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long.

Chapter Three
    I t was six a.m. when William drove into the mews. As yet the news of Maynard’s death had not broken: it had not made the previous night’s programmes, but there was no doubt that it would be this morning’s main item. William arrived at Chalmers’s address in Kensington. Flower-tubs and urns decorated the doorsteps of the row of pretty two-storey mews cottages. If he lived in that sort of house, in this part of town, William thought, Chalmers must be pretty well off. But as he reached the end of the street, the houses began to look seedier, obviously leased. Number thirty-two had the obligatory doorstep tub, but the plants were dead and the front-door paint was peeling. The bell was out of order, so William knocked. He did not have to wait more than a few moments before the door opened. A tall, tanned young man beckoned him in. He was wearing a pristine white T-shirt with pale washed-out denim jeans. His bare feet were encased in velvet monogrammed slippers and he wore a heavy gold bracelet on his right wrist. The interior was dark, all the curtains still drawn, but the furniture was antique and the carpets, though threadbare, were good-quality Turkish. Velvet cushions were scattered over the floor, and there was a sofa with stuffing protruding from its arms. ‘Justin Chalmers? Sir William Benedict,’ William said, and thrust out his hand.
    The young man glanced down at it and, without a word, went through a bead curtain into what William supposed was the kitchen, from where the smell of coffee emerged. William stood uneasily in the middle of the room.
    Minutes later the young man reappeared with a tray and put it down on an Indian brass coffee-table. ‘Do sit down. I rarely entertain at this house, so excuse the mess. You obviously have something of . . .’ He swallowed the word ‘urgency’, then smiled, and gestured to the coffee pot. ‘Black or white?’
    ‘Black, please.’
    William sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
    ‘I’m intrigued by how you got hold of my number and address.’ Chalmers handed William a cup.
    He was tall, at least six foot two, with a lean torso. He had exceptionally blond hair, not the same colour or texture as William’s but naturally thick and streaked by the sun, well cut and worn quite long, touching his shoulders. He had penetrating wide-set eyes of so vivid a blue that the whites seemed brilliant. The deep lines at the side of his eyes and mouth did not detract from his overall youthfulness, but he was, William guessed, in his early thirties.
    As he passed a chipped porcelain cup and saucer, William noticed that his fingers were long, slender and as tanned as his chiselled face. His nails were clean and manicured and he had a large embossed gold ring on the little finger of his left hand.
    ‘You needed to see me urgently,’ he said, ‘so let’s not waste time. What’s the problem?’ He curled up on a cushion opposite William, and looked at him over the rim of his cup. He took a sip, then tossed his hair back from his face.
    William watched him carefully as he began. ‘You know Andrew Maynard?’
    ‘Yes, I do.’
    ‘He was found dead yesterday morning.’ Chalmers showed no flicker of emotion. ‘With his wrists slit in his bathtub.’
    ‘Really? Sorry, I forgot to ask, do you take sugar?’
    ‘No, thank you.’ William took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m aware that you had an ongoing relationship with him.’
    ‘So?’ Chalmers sank back into his cushion and blew on his coffee. ‘There are biscuits too, if you’d like one.’ William was alarmed by the young man’s response. This was not how it was meant to go. Chalmers pulled a face. ‘So you found him, did you? Must have been unpleasant. A lot of blood, I suppose? Cutting your wrists sends a massive spray.’
    ‘You saw him last Thursday. What time did you leave?’
    There was a pause as Chalmers gazed intently at William. ‘You seem very well