“I’ll talk to Maggie about the sergeant’s post—”

“Don’t bother unless you really want it,” Ridley ended as he pushed his way through the heavy rubber doors into Will’s stark, white, sterile labs beyond.

Foxy was oblivious to the tension between Ridley and Jack. In his domain he barely even noticed that other people were in the room when he was on a roll. Without bothering to say hello to his visitors, he pointed to Sheila, lying flat on his back on the table in front of them.

“The DNA sample I took from his bone marrow hasn’t turned up any matches in the national database. So, if you can find me a direct or familial DNA sample to match it to, I’ll tell you who Sheila is. What I can tell you is that he was dead before the fire started, because there’s no smoke in his lungs.” Foxy flicked the wall-mounted light box on, backlighting an X-ray of the man’s skull. “The blow to the back of the head is what killed him. The fracture itself is extensive and this darkened patch directly beneath the fracture is the resulting intracranial hemorrhage. He’d have died quickly. What’s left of his teeth tells me that he’s late thirties to mid-forties. I broke his hips and knees to straighten him out, so I can also tell you that he’s five foot ten on the right side and a foot shorter on the left.”

With a howl of laughter, Foxy threw the severed, bagged left foot at Jack—who instinctively caught it before dropping it onto an empty mortuary slab once he realized what it was.

“Prick,” he mumbled, trying not to laugh in case Ridley was still in a bad mood.

But Ridley was laughing, too. He seemed different with Foxy—far more casual. Perhaps because there was no crossover between them, no stepping on each other’s toes. Ridley couldn’t do Foxy’s job if his life depended on it, and vice versa. All that left room for was pure, mutual admiration.

Foxy carried on talking. “Based on what’s left on the bones, I’d guess Sheila was 160 to 180 pounds, something like that. And he’s white. So, no ID, but a great starting point for missing persons. You’re most welcome.”

“Take that description back to the squad room and get them to put it into Missing Persons. Off you go.”

Ridley dismissed Jack with a wave of his hand.

It was a long day of desk and phone work, but on his way home, Jack took a detour through Hackney to drop in on Kenneth Moore, the Formula One engineer who had worked with Jimmy Nunn back in the seventies. Jack had an address, but no phone number, so he had his fingers crossed that Ken was in.

Outside the tower block, he called Maggie and left her a voicemail.

“I’m going to be working late, so if you fancy a takeaway around midnight, I’ll bring one back with me. Text me if you can and . . . well, if you can’t, I’ll see you in the morning. Love you Mags.”