The woman who walked out of the bathroom was not Helena Burgoyne. She was a Mediterranean-looking creature with polished dark hair, high cheekbones and a deep golden tan accentuated by the white towelling bathrobe she wore. It was her black eyes I had seen glittering at me through the slits in the ski mask. They glittered now, with a kind of sulky defiance.

‘You bungled it, dearie,’ I said pleasantly, and she flung me a look of scorching detestation. Between her and Richard there was, to say the least, an atmosphere.

‘Who is this?’ I asked him.

‘I’m Richard’s wife,’ she answered, with a toss of her shiny dark head.

‘Are you?’ I raised my brows at Richard. ‘You’ve been keeping her quiet.’

‘There was no need for Tamara to be involved until … until yesterday. I phoned her and told her to come down from London. I knew Nick hadn’t sold the rings because he told me so the last time I saw him. He said that if Helena wanted them she’d have to come and visit him. When we couldn’t find them in the flat, we thought that … well, I realised the old man might have been lying. But then I thought—’

‘You thought that I had them.’

‘Well, when you refused to give them to Helena …’

‘I didn’t refuse. I’ve never laid eyes on the bloody things. Helena is welcome to them.’

‘We thought … well I thought, that if you did have them, you wouldn’t have left them at the old man’s. You’d have hidden them somewhere.’ He looked guilty and miserable, like a schoolboy caught cheating in an exam. ‘Helena deserves those rings,’ he went on defensively, ‘she had a hell of a time when … She’d never have married a shit like Harry if—’ He broke off.

I turned my attention to Tamara, who was now lounging on the bed like a petulant puma. ‘Are you a professional burglar by any chance?’

‘I’m a professional model,’ she snapped.

‘How did you get into my flat?’

‘With a credit card.’ She hunched a shoulder and sneered. ‘It’s easy with those old locks.’

‘I see.’ I tried not to sound impressed.

‘Juno,’ Richard said. ‘I swear we had nothing to do with the old man’s murder.’

‘I didn’t imagine you had.’ Not quite true; during the night I’d imagined all sorts. But despite Tamara’s prowess with the torch, I sensed that she didn’t have the bottle for murder. And, for the time being at least, I decided that Richard didn’t either. He was looking pale beneath his tan, and if he’d seen what I’d seen − his father’s murdered body − he’d have looked a good deal paler.

‘So what will you do?’ he asked anxiously, as I got to my feet.

‘If she wants revenge,’ Tamara eyed me with loathing, ‘she’ll go to the police.’