He had been right, they were the only ones in the bar other than a man with an iPad who did not look up. Outside, the temperature had already dropped below freezing and the landlord was topping up the fire with fresh logs.

‘How are things?’ Serrailler raised his glass. They sat at a table away from the blaze.

‘Overstretched. Too many “causes unknown”, too many elderly dying alone having been apparently fit when seen the previous day. Always natural causes but . . .’

‘Hypothermia?’

Adam nodded. ‘Too much of that as well. '

He was a medic Simon had known for ten or so years, a six-foot-four hefty prop forward with a broken nose – the sort of doctor Cat always marked down as an orthopaedic surgeon. ‘Brawn and saws.’ But Adam was a tender-hearted soul, always emphasising that he did not deal with bodies but with people – who just happened to be dead. He taught his students respect first, anatomy later, he had invented a technique which cut the time it took to do a couple of procedures and was both highly regarded and well liked.

‘I gather there’s a vacancy for the top job.’

Adam gave him a look. ‘Thought it might be about Shenfield.’

‘He’ll be replaced presumably?’

‘He’d better be – not so much in terms of seniority as just numbers. We need at least three more pathologists and we’ll be lucky to get one.’

‘Think you’ll move into his shoes?’

Adam shrugged. ‘I ought to but my guess is they won’t replace at top level.’ He finished his beer and held out the empty glass.

‘So what’s the story,’ Simon asked, setting down the second round of drinks, his own being a tomato juice, but Adam lived a couple of hundred yards from the pub so he took up his fresh pint enthusiastically.

‘It’s a bit odd – muddy waters and nobody’s sure exactly . . . off the record by the way?’

‘Yes, except if there’s anything I need to act on I will, with your name kept out of it. You know the score.’