'To be honest, I'd rather you came and took a look yourself,' she said, a little hesitantly. 'I really don't think I can do it justice over the phone. Sharon said you were just down the road.'

'OK,' he replied, a little mystified. 'I'll be over as soon as I'm done here.'

He snapped the phone shut and went into the restaurant, wondering what it was that couldn't be described over a phone. The interior was dimly lit, and expensively furnished with suede-covered bucket chairs and banquettes all in shades of brown. Looking closer, he noticed that the walls were clad in leather. A tall, thin waiter was busy smoothing a starched white cloth over one of the tables at the front, while another bustled around with a tray of small square vases containing white rosebuds and placed one in the centre of each table. Wightman was at the back, perched on a stool at the black and chrome bar, a tall glass of something in front of him. Knowing Wightman it would be a Diet Coke. It was all he ever drank.

As Tartaglia went to join him, a short, bald man in a well-cut dark navy suit and vivid mauve tie glided through the swing doors.

'I am Henri Charles,' he said in a thick French accent, extending a plump hand to Tartaglia, accompanied by the faint, lemony smell of cologne. He had a trim, carefully sculpted black beard, which added definition to an otherwise weak chin, and gave him a saturnine appearance.

'Please take a seat, Inspector. May I offer you a drink?'

'Glass of fizzy water would be nice,' Tartaglia said, suddenly thirsty, and sat down on a stool next to Wightman.

'I've explained to Mr Charles why we're here,' Wightman said to Tartaglia, as Charles spooned ice and a slice of lime into a tall glass and filled it with a small bottle of Perrier from a cupboard below. 'He was the one who made the call. He was on duty the night Miss Tenison had dinner here.'

Charles passed Tartaglia his drink. 'Yes. I recognise her from the photograph in the newspaper.'

'You're sure it was last Thursday night?' Tartaglia asked, taking a large sip.

He arched his thick dark brows. 'Of course. Let me fetch the book so you can see yourself.'

Charles emerged from behind the counter and crossed the room to the small reception desk at the front of the restaurant where he retrieved a large, leather-bound book. Coming back, he inserted himself between Tartaglia and Wightman and slapped the book down on the counter in front of them. He started to leaf through the pages.

'Here it is, last Thursday, as I say.' He ran a stubby finger along the many entries until he came to the name of Tenison.

'Can I see the phone number?' Wightman asked. Charles turned the book towards him and Wightman made a note.

'It says the booking was for eight-thirty,' Tartaglia said. 'What time did they arrive?'

'They were late...maybe about twenty minutes.'

'Can you describe him?'

Charles flicked a minute speck from the sleeve of his jacket. 'He look like a businessman, or at least that is my impression.'

'What do you mean by that?'

Charles shrugged. 'He was wearing a suit and tie. He look like he came straight from work. Most people around here dress more casual when they go out.'

'Aside from his clothes, can you describe him?'

'I did not see him particularly well. He was facing the window.'

'Where was this?'

'Table number seven, over there in the corner.' Charles turned and pointed to a small table by the window. It was set apart from the rest of the tables in a recess of its own.

'Did they ask for that particular table?'

Charles puckered his fleshy lips. 'They request somewhere quiet when they make the reservation. It's written here.' He tapped the page in front of them.

'Did you speak to either of them when they arrived?'

'I mark off the reservation in the book, as you can see, and then show the lady to the table. When the man came in, he went straight over to join her.'

'Did you speak to him?'

'No.'

Tartaglia glanced over again at table seven. If Rachel Tenison's companion had been sitting with his back to the room, his face wouldn't have been easily visible to any of the other tables.

He turned back to Charles. 'But you saw Miss Tenison clearly?'

'Most definitely. She faces into the room. Almost immediately after the man arrive, he leave the table and he goes outside. I see him walking up and down, up and down, talking into a mobile phone.'

'But it was freezing,' Wightman said, surprised.

'We do not permit them to be used in this restaurant,' Charles said firmly.

