‘Nope. I like to leave something for Scotland Yard to have a chew at.’

Gently smothered a grin in the lighting of his pipe. It hadn’t taken Stephens long to measure swords with the handsome Hansom. Already, he was sure, the Chief Inspector bore a ‘difficult’ label — without being aware of it, he was supporting Northshire’s reputation. And now, with hands that trembled slightly, Stephens was also lighting his pipe…

‘Let’s leave that for the moment. I’d like to hear more about the Johnsons. You haven’t got a portrait of the victim, I suppose?’

Hansom dipped into the manilla folder which had contained the official photographs, finally selecting a half-plate print to skim across the desk to Gently.

‘That’s a recent one, I’m told… It just about gives the right effect. Don’t forget that you’re talking to an eyewitness — I danced with this femme, at the Charity Ball.’

He leaned his elbows on the desk and watched as Gently examined the print. It showed a fragile-looking blonde whose eyes, one could swear, had been hyacinth blue. The hair was short and only slightly wavy, the nose rather straight over a small mouth and chin. Though not very striking she’d been pretty in a way… for a moment, Gently couldn’t put a name to the quality.

‘You begin to catch on, do you? Well, you’re wrong — she wasn’t a lesbian. She’d got the look and the manner, but you only saw her around with men. Mind you, she might have had some girlfriends in private… that’s possible: but she was the one and only female who belonged to the Palette Group.’

Gently inclined his head, passing the portrait on to Stephens.

‘How old would she be?’

‘Twenty-nine last May. She stood five feet seven and had a fashion-horse sort of figure — as lean as a lath, with just a top dressing of sex. She had a bedward way of gazing at you with her innocent blue eyes. Her voice was the tinkling sort, but you can bet it had an edge, too.’