‘It seems fair enough.’

‘Will the others think so?’

‘Dario won’t. But Dario thinks he’s committing a terrible crime by throwing us out in the first place and no amount of money could compensate for that betrayal. We’re all the family Dario’s ever had, remember. It’s like a divorce.’

‘But the others?’

‘Who knows? Money makes people act in all sorts of strange ways. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of behaviour I come across at work. It’s cash, by the way. Strictly under the table.’

‘You mean, he’d pay us in cash?’

‘I think the idea is that he’d pay you and you’d hand it out.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘I think he doesn’t want to face any more of it.’

‘Sounds like Miles.’

‘Do you want another drink?’

‘Go on, then.’

I watched her as she made her way to the bar. Men stood aside to let her by, then closed in again, following her with their eyes. She appeared not to notice.

‘What’s happening with Owen?’ she asked, as she sat down.

‘Nothing. Anyhow, he’s away at the moment on some photo-shoot. More importantly, what’s happening with Jeff?’

‘Jeff?’ She stared at me, wrinkling her brow. ‘Jeff, as in…?’

‘Jeff as in Jeff-who-stayed-with-you-on-the-night-of-Peggy’s-murder.’

‘Oh, that Jeff.’

‘Yes, that Jeff.’

‘I know what you’re going to say. And you don’t need to say it -’ But at that moment she was interrupted.

‘It’s the attractive and visibly distraught Ms Astrid Bell,’ cried a voice, and I turned to see Saul’s beaming face.

I had known Saul since I was fifteen. We met at a party, where we spent three hours sitting on the staircase and talking about music and movies, and had been friends ever since. It was Saul who got me my job with Campbell; he had been a despatch rider for nearly seven years now, and every month he swears will be his last. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘That you’re the enigma at the heart of the mystery.’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘You’re the key, but where’s the lock?’

‘Saul!’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘I really don’t know – I don’t even know what it is I don’t know.’

‘Look! Hot off the press.’

He pulled the local newspaper out of his messenger bag and flung it on the table. It took me a few seconds to realize what I was looking at. There I was, standing outside our house holding my bike, one hand raised and my jaw jutting out. I was wearing the same gear I had on today and looked both thuggish and mildly pornographic. But that was nothing compared to Dario, who was in the background and weirdly shrunk by the angle of the camera lens. In his ill-fitting yellow anorak and trousers, with his hair half over his face and his mouth open, he had the appearance of an evil dwarf.

Pippa gave a horrified giggle.

‘ “Messenger Murder Mystery”,’ I read from the headline.

‘You should see the puns,’ said Saul, who was tremendously cheerful about the whole affair. ‘Look here: “cycle-ogical thriller”. You’re at the centre of something weird.’

‘It’s not that big a deal,’ I insisted, but I shivered. It was as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun, turning the warm, crowded room cold and dark.

Chapter Thirteen

I stepped out of my room and almost collided with Owen, weighed down with his camera bags and tripod from a shoot. His face looked smooth and young. ‘Astrid,’ he said.

I needed to say something. I took a step towards him, or perhaps he took a step towards me, then brisk steps coming up the stairs halted us. It was Leah, looking mildly impatient. ‘There you are,’ she said.

‘What is it?’

‘Someone to see you downstairs,’ she said.

‘Who?’ I said.

‘If you go down, you’ll find out,’ she said.

I shrugged, glanced at Owen, and walked down the stairs. Detective Chief Inspector Paul Kamsky was in the hallway. Miles was standing next to him but they weren’t speaking. Kamsky caught sight of me.

‘Sorry to drop in unannounced,’ he said.

‘That’s all right.’

‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’

‘You could go downstairs to the kitchen,’ said Miles.

‘It’s not very private,’ I said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Kamsky.

‘We’ll keep out of the way,’ said Miles. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

As Kamsky sat down at the kitchen table, he looked around with a smile. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘It’s a bit of a floating population,’ I said. ‘People come and go.’

‘Like a commune?’

‘It’s just a house-share.’

‘I couldn’t manage that,’ he said. ‘I like my own space.’

‘I know what you mean.’

Miles put coffee mugs on the table. Kamsky took his and contemplated it, then looked up at me. ‘It’s the package,’ he said.

‘You never found it?’

‘Did you ever have an itch that you couldn’t scratch because you didn’t know exactly where it was?’

‘No.’

‘There are several things about this case that bother me,’ he said.

‘That’s what Mitchell said.’

‘I know,’ said Kamsky. ‘He’s not a happy man.’

‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Are you happy?’

‘There’s your involvement,’ he said. ‘And the fact that you gave an interview about your involvement.’

‘It wasn’t exactly an interview,’ I said. ‘I shouted something at a reporter.’

‘A dignified “no comment” is usually the best policy,’ Kamsky said.

‘I wasn’t thinking clearly.’

‘And most of all I’m bothered by what was taken.’

‘I didn’t think anything was taken.’

‘I’m going to tell you something we haven’t released. Please don’t mention it to any reporters. As you saw, Mrs de Soto was wearing expensive jewellery, a necklace, rings, a bracelet. Perhaps you noticed that one earring was missing.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Just one. It had been pulled out, ripping through the earlobe.’

I flinched.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Kamsky. ‘It was probably done after she was dead. My psychiatric colleague tells me it was probably taken as a trophy.’

‘A trophy?’

‘A souvenir. By the way, he’s keen to talk to you as well.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be much help.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Kamsky. He paused and took a slow gulp of his coffee. ‘You might have picked it up and put it in your satchel.’

‘The package? That’s crazy. I broke into her house and found her lying dead. I didn’t stop to collect a package.’

‘As far as I can see, there are three possibilities. Either there was no package, or you took it, or whoever killed her took it.’

‘Have you looked for it properly?’ I asked. ‘Sometimes when I arrive to pick something up, they haven’t got it ready. It’s bloody irritating. I arrive and then they go off and get whatever it is and find something to put it in. Maybe she hadn’t wrapped it up yet.’

‘That’s a possibility,’ said Kamsky. ‘Another possibility is that the package was something valuable. Or perhaps it was something particular that he was after.’

‘That’s not possible,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘She only booked the pick-up half an hour earlier. The guy happens to steal something in the last few minutes it’s going to be in the house. Is that another coincidence?’

‘No,’ said Kamsky. ‘I’m getting allergic to coincidences. But the murderer kills the woman and takes only two objects: an earring and the package you’re about to collect. Doesn’t that strike you as interesting?’

‘Strange, maybe.’

‘Did you have any idea what you were going to collect?’

‘No. When people call us, they only have to specify the size of the package. If it’s a grand piano, they generally don’t send me on my pushbike. But you should talk to my boss about that.’

‘I did,’ said Kamsky, with a frown. ‘I don’t think his record-keeping is entirely satisfactory.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘One day the Inland Revenue are going to descend on him and take that place apart.’