'Who took their orders?' Tartaglia asked.

'I did, but the man was outside. The young lady, she order for him. Then I sent over the sommelier so she can choose the wine.'

'And you're quite sure the lady was Miss Tenison?'

'No doubt,' he said with a smile, running his hand over the fine stubble on the top of his head. 'She is beautiful and I do not forget a face.'

'Had you ever seen Miss Tenison's companion before?'

Charles shook his head.

'Did they stay a long time?'

'No. Not long. That is also why I remember. They have the starters and then the main course. I'm not sure if they even finish. They have some type of...of disagreement.'

'You heard them arguing?'

'No. The restaurant is full and it is very noisy. I remember the lady get up and ask me for her coat. She look upset, angry maybe. I ask her if anything is the matter with the food and she says no, then she leave. I remember seeing the man sitting by himself at the table, maybe he waits for her to come back. As I said, we were very busy and next time I look over, maybe five minutes later, he is gone.'

'What time was this?'

'Ten, maybe ten-thirty. I don't keep my eye on the clock.'

'How did they pay?' Wightman asked.

'He left cash on the table. He was in so much haste I don't think he even ask for the bill but the cash was more than enough.'

'Did you get any feel for their relationship at all?' Tartaglia asked. 'Were they lovers, would you say?'

Charles grimaced. 'Impossible to know. Maybe he hold her hand.' He nodded slowly. 'Yes, maybe he hold her hand. That is my impression.'

'What else do you recall about him? Was he tall or short? Fat or thin? Young or old?'

'Tallish maybe, but he is mostly sitting when I see him. Like you, he's not fat.' This said with a quick glance at Tartaglia's waistline. 'Maybe your age, maybe older. Sometimes it is difficult to know.'

'Anything else you remember?'

'I have the impression he had dark hair. Short but thick. Not like me.' He patted the top of his shiny head.

'How dark? Do you mean black?'

Charles put his head to one side and studied Tartaglia. 'You have the Latin hair, the real black. His is not like that, from what I remember. I would say brown, dark brown perhaps. It all look the same in this light.'

All cats are dark at night, Tartaglia thought. But if nothing else, the general description ruled out Richard Greville. 'Was the man English?'

Charles shrugged. 'I'm sorry, but what is English these days? I'm a Gascon; I can't tell you that. It's like asking an Englishman to...' he paused, his hand fluttering back and forth as if he were trying to pluck the words from the air, '...to know the difference between a truffle and a lump of coal.'

Wightman dropped Tartaglia outside Rachel Tenison's apartment block and drove off in the direction of Barnes. The building was still cordoned off and Tartaglia went through the process of being signed in again, ignoring the group of reporters who were still hanging around on the pavement outside, along with a news crew who seemed to be filming live. This time he went straight up via the stairs to the fifth floor, not wanting to chance the lift on his own.

Nina Turner met him at the door, still in her forensic suit and mask. 'Sorry to be so mysterious, but I thought you'd better take a look before it all goes off to the lab. Photographs wouldn't do it justice.'

'You're killing me. What is it?' he said, striding alongside her down the passage towards the bedroom.

'It was all in that trunk you liked.'

'You found the key?'

'Yes. No damage done, you'll be pleased to hear.'

The bed had been completely stripped of its linen and hangings and the room now looked even more bare and empty and colourless. The box sat on a plastic sheet on the floor in its original position, lid closed. Not wearing gloves, he waited for Nina to open it.

She bent down and lifted the lid. What he saw made his pulse quicken. Inside was a collection of steel handcuffs, manacles, leather straps and gags, along with a number of masks, similar to the ones in the photographs in the study. Some were half-face, some full-face. Even without someone behind them, they were sinister. When people's homes were searched, the most extraordinary and unexpected things often came to light, but he hadn't envisaged finding anything like this here.

