“Why? Because I wrecked your UK trip by getting arrested, I can’t keep my nose out of other people’s business and I’m not even smart enough to think up good excuses for it?”

“No, actually, it’s because you’ve got endless bottle.”

“Some would say stupidity,” Lindsay remarked.

“Then they’d be wrong.”

“I’m not so sure. I suspect it’s pretty dumb to rely on the tradition that coroner’s officers are generally the nicest guys on the force. That’s why they get the job—because they have to spend their time dealing with bereaved families.” The lift arrived, and they got in. “I guess I’ll think of something when I’m staring into the whites of his eyes,” Lindsay added with a nervous grimace.

“He really will be Mr. Nice Guy, will he?” Sophie asked.

“Probably,” Lindsay said gloomily. “Which will make me feel like a real shit. Lying to the bad guys is no problem. But taking advantage of the good guys always leaves my self-respect in shreds.”

“Have you got any university ID with you?” Sophie asked. “Something that attaches you to the university without being specific as to subject or faculty?”

Lindsay patted her shoulder bag. “My library card and my researcher’s pass for the stacks. Never leave home without it.”

The lift shuddered to a halt and the doors opened. “Good. Just in case. For once, you follow my lead, sweetheart,” Sophie said. “Busk it.”

“You play glockenspiel, I’ll play drums,” Lindsay muttered as she followed Sophie out of the lift. At the end of the short corridor was a half-glazed door with “Coroner’s Officer” stencilled in gilt Olde Englishe lettering. Sophie tapped on the glass and they walked in. Three walls of the room were lined with filing cabinets that stretched to the ceiling. The fourth wall was a window, its view blanked out by the mist. Behind a cheap, chipped desk, a burly middle-aged man sat, flanked by precarious heaps of files. He looked up from the form he was filling in, and a broad smile lit up a creased, wind-burnt sailor’s face. Lindsay suppressed a groan.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said in a gruff voice, his Lancashire accent noticeable even in those few words.

“Good morning, officer,” Sophie said, returning the smile with interest. She produced her wallet and flipped it open to the pass that revealed her to be a member of the medical staff of the Grafton Clinic, San Francisco. “I’m Dr. Sophie Hartley from California. I wrote to you about six weeks ago regarding a research study that my colleague and I are currently doing the groundwork for.”

The policeman’s smile faded and a look of surprised bafflement took its place. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, “but I don’t recall any letter like that.”