It was surprising how different all the agents’ offices were to each other. Charles Foxley’s office, although the same size as Myers’, was more like a study in someone’s Victorian manor. There was a giant oak desk with claw feet, cabinets bursting with manuscripts, old bound-leather books and numerous faded photographs covering the walls. There was an exercise bike and on top of the original, worn fitted carpet was an expensive antique Persian rug. Instead of a desk chair there was a wing-back chair covered in worn fabric with three equally worn cushions on the seat. A matching wing-back chair was on one side of the desk and on the other, a leather studded sofa. Two dog baskets and dog bowls were on the other side of the desk and there were dog hairs everywhere. There was also a wooden carved waste-paper basket, still full of screwed-up pages. Foxley’s desk displayed an array of slightly tarnished, silver-framed photographs that seemed to be of family and friends. On the desk there was also an old leather blotter, a Rolodex, a portable typewriter, and stashed in one corner a large electric typewriter and a fax machine.

‘We better not take anything from here without a warrant,’ she said, looking around the room.

Spencer was already flicking through the Rolodex. ‘Where’s his diary?’ He pulled open one of the drawers in the oak desk. ‘Bloody hell.’

Jane came over to look. ‘What?’

‘Vitamins. I’ve never seen so many vitamins in my life! There’s every kind in here. Vitamin B, Vitamin C, D. Oil of primrose. A blood pressure band . . . ’ He shut the drawer and opened the one beneath it. It was full of bags and tins of dog food.

Jane continued to look around the office, which somehow felt very decadent. It was so different from the elegant basement flat where Foxley’s body had been found. It also did not appear to be very clean. Everything seemed to be covered in dog hair.

‘Well, I can’t see any diary,’ Spencer said.

‘I’ll go and ask Emma.’

Jane closed the door behind her as Spencer began to sift through a wastepaper basket full of screwed-up papers and some torn typed notes. He started cramming them into his pockets and whipped around as Jane walked back in.

‘Caught me!’ He grinned. ‘But it’s only rubbish so we won’t need a warrant.’

‘We might need one for Mr. Foxley’s diary,’ Jane said. ‘According to Emma Ransom, it was a large red leather-bound thing with Foxley’s initials in gold. She also mentioned that all the agents were supposed to leave their diaries on their desks in case someone needed to check them.’

Spencer stuffed the last few papers into his pocket. ‘Funny it’s not here, then. On our way out I’ll ask Angie if she can track it down for us.’

*