Tennison pursed her lips. “Antonia, isn’t it? Yes? Well, all I can do is apologize for keeping you here for so long. You are free to go at any time, but I need to question Michael Hardy. As you all came together, perhaps you’d like to leave together. I’ll order you a car. Your girlfriend has been brutally murdered, we are just trying to find out how she came to be in that efficiency . . . OK? And any assistance you can give us, give me, is really appreciated. So have a cup of tea or coffee, anything, just for a while longer . . .”

She watched the round cheeks flush, and the girl blinked rapidly. Her whole face seemed to be moving, trying to say something, but unable to form the words. Then she burst out, “She was always happy . . .”

Antonia left the room, and Tennison could hear her sobbing outside in the corridor. She felt dirty, her hands were grubby, and she sniffed her armpits then made a quick exit for the locker room. Next was Karen’s boyfriend, Michael Hardy, and though she was sure he was innocent he had to be checked out, eliminated completely. To do that she was going to have to be tough.

The cold water felt good as she splashed it on her face. She washed her hands, scrubbed them, then stared into the soapy water. The killer had used a wire brush on the victim’s hands, scratched them raw . . .

Michael, obviously distraught, was sitting with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. His voice was muffled.

“I can’t believe she’s dead, I can’t believe it . . .”

“You said the reason you hadn’t seen Karen was because you’d had a row, is that right?” Tennison asked him.

“I agreed not to see so much of her—” He stopped, too choked to continue.

“She was murdered, Michael, and we found her in a prostitute’s efficiency apartment. Now, take a look at this photograph and tell me if you’ve ever seen this man, ever seen Karen with him. Come on, Michael, look at the photograph.”

He raised his head and stared at the mug shot of George Marlow. “No, I’ve never seen him.”

“OK, now what I need to know is when you last saw or spoke to Karen.”

He coughed and ran his hands over his ponytail. “I, er, I phoned her, the day before I went to Switzerland. The fifth of January.”

“Did you call her from there? While you were away?”

“No . . .”

“And you came back when?”

“I came home on the thirteenth, a week early. There wasn’t much snow about.”

Tennison sat slightly straighter in her chair. “Did you see her when you got back?”