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look like? Can you describe her?’
    ‘Really pretty. Naturally pretty, and fresh, like the most gorgeous, wide-eyed, eighteen-year-old. And she knew it, by God. You could just tell.’
    ‘You’re saying she was in her teens?’
    ‘Oh no. That’s just the impression she gave, like one of those actresses who always play ingénues even though they’re a good ten years older than the part. I’d say she was quite a bit older than she looked.’
    ‘What sort of age are we talking?’
    ‘Late twenties, early thirties maybe. She’s certainly been around the block a fair few times. She was very confident, very sure of herself. She held Joe in the palm of her hand and she knew it.’
    He sensed her disapproval and smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need more of a physical description.’
    ‘Yes, of course. Sorry. It’s just that I find people quite fascinating, and whatever I think of her character she’s certainly something different. She’s about my height, I’d say. Five-four, maybe five-five, but more straight up and down, girlish, you know. Greyish-blue eyes, I think, although I could be wrong, and lovely long, dark brown hair, a really rich dark brown. My hair used to be that colour until it went grey and I decided it was easier to have it blonde.’
    For a moment, he struggled to picture Maggie with dark hair, then it came to him. The chocolate commercials: the silly little romantic soap that had gone on for several years, played out between a man, a faceless cipher as far as he was concerned, and a lovely dark-haired woman, all over a box of chocolates.
    He’d watched them as a young teenager and fancied her rotten, although she must have been nearly twice his age at the time. He’d seen her in other things too, but it was the chocolate commercials that had stuck in his mind. How funny that, after all those years, he was sitting here with her now.
    The small brass carriage clock on the side table started to chime. He looked over and saw that it was eight o’clock.
    ‘Would you be able to do an e-fit of her, do you think?’ he asked, hurriedly getting to his feet and tucking his notebook and pen away.
    Smiling, she hugged her knees tightly to her ample chest. ‘I can do better than that as a matter of fact. I’m afraid again I was curious, maybe even a little jealous, if I’m totally honest. Certainly interested, anyway. So, with a bit of subterfuge, I got him to tell me her name and then I googled her. She used to have a column in one of the dailies. Her name’s Anna Paget.’

4
    Tartaglia folded his arms and met DCI Carolyn Steele’s eye. ‘Cause of death was a single contact shot to the head.’
    ‘What sort of weapon?’ Her accent was a flat, generic southern, with no noticeable regional quirks.
    ‘They think some sort of nine-millimetre semi-automatic pistol, although without the bullet it’s impossible to be more precise. The head x-rays were clear. No fragments left inside, so ballistics have absolutely nothing to go on.’
    It was well past midnight and Tartaglia had only just returned from Joe Logan’s post mortem. They were in Steele’s cramped, threadbare office back at headquarters in Barnes. The DCI sat hunched deep in her chair, stockinged feet up on the edge of her desk, swivelling slowly from side to side and sucking thoughtfully on the end of a pen. For a woman who hadn’t been home since early morning the previous day she looked remarkably untouched, still in the same pristine, fitted white blouse and dark grey pinstriped trousers. She had a broad, handsome face, her skin pale even in summer, as though she rarely saw daylight, and chin-length, layered black hair that emphasised her pallor.
    ‘What about outside in the graveyard?’ she asked.
    ‘They’re still working it, but so far there’s no sign of any blood anywhere. It’s looking like he was killed elsewhere. One of his wrists was fractured and his hands and feet show quite deep restraint marks and bruising, as