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– a sudden clarified memory of the terror-struck girl flashed in her mind’s eye. How had it not registered before?
    â€˜
Oh God
,’ she said in a half-whisper.
    Mrs Land looked up. ‘What’s the matter?’
    â€˜Nothing – I’ve just been reading that grisly story – the murdered girl . . .’
    â€˜Oh, isn’t it dreadful?!’ cried Mrs Land. ‘They say he stabs a tiepin through their tongues.’
    The note of relish in her mother’s voice was very like her landlady’s that morning. People loved to know ghastly details. And they loved even more to let others know.
    â€˜Mother, I’m sorry, I just have to make a telephone call,’ said Nina, rising from the table. She hurried, unseeing, through the dining room and found the phone booth in a side corridor. The air within felt unpleasantly warmed from the chaotic emotions of recent usage. In her diary she found the number of Stephen’s studio at Tite Street, and recited it to the operator. On the fifth ring he picked up, his drawled ‘Hullo’ echoing as though from a deep well.
    â€˜Stephen, it’s me. Have you seen the paper today?’
    â€˜Um, no. I think the
Standard
’s lying around.’
    â€˜Have a look at it. Please – it’s important.’
    Hearing her troubled tone, Stephen leaned across his sofa and plucked the paper off the floor.
    â€˜What’s on the front page?’ she asked him.
    He considered. ‘Some story about a murder . . .’
    â€˜Read it out to me.’
    He did so, his voice curious at first, then slowing into realisation as he read down the column: ‘. . . the Imperial Hotel, Russell Square. Hmm.’ He fell silent; she could almost hear his mind working.
    â€˜You understand, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Same day.’ A tap on the glass behind made her jump. A man was outside, waiting to use the telephone. Blast. ‘Stephen, there’s something I need to tell you. May I come to the studio?’
    â€˜You mean now?’
    â€˜Yes, right now.’
    He looked at his paint spattered hands. He had actually been blazing away, hard at it, but of course he assented, just before the line went dead.
    Half an hour later a cab was depositing her at the foot of Tite Street. She had almost bundled her mother out of the restaurant in her haste (Mrs Land had looked rather put out), waving a distracted goodbye before half sprinting down to the Strand. In the cab she tried to compose herself, but only by degrees did the frantic flutter of her heart subside. She wanted to be able to talk to him about it coolly, rationally.
    His housekeeper let her in with barely a glance. Nina had worried at first that it might look odd, a young woman turning up unannounced in the middle of the afternoon, but then she realised that Stephen would have models and all sorts trooping up and down the stairs here. She was just another in his regular cavalcade of guests.
    His smile when he opened the door did something to reassure her: they would be in this together. He took her coat, and asked if she wanted a drink.
    â€˜Thanks, no. I had a couple at Rule’s – to get me through lunch with my mother.’
    â€˜Ah, and how is the sainted Mrs Land?’ asked Stephen, as though he knew her.
    â€˜Same as ever,’ Nina said, ‘only more so.’
    As she stood at the window, irresolute, Stephen sidled up and reached out to pull her close. But she withdrew from him and instead went to pick up the
Standard
, with its unwelcome freight of significance. She sat down to read through the report again, then looked in anxious appeal to Stephen.
    â€˜It’s him – the man I saw in the room. It
has
to be him.’
    Stephen narrowed his eyes a little. ‘You can’t be certain. Look, there’s a lot of men out there mistreating women, all the time. But very few of them are murderers. Hardly any! The man you saw –