He glanced towards Jane and she tapped her notebook. ‘When we discovered how well-known Mr. Foxley was, we contacted the press office and we got a lot more background information.’

Spencer nodded. ‘Guv, Foxley was forty-two years old and divorced from Justine Harris. They have one daughter, aged ten, called Clara.’

Jane lifted her hand. ‘She’s apparently at boarding school, guv. We got a fax detailing a lot of press releases saying his ex-wife was living in the marital home in Barnes, valued at 1.5 million pounds.’

Tyler whistled.

Spencer added that the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency had confirmed that Foxley owned a Jaguar XK120 sports car and an eight-year-old Volvo estate. Usually the cars were kept in the garage in Barnes. He had a parking permit for Onslow Square.

Jane interrupted. ‘According to Companies House, guv, Foxley & Myers had a turnover of 2.3 million pounds last year.’

Tyler puffed out his cheeks. ‘Oh shit, this is getting nastier by the minute. It’s going to be a right handful to deal with.’

‘We also know that Foxley & Myers employed four subsidiary agents, two receptionists and three secretaries,’ Jane added.

All three turned as DC Dors called out that he had something of interest. They watched the fax machine slowly coughing out numerous black and white photographs of Justine Harris.

Dors carried the pictures over. ‘She’s a famous actress,’ he said. ‘She was in Upstairs, Downstairs.’

Tyler just stood there, looking wrecked. He turned to Jane, loosening his tie.

‘Right, Justine Harris needs to be contacted ASAP to give us a formal fucking identification.’

Jane raised her hand. ‘Sir, I have been calling her home and the number for her in Barnes, but I’m getting no reply.’

‘Well, keep trying. And in the meantime I could do with a coffee and a sandwich from the canteen.’

Tyler went into his office and gestured for Spencer to join him and closed the door.

‘I’m not pissing around when I say we need a press blanket on this. If the victim is who we think he is and knows all these famous people, the journalists will be crawling all over us like bed bugs.’

‘Didn’t his wife ID him for you, guv?’

‘For Christ’s sake, I told you the woman was hysterical. Anyway, she couldn’t see his face properly. There was so much blood you couldn’t even tell what color his hair was. I don’t know if you also took on board that he had a handcuff on his right wrist. It’s gone with him to the mortuary. Poor old Lawrence reckons it is going to take a couple more hours at the very least. If we can’t get hold of Justine Harris we need to find someone else to ID him. Or we’ll have to get his fucking dentist to do it.’