Minderedes shook his head. 'The business partner Richard Greville was out of the country. I got hold of him late last night. He'll be back at the gallery this morning.'

'I'd like you and Sam to pay him a visit. We'll need access to her business phone records and files, plus details, if he has them, of her mobile phone. You know the score. Who's dealing with her landline records?'

'I am,' Wightman said. 'We should have the printout later today.'

Tartaglia looked over in Donovan's direction. 'Sam, can you follow up on the poem? Unless the killer's just trying to mislead us, it was put there for a reason. I want the rest of you to concentrate on the park, names and addresses and a full check on anyone who goes there regularly and anyone seen hanging around since the park's been closed off. Given the circumstances, we can't rule out a stranger killing. In the meantime, Karen and I have an appointment at nine with Rachel Tenison's friend, Liz Volpe.'

'What about the press, Sir?' asked DS Sharon Fuller, the office manager, who was sitting just behind Donovan. 'Will you be releasing the victim's identity today?'

'Yes. As soon as her stepbrother formally IDs her. It should be public knowledge by lunchtime.'

'There will be a formal press briefing later this morning, ahead of the lunchtime news,' Steele said. 'Superintendent Cornish will be handling it. But if you get anyone ringing up, refer them to the press office or pass them on to me.'

'There's going to be a lot of media attention,' Tartaglia added. 'Rachel Tenison was a well-known West End art dealer and her stepbrother's in the Shadow Cabinet. You can imagine the headlines. I can't stress enough how important it is that the crime scene details are kept out of the public domain. Everything, and I mean everything, must be kept under wraps. Understood?'

5.

Just after nine that morning, Tartaglia and DC Karen Feeney stood outside the address Liz Volpe had given them in Notting Hill. The white-painted Victorian house was imposing, with ornate cornicing, arched balconies and a large classical portico above the front door. It stood at the end of a terrace of similar houses, straddling the corner of two roads and backing onto a broad expanse of railed communal gardens that sloped gently up the hill behind, towards Notting Hill Gate.

Tartaglia rang the bell marked Volpe, and within seconds, her voice crackled over the intercom. He announced himself and Feeney.

'I'm right at the top,' Liz said. Her voice sounded sleepy, as though she had only just woken up.

He heard the click of the receiver, followed by the buzzer, and quickly pushed open the heavy dark green door.

With Feeney labouring behind him, he climbed the broad, curving staircase until he reached the top-floor landing, where he waited for Feeney to catch him up. There was only one door and it had been left ajar. There was no sign of Liz Volpe and they went inside, entering into a broad hallway that seemed to be used as a dining area, with a table and some foldaway chairs parked to one side. Weak, grey light filtered in from a skylight above, illuminating a clumsily painted mural of a Mediterranean view on the back wall.

Within moments, Liz appeared in the corridor behind them. Dressed in faded jeans and trainers, she was pulling on an enormous charcoal grey cardigan over a tight black T-shirt and had the dishevelled, disorientated look of someone who had only just got out of bed.

'I'm sorry to have kept you,' she said in a low, husky voice, tugging her thick, dark blonde hair free of the neck of the cardigan. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen.

'This is Detective Constable Feeney,' Tartaglia replied.

Liz stretched out her hand in greeting, giving them both a tense smile. Her fingers were cold and were quickly withdrawn to her side. 'Let's go and sit down.'

As she led the way along the corridor and into the sitting room at the end, she moved slowly, almost shambling, as if she were still half-asleep or in a trance. She was a lot taller than he had noticed the previous night, almost his height, thin and athletic-looking.

The room they entered was large, on the corner of the building, with a high ceiling and windows on two sides set into the sloping eaves. Liz switched on the lights and gestured them towards a comfortable-looking sofa by the fireplace, placing herself opposite in a high-backed, brown leather armchair, legs together, hands folded stiffly in her lap, the wooden coffee table like a barrier between them.

