‘I’ve got the address, sir.’ She stood there looking at him, keen, expectant. ‘It’s on Oakwood Mews. Number eleven.’

Banks sighed. ‘We’d better go then. Just give me a minute.’

He went back to the bar and explained the situation to Richmond. The music speeded up again, into the Supremes’ ‘Baby Love’, and Gristhorpe led Sandra back from the dance floor. When he heard the news, he insisted on accompanying Banks to the scene, even though it was by no means certain they would find a murder victim there. Richmond wanted to come along, too.

‘No, lad,’ said Gristhorpe, ‘there’s no point. If it’s serious, Alan can fill you in later. And don’t tell Sergeant Hatchley. I don’t want it spoiling his wedding day. Though judging by the look on young Carol’s face he might have already done that himself.’

‘Are you taking the car?’ Sandra asked Banks.

‘I’d better. Oakwood Mews is a fair distance from here. There’s no telling how long we’ll be. If there’s time, I’ll come back and pick you up. If not, don’t worry, Phil will take good care of you.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried.’ She slipped her arm in Richmond’s and the new detective sergeant blushed. ‘Phil’s a lovely mover.’

Banks kissed her quickly and set off with Gristhorpe.

Susan Gay stood waiting for them by the door. Before they got to her, one of Hatchley’s rugby club cronies lurched over and tried to kiss her. From behind, Banks saw him put his arms around her, then double up and stagger back. Everyone else was too busy dancing or chatting to notice. Susan looked flushed when Banks and Gristhorpe got there. She put her hand to her mouth and muttered, ‘I’m sorry,’ while the rugby player pointed, with a hurt expression on his face, to the sprig of mistletoe over the door.

It was no false alarm; that much, at least, was clear from the expression on PC Tolliver’s face when Banks and the others reached number eleven Oakwood Mews. After Gristhorpe had issued instructions to send for Dr Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team, the three detectives went inside.

The first thing Banks noticed when he entered the hall was the music. Muffled, coming from the front room, it sounded familiar: a Bach cantata, perhaps? Then he opened the living-room door and paused on the threshold. The scene possessed a picturesque quality, he felt, which even extended, at first, to masking the ugliness of the corpse on the sofa.

A log fire crackled in the hearth. Its flames tossed shadows on the sheepskin rug and over the stucco walls. The only other light came from two red candles on the polished oak table in the far corner, and from the Christmas tree lights in the window. Banks stepped into the room. The flames danced and the beautiful music played on. On the wall above the stereo was a print of one of Gauguin’s Tahitian scenes: a coffee-skinned native woman, naked to the waist, carrying what looked like a bowl of red berries as she walked beside another woman.

As he approached the sofa, Banks noticed that the sheepskin rug was dotted with dark blotches, as if the fire had spat sparks, which had seared the wool. Then he became aware of that sickling, metallic smell he had come across so often before.

A log shifted on the fire; flames leapt in all directions and their light played over the naked body. The woman lay stretched out, head propped up on cushions in what would have been a very inviting pose had it not been for the blood that had flowed from the multiple stab wounds in her throat and chest and drenched the whole front of her body. It glistened like dark satin in the firelight. From what Banks could see, the victim was young and pretty, with smooth, olive skin and shoulder-length, jet-black hair. Bending over her, he noticed that her eyes were blue, the intense kind of blue that makes some dark-haired people all that much more attractive. Now their stare was cold and lifeless. In front of her, on the low coffee table, stood a half-empty teacup on a coaster and a chocolate layer cake with one slice missing. Banks covered one fingertip with his handkerchief and touched the cup. It was cold.

The spell broke. Banks became aware of Gristhorpe’s voice in the background questioning PC Tolliver, and of Susan Gay standing silent beside him. It was her first corpse, he realized, and she was handling it well, better than he had. Not only was she not about to vomit or faint, but she, too, was glancing around the room, observing the details.

‘Who found the body?’ Gristhorpe asked PC Tolliver.

‘Woman by the name of Veronica Shildon. She lives here.’

‘Where is she now?’ Banks asked.

Tolliver nodded towards the stairs. ‘Up there with the neighbour. She didn’t want to come back in here.’

‘I don’t blame her,’ said Banks. ‘Do you know who the victim is?’

‘Her name’s Caroline Hartley. Apparently, she lived here too.’

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Come on, Alan, let’s go and hear what she has to say. Susan, will you stay down here till the scene-of-crime team arrives?’

Susan Gay nodded and stood aside.

There were only two rooms and a bathroom upstairs. One room had been converted into a sitting room, or a study, with bookcases covering one wall, a small roll-top desk under the window and a couple of wicker armchairs arranged below the track-lighting. The bedroom, Banks noticed from the landing, was done out in coral and sea-green, with Laura Ashley wallpaper. If two women lived in the house and there was only one bedroom, he reasoned, then they must share it. He took a deep breath and went into the study.

Veronica Shildon sat in one of her wicker chairs, head in hands. The neighbour, who introduced herself as Christine Cooper, sat beside her. The only other place to sit was the hard-backed chair in front of the desk. Gristhorpe took it and leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists. Banks stood by the door.

‘She’s had a terrible shock,’ Christine Cooper said. ‘I don’t know if she’ll be able to tell you much.’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Cooper,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘The doctor will be here soon. He’ll give her something. Is there anyone she can stay with?’

‘She can stay with me if she wants. Next door. We’ve got a spare room. I’m sure my husband won’t mind.’

‘Fine.’ Gristhorpe turned towards the crying woman and introduced himself. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Veronica Shildon looked up. She was in her mid-thirties, Banks guessed, with a neat cap of dark-brown hair streaked with grey. Handsome rather than pretty, her thin face and lips, and everything in her bearing, spoke of dignity and refinement, perhaps even of severity. She held a crumpled tissue in her left hand and the fist of her right was clenched so tightly it was white. Even as he admired her appearance, Banks looked for any signs of blood on her hands or her clothing. He saw none. Her grey-green eyes, red around the rims, couldn’t quite focus on Gristhorpe.

‘I just got home,’ she said. ‘I thought she was waiting for me.’

‘What time was this?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘Eight. A few minutes after.’ She didn’t look at him when she answered.

‘Where had you been?’

‘I’d been shopping.’ She looked up, but her eyes appeared to be staring right through the superintendent. ‘That’s just it, you see. I thought for a moment she was wearing the present I’d bought her, the scarlet camisole. But she couldn’t have been, could she? I hadn’t even given it to her. And she was dead.’

‘What did you do when you found her?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘I… I ran to Christine’s. She took me in and called the police. I don’t know… Is Caroline really dead?’

Gristhorpe nodded.

‘Why? Who?’

Gristhorpe leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘That’s what we have to find out, love. Are you sure you didn’t touch anything in the room?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’