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shaved, which emphasised the roundness of his face, and he looked to be in his early forties. Short, squat and barrel-chested, with the beginnings of a beer gut, he reminded her of a bulldog as he stood planted in the middle of the doorway as if he were guarding it.
    ‘Mr Kramer? I’m DS Donovan.’ She held out her ID. ‘I’m with the team looking into Gemma’s death.’
    He stuffed his hands into his pockets as if he didn’t know what to do with them and gazed vaguely at the warrant card before moving aside, almost grudgingly, to let her pass.
    ‘I’m Dennis Kramer, her stepdad. You’d better come in.’ His voice was a deep, throaty growl, his accent instantly recognisable as south London.
    The DI at Ealing had said nothing about a stepfather. Stepfathers were prime suspect material in such a case. But whatever the relationship, if Mrs Brooke’s description was accurate, Kramer could be ruled out immediately on physical grounds. Although he could have shaved off his hair in the last couple of days, he was still nothing like the man the old lady had described.
    ‘Is Gemma’s mother at home?’
    ‘Mary’s lying down upstairs. Seeing Gemma’s body at the…’ he struggled for the word then grunted. ‘I said I’d do it but she insisted on going. It more or less finished her off.’
    ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve some questions I need to ask. Is the family liaison officer here?’
    He shook his head. ‘She was getting on my nerves so I sent her off. No point in her hanging around all day and night like a spare penny. The doctor’s pumped Mary full of stuff and she’s out for the count now so she can’t talk to anyone. If you want to ask questions, you’ll have to make do with me. I’ve just put the kettle on. Fancy a cup of tea?’
    ‘Please. White, no sugar,’ she said, suddenly aware of the familiar ache in the pit of her stomach. What with being tied up with Ealing CID all morning and then with Tartaglia, she had completely forgotten about lunch. Thank goodness she’d managed a proper breakfast, although it was now a distant memory. It was always like this with a new investigation. Adrenalin and coffee were the main things keeping you going and you had to make a conscious effort to remember to eat, grab a sandwich or a takeaway somewhere on the run if you were lucky. It was going to be a battle keeping off the fags.
    ‘The lounge is just there, on your left,’ Kramer said, waving his hand vaguely towards the door. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be with you in a sec.’
    She pushed open the door and walked into a small, cream-coloured room, with thick wall-to-wall carpet and a dark leather three-piece suite. She assumed that Gemma’s mother had chosen the decor, as she couldn’t picture Kramer selecting the fawn and maroon striped curtains with their neat tiebacks, let alone the line of reproduction botanical prints, which hung on one of the walls. An expensive-looking TV on a glass and chrome stand took pride of place opposite the sofa, next to it a tall shelf unit with a couple of limp-looking pot plants, a collection of DVDs and a series of gilt-framed photographs.
    She walked over, her eye drawn by a photo of a pretty young girl with long, glossy brown hair. It was a school photograph, the girl dressed in a navy blue cardigan over a blue and white checked blouse, her hair held back by an Alice band. The photo bore the title ‘Convent of the Sacred Heart’ at the bottom with the previous year’s date. Gemma, she assumed. She looked no more than twelve, her smile innocent and open like a child’s, with nothing of the self-consciousness of a teenager. Donovan remembered how she herself had hidden from the camera from puberty onwards, pulling faces to disguise her embarrassment whenever she was caught, knowing that she would hate the end result.
    She had just turned her attention to a photo of a pair of cheeky-looking little boys, when Kramer came into the room with a mug of