She tried to read him for underlying meanings, but he was very good at a poker face.
"Very well," she told him. "And it's Isabelle, Thomas."
"Due respect, guv ..."
She sighed impatiently. "Oh for God's sake, Thomas. What did you call your last superintendent behind the scenes?"
"Sir, mostly. Other times it would have been guv."
"Fine. Wonderful. Well, I'm ordering you to call me Isabelle when we're alone together.
Have you an aversion to that?"
He seemed to consider this, the aversion bit. He examined the door handle on which he'd already placed his hand. When he looked up, his brown eyes were candidly on her face and the sudden openness of his expression was disconcerting. "I think „guv' gives a distance you might prefer," he said. "All things considered."
"What things?" she said.
"All things."
The frank look they exchanged made her wonder about him. She said, "You play your cards quite close, don't you, Thomas."
He said, "I have no cards at all."
She snorted at this and got into the car.
PAOLO DI FAZIO'S studio was near Clapham Junction. This was south of the river, he told her, not terribly far from Putney. Their best course was to drive along the Embankment. Did she want him to give her directions?
"I think I can just about manage the route to the river," she told him.
Paolo di Fazio himself had indicated where to find him. Upon being contacted he'd declared that he had given them all the information there was to give about himself and Jemima Hastings, but if they wanted to spend their time going over old ground, then so be it. He'd be where he was most mornings, at the studio.
The studio turned out to be tucked into one of the many railway arches created by the viaducts leading out of Clapham railway station. Most of these had long ago been put to use, being converted from tunnels into wine cellars, clothing outlets, car repair shops, and - in one case - even a delicatessen selling imported olives, meats, and cheeses. Paolo di Fazio's studio was between a picture framer and a bicycle shop, and they arrived to find its front doors open and its overhead lights brightly illuminating the space. This space was whitewashed and set up in two sections. One section appeared to be given over to the early work that went on when an artist took a sculpture from clay on its way to bronze, so there were masses of wax, latex, fibre glass, and bags of plaster everywhere, along with the grit and the grime one might associate with working with such substances. The other section accommodated workstations for four artists, whose pieces were currently shrouded in plastic and likely in varying stages of completion.
Finished bronze sculptures had places in a row along the centre of the studio, and they ranged in style from the realistic to the fantastical.
When they came upon it, Paolo di Fazio's style turned out to be figurative, but of a nature that favoured bulbous elbows, long limbs, and disproportionately small heads. Lynley murmured, "Shades of Giacometti," and he paused in front of it, and Isabelle glanced at him sharply to gauge his expression. She had no idea what he was talking about, and she absolutely hated a show-off. But she saw he was taking out his spectacles to give the sculpture a closer look, and he seemed unaware that he'd even spoken. She wondered what it meant that he moved round the sculpture slowly, looking thoughtful. She realised yet again that he was impossible to read, and she additionally wondered if she could actually work with someone who'd so mastered the art of keeping his thoughts to himself.
Paolo di Fazio wasn't in the studio. Nor was anyone else. But he entered as they were having a look at his work area, which was identifiable by more of the masks - similar to those he made in Jubilee Market Hall - that stood on dusty wooden pedestals upon shelves at the rear.
Specifically, they were having a look at his tools and at his tools' potential to do harm.
Di Fazio said, "Please touch nothing," as he came in their direction. He was carrying a take-away coffee and a bag from which he brought out two bananas and an apple. These he placed carefully on one of the shelves as if arranging them for a still life. He was dressed as he'd been dressed when they'd earlier seen him: blue jeans, a T-shirt, and dress shoes, which as before, seemed an odd