"I'd say so," Gemma responded grimly, "unless he's Superman."

By evening Gemma was happy enough to have a soak in the roll-top tub- the highlight of their new bathroom- and ready enough to leave the boxes behind for a civilized dinner. They'd ordered pizza for the boys, a treat, apparently, of royal proportions, and assured Kit that he could reach them on their mobile phones.

"Have you met Cullen's girlfriend?" Gemma asked Kincaid as they drove towards Victoria. "And what is she doing with a flat in Belgravia?"

"Her father owns the building, I think Doug said."

"Oh, charming."

Kincaid snorted. "Your prejudices are showing. I'm sure she's perfectly nice. Doug says she works for a home furnishings shop."

"Worse yet," Gemma muttered.

But when they reached Ebury Street, she found she was actually a little nervous about meeting Doug Cullen. "What's he like, really?" she asked, tucking her arm through Kincaid's as they climbed the stairs to the first-floor flat.

"A nice chap. Don't worry, you'll like him."

And indeed she did, at first sight. Cullen exuded a sort of perpetual naÏveté, his fresh-faced, public-school looks made only slightly more severe by the wire-rimmed spectacles he kept pushing up his nose.

In contrast to Cullen's comforting ordinariness, Stella Fairchild-Priestly wore a cropped pink angora top and black capri trousers that bared her rhinestone-studded navel- or at least Gemma assumed the sparkling gems were rhinestones. The girl's pale hair was expensively and trendily cut, her makeup salon perfect, her nails a frosted pink that matched her sweater. "Hi, I'm Stella," she said with a brilliant smile, and Gemma felt instantly frumpy, fat, and ancient.

Nothing could have been better designed to make Gemma feel even more uncomfortable than being forced to ask for mineral water while the others drank martinis. Stella had a drinks tray ready, and as the others discussed the merits of olives and shaken versus stirred, Gemma looked round the sitting room she instantly dubbed Fifties Chic.

The room had two sets of French doors giving on to a balcony that overlooked Ebury Street. Around evergreen topiaries Stella had wound strings of tiny Christmas lights, and these were reflected in mirrors on the flat's interior walls, adding sparkle to the long, low shapes of the furniture.

The table Stella had arranged at the room's far end gleamed with silver and starched white linen, and as Gemma moved closer she saw that there were even tiny silver place card holders. "Bloody hell," she whispered, wondering if she had wandered into a magazine set.

"Dougie promised me you weren't vegetarian," Stella said a few minutes later as she served Gemma's plate with perfectly prepared veal scaloppini, fresh asparagus, and a saffron rice timbale- at least that's what Gemma thought it was, having seen something similar on a cooking program once.

"Dougie" blushed to the roots of his hair. "Stella, you know how much I hate it when you call me that."

"Sorry." Stella smiled at him over the candles, unrepentant. "But we are among friends, after all. Gemma, tell me about your new home."

As Gemma launched into a description of the house's attributes and furnishings, Stella interrupted with, "You'll need linens, won't you? You'll have to come to our shop. Two-hundred-thirty-thread count, from Portugal. They're yummy. You'll have to iron them, of course, but we have lavender linen water, just the thing for it."

"Um, where is the shop exactly?" Gemma murmured. Even if she could afford Stella's sheets, where on earth did the silly woman think she would find time to iron them? Stella began on the virtues of Portuguese lace, but Gemma listened with only half her attention, as Kincaid had begun filling Cullen in on the day's developments.

"So if this jogger was indeed the killer," Cullen was saying earnestly, "he'd have had to dispose of the bloody clothes a good distance away- we've searched the immediate neighborhood with a fine-tooth comb- and that would have meant changing socks as well as shoes, and not leaving a smidgen of trace evidence in his car."

Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw Stella pale.

"If this development makes Arrowood a less than likely prospect," Cullen continued, "where does that leave us?" He seemed oblivious to his girlfriend's growing discomfort.

"Alex Dunn has a fairly watertight alibi, and so does Otto Popov, unless everyone in his café is conspiring to cover up for him, including Alex." Gemma pushed the rice around on her plate as she thought. "But what about the Arrowood boys? You've been working on that angle, haven't you, Doug?"

Cullen gave an exaggerated sigh that Gemma suspected was for Stella's benefit. "I've interviewed every guest at the party they attended that night. The only way Sean or Richard Arrowood could have murdered Dawn would have been by hiring a professional killer. And as for that, I can't see Richard having the nerve, or Sean the motivation."

"No evidence of drugs or debt on Sean's part?" Kincaid asked.

"Just a long history of cleaning up his brother's messes. But I can't see his loyalty to Richard extending to murdering his stepmother to get Richard out of a scrape."

Into the discouraged silence that followed this pronouncement, Kincaid said, "There must be something we've missed- someone else whose path crossed Dawn's-"

"There is the vet," interrupted Gemma. "Gavin Farley. Remember my telling you that Farley's assistant, Bryony, said he had a row with Dawn the day she died?"

"And Bryony had no idea what the row was about?"

"None, other than the fact that Farley liked to flirt with Dawn, although Dawn didn't encourage it. When I interviewed the man, he denied arguing with her at all."

"So either Bryony or Farley is lying?"

Gemma nodded. "I'd put my money on Farley. It's at least worth seeing where he was on the night of Dawn's murder."

"You're leaving out Hoffman, again." Doug pushed his spectacles firmly up. "What connection could a veterinarian possibly have had with the Hoffman woman? She didn't even have a pet."

Kincaid expertly balanced the last bite of his veal on his fork. "We know nothing about the man at this point. I say we start by seeing what we can dig up on him. Doug, you can make that your project-"

Depositing her silverware on her plate with a clatter, Stella pushed away her half-eaten dinner with a brittle smile. "I must say, this evening has exceeded my every expectation- educational and pleasant. Anyone for dessert?"

Fern cursed as she tripped over something bulky and hard on her sitting room floor. She edged forward, fumbling for the light switch.

Illumination revealed a box containing old children's toys, a tricycle, and- was that really a weathervane?- set down willy-nilly in the center of the room. That meant her father had been and gone again, no doubt to squander the proceeds of his day's trading at the pub. For a moment she considered leaving the box where it was, but decided she couldn't risk his falling over it when he came in. Instead, she shoved it to one side, then retreated to her room and slammed the door.

Once inside, she sat on the edge of her bed, looking round at the neat shelves and storage boxes with her usual sense of relief. This was her island in the storm of her father's chaos; here her silver was arranged and catalogued, and nothing was ever, ever out of place.

She could have moved out years ago, of course, as her mum had done, and left him to his own devices. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to live on her own; she made a reasonable living with her trading, enough for a little studio or maisonette, maybe not in Notting Hill itself, but at least on the fringe.