Gemma struggled to fit this in with the secret wardrobe and her suspicions about Elaine’s relationship with Fanny. “Tasha, did it ever occur to you that Elaine might be gay?”

“Gay?” Tasha frowned. “Well, you never know these days, do you? But even with the severe suits, no, I never really considered it.”

“And did Elaine ever talk about her home life?”

“She said she had a nice flat, near the river. But as she never invited anybody round, she could have been taking the piss, I suppose.”

“She never mentioned her flatmate?”

“No.” Tasha looked surprised. “She has a flatmate?”

“She’s shared a house with another woman for a couple of years. It was her flatmate who reported her missing.”

“Oh. The lady priest said it was a friend.”

Trust Winnie to be discreet, Gemma thought. Seeing the light of speculation in Tasha’s eyes, and conscious of time passing and the boys waiting, she decided to wind up the interview. Gesturing at the laminated ID tag clipped to Tasha’s blouse, she said, “We’ve not been able to find a picture of Elaine, but she must have an ID photo.”

“Personnel will have it on file, I’m sure. I could show you-”

“I’m sure I can find it.” Smiling, Gemma stood. “Thanks, Tasha. You’ve been a great help.” She turned back as she reached the door. “One more question. Did Elaine often work late?”

“Elaine? She’s as regimented about that as she is about everything else. She clocks in and out on the dot.”

“Okay.” Kincaid broke the silence a few minutes later as they passed Paddington Station and swung into Bishop’s Bridge Road. “Maybe I was a bit hasty with Bell. And snarky with you. Sorry.”

“Tact doesn’t seem to be Bell’s strong point,” Cullen answered equably.

“While it is yours.”

“Well, I try.” Cullen smiled.

“Don’t get too cocky. I’m not saying she was right. I don’t like shooting in the dark, and we simply don’t know enough yet. Nor am I going to badger a man who’s afraid he’s lost his child, regardless of his position.”

“Do you think he was telling the truth about why he was trying to ring her?”

“No. But I haven’t figured out why he would lie.” Bishop’s Bridge had morphed into Westbourne Grove, and Kincaid pulled up at a stoplight. “What was that address?”

Cullen consulted his notes. “It’s Denbigh Road. Do you need me to check the map?”

“No. I know the street.” Denbigh Road ran parallel to Portobello, but the mere block’s separation made the difference between a quiet backwater and a teeming hive of activity.

Having passed the natural foods market on Westbourne Grove where Gemma liked to shop, Kincaid turned left into Denbigh Road. Although Notting Hill was becoming increasingly expensive and gentrified, there were still unreconstructed pockets, and Kincaid wondered which sort of flat Chloe Yarwood inhabited.

The address, which he found easily, turned out to be a prewar mansion block, in solid and unpretentious red brick. The first-floor flat was listed under Tia Foster’s name. They rang the bell, and after Cullen explained briefly who they were, Tia Foster buzzed them in.

Chloe Yarwood’s flatmate answered the door wearing tight jeans and a loose white cotton sweater, rubbing at her dripping hair with a towel. “Sorry,” she told them. “I’ve just got back from a few days’ holiday in Spain. Had to wash off the travel grunge.” She was an elegant-looking woman in her midtwenties, her lightly tanned face free of makeup, her shower-damp hair a dark blond. More attractive than pretty, she had the good bone structure that promised her looks would last into middle age. “You said you were wanting Chloe?” she asked when they’d introduced themselves.

“Have you seen your flatmate recently, Miss Foster?” Kincaid asked.

“Not since I left for Spain on Wednesday. Look, can I get you some coffee or something? I was just making a pot.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Cullen answered before Kincaid could decline. “Can I give you a hand?” Cullen added, following her into the kitchen with the alacrity of an eager puppy. Kincaid wondered if his partner’s enthusiasm had something to do with the fact that the girl didn’t appear to be wearing a bra beneath her thin cotton sweater.

Taking the opportunity to examine the flat rather than its occupant, Kincaid looked round the room. The place had definitely been upgraded. Pale wood floors gleamed throughout, the creamy paint was new, the ceiling fitted with high-tech light fixtures. And because the mansion block had been purpose built, the rooms, unlike those in many flats in converted Victorian villas, were spacious and well laid out. How could two young women afford a place like this? Was Michael Yarwood contributing to his daughter’s upkeep?

There were signs, however, that money was not unlimited. An expensive leather sofa anchored the room, but the rest of the furnishings were sparse and looked like they might have come from Ikea. The abstract prints on the walls were obviously inexpensive reproductions.

As Cullen came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with cups and a cafetière, Tia reappeared minus the towel, running a brush through her hair. She was still barefoot, however, and glancing at her slender, tanned feet, Kincaid was reminded of the Victorians’ fascination with a briefly bared ankle. Sometimes a slice was more alluring than the whole cake.

“So what’s my little roomie been up to that the police want a word with her?” asked Tia as she settled herself on the sofa, one foot tucked up beneath her. Abandoning the brush, she lifted the cafetière and filled the cups with an easy grace, but the glance she gave Kincaid was sharper than he’d expected.

“Her father’s worried about her,” Kincaid answered, accepting the cup she handed him. “He’s been trying to get in touch with her for a couple of days with no luck.”

“So he called the police? That seems a little excessive, even for Mr. Yarwood. And a senior officer.” She gave Kincaid an assessing look.

“Did he call here asking for her?”

“There were a couple of messages on the answerphone, yeah.”

“But you weren’t concerned about Chloe?”

“I’m not Chloe’s keeper. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s gone off for a day or two. She does her own thing.”

“Would you mind looking to see if any of her things are missing?”

“But I’m sure – well, okay, I suppose I can do that.” Tia Foster stood up with a look that said she thought he was wasting her time, and disappeared into the rear of the flat.

Leaning closer to Kincaid, Cullen said quietly, “Don’t you think we should-”

Kincaid raised his hand, mouthed, “Just give it a minute.”

Tia came back, shaking her head. “I can’t tell that she’s taken anything, but that doesn’t mean-” She must have seen something in their faces because she paused, looking alarmed for the first time. “What?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“We have CCTV footage of Chloe Yarwood entering her dad’s warehouse about ten o’clock on the night before last,” Kincaid said, placing his coffee cup carefully on the table. “Two hours later a fire was reported in the building. The firefighters found the body of a woman who has yet to be identified.”

“Oh, my God.” Tia sank onto the sofa, graceless as a marionette whose strings had been cut. Beneath her even tan, Kincaid could see the color leach from her face. “And you – you think it’s Chloe? But… that’s just not… I know she’s a bit of an idiot sometimes – you know, reckless – but she couldn’t be dead.”

Kincaid had never known recklessness to be proof against death; in fact, it was much more likely to be the opposite. “How do you mean, reckless?”

“She’s just a kid. She likes to party, stay out late, that kind of thing. Look, I know Michael Yarwood doesn’t like me, that he thinks I’m some sort of bad influence on his daughter, but I never meant… I didn’t realize she’d be so eaten up with it…”