After a moment, she nodded. 'Mike has a bag. I know what it means, when he brings it home. What he's going to do.' She bit her lip hard, her fingers clamping so tightly around the sheet that he saw the white of her knuckles.

He wanted to reach out and touch her to comfort her but he didn't want to frighten her.

'So he brings this bag to your flat sometimes?'

'When he comes in with it, he's whistling...happy. "I've got a surprise for you," he says.'

'But it's not a surprise.'

'No. It's...' Her voice trailed into nothing.

'What does it look like?'

'It's small. Black. Like a doctor's bag.'

'Where has he been when he brings this bag home with him? Has he been out at work?'

She shook her head, studying the short, bitten nails on her fingers. 'Not when he comes back from work. Never.'

'So when do you see it?'

Her eyes again fixed for a moment on the blank TV screen. 'After he goes to the gym. Always after the gym.'

'What gym?'

'He works out,' she said quietly, as though she hadn't heard him, her thoughts still on Jennings. 'His friend, Daz, he's on reception. Gets Mike in for free. Mike covers for Daz...when Daz's sick...or too wrecked.'

'Where is the gym?'

She sighed heavily and closed her eyes as if it was all too much of an effort. 'Under the arches, near Waterloo Station.'

'Do you know what it's called?'

'Waterloo Green? Waterloo Place? Something like that. He took me there once...wasn't my sort of thing.'

'Thank you, Heather,' Tartaglia said, standing up, already feeling in his pocket for his mobile phone. 'Thank you very much. I've got to go now.'

'Go?' She looked alarmed and, flailing, reached out for his hand. 'Will you come back?'

He caught her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before placing it back on top of the covers. 'You're safe here for the moment. He has no idea where you are or what happened to you. When they discharge you, Constable Downes, who was with me just now, will find somewhere safe for you to go. We will look after you, I swear.' As he spoke, he looked deep into her eyes, willing her to believe him.

Tears started to stream again and she clenched her fists. 'He'll find me...'

'No. I'll make sure he can't.'

As he spoke, a red-faced Downes shouldered her way into the room carrying an armchair that was almost as big as she was.

'You can't imagine the bureaucracy in this place, just to get a flipping chair,' she said, panting and dropping the chair down beside the other one. 'I practically had to fight someone for it.' Dabbing at her face with a tissue, Downes flopped heavily on the chair and smiled at Heather.

'I've got to go,' Tartaglia said. 'Heather's ready to talk now. Call me with an update.'

'Wait.' The small, breathless squeak came from the bed.

He looked over at Heather. 'I must go now.'

Not taking her eyes off Tartaglia, Heather said, 'Mike's sick. He's evil. You've got to stop him.'

Tartaglia nodded. 'I promise you I'll do everything I can to lock Michael Jennings up for good.'

31.

'Do you recognise either of these keys?' Tartaglia shouted over the throb of piped dance music coming from overhead speakers, holding out the two keys in his palm.

Ryan Phillips, the assistant manager of Waterloo Place gym, looked at them and shook his head. 'Members supply their own padlocks for the lockers. That way, there's no comeback if something goes missing from one of them.'

Dressed in a suit and tie, with thinning sandy hair, he was a large-necked, red-faced South African and had only just come on duty. He had initially resisted the police coming into the club until Tartaglia had explained exactly what a search warrant entitled them to do.

Tartaglia handed the keys back to Donovan, who was standing with Minderedes and Wightman and two uniformed officers in the entrance lobby. A tall, blonde girl, in a tight-fitting grey tracksuit, watched open-mouthed from behind the reception desk. Several phones were ringing on the counter in front of her but she ignored them all.

'What I want to know is, how was Michael Jennings able to come and go without being a member?' Tartaglia asked Ryan.

'It's possible he could borrow someone's swipe card. Or someone on the desk could buzz him in.'

'A member of staff, you mean?'

Ryan nodded.

'So much for security,' Tartaglia said, casting his eye around the expensive glass and chrome interior, wondering how much an annual membership cost. 'Why don't you clamp down on it?'

'If we catch them, we do. I'm just saying it happens. You wanted to know.'

Tartaglia nodded. 'Thank you for being honest. So, say someone let Jennings into the club, where would he have had access to?'

'The usual guest facilities.'

'Not staff quarters?'

'Unlikely. Someone would spot him and he'd be asked to leave.'

