Detective Inspector Frederick Terry dipped a chocolate bar into a steaming cup of tea, and hoped that his dentist would forgive him as he licked the melting mass. On this sunny morning, he was desperately trying to come up with an excuse to leave his office at Albany Street Police Station and take a walk in one of London's parks.

    The phone rang. It was Kathryn Fuller, the desk sergeant. "Sir, I have a problem. Mr. John Carburton called."

    "So?"

    "Carburton, sir! The man who owns Truly You, London's most renowned beauty parlor, frequented by celebrities from all over the world."

    "I'll take your word for it, Kathryn. What's his problem?"

    "He says he thinks his wife has disappeared, but he isn't sure. I told him to wait until she’d gone missing for 24 hours and then report her, but he said he hadn't seen her for more than two weeks. Strange, isn't it?"

    "Do you have his address?"

    "St. James's Terrace Mews. It's just north of Regent's Park."

    "Please tell Mr. Carburton that I'll come round to talk to him in about half an hour." Aware of sounding far too cheerful, Terry added more seriously, "If Mrs. Carburton has gone missing for two weeks already, we'd better act promptly."

    Half an hour was the time Terry estimated it would take him to walk down Chester Gate and stroll a diagonal course through Regent's Park, allowing a couple of breaks to squat and chat with the squirrels. In winter, his overheated office always left him feeling like a tumble-dried terry towel - pun intended. Now, invigorated by a fresh breeze, he wished he could distill the air, seal it in a flacon and label it Promise of Spring.

    After a sprightly walk over dew-covered grass, he reached the Carburtons' mews cottage. Dutifully, he replaced his smile with what he hoped would pass as an official mien and rang the bell. The door was flung open only seconds later. The man who filled the doorframe was tall, dapper in a three-piece suit, and particularly well-groomed. His slick black hair matched the mirror shine of his shoes. Manicured from head to toe, thought Terry, as if he were about to hold an acceptance speech. Terry wiped his boots on the doormat, hunched his shoulders and introduced himself.

    "If you would please follow me, Inspector." With a formal gesture, Carburton took Terry's coat and showed him into the living room, where Terry had to suppress a gasp. Ugly only began to describe the room's design. No two pieces of furniture were made of the same wood. Curtains, carpets and cushions competed in patterns of endless variety.

    "I know," Carburton's voice came from behind, "I know." It was said with unveiled despondency. "My wife is color-blind. She loves patterns. Floral, striped, zigzagged - anything to keep her from getting bored with shades of gray. Maybe we had better talk in my study."

    When Terry thought study, he thought oak paneling, bookshelves and leather armchairs. "Lead the way, sir."

    The study turned out to be another culture shock for Terry. There was little furniture in the room, but all four walls were dotted narrowly with framed photographs of John Carburton with his capped teeth flashing and his neatly trimmed hair shining. He posed with actors, shook hands with politicians, chatted up supermodels. What an amazing display of narcissism! Terry found himself glancing up at the ceiling to see whether there were more photos dangling above his head

    Placed strategically on the carpet were three chairs that obviously hadn't been crafted with the idea of actually being used to sit on, but to be looked at and commented upon along the lines of, "What a smart designer to come up with such a contour."

    Terry coughed into his fist and tried to look comfortable while he placed a hand on the erratically swung back of the highest chair.

    Carburton made no move to sit down, either. "When was the last time you had your hair cut?" he asked with a scowl.

    "Beg your pardon?"

    "As a high-ranking detective, you're a role model for your subordinates. An outgrown haircut undermines your authority."

    Terry smoothed back his wind-ruffled mane. "I've come to discuss your wife's alleged disappearance," he said mildly.

    "Alleged, yes. My wife and I were planning to divorce. Sometime last summer we had a calm, sensible discussion about how our lifestyles had diverged. We agreed that it would be the best for us to split up in a civilized fashion. She'd accept a reasonable sum of money from me and keep the cottage. I started to search for a house."

    "And you haven't found one yet?"