Sitting down, Tartaglia glanced around, taking in the faded green walls, the overflowing, rickety bookshelves and the scuffed wooden floor, which was covered in a variety of dusty ethnic rugs. A flat of that size, in that area, must be worth a fortune, but the furnishings might easily have come from a junk shop. There was also nothing feminine about the place, no ornaments or pictures, other than a large, weathered old print of a racehorse in a heavy black frame over the mantelpiece.

'Have you lived here long, Miss Volpe?' he asked, as Feeney sat down beside him and began rummaging in her oversized handbag for a notebook and pen.

Liz shook her head. 'It's my brother's. I'm just staying here temporarily while he's away. While I sort myself out. I've been living abroad, you see.'

As he returned her gaze, he realised that he hadn't really looked at her properly the night before. All hunched up in her long, black overcoat on the stairs or the porter's sofa, with her long fair hair hanging over her face, there hadn't been a lot to notice, and it was as though he was seeing her for the first time now. Her eyes were large and blue. Her face was more handsome than pretty, with a broad nose and a full, generous mouth, but the overall effect, with her height and hair, was striking.

'I'm sorry to bother you again so soon, but I need to ask you some questions. It's very important that we find out as much as we can about Rachel Tenison's background.'

'I understand,' she said quietly, glancing down at her hands. 'What do you want to know?'

He noticed that her long fingers were bare, nails cut functionally short.

'Had you been friends for long?'

She met his gaze. 'Over twenty years. We were at school together.'

'So you know the family well?'

'I know her brother Patrick, but I never met Rachel's parents. They died before she came to my school.'

'So, you must have been close.'

'I suppose so, yes.'

He picked up the hesitation in her voice. 'You don't seem sure.'

She sighed. 'We've known each other for a long time. We had a lot of shared experiences, if that's what you mean by "close". We cared very much about one another, but we didn't live in each other's pockets like some girls do. I'm not like that and nor was Rachel.' Her reply rolled off the tongue a little too quickly, as if she had rehearsed it all beforehand.

'What was she like?' he asked, observing her closely.

She frowned as if she didn't see the point of the question. 'Quiet, always a bit of a loner. The whole teen thing of boys and make-up and parties...well, it wasn't her cup of tea at all. An old head on young shoulders, if you know what I mean. Rachel preferred to have her head stuck in a book than talk about pop music and normal stuff like that.'

'But you weren't put off?'

'We both discovered, more or less at the same time, that we loved history of art and as we got to know one another better, we became good friends.'

'And you stayed friends?'

Liz took a deep breath and nodded. 'We went to university together and then carried on seeing each other in London when we started work.'

'So when did you last speak to her?'

She paused and bit her lip, looking away towards the window. 'Last week. I told you.'

'When exactly?'

'Thursday. I called her...said I was back in London for a few weeks. We arranged to meet for dinner last night, as you know.'

'And there was nothing in your conversation to give you any cause for concern?'

Again the hesitation as her eyes met his. 'Absolutely not.'

'When did you last see Miss Tenison before that?'

'About ten weeks ago.'

'Why so long?'

'Perhaps I should explain. I'm also in the art world, but I'm an academic. I've been working on a research project for a private foundation in the US. I've been based there for the past year, but it brings me to Europe quite a lot, which is why I'm here now. I saw Rachel when I was last over.'

She pulled out a crumpled paper tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.

'What did you talk about?'

A flicker of unease crossed her face and she shifted in her chair, looking down momentarily at the tissue, which she was scrunching into a tight ball. 'Nothing in particular, just mutual friends and work. The project was coming to an end and I wasn't sure what I was going to do...wasn't sure if I wanted to return to the UK.'

'Did she talk about her personal life at all?'

'Not really.'

'What? She said nothing at all?'

'Nothing that sticks in my memory.' Her tone was overly sharp and impatient. She was trying to hurry over things for some reason and Tartaglia's curiosity was aroused.

