mind and she thought again of what had prompted the man to place them on the spot where Rachel had died. He had certainly taken a risk.

She drained her glass. 'Going back to the man in the park, do you think he murdered Rachel?'

'It's possible. Anything's possible.'

'But surely you don't put flowers on the place where someone died unless you cared very much about them.'

He shrugged as though it was pointless speculating, but she wasn't satisfied.

'But if he loved her, why did he kill her? And if he did kill her, isn't it taking a monumental risk going back there? Surely there's no place for sentiment if you've murdered someone.'

'You'd think if somebody was capable of murder, they'd think logically. But in my experience it's not often the case. Plus this man seemed to know exactly where her body had been found. The specific location was never mentioned in the press.'

'But surely anyone who runs in the park would have a pretty good idea of where it happened? Holland Park's not exactly huge.'

He frowned. 'You should stay well away from the park.'

'I can look after myself. I'm not a child, you know.'

'Nor was Rachel.'

The words made her pause for thought. She had assumed from everything that he had said before that what had happened to Rachel was a one-off. Now she wondered if he had told her the whole truth. 'You think it could happen again? You think there's some madman on the loose?' It was strangely more comforting than thinking that someone she knew might be responsible.

'At the moment we have no idea why she was killed. We don't know what the risks are.'

'But you seriously think there could be a repeat?'

'I'm not saying that. But if I were a woman, I wouldn't choose to go running on my own, particularly when there aren't a lot of people around.'

He said it in a way that made her feel foolish. 'Now you sound like my brother. I could get run over by a bus tomorrow but it doesn't stop me crossing the road.'

He compressed his lips, as though he didn't agree.

'What is it that you're not telling me?'

'I'm just concerned about you, that's all.'

'Nonsense.' She shook her head and folded her arms. How could he possibly expect her to help when he gave so little away? 'Why won't you tell me?'

'It's not appropriate for you to know. You're too close to everything.'

She wanted to say that that was the whole point, but looking at him she knew it would do no good.

He studied her for a moment in a way that made her feel quite uncomfortable, then he said: 'Why did the two of you quarrel? You and Rachel, I mean.' She was about to speak when he held up his hand. 'Before you answer, I don't want all that stuff you gave me the other night. I want the real reason.'

He wouldn't give up. Weary and worn down by his persistence, she took refuge in her wine, the image of what had happened filling her mind, the image of Rachel and him together in Rachel's big, dark bed. Perhaps it was time to end the charade and tell Tartaglia what Rachel was really like. It would feel good to shatter his illusions.

She met his gaze. 'What I told you was true, what she said to me, and the bit about the text at the table. I just left out one important part. Rachel stole somebody from me. Somebody I thought I loved very much. She did it deliberately and consciously because she wanted to break us apart. And more than anything, she did it because she could.'

'Stole? But I thought you two were good friends, that you loved her.'

She shook her head. 'For the last two months I've hated her. Although I didn't kill her, there were many times I wished her dead.'

He looked puzzled and opened his mouth to say something.

'I'm sorry to disillusion you,' she interrupted, before he had the chance. 'And you will not make me go into the details. As I said, I didn't kill her and what happened between us has nothing whatsoever to do with her murder. But I can tell you this. I will never forgive her for what she did. If I feel guilty for not being more charitable, it's the only guilt I feel about what's happened.'

For a moment he said nothing, then he reached out and touched her hand gently, with such a look of genuine understanding that it made her eyes tear. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Thank you for telling me.'

His phone started to ring and he sighed as he took it out of his jacket pocket, as if he didn't welcome the interruption. He listened to whoever was at the other end for a moment, then frowning, said a few words, which were lost against the noise of the bar, and snapped it shut. He stood up.

'Something's come up and I've got to go,' he said, quickly putting on his jacket. 'To do with the case. Can you see yourself home?'

'Of course. I'll stay and finish off the rest of the wine, if you don't mind. It's far too good to waste.' She tried not to sound too disappointed.

'I'm sorry. Really sorry. I wish I could stay.' He hesitated, as though there was something more he wanted to say.

'Don't worry about me,' she said briskly. 'I'm quite happy on my own and it's far too early to go to bed.'

He frowned. 'Sometimes I feel I'm married to the bloody job. There's no room for anything else.' He hesitated, then added, 'But I've enjoyed myself tonight. Maybe we can come back here another evening and pick up where we left off.'

'Nina wants to come back,' Turner said quietly, without any warning. He put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply.

Donovan was silent, not knowing what to say other than that she didn't think it was a good idea, which was probably not what he wanted to hear.

They stood together just outside the kitchen door, sheltering from the rain under the overhang. Inside, Claire was busy heating up the sponge puddings and custard in the microwave and singing along with Snow Patrol.

'She's been ringing me for the last couple of days. Won't leave me alone. Wants to patch things up and make a go of it.'

Donovan had brought her wine glass outside and took a sip. She wondered whether she should tell him what Nina had said to Karen Feeney, that she blamed him for the break-up. It would be wise not to say anything, she reminded herself. After all, it was none of her business and she barely knew Turner. In the end, curiosity got the better of her. 'What about the man Nina was with? What's happened to him?'