    "There's no need for me to make a hasty decision because Anita and I had started to live separate lives already. She has a lover. He's a painter. I never saw his artistic efforts, but from the looks of him, I'd guess that his smearings are of the kind where color meets canvas in a random fashion." Hands clasped behind his back, Carburton paced along the walls of his private showroom. "I met him only once. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, oohing and aahing, saying 'cozy' and 'cool' and how inspired and innovative my wife's taste was." He shuddered. "When he was gone, I implored Anita not to waste herself on this parasite. It was clear that he was just after her money. One can't trust a man with a ponytail."

    Terry hid his grin by bending his head and fumbling in his pockets for his notebook.

    "Of course, she didn't listen to me. When do women ever listen to reason? In autumn, she went on a trip to the Caribbean with her beau. Over Christmas, they flew to Australia. Three weeks ago, she started to collect travel catalogues again. When she was gone a few days later I assumed, naturally, that she and her stallion had made off for another cruise."

    "She didn't explicitly say that she was leaving or where she was going?"

    "No. I didn't give it a second thought, to tell the truth."

    "But on those previous occasions she had told you about her holiday plans, hadn't she?"

    "She mentioned them in passing. I never had more than a vague idea of where she was, and for how long she'd be gone."

    Terry flipped open his notebook and poised his pen. "When was the last time you saw her?"

    "I can't remember the day. Could have been Sunday two weeks ago, or Saturday. Our conversations have long turned into unemotional exchanges of niceties. There's nothing memorable about them."

    "Separate lives," Terry repeated Carburton's earlier remark. "I see. You thought she'd gone on a trip with her lover. What happened to make you change your mind and report her gone missing?"

    "A telephone call I received last night. It seems that this disreputable individual she dates, shares his digs with another self-appointed Picasso."

    "Names?"

    "My wife's boyfriend calls himself Maurice Mendelssohn, which probably translates into Mike Smith in real life. The man on the phone introduced himself as Henry." He pronounced it the French way. "This Henry told me that Maurice had better show up pretty soon or he'd lose his contract. I informed him that Maurice wasn't here. Henry was very upset. Obviously … Maurice had an assignment to paint the portraits of eight members of a nouveau riche family and he'd been supposed to meet his clients the day before. Henry said his friend wouldn't have missed this opportunity, especially since their rent was overdue. He whined on and on about their financial misère until I cut him short by offering to investigate Maurice's whereabouts."

    Terry asked for Henry's address and wrote it down.

    "I didn't quite know where to start looking for them," Carburton admitted. "Then it occurred to me that wherever Anita is, her pony-tailed toy boy certainly isn't paying their expenses, so I called my bank manager to find out whether my wife had made any withdrawals or used her credit card, but since she has her own account, the manager wasn't authorized to pass on information. That's why I thought it couldn't hurt to call the police. I hope you don't think I'm overreacting." Carburton exhaled a swath of peppermint breath into Terry's face. "In all likelihood, they're enjoying a lovely time and the whole investigation is pointless."

    "Let's hope it's that way. I'll start enquiries."

    "Thank you, inspector." He saw Terry to the door and helped him into his coat, giving it a swift dust-off at the shoulders. "I bet police detectives don't get enough rest. Did you know that our skin regenerates while we're sleeping? We need nine hours per night in order for our cells to repair the day's damage."

    The wrinkles seemed to cut deeper into Terry's skin. "Good night, sir," he said. When he felt the caress of the sun on his face, he realized it was still bright morning.

* * *

    "I thought he was the butler." Henry giggled, referring to his phone call at Carburton's cottage the night before. "I assumed Anita's husband had already moved out."

    "Do you know her well?" Comfortably seated, Terry accepted a glass of orange juice, stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.

    Henry and Maurice shared a studio in Soho, a welcoming open-plan apartment with high windows and hospitable sofas arranged around coffee tables and easels. Henry was a lean man in his thirties, with a fresh face, tousled hair and a ready smile.

    "Sure, she's around all the time. Sometimes she stays the night. Mo's bedroom is over there." He pointed at a closed door at the far end of the room. "Mine is on the lower ground floor. So, privacy is no problem. Anita's a nice girl. Funny, open-minded and patient. She loves to sit for Mo. She can hold still for hours, amazing. She said it's because she often served as a guinea-pig for her husband when he was trying new hairdos and make-ups on her. He's a beauty guru of sorts. She recently had her hair dyed platinum-blonde, just to spite him, because for years he'd religiously insisted that only dark colors suited her complexion."

