'That too.'

'Did you spend any time with him when he was here?'

'Yeah, we had a quick bevy in the bar. Mike had a beer, I had a juice.' He glanced over at Ryan. 'It was on my break.'

Ryan looked away, as though it was nothing to him.

'What did you talk about?'

Daz's eyes swivelled back to Tartaglia and he gulped.

'You're not in trouble,' Tartaglia said, seeing his confusion. 'Not at the moment, at any rate. Just answer the question.'

'OK. Mike talked about some club he wanted to go to. He was always going to clubs, trying to pick up girls. And...' Daz hesitated.

'Well?'

'He wanted to borrow some money...wanted to score some stuff. But I'd just paid my rent so I was skint.' With another glance at Ryan, he clasped his small, stubby-fingered hands in front of him.

'Anything else?'

'He's looking for somewhere to live. Wanted to move out from where he is.'

'So he's thinking about leaving his girlfriend Heather?'

Daz frowned. 'Yeah, but she's not his girl. Not according to him, at any rate. He's just stopping with her till he finds somewhere else.'

'Are you aware he beats Heather up?'

Daz gripped the arms of his chair. 'What, Mike? You gotta be joking. He wouldn't hurt a fly. Is she dead? Is that what this is all about?'

'No.'

'She's a junkie. If she's topped herself, you can't blame Mike.'

'This doesn't concern Heather, or at least not for the moment. Going back to what you were saying, you and Michael Jennings had a drink. What happened next?'

'That was about it. I had to go and help clean up one of the WCs. Some stupid cow had been sick all over the floor. Stuck her finger down her own throat, no doubt. That's what they do around here.'

'Did you see Michael Jennings when he left the club?'

'Yeah. I was back on reception by then.'

'Do you remember if he was carrying anything? A rucksack or a bag or something?'

'Yeah, I think he had a bag of some sort.'

'Can you describe it, please?'

'It's a bag, a sports bag, nothing special.'

'What's it look like? Any distinguishing features?'

'It's navy blue and white, with some kind of logo. Nike, I think.'

'So it's not made of leather?'

'No.'

'Have you ever seen him with any other bag?'

Daz shook his head.

'Are you sure?'

Daz knitted his brows again, thinking hard. 'Come to think of it, maybe he did have another bag with him when he went out. He was carrying something else, but honestly I didn't pay it much attention.'

'This was when, Friday?'

'Maybe Saturday. Now I think about it, I don't think he came in Friday.'

'And you haven't seen him since?'

Daz shook his head.

'Could he have come back here on his own after that?'

Daz shifted in his chair and looked sheepish. 'Well, he asked if he could borrow my swipe card. Said he wanted to come into the gym on Sunday,' again he looked over at Ryan. 'Just to leave some gear, that's all. I wouldn't let him use the club unless I'm here.'

'One last question. Has Michael Jennings ever asked you to keep anything for him? A box, maybe, or another bag?'

'Well...yeah, now you mention it. He gave me a small suitcase to look after, one of those cabin-bag type things. Told me to keep it safe. It's got his valuables in it.'

'Valuables?' Tartaglia tried to stifle his excitement.

Daz scratched his head. 'Personal stuff, things he'd hate to lose or get nicked, I suppose. I guess he didn't trust Heather.'

'Have you opened it?'

Daz looked affronted. 'I wouldn't do anything like that. Anyways, it's got a whacking great padlock on it. Couldn't open it even if I wanted to.'

One of the phones on Ryan's desk started to ring. 'Answer that, will you please?' Tartaglia said to Ryan. As the noise stopped, he turned back to Daz. 'Where do you live?'

'Not far from here. I share a flat with a couple of the other blokes from the club.'

Tartaglia stood up. 'Right. I need you to take me there. I want to see the bag.'

'What, now?' Daz looked over at Ryan, who was talking, hand cupped over the phone. It sounded as though he was explaining what was happening to his superior.

'Yes. We won't be long. I'm sure Ryan here will look after things while you're gone.'

With a final hesitant look in Ryan's direction, Daz slid to his feet and followed Tartaglia to the door. Tartaglia was about to open it when there was a knock and Donovan put her head around the door.

She was smiling. 'Can I have a word?'

Tartaglia turned to Daz. 'Stay right there. I'll be back in a minute.'

Shutting the door behind him, he went out into the lobby with Donovan.

'We've got it,' she said, turning her back on reception, where a young man with a shaved head was leaning on the counter, talking to the girl. 'Dave found it in one of the lockers in the men's changing rooms. You should see the stuff in it; it's a real bag of horrors. Handcuffs, gags, knives, the lot. Makes the stuff we found in Rachel Tenison's flat look like a load of children's toys.'

'Well done,' he said, wanting to punch the air. 'What about the photograph?'

She shook her head.

'OK. Tell Dave to take the bag over to the lab right away. Then I want you and Nick to come with me. Bring the keys and ask Nick to bring his tools, although I hope we won't need them. We're going to look at another bag belonging to Michael Jennings.'

'This is the one,' Daz said, hauling a small, black suitcase down from off the top of his bedroom wardrobe. The zips were padlocked together. 'It's pretty heavy,' he said, testing the weight with his hand. 'Feels like he's got rocks in here.' He blew wads of dust off the edges and top and set it down on the divan, where Minderedes had spread a plastic sheet.

