'He's here at the station. You can see him in a few minutes, but first I'd like to ask you a few ...'

'I had nothing to do with all this. I've been out of the country. It's nothing to do with me. What makes you think it's anything to do with me?' She inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply.

'Your mother's down here,' said Wesley, playing for time. 'If you'd like to see her ...'

Karen flicked ash onto the floor with her long scarlet nails. 'What would I want to see that old cow for?'

'She thought you were dead,' said Rachel, affronted.

Karen blew out a contemptuous cloud of smoke. 'Haven't seen her in years. Don't want to neither.'

Wesley looked over at Rachel, hoping the police launch had managed to track down their boss's boat.

'Why did you think I was dead, then? You've not told me that. Anyone could have told you I was in France. Why didn't you ask John or Phil from the agency?'

'The reason, Miss Giordino, that we thought you were the victim is that pa.s.sport photographs of you were found in the victim's bag.'

'Then surely even the b.l.o.o.d.y police force could tell it wasn't me. G.o.d help us all if you lot are that useless.'

'The victim's face had been disfigured. She was unrecognisable. But she fitted your general description: same colour hair, eyes, build. There was no other identification on her. It was natural to think the photographs belonged to her. We then traced you through, er, connections in Manchester and found your mother.'

'What connections?'

Wesley tried not to catch Rachel's eye. 'A Mr Keffer. You worked for him, I believe.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. That was years ago. Look, John doesn't have to know about that, does he? I mean, it was just to get some cash together for this modelling course and ...'

'Don't worry, Miss Giordino, your secret's safe with us.'

'I don't do anything like that now, you know. It's all respectable stuff,' she added indignantly.

Wesley thought that here was a woman with a past she'd rather forget. He continued. 'I'm sure it is, Miss Giordino. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you a few more questions. Can you prove that you went on this trip to France on the seventeenth? Any witnesses? This Maurice, for instance?'

'Look, are you accusing me of something? I was with Maurice. We travelled over on the seventeenth. I met him in Tradmouth and we got the ferry over from Plymouth. We drove to Paris.'

'We haven't been able to trace this Maurice.'

'He stayed on. He's got friends who live near Paris. He went to visit them for a few days. I wanted to get back.'

'How did you get back?'

'Ever heard of Le Shuttle? Got it to London then got the train back to Morbay. Don't you believe me?'

'Will anyone else confirm your story?'

'The hotel we stayed at in Paris ... in the Pigalle. They didn't speak much English but they'd know us again. Maurice punched one of the waiters 'cause he thought he was trying it on with me. And Maurice was always ordering champagne to be brought up to our room. Didn't seem to care how much he spent.' She smirked, enjoying the memory. Suddenly Wesley felt extremely sorry for John Fielding.

Rachel produced the black handbag from its plastic shroud like a conjurer producing a rabbit. 'Is this your bag?'

Karen shook her head.

'It was found near the body. Your photographs were in it. Have you any idea how they got into the dead woman's bag?' Rachel asked coolly. She had taken an almost instant dislike to the woman sitting opposite her. Karen looked back at her contemptuously.

'How the f.u.c.k should I know, love. That's for you to find out.'

Wesley tried again. 'When did you get these pictures taken?' He held out the strip of photographs.

Karen touched them and turned them over. 'I look a bleeding fright, don't I? Bride of Frankenstein. I didn't like these. I had more done.'

'For a pa.s.sport?'

'I wouldn't have my photo taken like that for anything else, now, would I?' She studied her nails. 'I'm used to having my photo took by professionals, aren't I?'

'Of course.' Wesley remained calmly polite. 'What happened to these pictures, then? Did you throw them away or what? Please think hard. It's important.'

Karen lit another cigarette. 'I'm trying to b.l.o.o.d.y think.'

'When did you have them done?'

'Few weeks back.' She screwed up her face as if the process of thought were a huge physical effort. 'I had the new photos and I was filling in the pa.s.sport forms. I must have left these ones there.'

'Where?'

'The office ... the agency. I can't remember throwing them away or anything. I probably left them there.'

Wesley sat up. Now they were getting somewhere.

'Phil from the agency reminded me I had to have a pa.s.sport to go abroad on this job. I went to the post office for the form and had the photos done in one of those booth things. I took the lot back to the office to fill it all in.' She sat back. 'I've always wanted to travel, me. Don't want to end up like my b.l.o.o.d.y mum never been south of Stoke on Trent.'

'She has now,' said Rachel pointedly. 'She's staying just down the road.'

Karen snorted disdainfully.

Wesley tried again. 'Think back. What happened to the pictures you didn't use? Please, it's important.'

'I told you, I left them at the agency.'

'Whereabouts? Where did you fill the forms in?'

'The reception desk, I suppose.'

'Who was there?'

