‘Which art galleries did you go to?’ Milward asked her.

‘I didn’t notice their names. I was just browsing. Oh—one of them might have been called TiqTaq. Apart from that, I don’t remember. Sorry.’

‘Tell them the truth, for God’s sake,’ said Simon, sick of her attitude and her games. ‘She had lunch with a lawyer called Dominic Lund.’

‘My sister’s boyfriend,’ said Charlie quickly, smiling. ‘He’s right. I had lunch with Dommie at Signor Grilli, an Italian on Goodge Street.’

‘And you lied about it why?’ said Milward.

‘It’s complicated. My sister’s boyfriend?’ Charlie gave her a meaningful look. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out.’

Simon stared at the sprouting carpet at his feet. What the fuck was she playing at? Dommie?

‘So you didn’t go to any art galleries?’ said Milward.

‘Yes, I did. After lunch.’

‘Mary Trelease is a painter. Aidan Seed is a picture-framer.’

‘I know.’

Milward licked her front teeth. Eventually she said, ‘I don’t believe you felt ill on Tuesday morning. I don’t believe you had lunch with Dominic Lund at Signor Grilli, though he might be seeing your sister and you might know that’s where he was yesterday lunchtime. I don’t believe, frankly, that you spent all of Monday obsessing about Aidan Seed, Ruth Bussey and Mary Trelease when you should have been working, only to decide the next day that you fancied a completely unconnected day-trip to London.’ Milward slapped her hands flat on the table. ‘I know when two people are lying, and you two are those people.’

‘Brilliant,’ Simon muttered. ‘Do we ever get to leave this room?’

‘We ought to take a break,’ Dunning said to Milward.

‘The photo.’ Charlie made a show of yawning.

‘Oh, that. I almost forgot.’ Milward pulled a large photograph out of her file and threw it down on the table.

At first Simon wasn’t sure what the livid mess was that he was looking at. Then he saw, and had to count in his head and make his eyes blur over. It had been a while since he’d had to do that. He’d got used to the ordinary unpleasant sights his job afforded him, but this went way beyond. He felt Charlie stiffen beside him.

The picture was of a mouth. Open. Gemma Crowther’s, Simon guessed. Post-mortem. Her top and bottom lips had been cut on both sides, pulled back and nailed to her face. Symmetrically: five nails along each lip. Most of her teeth were missing, and in their place were picture hooks, nailed in wonky lines into the gums of both her top and bottom jaw. They looked as if they had been arranged as neatly as possible, hanging down into her mouth like thin gold teeth.

Simon heard Charlie say, ‘You told us she was shot.’

‘She was,’ said Milward. ‘He did this after he killed her. Don’t ask me why. Could be he—or she, if the killer’s a woman—wanted to frame, if you’ll excuse the pun, a picture-framer.’