Nicholas Mardle’s screams turned to sobs. He could speak for the first time.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s his knife,” Mark whispered to George. “There on the floor. It’s his.”

Next to the boy’s knees, the blade and metallic handle dulled by blood, was his knife.

It had all happened very quickly—the scream, the dash from the bedroom, the assimilation of the scene. They froze for a moment to take it in, then with Mark’s words the action started again. PC Martindale pushed through the three men at the door. He must have been following quickly behind them down the corridor. He checked competently that the woman was dead. He seemed unsure, then, what to do. It was obvious that Nicholas Mardle was not dangerous. Martindale took refuge in formality. Hardly looking at Mardle, he told the boy that he need not speak, but that anything he did say would be taken down and might be used in evidence against him. Nicholas seemed not to have heard him and continued to sob.

George Palmer-Jones broke away from the group of spectators and ran down the corridor. The corridor cut the upper storey of the building in two. On one side was the Lansdowns’ flat, although there was no access to it from the corridor, only from an outside fire escape and a private flight of stairs from the kitchen. On the other side were the guests’ bedrooms, in a row, each with its own door leading directly from the corridor. The dormitory was right at one end, next to the double room shared by Nick Mardle and Mark Taylor, then his own room, then Jerry Packham’s, then Pamela Marshall’s. So all the people with rooms to the north of Pamela Marshall’s were accounted for. He opened the next door to the south. It was a bathroom and empty. The next was an empty double bedroom. Blankets were folded in piles on a metal-framed bunk bed. There was no possible place to hide. He walked on, tapped at the next door and opened it. Jasmine Carson lay on the bed. Either she was an extremely skilful actress or she was asleep. Even in sleep she looked stern. On the chair next to the bed were a glass of water and two bottles of tablets; one contained pills for the relief of arthritis, the other a branded pain killer and sedative. That’s why she’s breathing so deeply, he thought. She was breathing heavily as if she were drugged. At the foot of the bed her clothes were folded carefully on top of a leather holdall. She stirred and he could see that she was wearing pyjamas, buttoned up the front like a man’s. They were made of striped winceyette. George shut the door carefully behind him. He knocked at the next door, pushed it open, looked into a small dormitory, four beds close together and a chest of drawers. He did not bother to knock at the next room and pushed open the door. Paul Derbyshire was sitting on the bed, combing his hair. He was wearing a pale blue nightshirt. He had removed his false teeth and when he looked up at George his surprise and horror were made ludicrous. His smile of embarrassment was as pink and gummy as a baby’s.