DCI Tyler had been closeted in his office since nine a.m. He was trying to contact the head of security at Harrods to organize a visit from a crime prevention officer as it was not his department. It felt ironic that petty crime seemed to be the priority at his station, even though this was the area where one of the most notorious crimes in England had taken place: the murder of Lord Lucan’s nanny and his Lordship’s subsequent disappearance. Lucan remained on the run, and there had been no sighting of him since the murder had been committed over ten years ago, well before Tyler had taken over the station.

Next, he put in a call to DI Arnold’s home and spoke to his wife, Bronwyn, asking for an update on her husband’s health. She thanked him profusely for his inquiry and his get-well card in her strong Welsh accent, and told him that Timothy had come through his kidney-stone surgery exceptionally well but was still in some discomfort. He was hoping to be able to return to work within a few days. Tyler asked her to pass on his best wishes, and was halfway to putting the phone down when Bronwyn asked if he could ensure that someone watered the plants in the window boxes at the station’s entrance.

‘Yes, of course, it’s all in hand,’ Tyler assured her, having no idea whose job it was to look after the plants. He would ask one of the typists to water them. He checked his watch, deciding it was too early to take a lunch break.

*

PC John Lee, the uniformed officer who’d been sent to investigate Mr. Foxley’s flat, had walked along Exhibition Road from the Natural History Museum, where there had been complaints about a rowdy school party waiting to go in. He turned left into Old Brompton Road, and fifteen minutes later arrived at Onslow Square.

The properties were all exclusive, a few remaining as single-family homes but the majority of them having been converted into elegant flats. As PC Lee descended the steps to the basement flat, the front door above him opened. A lady in her mid-fifties, wearing a tweed skirt and twin set and pearls, came out. She had a ruddy complexion and short, greying hair.

‘I’m Nora Compton. I called the police over an hour ago. Something is very wrong and even the dog has stopped barking now. The curtains are still closed. I’m certain something’s happened.’

PC Lee nodded and continued down to the basement. The front door was painted racing green with a brass lion’s head knocker and a brass letterplate. There was a small framed notice above it: No flyers or junk mail. Beside the front door was a large terracotta planter containing an array of well-tended plants and the patio was immaculately paved with York stone.