He stared down at the box, wondering. A woman who wanted to be tied up wasn't that every man's fantasy? Although he had never, so far, been with a woman who liked that sort of thing, he had to admit the thought was arousing. He had imagined Rachel Tenison as successful and driven, certainly not submissive in this way, and he was fascinated. He was glimpsing a secret world, her secret world, inside a locked box. He looked up for a second and saw himself reflected in the mirrors, with the bed just behind. The image of her white as snow, kneeling down, her head bowed and hands clasped flitted into his mind.

O mystic and sombre Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.

Had it all been some sort of violent sex game gone wrong? Was that the significance of the poem?

Moving aside some of the masks, Nina pulled out a full-face gimp mask made of studded black leather, with a zip at the mouth.

'Do you suppose it's made to measure?' She held it up delicately between the tips of her gloved fingers.

'I wonder,' he said, wishing that it could give up its secrets. He stared so hard at the mask and its empty slit eyes that his vision began to swim. What sort of man had she liked? Was it meant for a particular man and if so, who and where was he? He looked around at Nina. 'Did you find anything else? Anything of a heavier S&M nature? Anything that looks at all professional?'

'No. Nothing like the gear we found in that flat off the Edgware Road.' She dropped the mask into the box and closed the lid. 'There was some rather interesting underwear and rubber stuff at the top of one of the cupboards, but I'd say this lot's purely recreational, for home use. Just a big girl's dressing up box, really, although for a girl with very different tastes to mine.'

8.

'A girl with very different tastes.' Nina Turner's words stuck in Tartaglia's mind as he walked back down the stairs. It was one tiny but important mosaic in a picture that was only just starting to form, each piece more fascinating than the last. He knew so little about Rachel Tenison but he wanted to know so much more.

As he pushed open the front door of the building, a gust of freezing air hit him in the face. Bracing himself, screwing his eyes almost shut, he went down the steps and made his way to the outer cordon, where he was once more signed out. It had just started to snow again, although unconvincingly, tiny particles of ice fluttering on the air like leftover confetti. Head down, he skirted around the small, stalwart band of reporters, and began walking down the hill towards the tube station. He let the dark of the evening close around him, losing himself in the to-and-fro of the people on the pavement, marvelling at the kaleidoscope of lights in the distance from the passing traffic along Kensington High Street, blurred by the misty air. But the image of the trunk in Rachel Tenison's bedroom, and its contents, was uppermost in his mind.

He had called Donovan from Rachel's flat and asked her to speak to Richard Greville immediately about the contents of the trunk to see if it meant anything to him. However, the description of the man seen with Rachel in La Girolle didn't fit Greville who, in any case, had a cast-iron alibi for the Friday morning. But even if Greville was into that sort of thing, even if he could give some added colour to the picture they were building of Rachel Tenison, it was nothing more than useful background knowledge. Everything pointed to there being somebody else.

Marching along, stamping hard on the icy pavement for warmth and with the sheer frustration of it all, he thought back to the interview with Liz Volpe that morning, picturing her blank, unfocused stare, hearing her flat-toned, husky voice. 'I've been away. I'm out of touch,' was the limp excuse she had volunteered. But it just didn't ring true. As he knew only too well, in the age of phone and email and BlackBerrys, and the like, it was impossible to be out of touch. Physical separation meant nothing to family, friends or the office. If they wanted to get hold of you they would, whether you liked it or not. He had the impression that Liz had been trying to distract him from something, something that she didn't want to talk about. His gut instinct nagged at him, telling him that, at the very least, he was being given an edited version, which left him with a burning, insistent curiosity to know what had been left out and why.

Liz Volpe put her glass of red wine down by the side of the bath and turned off the taps. It was deep enough now, almost up to the overflow. She twisted her hair quickly into a knot and clipped it up on top of her head. Shrugging off her brother's old towelling dressing gown onto the tiled floor, she tested the water with her toe. Steam was rising from the surface and the water was piping hot, just the way she liked it, foamy and pleasant-smelling from something she had found at the back of the bathroom cupboard.