'So, nobody's touched this since Michael Jennings gave this to you three months ago?' Tartaglia asked.

Daz shook his head. 'I'd totally forgotten about it till you mentioned it.'

Tartaglia turned to Minderedes. 'Will you do the honours, Nick?'

'My pleasure.' Minderedes stepped forward with a copy of Jennings's key. Putting on a pair of latex gloves, he tried the key in the padlock. It clicked open immediately. He unzipped the case and flipped open the lid. A handful of hardcore S&M porn magazines lay on the top, along with a couple of DVDs in the same sort of vein.

'Crikey,' Daz said, looking over Minderedes's shoulder. 'Didn't know Mike was into that sort of thing.'

'Please step back,' Minderedes said, pulling out a large plastic shopping bag, the ends tied in a tight knot. He looked over at Tartaglia. 'Shall I open it? Or shall we get it straight down to forensics?'

'I want to see what's inside first,' Tartaglia said. 'But don't take anything out. Just look and tell me what's there and if there's a photograph.'

'Who's the photo of?' Daz said, craning to see.

'If you don't keep quiet, Mr Manzara, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'

'Feels like clothing or material in here.' Minderedes wrinkled his beaky nose as he felt around inside the bag. 'Jesus, it stinks.' He sniffed again. 'Like dried blood. Sure enough...' He held up the remains of a woman's pale pink blouse and a pair of cream lacy knickers. Both had been slashed into ribbons with something sharp. Both were covered in dark brown bloodstains and spatters.

'Fuck me,' Daz said, folding his arms and shaking his head slowly as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. 'To think that's been sitting up there on my cupboard all this time. Is it for real?'

'I'm afraid so,' Tartaglia said.

'Do you think it's Catherine Watson's?' Donovan asked. 'Her clothing from that evening was never found, but Rachel Tenison's is also missing.'

'Well, there's quite a lot of stuff in here,' Minderedes said, still feeling around in the bag.

'Leave it where it is,' Tartaglia said. 'It will have to go off to the lab. Just tell me if there's a photograph in there.'

'I think I have it, Sir.' Minderedes pulled out a small, framed photograph and held it up for Tartaglia to see. 'Is this it?'

Catherine Watson's smiling face gazed back at him.

'Yes,' he said quietly. 'That's the one.' He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the light-headed near nausea that follows tension. His mind was racing, but he needed to keep himself in check. 'Tie it all up again,' he said, taking a deep breath to calm himself. 'And get it straight over to forensics. We'll need you to make a formal statement, Mr Manzara.'

Still looking shocked, Daz nodded.

As they went downstairs, Tartaglia's phone rang. It was Turner.

'I've just spoken to the lab. They've found a partial print belonging to Jennings on one of the sheets of paper from Watson's flat.'

'What?'

'And get this, there's semen on it. Looks like the scumbag had a wank, then touched the papers.'

'Does the DNA match?'

'I've told them to step on it, but it will be another twenty-four hours before we know. But it explains why a couple of the pages were missing. Jennings thought he'd removed all the evidence of what he'd done in the flat, but he thought wrong. Tell Sam, will you? This is down to her.'

32.

Donovan didn't know what she felt more exhausted or elated. It had been a long and intense day, but a very good one. As she walked up the path to her front door and put her key in the lock, for the first time in a while she felt a sense of fulfilment. Days like today made the job worth doing.

She let herself in, took off her coat and hung it up on the hook by the door. Dropping her handbag on the hall table beside a pile of unopened post, she carried the bag of groceries she had bought at Tesco's into the kitchen and took out the bottle of Australian shiraz. It had a pretty label with a green and gold dragonfly, which said 14.5% proof. She unscrewed the cap, poured herself a generous glass and took a large sip. It was full-bodied and tasted good. Just what she needed and she felt instantly more relaxed.

Claire was out at some sort of business event and she had the house to herself. She put Amy Winehouse's Back To Black on the kitchen CD player and started to unpack the groceries. She paused to decide what to leave out for her supper and her thoughts turned to Michael Jennings. In the face of all the evidence, he was still insisting that he was innocent, and was now trying to shift the blame onto Daz Manzara. He was so convincing, if she hadn't seen the contents of the suitcase, or heard about Heather Williams, she would almost have been prepared to believe him. But he could lie all he wanted. The fingerprint, and hopefully his DNA, placed him firmly in Catherine Watson's flat, along with the photograph and Catherine Watson's blood-spattered underwear. The only thread left untied was the Holland Park murder.

She put the last few items away in the cupboard and was about to sit down to enjoy her glass of wine when she heard the sound of her mobile ringing. She ran into the hall and dug around in her handbag to find it, answering just before the call diverted to voicemail.

'Glad I caught you,' Feeney said. 'Someone's passed on a message that was supposed to be for Nick, but he's tied up with Mark at the moment and I can't speak to him. I wouldn't have bothered you but it sounds quite important.'

'Who is it?'

'The woman who used to work at the Greville Tenison gallery. She called in about an hour ago. Her name's Amanda Wade. Apparently Nick had spoken to her parents and they then got in touch with her and told her we wanted to speak to her.'

'Where is she?'

'She's helping out at some art fair in New York for the next week or so. Do you want to call her or shall I?'

'I'll deal with it,' Donovan replied. 'Does she know what's happened to Rachel Tenison?'