'You know, I don't think there ever was a man,' he said, draining his tumbler absentmindedly. 'At least not anyone important. I think she just said it to get a rise out of me. Thought maybe it would stir me up and make me see sense, or something, like I can turn my feelings on and off like a tap.'

'But I thought she walked out on you?'

'Yes. I thought it was because of this other man, but now I don't know. I don't know what she's been playing at.'

He looked so troubled, she was half tempted to put an arm around him, but was afraid he might take it the wrong way. 'What do you want?' she asked, looking up at him. 'Do you have any idea?'

He turned and gave her a wistful smile. 'What do I want? I'm not used to people asking me that.' He sucked in some more smoke and sighed. 'We should never have got married in the first place. It all happened too quickly. She got pregnant...I said I would marry her. What a stupid thing to do.'

'No,' she said, softly. 'Don't say that. You're being too hard on yourself.'

He shook his head and closed his eyes. 'Then everything went wrong. She lost the baby and she went down and down. She was out of control. I didn't know her any more. She said I couldn't understand how she felt. She said I wasn't there for her and she blamed me for what had happened. Nothing I did made it any better. She was so bitter, so angry; I didn't know how to live with her and sometimes I thought she'd gone loopy. I realise now I can't put it right. It's too late for that and the best thing for both of us is to go our separate ways.'

She looked at him questioningly. 'You're sure?'

'Yes.'

'Have you told Nina how you feel?'

He nodded. 'She won't listen. Says she knows what's best for the both of us. Says she's going to move her stuff back in.'

She stared at him horrified. 'You can't let her not if you don't want her to, I mean.'

'What am I supposed to do? Change the locks on my own wife? That doesn't seem right. I still care about her. Even after everything...' He closed his eyes again as though the thought was painful.

Donovan assumed he was referring once more to the baby they had lost. If anything, she would have thought such a thing would bring two people closer together, but instead it seemed to have driven a wedge between them.

'But what if she comes back? Will you just let her move in?'

'If she comes back, I'll have to go, although I've no idea where.'

He stared gloomily into the darkness, and for a moment all she could hear was the soft drumming of the rain on the kitchen extension roof.

'Well, if it's any help, temporarily I mean, we have a spare room. Or at least a spare bed in the study.'

He looked round at her, frowning. 'Oh, I wasn't asking...I wouldn't dream...'

'Honestly, Simon. It's OK. That's what it's there for. We're always having waifs and strays dossing down in between something or other. The last few were Claire's friends so it's well past being my turn. There's only a single bed and it's probably a bit short for you, but it's quite comfortable otherwise. Just think of it as an insurance policy, in case you need it.'

He smiled. 'Thanks. That's nice to know, although I hope it won't come to that.' He reached down to his feet and stubbed out his cigarette on the rim of an empty flowerpot, then looked round at her. 'You're a decent person, Sam, and I'm very fond of you. Always have been, if you must know. If only things had been different...Well, timing's everything, isn't it? Probably shouldn't be talking like this, in my current state. Maybe when I get things sorted...' He grimaced. 'God, I'm making heavy weather of this. What I'm trying to say is, would you come out with me? To dinner, I mean?' He frowned, searching her face for a reaction.

She didn't know what to reply. She hadn't been expecting anything like this. Naturally she was flattered. She did find Turner attractive, if she allowed herself to think about it for more than a second. But he had had too much to drink and 'man on the rebound' was the caption that popped up cartoon-like in her mind, along with all the excellent advice about avoiding such men like the plague. Anyway, after what had happened so recently with the Bridegroom case, she felt she had lost her perspective on men completely.

He looked down at the empty glass in his hand. 'I'm sorry. I've had too much to drink. I've really overstepped the mark there. Let's pretend I never said it, OK?'

She smiled, amused by his awkwardness and touched by the fact that he didn't take her response for granted. It was one of the many nice things she was discovering about him.

'No, Simon. You haven't overstepped the mark. I just wasn't expecting you to say something like that, that's all.'

He gazed at her sadly. 'Stupid old Simon, always shoving his big foot in it. Put it down to the whisky and it having been one shit of a day.'

'No, I'm glad you said it. Honestly.' Resisting the impulse to reach up and ruffle his thick stubble of hair, she looked at him instead, liking what she saw, the pleasant, good-natured features, the extraordinary pale eyes that were hooded with sleepiness. She felt pleased that she had only had a moderate amount to drink and could manage to be sensible for them both.

'When this is all over, and you get your life back to normal, yes I'll have dinner with you.'

His face broke into a broad grin. It was the first time she had seen him really smile in days. He carefully put his glass down on the ground and took both her hands in his, kissing them each in turn. 'Good. That gives me something to look forward to.'

'Not until then, mind,' she said, gently pulling away.

'Sure,' he said, still smiling. 'You're just being kind, but I'll hold you to it, you know. There's no escape.'

Before she had a chance to reply, Claire rapped on the window just behind them and pushed open the kitchen door. 'Sorry to interrupt, Sam. But your phone was ringing, so I answered it. It's Mark. He says it's urgent.'

25.

'I've been a silly boy, haven't I, Inspector?' Patrick Tenison said, with the resigned air of a pupil caught smoking by a teacher.