Logan sat on the sofa in an opulent lounge. White walls, oil paintings, life-sized marble statue of a tiger with bronze stripes, deep-red leather furniture, and a cream carpet. The kind of room that probably got dirty if you looked at it.

Mrs Chung stood by the oversized marble fireplace, fidgeting with the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. She was immaculately dressed in a red silk jacket and blue jeans, long glossy black hair framing a delicately featured face. An Alsatian sitting at her feet like a statue of Anubis. She cleared her throat. ‘Is this. . . Should I get you a cup of tea or something? ’

Sim took off her bowler and held it against her chest. ‘Maybe you should have a seat.’

‘Oh no. . .’

Even though he’d won, Logan stood. ‘Mrs Chung, did Anthony have any distinguishing marks? Any tattoos, or something like that? ’

‘Oh no, no, no, no. . . Please. . .’ She clutched a hand over her chest, scrunching the scarlet fabric into a fist.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chung, but we believe we found Anthony’s body last night.’

She stared down at the coffee table. Rocking back and forward. ‘No.’

He took a step towards her. ‘PC Sim’s right, you should. . .’ Logan froze. The Alsatian was on its feet, teeth bared – a deep, bowel-loosening growl directed right at him.

He backed away, slow and careful. No sudden moves. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

Sim’s right hand slid down to the small canister of pepper-spray clipped to her belt, never taking her eyes off the dog. ‘Do you want us to call someone for you? Your husband? Relatives? Maybe a friend? ’

She just stared at them. ‘Anthony can’t be dead. He can’t.’

A rattling clunk came from the hall outside the lounge – someone coming in through the front door – followed by an American accent, ‘Honey? Thought we’d go out tonight. You know, bit of a celebration? ’

Mrs Chung sank down onto the arm of a scarlet sofa, the dog still growling at Logan.

‘What’s eating Enfield? ’ The living-room door opened. ‘Sounds like. . .’ A small man in a pastel-green polo shirt froze on the threshold, a sports bag in one hand, greying short-back-and-sides slowly retreating up a high forehead. He blinked at PC Sim, standing there in her police uniform and the smile died on his lips. He took a deep breath, then took off his glasses and hung his head. ‘I see.’

‘Ray,’ Mrs Chung placed a hand against her chest, one hand fanning her face, ‘tell them Anthony can’t be dead! Tell them.’

Raymond Chung stood at the study window, overlooking a perfectly manicured garden, the borders and bushes aglow with flowers and shining leaves. ‘I. . . I must apologize for my wife, Kim gets. . . She dotes on Anthony.’ His hands trembled at his sides. ‘Doted.’

Logan settled back against the large teak desk. ‘Please: there’s nothing to apologize for. It must have been a horrible shock.’