33.

Feeling as though all the breath had been kicked out of her, Donovan stared blindly at Turner. She couldn't think straight. Couldn't see straight. Images of Holland Park and Rachel Tenison's body kneeling down in the snow flashed through her mind, followed by the photographs she had seen from the Watson case file; Turner's case.

'Talk to me, Sam. What's wrong?'

His voice jolted her back to the present. She examined the genial, familiar features, taking in the look of genuine warmth and concern. Simon Turner a murderer? Was it possible? There had to be another explanation.

'Tell me what's wrong?' he repeated.

'I know about you and Rachel Tenison.' She saw the colour rise to his face, the tightening of the muscles, the narrowing of his strange, pale eyes.

'I see.' He took a mouthful of champagne and put down his glass. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and lit one, gazing at her thoughtfully. 'You're a very clever lady, Miss Donovan. Still can't work out how you know. Won't you tell me?'

His tone was almost blase and it shook her. At least he hadn't tried to deny it. She remembered what he had written on the postcard to Rachel Tenison only two months before and the desperate hopelessness of his tone. I see your face everywhere and I can't stop thinking about you. Why won't you answer my calls?

'You were in love with her, weren't you?'

He blew a stream of smoke into the air. 'Yes. Very much. Why, does it matter?'

'Jesus, Simon,' she shouted. 'Of course it bloody matters. What happened?'

He sighed and pulled out a chair from the table, straddling it and resting his arms along the back. 'It's pretty straightforward. Things weren't good at home. I don't want to go into the details, but you can probably imagine...' He looked at her for some sort of confirmation, but she just stared back at him. He gave another deep sigh. 'Well, I was interviewing someone in Notting Hill one evening, to do with a case I was working on. By the time I'd finished, it was late and I was dog-tired. Like most nights, I didn't feel like going straight home couldn't face seeing Nina, if I'm honest. So I went for a drink. There was a place on the way back to the tube and I went in. Rachel was sitting at the bar and we got chatting and had a few more drinks together.'

He frowned as he puffed at his cigarette, as though the memory was painful. 'It's amazing how easy it is to talk to a total stranger,' he continued after a moment. 'Particularly when you're down and a bit the worse for wear. Everyone seems so much more approachable and she was pretty. Very pretty, in fact. She was wearing this tight-fitting black top...well, she looked real good. And she smelled so good too, always wore the same perfume. Something sweet, some sort of flower. Used to smell it afterwards on my clothes. Anyway, she listened. I guess I was lonely and she seemed lonely too. You can fill in the rest.'

'Christ, you make it sound so simple.'

He shrugged. 'Not really. As usual, I wasn't thinking things through. To start with, I suppose I was just looking for something to take my mind off what was going on at home. A diversion, if you like. Something to brighten up the day.'

'Was that all it was?'

He shook his head. 'You know, it was the first bit of excitement and attention I'd had in a long time. Wasn't expecting to get involved. Took me by surprise. Before I knew it, I was in deep, way out of control. She had me hooked, real hooked. I'd have done anything for her. But the more I wanted her, the less she wanted me. That's how it is, sometimes.' He gazed at her through a haze of smoke.

She could just picture him, swept away on a tide of emotion, caught up in everything and under the spell, oblivious to all the signs, desperate, idealistically persistent where others would have given up.

'Is that why Nina left you?'

'No. She doesn't know about Rachel. She went away to sort herself out, or at least that's what she said. As I told you, I thought she had someone else.'

She thought back to what Karen Feeney had said: 'Nina hasn't got anyone. Simon's making it all up.' She wondered now if Turner had lied to her all along about what had happened between him and Nina and if he was lying now.

Turner took another long drag of the cigarette and stood up. Moving the chair to one side, he came towards her. 'Look, I'm not proud of what I did. I know it was wrong, but I've been paying for it ever since. Christ, she made me pay. She was never out of my mind and I thought I'd go mad with the wanting. I tried to see her, but she wouldn't take my calls, wouldn't even speak to me. She treated me like a piece of shit that she had to scrape off her shoe.'

She pictured him sitting at the table outside the cafe, hopeless and desperate, waiting for a glimpse of Rachel; saw her going out to speak to him, saying something cruel and cutting that sent him away. She wouldn't have spared him. She would have been brutal. There was no row, no fight. He just accepted his punishment as though he deserved no better.

'What about the laptop and phone? You went to her flat and took them.'

He shook his head. 'No. No, I didn't.'

'Don't lie to me, Simon. Of course you did. You were trying to cover your tracks.'