She stepped in and lowered herself slowly into the tub, closing her eyes as she slid down until the water was around her neck, just touching her chin. It felt good after the bone-chilling cold outside and she stayed with her eyes closed for several minutes, trying to forget where she was. Her thoughts turned back to the job interview she had had earlier that day for a curatorship at one of the London museums, replaying in her mind the conversations and the general attitude and body language of the various people she had met. Even then, while talking about herself and why she was coming back to London, she had found it difficult to concentrate. She was sure she had come across badly. It was impossible to be normal, to block out the thoughts and images of Rachel. She could still hear her voice so clearly; what she had said just wouldn't go away.

Just as she opened her eyes and stretched for her wine, the phone started ringing in the hall. She listened, hearing first her brother's terse recorded message cutting in after a few rings, followed by Jonathan's deep, gravelly voice.

'Are you there, Lizzie darling? Pick up, will you? Lizzie...hello? It's me.' The words were a little slurred. There was a pause and she thought he had hung up. Then he said, more serious this time: 'Pick up the phone, Liz. I know you're there. I walked past your door only five minutes ago and the lights were on. Look, I need to see you. I need to talk. What's happened to Rachel, well, it's doing my head in, is what it is. I feel terrible. Call me, will you? I'm going round to the Electric for a drink. I really need to see you. Please.' The please offered as an afterthought. Again a pause, as though he was still waiting for her to answer, followed by the click as he hung up.

She sighed and took a large sip of wine, gazing at her toes which were peeping up through the white snowy foam at the other end. The dark nail varnish was starting to chip at the edges and they looked strangely detached from the rest of her, which sort of summed up how she felt. After the initial shock, just numbness, coupled with guilt although by rights it should have been Rachel feeling guilty. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself of that, it made no difference. Rachel didn't know the meaning of the word. Anyway, Rachel was dead.

There were still moments when it didn't seem real, as though she would wake up and find that it had all been a bad dream. Again she wondered at her own lack of emotion, finding Jonathan's reaction equally surprising. Why should he be so churned up? She was curious now to know what he wanted. Perhaps she should call him back. It would be good to get out for a while, have a few drinks and try and forget about things, if only she could keep him off the subject of Rachel.

She pulled out the plug and stood up. As she climbed out, she heard the sound of the doorbell. Irritated at his persistence, that he seemed to just assume she was in and available, she picked up the dressing gown from the floor, slipped it on, and went to answer the intercom.

'What is it you want?' she shouted into the mouthpiece.

'It's DI Tartaglia. May I come up and speak to you?'

She closed her eyes for a second, wishing suddenly that it had been Jonathan after all. 'I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else. I was in the middle of having a bath.' She hoped he would take the hint and go away.

'I'm sorry, but I need to speak to you. It can't wait.' His tone was insistent.

'OK,' she said, with what she hoped was an audible sigh. 'You'd better come up, then. I'll go and put some clothes on.'

Liz had left the door to the flat open again and Tartaglia closed it loudly behind him, so that she would know he was there. Assuming she was in her bedroom, he went along the corridor and into the sitting room. The lights were on, but the room was cold as though the heating was turned off. He had been there several minutes and was studying the print of the racehorse over the fireplace for want of anything else to do, when she appeared in the doorway behind him, arms tightly folded. She was wearing the same baggy grey cardigan and jeans from that morning and was barefoot, her toenails painted a dark purple, almost black. Her face was flushed and bare of make-up.

'I'm sorry to call round unexpectedly,' he said, 'but there are some things I need to ask you.'

She nodded. 'I've been out all day and the heating's turned off in here. Let's go into the kitchen. It should be warmer.'

He followed her back along the hall to the kitchen, which was next to the front door. He took off his jacket and sat down at the table, waiting for her to join him.

'Sorry it's such a mess,' she said, hurriedly moving aside some newspapers and clearing away what looked like the remains of her breakfast from the table. Still the same vague way of moving, as if she wasn't quite sure of what she was doing, as if her thoughts were elsewhere and she was just going through the motions.