17

Hawkins saw her destination at the last minute, and the ABS on her Alfa Romeo snatched at the brakes as she wrenched the wheel right. She slewed across the oncoming lane, jerking to a halt in front of the weathered brown gate, drawing an angry blast from the bus driver forced to wait because his route was temporarily blocked.

‘Met Police.’ She held her warrant card up to the window.

The driver continued waving his arms, mouthing silent expletives.

Hawkins ignored him.

Westminster Coroner’s Court was a characterful listed building of red brick and symmetrical white window frames, set behind a manicured garden that defied the concrete jungle snapping at its heavy iron fence. But the modern high street now surrounding it had compromised what was otherwise a quick journey from Streatham. Hawkins had left Frank at the station with Kask and his employees and driven as fast as she could, trimming a third off the twenty-six-minute drive.

She eased the Giulietta forwards till its bumper was almost touching the gate, as the bus driver finally barged his way past.

The gate swung inwards and Hawkins drove into the tiny car park beneath the building. Entering through a door marked Westminster Mortuary, she showed her identification to the receptionist and was directed down a narrow corridor that dog-legged into a modern extension with polished white floors and glaring lights, labelled Iain West Forensic Suite.

To find a waiting Gerald Pritchard.

‘Detective.’ The pathologist gestured at the set-up. ‘Welcome to the new home of unexplained and sudden deaths. What do you think?’

She joined him beside a sculpture that looked like a porcelain bird bath. ‘Of what?’

‘The facility. I helped in its design.’

She glanced around at the perfectly skimmed ceilings and recessed lights. ‘It’s terrific, Gerry. But I hope you didn’t drag me all the way over here to admire your frosted glass doors.’

He twitched. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good. Then can we get on with it? I have people in custody.’

‘Right.’ Pritchard adjusted his tie, which might once have been part of a sixties carpet. ‘Follow me.’

Hawkins fell in behind as he turned and headed down a small, equally bright corridor set in the rear wall. She resisted the urge to grab a handful of the pathologist’s collar and twist until he gave up his supposed discovery, but that would only play to the same sense of theatre that made him insist on seeing her face-to-face before he disclosed his revelation. And the answer was coming.