'Phil, the boss.'

Rachel nodded. She had met Phil briefly a hara.s.sed, balding man who gave the impression that his long-legged charges existed solely to give him a hard time. 'Anyone else?'

'Another of the girls. I showed her the duff photos and we had a laugh about them.'

'Name?'

'Maureen. Don't know her surname.'

'Is this Maureen blonde?' Rachel looked at Wesley and caught the implications of his question.

'No, love.' She looked Wesley up and down appreciatively. 'She's dark. Like you. Why?'

'Was anyone else there?'

'Can't remember.'

The door opened. Heffernan crept into the room and sat un.o.btrusively on a chair behind Karen. He raised his hand to indicate that he would be an observer for the present. Karen turned and gave him a bored look then lit another cigarette.

Wesley repeated his question. 'Was there anyone else there when you left the photographs on the desk? Please think.'

"That girl, what's her name, Sharon. She was probably somewhere about.'

'Sharon?'

'The girl who works in the office.'

'What does she look like?'

'Fair hair. Never noticed her much.'

'About your height?'

Karen nodded. 'Suppose so.'

'How well do you know her?'

'I didn't really. She was quiet. Never chatted, like.'

'Did she have any kids?'

'Not that I know of. Why?'

At this point Heffernan stood up and introduced himself. Karen looked unimpressed.

'Your mother's waiting downstairs, Miss Giordino. If you'd like to come with me ...'

Heffernan, like Wesley and Rachel, had weighed Karen up and didn't much like what he saw. But for the sake of the woman downstairs, the woman he had just taken to the local Catholic church on Higher Street to light a candle of thanks to the Virgin for the return of her only child, he was glad to see her. However, his hopes of a touching reunion were shattered when Karen Giordino turned to him and spoke.

'The old cow can wait. Get us another coffee, will you.'

The inspector tried in vain to recall that saying from Shakespeare about serpent's teeth and thankless children. Maybe Wesley would know.

Wesley reckoned he was becoming fitter. People paid good money for the use of those step machines in gyms. His fitness training came free every evening when he trudged home up through those cobbled streets.

Pam was at a parents' evening so there would be n.o.body to notice what time he returned home. It was seven thirty: too early for the Tradmouth Arms. Neil might still be on the site.

Wesley found his friend in the wooden hut that was used as the site office and a temporary repository for finds. The hut was more impressive inside than Wesley had expected. In one corner was a sink, edged with various items in the process of having the mud of centuries cleaned off them. There were labelled drawers for the smaller finds against one wall, and against the other a desk on which stood a flickering computer.

'Have a look at this.' Neil, eyes shining like those of a child with a new and fascinating toy, pressed a few b.u.t.tons. Wesley watched as a simulated picture appeared on the computer screen of how the Banized house would have looked when it was still a thriving merchant's dwelling. With the aid of technology they walked through the rooms and the courtyard. Things had certainly come on since Wesley's student days when he would have had to have made do with the efforts of human artists.

'I'm impressed.'

'So you should be. We were lucky to get it. Good, isn't it? How's Pam, by the way? I've not seen her yet.'

'She's at a parents' evening. She won't be back till ...'

'You're not, er. ... You two are okay, aren't you?'

'Yes ... er, yes. Why?'

'Just hoped there was nothing wrong. You hear of so many couples ...'

'No. She's just had a bit of a medical problem, not been feeling too good.'

'Nothing catching?'

'Women's troubles.'

Those two words prevented Neil from enquiring further. He changed the subject. 'I've had some good news.' He looked pleased with himself. 'We're going to do an exhibition about this place in the County Museum. All the finds, reconstructed shop.'

'Great.' Neil's enthusiasm was infectious.

'I had a word with Dr Bowman about reconstructing that skeleton's face for the exhibition. Get Professor Jensen on to it when he gets back from the States. The Woman in the Cellar, that sort of thing. Always goes down well.'

Wesley nodded. 'Let me know when it's on. I'll be there.'

'Have you got any news on our break-in?'

'I've got one of our PCs contacting all the jewellers and antique shops in the area. That's the best we can do unless we catch them having another go.'

'Let's hope they don't. Thanks, anyway. Let's hope something turns up. Have you looked at those parish records yet?'

'I haven't had a chance. We've been a bit busy. Especially when our murder victim turned up alive and kicking.'

Neil raised his eyebrows. 'So you've got no murder, then?'

'We've got a murder all right. It's just that the victim wasn't who we thought it was. I'll try and have a look at those records tonight.'

'They're all there, the Banizeds. Hatched, matched and dispatched. All except one Elizabeth, wife of the son, John. She wasn't buried at St Margaret's.'

'She'll have died somewhere else and been buried at the local church.'

'She died before her husband because John married again when he was about forty-five. He's buried with his second wife.'