'Not me, I swear. Sure, I used to send Rachel texts and call her. I even bought a phone specially, so Nina wouldn't know. But I never emailed her. She didn't want me to, and I didn't want anyone in the office snooping and finding out.'

Maybe he had been watching Rachel Tenison's flat. He must have known she had someone with her that night and maybe he had seen Bourne leave early the next morning. He must have been waiting for Rachel when she came out the building for her run and followed her into the snowy park. Maybe he had just wanted to talk to her, have it out with her, and she hadn't wanted to listen. Perhaps she had provoked him, made him so angry or jealous that he had tried to hold on to her to stop her going. Or maybe he just couldn't bear the idea of anyone else having her.

'It was you that Liz Volpe saw in the park, wasn't it?'

Turner didn't appear to hear. He inhaled some more smoke and seemed to lose himself in his thoughts. He picked up his glass from the table and took another slug of champagne, staring at the bubbles fizzing in the glass, as if looking into another world.

'Answer me, Simon. The roses were from you, weren't they?'

He looked up. 'A crass, sentimental gesture, I know. But it made me feel a bit better.'

'A bit better? Surely you felt guilt? Remorse?'

'No. I've no regrets. I still love her, stupid fool that I am. Bloody fool for love.'

He had smoked the cigarette down to the butt and he went over to the sink and ran it under the tap before throwing it away in the bin. He turned around.

'I'm sorry, Sam. I know I should have told you about Rachel, but I thought it was better not. I knew you wouldn't lie for me and I didn't want everyone to find out. I need to get over this on my own somehow. Do you understand?'

She stared at him, horrified, still struggling to take in his extraordinary lack of concern and the terrible thing he had done. He was out of control. Unstable. It had to have been an accident, something spur of the moment, as always his emotions getting the better of him. She couldn't imagine him murdering anyone in cold blood, least of all a woman he had loved.

'If you think you can deal with this on your own, or hope that Jennings will carry the can for you, you're mad,' she shouted. 'I'm going to call Mark now.'

Her phone was on the table behind her and she reached for it.

'Put it down,' he said sharply, moving towards her. 'Please, Sam. Wait. Let's talk about this first. Why does Mark need to know? It doesn't change anything.'

Phone in hand, she hesitated, picturing again in flashes what must have happened. Yes, it had to have been an accident.

'Please put the phone down, Sam,' he repeated, fiercer and louder.

The words penetrated and for the first time she felt afraid. He wasn't going to let her make the call. How could she have been so wrong about him? Still holding the phone, she let her hand drop to her side and swallowed hard. 'If you think I'm going to cover for you...If you think I'm going to lie for you, you're out of your mind.' She struggled to find the right words. 'I'm sure you didn't mean to kill her...'

'Kill her? Me?' He frowned, his mouth dropping open. 'You think I killed Rachel?' He reached out.

'Don't touch me,' she said, backing away from him and knocking against the table.

'Christ, you're serious, aren't you? You think I did it! You think I fucking killed her! Sam, you've got to be joking.'

Shaking his head in disbelief, he stretched for his glass and tipped the rest of the champagne into his mouth. He slammed the glass down. 'How could you possibly think I killed Rachel?'

'But it all makes sense.'

He rubbed his face with his hands. 'Shit, nothing's making sense, Sam. Believe me.'

'Stop lying.'

He moved towards her, hands held out. 'Look,' he said, his expression softening momentarily. 'I wouldn't lie to you. I didn't kill her. However much I hated her for the way she treated me, I still loved her.'

The gentleness of his tone threw her and she started to doubt herself. 'If you didn't kill her, why did you keep it all a secret? Why didn't you tell someone you had been her lover?'

'Because of Nina. After everything she's been through, I didn't want her to know. I didn't think she could take it. I also thought there was a chance that we could patch things up, try and start over again.'

'That's bullshit.'

'I may be a fucking idiot, but it's the truth.'

'You must have been over the moon when Steele brought you in on the case, or did you manage to wangle it somehow?'

'No way! How can you say that? It was the last thing I wanted, being involved with anything to do with Rachel's murder. It was torture, hearing about what had happened, reading the files, looking at the photographs of her. Just imagine.'

'I can't.'

He moved closer. 'Jesus Christ, Sam. How can you believe I killed Rachel?' His eyes bored into her.

She didn't reply. She didn't know what to do, what to say. Surely he wouldn't harm her.

'Think, Sam. You know me. Why would I kill her? What earthly purpose would it serve?'

