If not for the mask of irritation etched into her features, Mrs. Leveson-Gower would have been a strikingly beautiful woman. An extremely well-preserved late forties, Gemma guessed, and the tautness of the skin over the bones spoke of expensive lifts and tucks. "An acquaintance of your son's died in questionable circumstances last Thursday evening. We're simply corroborating statements. Is heat-"

"What station did you say you were from, Sergeant? Let me see your identification again."

Gemma obligingly pulled the folder from her bag and handed it across. "Not your local station, ma'am. New Scotland Yard."

"What division?"

Gemma hadn't expected such a knowledgeable question. "C1, homicide." Mrs. Leveson-Gower went very still, and Gemma could almost hear the gears clicking in her brain.

"You're not going to speak to my son without our solicitor present." She stood up and started toward the door, speaking over her shoulder. "You can call and make an appointment at his conven-"

"Making arrangements for me, Mummy? I'm sure it's not necessary."

The man entered the room with such smooth timing that Gemma felt sure he had been listening outside the louvered doors. He smiled at Gemma, showing even, white teeth, then turned his attention back to his mother. They faced each other silently across the expanse of white carpet like participants in a duel, then Mrs. Leveson-Gower left the room, without word or look to Gemma.

Roger, for Gemma had no doubt as to his identity, crossed the room and stood looking casually down at Gemma. She closed her mouth with a snap. Kincaid might have warned her, the sod, before she made a ninny of herself. Roger Leveson-Gower was stunningly good-looking. She could see the resemblance to his mother in his coloring-his mother must have had the same tawny hair before she resorted to bleach-but in him every line and angle had combined to perfection.

"I'm sure it's not worth the bother of a solicitor, whatever it is, Constable." He sat on the arm of the sofa facing Gemma, so that she still had to look up at him.

"Sergeant," she said sharply, dropping her eyes and flipping open her notebook in an effort to regain control of the interview. "Last Thursday evening, Mr. Leveson-Gower. Can you tell me where you were?"

"What's it in aid of?" Roger asked in a tone of mild interest.

"Jasmine Dent's death, and your friend Margaret Bellamy's involvement. Miss Bellamy says she agreed to help Jasmine commit suicide, but that Jasmine changed her mind and she didn't see her after late afternoon on Thursday. Can you confirm that?"

"Last Thursday?" Roger frowned in concentration. "No. I was on a job and then out with my mates. But Meg would never have gone through with it, you know. Hadn't the nerve."

"She discussed it with you?"

Roger smiled, including Gemma in the joke. "Noble as hell about it, too, worrying about her ethical duty to ease suffering."

"And that didn't worry you? You didn't try to talk her out of it? Assisted suicide is a criminal offense."

"It was all just talk, like I said, Sergeant. Meg couldn't kill a wounded bird. There's a yawning gap between planning and execution." He stood and gave a cat-like stretch, then settled again on the sofa arm.

"Just what is it you do in the evenings, Mr. Leveson-Gower?"

Roger gave a bark of laughter. "Good god, you make it sound like I'm a ponce. Why so indignant, Sergeant?"

Gemma felt her color rising. She sounded pompous even to herself, but the man made her throw up a full battery of defenses. Taking a breath to focus on her interview technique, she smiled at him sweetly and put the emphasis on her first word. "Are you a ponce, Mr. Leveson-Gower?"

"Nothing so glamorous as that, Sergeant, more's the pity." He still sounded amused. "I set up for clubs and discos. Lights, sound equipment, you know the sort of thing. The hours suit me."

"And that's where you were on Thursday evening?"

"Yeah. Dive called The Blue Angel." Roger raised one eyebrow with much practiced ease. "I suppose you'll want the address? And the names of my mates?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

He gave her an address in Hammersmith, then added, "Jimmy Dawson you can find at the petrol station just off Shepherd's Bush roundabout. We hung around at the bar till the show finished."

"What time would that have been?" Gemma asked, pen ready.

Roger shrugged. "I've no idea. I'd had a few pints, and I don't wear a watch." His shirt cuffs were turned back to just below his elbow, and he held up a tanned, bare wrist for Gemma's examination.

"And then what?"

"I came home and put my head on the pillow, just like a good little boy."

Gemma allowed her skepticism to show. "Is that so? And can your mother vouch for you?"

"I am not in the habit of registering my comings and goings with my mother. And besides, if I remember correctly, she was out that evening."

Under the smooth and slightly condescending reply, Gemma sensed irritation-so he was sensitive about living in his mum's house. She pushed her advantage. "You didn't check in with Margaret either? Not even by phone?"

"No. We don't have that kind of relationship, Sergeant." Condescension triumphed over irritation. His tone implied Gemma was a fool for expecting him to be accountable to anyone. He stood with the same easy grace as before. "Is that it, Sergeant?"

Gemma remained planted on the sofa, notebook in hand, determined not to let him terminate the interview. "Are you sure, Mr. Leveson-Gower, that you didn't go to Carlingford Road when you left the club that night? That you didn't visit Jasmine yourself?"

Roger smiled and Gemma had the unpleasant feeling the joke was on her. "No. I've never been to the Carlingford Road flat. You see, Sergeant, I never met Jasmine Dent at all."

Jimmy Dawson wore his hair in a ponytail and looked to be in his late twenties, but those were the only similarities immediately apparent between Dawson and his friend Roger Leveson-Gower. Dawson's accent made it obvious they hadn't gone to the same schools.

"Ere, wot's all this about?" he said warily, after Gemma had fished him from under a car in a service bay and identified herself.

"Roger Leveson-Gower."

"Oh, him," Dawson said dismissively, and Gemma saw the tension drain from him. He jerked his head toward the glass-enclosed office and she followed, thankful when the door muted the roar of Shepherd's Bush roundabout. Dawson gestured her into a cracked leather chair, wiped his hands on a greasy rag and lit a Marlboro from a pack in his shirt pocket. "What's 'e done, then?"

Gemma ignored the question. "Was he with you last Thursday evening, Mr. Dawson?"

Dawson leaned against the desk and exhaled smoke from his nose while he thought about it. "Aye. And I can tell you when he left, too, 'cause he buggered off when it was his turn to buy a round."

"What time was that?"

"Band took a break around nine… not long after that, I'd say."

"Did he say where he was going?" Gemma asked, but without much hope. Even on such brief acquaintance she didn't expect Roger to slip up so easily.

"Nah. We was takin' the mickey out of 'im about his bird, but 'e wasn't havin' any."

"You've met Margaret, then?" Gemma asked, surprised.

Dawson shrugged. "She's all right. He brings her around sometimes."

"How do you know him, Jimmy-can I call you Jimmy?" asked Gemma, finding the friendship more and more unlikely.

"I play in a band, see?" Dawson grinned, showing teeth already beginning to yellow with nicotine, and played a little air-guitar riff. "And he sets up for us at some of the clubs."

"So you're not really close mates?"

"Nah. He's just around, you know? Has a way of weaselin' out of things, our Roger, always talking about what 'e's going to do when he's flush."