Gemma knew the dream, had had it herself, waking with a jolt and thumping heart in the darkest hour of the night to the imagined sound of a knock or the bell. She would sit up in bed, listening, and when she realized the dogs were quiet, she'd know that she had imagined it, that the children were safe. But for this woman, the nightmare had become real.

She stood and went to Wanda Cahill, kneeling and taking the woman's unresisting hand in her own. "Mrs. Cahill, tell me about last night. Was Kristin at home?"

Wanda Cahill looked at Gemma with the same baffled expression she had turned on Kincaid, but after a moment a spark flared in her eyes, and she spoke, her voice stronger. "She came home after work, for dinner. It's hard for her sometimes, living at home. Her father still treats her like a child, and I try to buffer things as much as I can." Her face came alive as the recollection moved her into the past.

"Did she talk to you about anything in particular, at dinner?"

"No. But her mobile rang while we were eating, and Bob made a fuss over no phones at the table-you mustn't think he doesn't love her," she added, suddenly entreating. "He just wants things to stay the way they were when she was younger. Maybe he loves her too much-"

As Wanda's face began to crumple again, Gemma said quickly, "Do you know who rang her on her mobile?"

"No. She didn't answer. But I assumed it was the young man who called just afterwards on our phone. It was her friend from work, Giles. He was very polite, but she didn't seem particularly happy to talk to him."

"What did she say?"

"Well, he must have been asking her to do something, because she said thanks, but she couldn't, really. But Bob was grumbling at her by that time, so she left the room…"

"She didn't say anything about work? Or tell you where she was going?"

Wanda shook her head slowly, and Gemma could see the grief swamping her again, a rising tide. "No. She kissed me, the way she always does when she goes out, and said she loved me. But she was that aggravated with her dad. If he hadn't-if she hadn't-When he asked where she was going, she said out with friends, and that she wouldn't be late…"

Kincaid, who had been listening intently, spoke for the first time. "Mrs. Cahill, I'm sure that your daughter's little tiff with her father meant nothing at all. These things happen in families all the time."

"They do, don't they?" said Wanda Cahill, latching on to the offered crumb of comfort. "And she never ordinarily said, you know, who she was meeting, or where she was going. It was…she was defending her independence, I think."

"Did she ever talk about work?" asked Gemma.

"To me, sometimes. I run a small antiques shop, just across the way, so I know a bit about the business."

"Did she mention a brooch, an Art Deco diamond brooch that she'd taken in for sale?"

"Kristin? A diamond brooch?" Mrs. Cahill looked at Gemma so blankly that the answer was obvious.

"Never mind," Gemma said gently. "I'm sure it wasn't important." She started to rise. "We'll leave you to-"

"There was one thing." Wanda Cahill squeezed her hand, hanging on. "That phone call she took. She was friendly enough, at first. But when she went to her bedroom, before she closed the door, she said again, 'No, I don't want to come over,' but this time she sounded angry." Frowning, she seemed to search for a word. "Not just angry. Final."

"She won't forgive him." Kincaid slammed the car door harder than he'd intended.

"Who?" asked Gemma. "Who won't forgive who-I mean whom?"

"The mother. She won't forgive the father. And the poor bastard will probably spend the rest of his life blaming himself as well. I'll give you odds that marriage won't last a year."

"It was bad. It will be bad." Gemma touched his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"No." He covered her hand with his for a moment. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking it out on you. And you were brilliant with Mrs. Cahill, by the way. It made me miss you, miss doing this together, every day."

Reaching for the ignition, he glanced at her. "You hungry?"

"After that?" Gemma shook her head. "Can't bear the thought."

"All right. We'll give it a bit. No word from Doug, or from the Yard on the CCTV or Kristin's phone records, so let's pay a call on Kristin's mate Giles. Do we have a last name for him?"

Gemma checked the notes she'd made at Harrowby's. "Oliver." She gave him the address.

It was a fairly well-heeled area in Fulham, near enough to Stamford Bridge that you'd not be able to get through the streets before or after a football match, nor get a foot in the door of the local pub on a match day. Kincaid thought the young man must be doing quite well for himself as a sales assistant at the auction house, unless he, like Kristin, still lived with his parents.

But when they reached the address Gemma had written down, they found a terraced house in bad repair, obviously a rental property. Paint flaked off the cream stucco and peeled from window and door trim; dead plants drooped from a first-floor window box, and the small yard attached to the garden flat was littered with empty crisp packets and beer bottles, and smelled of rotting food and cat pee.

"Lovely," Gemma muttered under her breath as Kincaid rang the bell for the top flat. A release buzzer sounded for the main door-there was apparently no intercom system. Kincaid opened the door for Gemma with a flourish. "Oh, you're going to make me go in first?" she said, teasing. "Very gallant of you." But as they entered the communal hall, she wrinkled her nose in real distaste. The ambience was on a par with the yard in front, but there was less fresh air to dilute it.

They climbed, Kincaid leading the way, passing scarred doors and treading on ever more threadbare carpet. A small, smudgy window on the landing let in much-needed light and air.

They reached the top floor, but before Kincaid could raise a hand to the door, a great woofing roar shook the corridor. Gemma started visibly and even Kincaid took a step back. "What the hell does he have in there, a bloody lion?"

"Get back, Mo, you great oaf!" came a shout from inside the flat, but the voice lacked a reassuring element of command.

Then the door swung open and a young man faced them, panting, hanging on to the collar of the largest dog Kincaid had ever seen. "Don't worry," the young man said. "He won't do anything worse than drool on you."

From the size of the dog's drooping jowls, Kincaid didn't doubt the drooling, and as the beast's tail was whipping back and forth in a frantically friendly wag, he decided to take the owner's word for the rest. "Mr. Oliver? We're from the police. We'd like to talk to you about Kristin-"

"Mo, sit." Giles Oliver dragged the dog into a sitting position away from the door, giving them room to step inside, although Kincaid noticed Gemma stayed a pace behind him. "You want to talk to me about Kris-Kristin?" Oliver's voice broke on the name. The dog stopped straining towards the visitors and leaned against his master's leg, looking up at him with a furrowed canine brow.

"If you don't mind. I'm Duncan Kincaid and this is Gemma James." The young man's face, Kincaid saw, was almost as puffy with weeping as Wanda Cahill's, and he suspected that, for the moment, sympathy would be more persuasive than rank.

Oliver gestured towards a small sofa. "Here, sit down. I'll just give it a brush-"

"We'll be fine," Kincaid said, preferring the risk of dog hair on trousers to the possibility of being bowled over if Oliver let go of the dog.

"He's a mastiff, isn't he?" asked Gemma, apparently unfazed by the dog's size. "He's lovely." While Kincaid gingerly took a seat, she dropped into a crouch and added, "Can I stroke him?"