'You were jealous, obsessed,' she said, edging away from him sideways. 'You didn't want anyone else to have her.' There was no point trying to run for it; she wouldn't stand a chance. The only hope was that Claire would come home.

'No. It wasn't like that.'

Without warning he reached over and grabbed her wrists, yanking her towards him and pinning her with his weight against the table. The phone clattered from her hand to the floor.

'Look at me, will you? Honest to God, Sam, you've got to trust me. Please.' He practically lifted her into the air as he spoke.

'You're hurting,' she shouted. 'Let go.'

His face was slick with sweat and he was so close, she caught the sour reek of champagne and cigarettes on his breath. Could he smell her fear, she wondered. Would he hit her? Would he try and kill her, too, to stop her talking? She tried to wrench herself free but he was far too strong.

'You've got to believe me,' he said, still gripping hard. 'I had nothing to do with it.'

She thought of the poem. A love poem was what Professor Spicer had called it. He had first seen it in Catherine Watson's flat. Maybe what Rachel Tenison had made him do to her had reminded him of it. Maybe he had even enjoyed it. That must have been what had given him the idea of linking the murder to the unsolved Watson case.

'Tell me about the poem,' she said, hoping to buy some time. 'Did it strike a chord? Did it mean something to you?'

'Christ, I don't believe I'm hearing this,' he shouted, his face inches away from hers. 'I told you I don't even remember the bloody thing from Catherine Watson's flat. I wasn't lying about that. For fuck's sake, listen to me. I didn't kill Rachel Tenison.' With each word, he shook her.

She screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow.

'Will you just listen, you silly, bloody woman. I have an alibi. Do you hear? I have an alibi.'

It took a moment for the words to penetrate. Stunned, she slowly opened her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stared at him. His face was bright red and he looked unhinged.

'Yes. I have a fucking watertight, cast-iron alibi.'

He let go of her hands and thrust her away from him. She lost her balance and fell against the table. He picked up the bottle and started to drink from it as though he was incredibly thirsty, the champagne running down his chin and neck.

She struggled to her feet and retreated into the corner of the room, rubbing her wrists, unable to take her eyes off of him. 'I don't believe you.'

He looked up. 'Well, you'll bloody have to,' he said, holding the bottle in one hand and wiping his mouth with the back of the other. 'Just don't think badly of me.'

'What do you mean?'

'Don't judge me, right? I was in a bad, bad way. I'd been back to that bar the night before Rachel died, hoping to see her, wanting to have it out with her. I'd been there most days that week and the week before. I barely went home, except to sleep. As I said, she wouldn't take my calls, wouldn't speak to me. I knew it was over, but I just wanted to tell her how I felt, how much she'd hurt me, how it's wrong to treat someone that way. Anyway, I went back there again, but she wasn't there. I had a few jars, probably a few too many, got talking to this woman at the bar. Well, I ended up going home with her, didn't I?' He shrugged as though such things were inevitable. 'Piece of bloody luck, that, eh?'

'Luck?'

'She'll give me an alibi.'

Was it another lie? 'You sure about that?'

There was a glimmer of a smile. 'Yeah, she'll remember. We had a good time together.'

She wanted to slap him hard, wipe the bragging smirk off his face, the doubts still swilling in her head.

He put the bottle down, moved over to her again and took hold of her limp hands. Beads of perspiration were rolling down his cheeks. 'Sam, please listen. Once and for all, I didn't kill Rachel. You don't know what it's been like, having to keep this all in, having nobody to talk to. Whatever stupid, stupid things I've done, I'm not a murderer. You've got to believe me.'

She wasn't sure, but if he really did have an alibi...But maybe he was lying. Her head was spinning. It was impossible to see clearly.

He was still looking at her, watching her, trying to gauge her reaction. Seeing her falter, he gently pulled her towards him. 'Please believe me, Sam. I could never kill anybody.'

He stared down at her with a look of such hopelessness, that it was impossible not to feel for him, even if she still wasn't sure if he was telling the truth.

'Do you believe me?'

'I don't know what to believe.'

'Believe this.' Without warning, he bent down and tried to kiss her.

'Simon, stop it,' she shouted, jerking her head away and pushing her fists against his chest. 'That won't make it any better and you know it.'

'It might make me feel better.'

'That's not the point,' she said, disgusted. In his desperate state, he seemed driven by the moment, incapable of thinking anything through properly, centred only on himself. He was like a child.

He shrugged and turned away, grabbing the tea towel off the rail of the cooker and wiping his face with it.

'Well, thanks for listening.' He spoke as though that ended the matter. 'I suppose I'd better be going.'