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though she wore glasses, it was obvious that she was still severely myopic. The glasses kept slipping and this irritated her as she constantly had to stop to adjust them.
    ‘Where shall I sit?’ I said, showing that I respected the fact that she was queen of her castle.
    ‘Take your pick,’ she said, indifferently.
    The ceiling was high, from which a mini-chandelier, with a cluster of crystal bulb-sockets, was suspended in the middle of the lofty room. There was a white marble fireplace, over which was hung a large mirror, with an ornate, old-gold frame. In the mirror, I saw the none-too-pleasing sight that had confronted Mrs Marlowe at her front door: a man nearing the threshold of the Big Four-O who had abused himself, but seemed to have escaped, so far, without too many penalty points. But you cannot always judge a vehicle’s mileage from its external appearance and rust is easily camouflaged. My coal-black eyes matched my unruly hair. Before we separated, my wife, Patricia, told me that my ‘untamed looks’ preserved my ‘boyish appeal’. But when we parted, she said my features were evidence of a dissolute lifestyle and my
boyish appeal
had transmuted into
immature personality
. My ‘fugitive eyes’, according to Patricia, were those of a runner from reality, from responsibility and conformity; a Bohemian, but no rhapsody. My lifestyle may have been raffish, but my sartorial judgment had always conformed to Yard protocol. All-night gambling sessions in casinos, too much booze and fast-food addiction had done me no favours, but those vices were behind me – fingers crossed! My weight was coming down. I no longer had to breathe in and hold my breath in order to button my suit-jacket. I could also fasten my collar-button without garrotting myself. Admittedly, there was still some baggage beneath my eyes, but it was being unpacked by the day. Mind you, even when other parts of me had bloated, my face had remained lean, hungry and mean – just like a young Frank Sinatra, before he had ballooned, I’d been told flatteringly. My natural dark complexion made it seem that I was always in need of a shave, even while the aftershave was still smarting. At least six feet tall, I towered over my elderly hostess, who, when bent and buckled, was barely half my height.
    I parked myself in a chintzy armchair, fabric fading, beside the fireplace. She placed herself opposite me, lowering herself in aching increments, her fragile, arthritic frame creaking, her joints stubbornly resisting. There were several framed photographs on the mantelpiece, three of them of a beautiful young woman.
    ‘Tina?’ I surmised, pointing to the largest of the three portraits that had caught my eye.
    She followed the trajectory of my arm with her milky eyes. ‘Yes, that’s my Tina,’ the lump in her throat pulsing her wrinkled neck.
    ‘When she was at Oxford?’
    ‘Just before she went up to Oxford. The same year.’
    ‘Lovely-looking girl,’ I said, sincerely.
    ‘Yes. She was very striking, very happy and carefree then. That’s how I like to remember her – before the bad times, before everything changed.’
    ‘Where is she now?’ An opportune moment to go for the jugular.
    ‘Where is she now?
’ she echoed. ‘Oh, please,
you
tell
me
. I was afraid you had bad news for me.
More
bad news. Information about … well, you know, something dreadful.’
    ‘Nothing like that, I assure you,’ I said, leaning towards her, engaging with her intently, harnessing her focus. ‘When were you last in contact with her?’
    A sea-mist seemed to settle over her eyes. A single tear dampened a pale, pinched cheek, but she made no attempt to wipe it away. ‘Years ago.’
    I waited for her to elaborate, but nothing came.
    ‘I realize this must be painful for you, Mrs Marlowe, but we believe that we finally know the identity of the man who attacked your daughter – and murdered three young women.’
    She reacted without emotion now, as if she’d