"But-" Mrs. Farley looked round uncertainly. "My husband's out in his shop. I'll just go-"

"No, that's all right, Mrs. Farley. We'd like to speak to you first. It won't take a moment."

With obvious reluctance, the woman took them into the front room, but a glance towards the rear of the house had shown Cullen two preadolescent children sprawled in front of a television in a den. The boy and girl, both slightly overweight and smug-looking, glanced up at them with disinterest before turning back to their program.

Mrs. Farley perched on the edge of a chair while he and Gemma sat opposite on a sofa. Doug had learned enough from Stella to realize that the furniture and objects in the room were expensive, and also that they had been put together with a complete lack of grace and style.

"Mrs. Farley," said Gemma, "can you tell us what time your husband arrived home from his surgery on the Friday before last?"

"Friday before last? However should I remember that?" Mrs. Farley picked at the reindeer appliqué on the front of her Christmas pullover.

"You must have heard about the woman who was murdered that evening? Dawn Arrowood? That should help you place it."

"I don't have time to watch the news, what with the children's activities."

"But surely your husband must have told you about it. She was one of his clients."

The hand on the sweater grew still. "Oh, of course. Gavin was so shocked when he read it in the papers the next day. And I do recall now, about that Friday. I had to pick up Antony, our son, from a football match, and when we got back Gavin was home. That would have been half past six or so. He was already out in his workshop."

"So you can't be sure of the exact time?" asked Cullen.

"No. But I heard his shower running, so he must have been home a few minutes."

"His shower?"

"Gavin has a shower stall out in his shop. I won't let him come in the house covered in sawdust."

"What does Mr. Farley make?" Gemma's face reflected nothing but friendly interest.

"Jewelry boxes, CD holders, pen trays… things that are useful and decorative, he likes to say. He gives them to his special clients."

Cullen saw Gemma's lip twitch and made an effort to control his own expression. "Do you know if he meant to give one of his… creations… to Dawn Arrowood?"

"I've no idea," Mrs. Farley replied stiffly. "What is this about? Gavin barely knew this woman. She'd been into his surgery once or twice with her cat."

"That's odd." Gemma frowned. "We were under the impression that Mrs. Arrowood was quite a regular client of the surgery, and that Mr. Farley always made an effort to see her himself."

Mrs. Farley stood, jerking her cheerful reindeer sweater down over her bony hips. "I don't know about that. You'll have to speak to my husband. And I've things to do- the Christmas dinner… I'll just go and get Gavin."

"If you'll just point us in the right direction, Mrs. Farley, I'm sure we can find him ourselves."

"She knows he's up to something, but she's not sure how bad it is," Cullen murmured to Gemma as they made their way down a path made of concrete stepping stones. At the bottom of the garden, light seeped from the door of Farley's workshop.

"I suspect that woman has lived in fear of the sky falling every day of her married life," Gemma said pensively. "And I don't like this business about the shower."

The whine of a saw came from inside the building. Gemma waited for a pause, then pounded on the door. "Mr. Farley? It's Inspector James."

"If she knows he's a rotter," whispered Cullen, "would she still protect him?"

"With her life."

The shop door opened and a heavyset, dark-haired man stared out at them. He wore a leather apron, and had pushed safety goggles up on his forehead.

"Well, well, well," said Farley, as jolly as one of Father Christmas's elves. "To what do I owe the honor? I'd invite you to come in and make yourselves comfortable, but as you can see…" His gesture swept the small room.

The smell of resin caught at Cullen's throat. He looked round the room, making out several different saws of incomprehensible purpose, a good deal of raw wood and sawdust, and shelves full of Farley's "objects." Cullen found himself hoping not to be a recipient of Farley's generosity, and wondered why the veterinarian chose to makes boxes rather than representations of the cats and dogs he knew so intimately. Perhaps Farley didn't really like animals all that much.

"We'll manage," said Gemma, easing her way into the room without touching anything. "It's about Dawn Arrowood, Mr. Farley. On the afternoon of the day she died, she told a friend that she'd had an unpleasant encounter with you that morning. An argument."

"That's nonsense. Why would I have had an argument with Mrs. Arrowood- although I did remind her again that she must keep her cat in the house, regardless of her husband's preference."

"That's not what she said. She told her friend that you came on to her, that you were sexually offensive, and that when she told you to stop, you were abusive."

"The woman must have been imagining things. I never did any such thing, and I'll thank you not to malign my professional reputation." Farley's protest seemed just a bit too polished, as if he'd been expecting the accusation.

"She can't very well argue with you now, can she?" Cullen pointed out, then added, "What about the client who brought sexual harassment charges against you two years ago, Mr. Farley?"

"Those charges were dropped! The whole thing was a complete fabrication, and I was exonerated!" Farley took a step back and pulled off his safety glasses. The rubber had left a red imprint like a brand against the pasty skin of his forehead. "She had a grudge against me. Her dog had died and she couldn't deal with it. The judge accepted that." Lowering his voice, he said confidentially, "Look, Dawn Arrowood did flirt with me, I'll admit that. She was one of those women who think every man on earth should fall at their feet. But I never crossed the line with her."

"Then you won't mind telling us where you were from the time you left the surgery that day until you arrived home," said Gemma.

"But I-" Farley glanced from Gemma to Cullen. "I went for a drink. At The Sun in Splendour. You must know it," he added, as if that somehow gave his story credibility.

Cullen had met friends there for a drink. It was a yuppie pub, frequented by well-dressed, well-off young men and women, like Dawn Arrowood. "So you left your surgery before five o'clock, checked out the action at the pub, then arrived home about, what, half past six? Then what did you do?"

"I- I'm not sure exactly what time it was. I worked out here for a while, until my wife called me for dinner."

"And do you always shower before you begin working in your shop, Mr. Farley?" asked Gemma.

"What? I don't understand."

"Shower." Gemma pointed at the cubicle, just visible at the back of the room. "Your wife said you were showering when she came in at half past six. That seemed a bit odd to me- I thought the idea was to shower when you'd finished your project."

The whites of Farley's eyes glinted. "It was my wife. She doesn't like me going to the pub, so I showered to get rid of the smell."

Had he washed away the smoke and perfume from the bar, wondered Cullen? Or Dawn Arrowood's blood? "You didn't tell your wife you'd been to the pub?"

"No. I- I said I had to work late. You're not going to tell her, are you?"

"Oh, I'm afraid you've worse problems than that, Mr. Farley," Gemma said with a sigh. "Such as explaining to your wife why the police are searching your workshop and your car."