    Terry nodded. Carburton had given him a photo of his wife with her hair bleached, a snapshot from her trip to Australia. She was cuddling a koala while a tall, red-haired man kissed her on the cheek, showing his hawklike profile and his thin ponytail.

    "When was the last time you saw Maurice?"

    "Two weeks ago, on Saturday. He went to fetch Anita in his car. They planned to drive to Cornwall for a couple of days. Mo loves Cornwall in the springtime. He goes there every year to refresh his sense for colors. Mo promised to be back for his appointment to draw the sketches for the portraits. I can't take over his assignment, I'm no good at drawing people. Mo has a knack for faces. Here, let me show you his best painting."

    Henry paged through some canvases leaning against the wall, then held one up. It showed a woman whom Terry immediately recognized as Anita Carburton. The painting was partly done in photo realism, partly in a wiping technique. The overall effect was startling in its liveliness.

    "Fantastic. Didn't Maurice have problems with Anita's color-blindness? Could she really appreciate his work?"

    "When you love someone, you appreciate everything they do, no matter whether...." He paused, suddenly realizing where Terry was heading. "Has anything happened to them?"

    "I don't know. The only bit of evidence we found so far is the fact that Anita hasn't used her credit card for two weeks. Does she usually pay for their trips?"

    Henry looked at the painting, sighed, looked back at Terry. "Well, yes, but it's not the kind of relationship where a poor young man is kept by a rich lady. For one thing, Anita's only six years his senior, and what's more, Mo is sure that one day he'll be rich and famous in his own right."

* * *

    "There you are, sir." Detective Sergeant Blockley heaved a stack of files on Terry's desk. "We have eighteen unidentified corpses that were found within the past two weeks, nationwide."

    Terry hoped he wouldn't have to expand the search all over the globe.

    "I also faxed descriptions of the couple to the main police stations in Cornwall, with a request to check hotels and B&Bs." Blockley sat down and took the top file. "We'll be through quicker if I help you."

    Sixteen of the files could immediately be discarded because the corpses belonged either to elderly people or, sadly, to children. There was one case where a fair woman in her mid-thirties had been found strangled in a forest near Leeds. Terry read the description twice, then shook his head. "Her pubic hair is blonde. Anita wasn't a natural blonde, so it can't be her."

    The one remaining file puzzled him. A man and a woman had been washed ashore near Marlow, three days ago. Terry read the coroner's report. They'd been dead for about ten days to a fortnight. The water in their lungs was tap water. Both had traces of barbiturates in their blood.

    Two victims of a premeditated homicide, a couple just like Anita and Maurice. Age and general description fit - except that the woman had short, black hair and the man was bald.

    Terry looked at the morgue shots for a long time. "It's impossible to recognize their faces after two weeks in the river. But somehow . . . I can't pin it down."

    "All we have to do is compare the dental records," Blockley pointed out.

    Terry hardly listened. He glanced again at the other photos in the file that showed the victims as they'd been found lying half in the water, half on the bank of the River Thames. Suddenly, a smile of sad triumph flickered on his face, then faltered. "I'm afraid the boys at Cornwall can stop checking hotels and B&Bs."

* * *

    "The living room will do nicely," Terry said when John Carburton moved in the direction of his study. "Could I please have a glass of water?"

    Blockley, who had come along to witness the arrest, rolled his eyes when they stepped into the room. "I see why you made the connection," he said in a stage whisper when Carburton was out of earshot. "But isn't it a bit weak? We'd better wait for the identification from the lab."

    Terry picked up some travel brochures that lay on a coffee table and read the names of the destinations: the Canaries, the South Sea - anything but Cornwall. What was more, the catalogues were for the summer season. "I hate waiting for lab results. Could take weeks. And I have a hunch that it'll be a walk in the park to solicit a confession from Carburton."

    "We have no evidence at all," Blockley voiced his doubts. "There's nothing you can tell Carburton to make him feel cornered."

