‘In London. His name is Ilya Pietrov, Ukrainian by birth and known to the EU police, but judging from your description of him, I think you probably know him as Igor. Unfortunately, he’s dead. I’ll be sending an officer down to you with a photograph to see if you can identify him. I’m afraid it’s not pretty to look at.’

‘What happened?’ I asked. Bill came to sit on my lap as if he wanted to know too.

‘He was picked up on CCTV, a few days ago, getting out of a taxi opposite St Thomas Hospital. As he was crossing the road towards Accident and Emergency, he was mown down by a hit-and-run driver in a dark-coloured BMW, which was later found abandoned.’

‘Was he killed outright?’ I asked.

‘More or less. But he wasn’t well to begin with. He was suffering from sepsis, probably a result of dog bites for which he had never received proper medical attention. Anyway, the good news is, forensics have matched his prints to some found in the house of Mr Albert Evans, definitely placing him at the scene on the day of the murder.’

‘But nothing that links him to Nick?’ I asked.

‘Not so far. I’m sorry.’

I thanked the inspector for telling me, promised to look at the photograph, and put the phone down. I dialled Paul’s number straight away, to tell him the news, but there was no reply from his mobile, so I left a message. I was reluctant to try his landline in case Carrie picked up the phone. I didn’t want to make any more waves in that department.

Later that morning I went round to Ricky and Morris. I’d agreed to help with an urgent order for costumes for Twelfth Night, but was delayed by the arrival of two female police officers – the same two who’d interviewed me about Verbena’s jewellery – with the photograph.

‘And was it him?’ Ricky’s voice floated from behind a clothes rail jammed tight with costumes, his precise whereabouts undetectable save for the occasional rustle as he searched for the one he wanted. ‘Was it Igor?’

‘It certainly was. It was a head and shoulders shot taken in the mortuary. He looked horrible. Mind you,’ I conceded, brushing at the velvet collar of a cloak with a stiff brush, trying to remove traces of old stage make-up, ‘he didn’t look too pretty when he was alive.’

‘He must have been suffering.’ Morris spoke with a pin pressed between his lips as he worked on a repair. ‘I mean,’ he added, removing the pin, ‘to have reached a point where he was prepared to risk getting caught in order to seek medical treatment.’

‘A risk Vlad wasn’t prepared to let him take,’ I added. ‘He killed him to shut him up.’