He could smell it before he could see it. Not coffee, that was for sure. lt had been there at least a day by the abattoir smell of it. Not an 'it', a guy. A gun fallen to the floor at his feet, a Russian number -Makarov, Tokarev, he couldn't remember -there'd been a lot around in the Gulf, quite a few of the lads brought them home as trophies. Perhaps the guy was ex-army, took a clean way out and blew the top of his head off. No, not clean, the opposite of clean. Blood everywhere, brains, other stuff, he didn't look too closely, didn't want to contaminate the scene. He had destroyed one crime scene in the last twenty-four hours, he thought he should probably preserve this one.

Given that most of his head was blown off it was difficult for Jackson to tell whether or not he knew the guy. The suit looked familiar, looked a lot like the tired suit who had sat next to him on the train, just an average Joe. Stranger or not, why would someone choose to break in and kill themselves here? Jackson was fairly inured to the sight of dead bodies, he'd seen a fair few in his time, what he wasn't accustomed to was finding them in his own home. Not broken in actually, no sign of doors or windows being forced.

Gingerly, trying not to step in any blood, Jackson inched nearer the body and using his thumb and forefinger tweezered out a wallet from the dead guy's inside pocket. Inside the wallet there were two familiar photographs and a driving licence. He contemplated the photograph on it. He had never liked that picture, he didn't take a good photo at the best of times but on his driving licence he looked like a refugee from a war. He was tempted to probe further in the guy's pockets but resisted. A driving licence said it all -the guy's name was Jackson Brodie. He thought about phoning Louise and telling her that Andrew Decker had finally stopped running but in the end he just dialed 999.

While he waited for new credit cards to be sent he asked Josie to transfer money into his account online (Now what have you done, Jackson?). If he could have accessed his passport he could have gone to the bank and withdrawn cash but his passport was in the flat and everything in the flat was off-limits to him until the police gave him the all-clear. 'Potential crime scene,' one of the investigating officers said. 'We can't be sure it was a suicide, sir.' 'Yeah,' Jackson said. 'I used to be a policeman.'

Before contacting Josie he had phoned Julia but she wasn't interested in his predicament. Her sister Amelia had died in the operating theatre on Wednesday ('Complications,' she sobbed. 'Trust Amelia.').

The money was enough to get him by for a few days. He'd checked into a cheap hotel in King's Cross while the Covent Garden flat remained a crime scene, not that he was thinking of moving back. He couldn't imagine putting his feet up on the sofa and popping a can of beer in the same room where someone had literally, blown their brains out. '

The hotel was a dive. This time last year he was staying in Le Meurice with Marlee, Christmas shopping in Paris, wandering out in the evenings to gaze in the Christmas windows of Galeries Lafayette. Now he was staying in a flea-pit in King's Cross. How are the mighty fallen.

On Monday morning he went to the British Museum.

No one there had ever heard of anyone called Tessa Webb. 'She's a curator here,' he insisted. 'Assyrian.' No Tessa Webb, no Tessa Brodie. No conference in Washington that anyone knew anything about.

He called in a favour from a guy called Nick who until recently had worked for Bernie, an ex-coms tech guy from the Met. Bernie himself was away somewhere.

Nick reported back that no Tessa Webb had ever been to St Paul's Girls' School, nor to Keble College, Oxford, there was no National Insurance record for her, no driving licence. He wondered what kind of a reception he would get if he went into a police station and reported his prodigal wife as a missing person. And how did you report someone as missing when they seemed never to have existed in the first place?

The DI in charge of the case said, 'They've held the autopsy, pathologist says he's one hundred per cent sure that Decker killed himself.'

'In my flat?'

'I guess he had to do it somewhere. He had your keys, your address. Maybe he'd started to identify with you in some way. We've no idea where he got the gun but he's been mixing with cons for the last thirty years so it probably wasn't that difficult.'

On Tuesday he was allowed back into the Covent Garden flat. He retrieved his passport and went to the bank to draw money out and discovered that he didn't have any. The same with his investments.

'Boy, she's one clever cookie, this so-called wife of yours,' Nick said admiringly. 'She moved everything out of your accounts into untraceable ones. Slick, really slick.'

Tessa gone, the money gone, Bernie gone. It had all been one big set-up, right from that initial 'chance' encounter on Regent Street. Between them they had designed her to appeal to him -the way she looked, the way she behaved, the things she said -and he had fallen like the biggest fool ever. It had been a perfect con and he had been the perfect mark.

He was too tired even to rage. And after all, he had never earned the money in the first place so now it had simply moved on to someone else who had never earned it.

Chapter VI

Christmas.

A Puppy Is Just for Christmas.

'A FAITHFUL FRIEND'. WHAT DID THAT MEAN? DID IT REFER TO THE contents of the basket -wicker, with a lid like a hamper, tied with a large red satin bow -or did it refer to the person who had left the basket on their doorstep? The words were written on a Christmas gift tag, one of those expensive glittery ones that were reproductions of Victorian Christmas scraps. The whole thing looked oldfashioned, you expected to lift the lid of the basket and find a feast inside -plum pudding and an enormous glazed pork pie, bottles of port and Madeira.

Louise hadn't expected a dog. A puppy, a tiny thing. Black and white. 'Border collie; Patrick said knowledgeably. 'I had one as a boy. A sheepdog.'

It was Patrick who had found the basket on the doorstep. It was Christmas Eve and they had been sitting quietly, listening to the radio, a peaceful, timeless scene of domesticity that belied their feelings. Louise was set aside from it even while she was part ofit. Patrick was doing the Scotsman crossword while Louise converted the Christmas cards she hadn't got round to sending into New Year greetings, Sorry this is late, been laid up with flu. It wasn't true, but hey. Upstairs, Archie was shut in his room, on his computer, talking to his friends, unseasonal music seeping through the floor. Someone rang the bell and Patrick got up and went to the door.

*

'Did you see who it was?' she asked.

'No,' Patrick said.

'Nothing? What about a car? A car engine? You must have noticed something. It didn't just drop out of nowhere, someone rang the bell.'

'Take it easy, Louise. I'm not a suspect here. Perhaps the dog was meant for Archie.'

'A dog? Archie?' How unlikely was that?

It was him, she knew it was. 'A faithful friend', he had a streak of sticky sentimentality a mile wide. The whole thing, the basket, the message, the ribbon. It was him.

She ran out into the street, holding the puppy in her arms. She could feel the fast heartbeat against her own. Its roly-poly little body was solid in her hands at the same time as it weighed a feather. She stood in the middle of the road and willed Jackson to come back.

But he didn't.

'Louise, come on in, it's freezing.'

She drove to Livingston on Christmas Day. Alison Needler had the Trinity house on the market and was looking for somewhere else to buy. 'I expect it will go for a knock-down price,' she said. 'Not many people want to live in a house where three people were murdered.'