    "That's not what I plan to do. I could spout evidence till Kingdom Come, and it wouldn't do any good. He's the visual type. The moment I show him -"

    Terry was cut short by Carburton, who returned with a glass of water. "Any news, inspector?"

    "News, indeed." Terry sat down on a sofa with a screaming floral pattern. "We found your wife."

    "That's, um, great. Where is she?"

    "In the morgue, alongside Mo Meyers, aka Maurice Mendelssohn."

    The big bronzed face was arranged in a display of confusion. "Are you trying to tell me in this vulgar manner that my wife is dead?"

    "Where did she die, Mr. Carburton? Here in this room? Whom did you kill first, her or her lover?"

    Carburton shot up. "What?"

    "What a shame, isn't it? They were so young and carefree." Terry held out the morgue shot of Anita with a bloated face and matted hair. He had guessed correctly. It was all that was needed to break down the man's defenses.

    Carburton glanced at the photo, paled, sank back in his chair and buried his head in his hands. "But she was so beautiful."

    "You thought you were very clever, didn't you, when you dyed her hair to alter her looks."

    Carburton looked up, pinning Terry with his charcoal-gray eyes. "Clever? That sounds as if I planned it all, a jealous, cuckolded husband taking revenge. Nothing could be farther from the truth."

    A silence fell which Terry knew better than to disrupt.

    "Do you have any idea what it means to fight a losing battle day after day? Women come to me with their hair destroyed by perms, with balky eye-shadow, with clothes that suit them neither in cut nor color. I work my magic on them. I have a handpicked team of the best hair stylists, make up artists and couturiers. My clients thank me profusely, they love me, they'd kiss my feet if I let them - but all that doesn't keep them from trampling on my efforts. The next time I see them, they've fallen back into their familiar mistakes. Just look at yourself. I told you to have your hair cut. Did you listen to me? Of course not. No one ever listens to me. They admire my craft, but they forget my advice the moment they turn their backs."

    Carburton eyes shifted; he stared in the middle distance.

    "They were sitting with their backs to the door when I came home from a hard day at work, doing my Sisyphean task. The repeated bleaching had destroyed the shine and smoothness of Anita's hair. I saw her straw-like mop and the hideous black roots, and I hated her for her total neglect of everything she'd learnt from me in fifteen years of marriage. And next to her sat her lover with his greasy ginger ponytail. The man had the cheek to bend his head and lean it against hers. When their temples touched, it was all I could do to stop myself from strangling them then and there. They were studying a map, told me they were going to Cornwall that same evening. I offered to make coffee and laced it with a narcotic."

    "Where did you get it so quickly?"

    "I take sleeping pills."

    Terry remembered Carburton's little lecture on skin texture.

    "They drank the coffee and fell asleep. It was remarkably easy. I took some time musing over how to kill them and dispose of their bodies. It had to be something clean - no blood, no ugly injuries. I carried them upstairs to the master bathroom, sat them on chairs, ran water into the wash-basins and bent them over. As I saw Anita's hair floating in the water, I decided that the least I could do for her was to make her look her very best. This time, she wouldn't have a chance to destroy my work. I cut her hair into a chic fringed bob and dyed it back to its natural color. I shaved Maurice's head because he has a nicely shaped skull. Baldness suits him better than anything one could do with his stringy red hair. I carried them to his car and drove west until I found a lonely spot where I could throw them into the River Thames." A muscle at the side of his mouth twitched. "I broke two fingernails in the process."

    "What did you do with the car?"

    "I parked it near a big shopping mall at the outskirts of London. Nobody notices a car among hundreds of other cars. I cleaned all the surfaces I'd touched, then walked to the next tube station and returned home. Over the next days, I threw away the things from Anita's and Maurice's suitcases, dumping them in several rubbish bins."

    "And you went to get travel catalogues to explain your wife's absence."

    "Right." Carburton cast a melancholy glance at the morgue shot. "If I had known how death would disfigure her . . . I'm devastated. But how could you possibly recognize her?"

    Terry looked around the mismatched room with grim satisfaction. "Anita had something on her that was better than an ID. She was wearing a green Paisley blouse, a brown skirt and a blue pin-stripe jacket."