Tennison ran her fingers through her hair and Kernan continued, “For God’s sake don’t let the press get wind of it. Can you handle it? DCI Hicock, from Notting Hill, is available now.”

“I can handle it,” Tennison snapped. No way would she relinquish the case to Wild Bill, even if she had to hang on to it by her teeth. “I need more men, preferably from outside. If we have to let Marlow go, we’ll need someone with surveillance expertise.”

“I’ll see what we can do. Are you going to see him now?”

“I want a little chat with Marlow, off the record . . . OK?”

“Watch yourself, Upcher’s a tough bastard.”

Tennison shrugged. “But I bet he’s not down in the cells now, is he?”

Kernan shook his head. “Seems to me that Marlow wouldn’t have hired Upcher unless he was guilty. His type cost.”

“We still can’t prove he was ever in the efficiency. It’s strange that there’s nothing, not a single shred of evidence . . .”

“Forensic’s still working on it?”

“Yes,” she said, standing up. “They are, at their own pace.”

As soon as she left, Kernan picked up the phone. “Put me through to the Commander.”

Before seeing Marlow, Tennison listened again to a short stretch of tape from his interview with Shefford. Then she was ready to face the suspect for the first time.

Marlow had been left to kick his heels in an interview room for some time, sitting in silence, watched by a uniformed PC. DI Burkin was sitting in the corridor outside, reading the paper. He was a well-built man, a prized member of the police boxing team, and his slightly battered face showed traces of his career. He rose to his feet when DCI Tennison approached.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s Frank, isn’t it?”

Burkin nodded and jerked his thumb towards the interview room. “He’s got coffee, and he doesn’t smoke.”

Tennison was taken aback by Marlow’s handsome looks; the photographs in his file had given her completely the wrong impression. He resembled an old-time movie star, not exactly Valentino, more Robert Taylor. His blue-black hair was combed back from his face, high cheekbones accentuated his jawline. His amber eyes and long, dark lashes beneath thickly arched brows would be the envy of any woman.

He glanced at the uniformed officer for permission to stand, then rose to his feet. His clothes were well-cut, rather formal; a blue and white striped shirt with a white collar highlighted his dark good looks. His suit jacket hung neatly on the back of his chair.

“Please stay seated, Mr. Marlow. I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, this is Detective Inspector Frank Burkin. I suppose you have been told that the DCI in charge of this investigation—”

Marlow interrupted her in a low, husky voice with a slight northern twang. “Yes, I know. I’m very sorry, he was a nice man.” He glanced at Burkin, then back to Tennison, placed his hands together on the table and half-smiled; a dimple appeared in his right cheek.