'But you say she was a good friend?'

'Yes. Why do you keep asking?'

'I'm just trying to get a picture of her, that's all,' he said simply, hoping to allay whatever fears she had. 'Didn't she have any weaknesses, any passions, any problems?'

'Of course,' she said with a sigh. 'I feel I'm not doing her justice. I suppose when you know somebody well, it's difficult to describe. I don't want to sum her up with a few cheap one-liners.'

Even though he sympathised, he felt she was trying to distract him from the real issue. 'But you must have had some clue what was going on in her life.'

She hesitated. 'Perhaps I'm not explaining things well.' She shifted awkwardly in her seat as if she was uncomfortable and removed a cushion from behind her back, dropping it on the floor. 'Ah, that's better,' she sighed. 'Where were we?'

'I said that you must have had some clue what was going on in Miss Tenison's life.'

'Yes, well, I've been away for a while. Rachel was also very closed. It was sometimes difficult to tell what was going on inside, even for me.'

'She found friendships difficult?'

She nodded slowly. 'She could be awkward, even with people she knew well. I guess it's not surprising, after what happened in her childhood.'

'Apart from you, who else did she see?'

'She tended to stick with people she had known for a long time, people she felt comfortable with. There's Patrick, of course, and his wife Emma and their two children. And her business partner, Richard, and his wife...' Her voice tailed away as if she was thinking of something else. Again her eyes fixed on the space beyond the window. 'Most of her energy went into the business. She was very driven.'

He thought he glimpsed an inner bitterness but he wasn't sure. Perhaps she had felt neglected. She looked away and he saw tears forming in her eyes.

'Tell me about her business partner, Richard Greville. I understand that they had a relationship.'

She looked up, surprised. Surprised that he knew or surprised that he was asking, he wasn't sure. 'That's over.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. It finished before I went off to the States the first time and that was just over a year ago.'

'You're quite sure it ended? Maybe she just didn't tell you.'

She shifted in her seat again and crossed her legs. 'No, I'm sure I'm right. I could tell things had changed. Call it woman's intuition, although nothing was ever said.'

'Who broke it off?' Feeney asked, looking up from her notepad.

'She did, from what I know, but I think they both realised it was for the best. He's married. In the end I think the business was more important to both of them than whatever sexual thing they had going.'

'Do you think he harboured a grudge?' Tartaglia asked.

Liz raised her brows. 'Richard? He's not the type. And before you ask me, I certainly don't see him killing Rachel in a fit of jealousy.'

'Jealousy? What would Richard Greville have to be jealous about? Was there someone else? From the photos I've seen, she was an attractive woman.'

'It's just a figure of speech,' she said quickly. 'Richard's not the jealous type.'

'But there was somebody else. Is that what you're saying?'

She touched her lips briefly with her fingers. Once more Tartaglia was aware of the hesitation that seemed to signify concealment.

'I don't know,' she said. 'I think Rachel was seeing somebody, but I'm not sure.'

'Do you have a name?'

She shook her head. 'It was just something she said. A throwaway remark, that's all. I really can't remember anything else and I may have got it wrong.'

'You're sure about this?'

'No, I'm not sure. It's just an impression. That's all.'

'It's very important that we talk to anybody she has seen, let alone had a relationship with, in the last few months. You can't remember anything else?'

Her look was challenging. 'No. I told you. Why do you keep asking?'

Even as she spoke, he knew there was something missing, something she wasn't saying. He didn't know her at all, but he could feel it. It was nothing new, it happened all the time in interviews, the self-editing, the filtering, either deliberate or unconscious. It was his job to weed it out and get to the truth. But he felt somehow that with Liz Volpe it wasn't going to be easy and his curiosity deepened.

'What about before Richard Greville?'

'She'd had the odd relationship, but nothing special, nothing serious.'

'I'll need their names and details if you have them. We'll need to check on everybody.'