'So if he's got something hidden here, it will be in one of the changing rooms?'

'Can't think of anywhere else it would be.'

Tartaglia turned to Minderedes. 'You heard that?'

'Loud and clear.'

'Start with the members' areas, the men's first. Try every locker and padlock you find.'

'What if the keys don't fit?' Minderedes asked.

'Listen, Cinderella, open them anyway. I want you to go through everything here, no matter who it belongs to. I want this place turned inside out.'

'Is that necessary?' Ryan asked, turning a bright pink. 'There are members in the club.' His collar and tie were already very tight and he looked as though he was about to choke.

'Yes it is, Mr Phillips. The members will just have to put up with it. And I can't have anyone leaving until we're finished.'

As he spoke, the glass entrance doors parted, and a couple of heavily made-up women in padded jackets and jeans, carrying sports bags, walked into the foyer. One of the uniformed PCs stepped forward and shepherded them back outside.

'Make sure nobody goes in or out,' Tartaglia said to the other PC. 'The rest of you can start searching.'

Armed with several copies of the keys, they disappeared through a pair of shiny wooden doors into the club beyond.

Tartaglia turned back to Ryan. 'Do you have someone called Daz working here?'

'Daz Manzara, you mean? What's he done?'

'Nothing, so far. I need to see him. Where is he?'

Ryan looked over at the blonde girl. 'Where's Daz?'

'On his break. I think he's in the cafe with Mitch.'

The phones were still ringing. Ryan reached behind the desk, picked each one up in turn, then slammed it back in its receiver. 'Get hold of him. Tell him I want to see him now.'

'In your office,' Tartaglia prompted.

'In my office,' Ryan repeated to the girl.

Tartaglia smiled at her. 'Don't say why. OK?'

She gave him a hesitant smile and nodded.

Ryan frowned. 'Has Daz done something wrong?'

'Not so far. Now, let's go to your office.'

With a heavy sigh, Ryan led the way through a door marked MANAGER at the back of the reception area, and into a small, windowless, brightly lit room. It was furnished with a series of filing cabinets, a couple of chairs and a bank of two desks, facing one another, both empty.

'Have a seat,' Ryan said, flopping down behind the nearest one. 'If he's in the cafe, he won't be long.'

'I'm fine standing.'

Within minutes, a short, stocky, dark-haired man put his head around the door. 'You wanted to see me?'

'Come in and close the door,' Tartaglia said, before Ryan had a chance to reply.

Daz turned to Ryan, bewildered.

'Do as he says,' Ryan said gruffly. 'He's a detective.'

Daz closed the door behind him and stood facing Tartaglia, looking nervous. He was wearing an identical tracksuit to the one worn by the girl behind the desk, only his fitted less well. He was a similar build to Jennings, but possibly a few years older, with swarthy skin, an earring and a small goatee beard.

Daz spread his hands and looked at Tartaglia questioningly. 'What's it about? I haven't done anything wrong I know of.' He had an Australian accent, although it might have been New Zealand. Tartaglia found it impossible to tell the difference.

'Sit down, please,' Tartaglia said, gesturing towards the chair opposite Ryan. 'You're Daz?'

'Yes. What do you want?'

'I understand you know Michael Jennings.'

Daz nodded. 'We're mates. Why? What's he done?'

'I need to ask you some questions and it's very important that you answer them truthfully. I may need a statement from you.'

Daz shrugged. 'Sure. Whatever. But what's this all about?'

'I'm investigating a murder, Mr Manzara.'

Daz's small brown eyes stretched wide. 'Murder?' He looked at Ryan for confirmation and Ryan nodded. 'What's it got to do with Mike? Is he OK?'

'I can't go into that now,' Tartaglia said, 'but you let him use the club from time to time, am I right?' Seeing Daz hesitate, he added, 'I need the truth.'

'Go on, tell him,' Ryan said, sharply.

Glancing at Ryan, Daz shrugged again. 'I may have done, from time to time.'

'When was he last here? I need to know precisely.'

Still looking uncomfortable, Daz grimaced. 'Maybe Friday, maybe Saturday. Can't remember. What's Mike done?'

'You were on reception? You let him in?'

With another look in Ryan's direction, he nodded.

'What did he usually do?'

'What he always does. Used the gym.'

'So he hadn't come to see you?'