Jane slowly straightened up, rubbed her shoulder and stared down the corridor. Everything was very quiet. No Sarah Smith had come striding after him, seeking retribution. Nor were there any sounds of distress. No sounds at all, in fact. Was she still there? Rigid with rage, perhaps. Or was she too upset to move? She might even have been taken ill.

Jane wavered in a familiar welter of social embarrassment. What should she do? Tactfully walk away and do nothing? Go and offer Smith some assistance? But how could she do that without revealing she’d heard every word? No, she should go and see if she could help her. It was the right thing to do. Eventually, after a number of false starts, she straightened her shoulders and – walking very slowly, prepared to turn back at any moment – she turned the corner.

And really, really wished she hadn’t.

Sarah Smith lay on her back in a pool of dark, wet, shining blood. And it wasn’t just on the floor. A great gush had sprayed all the way up the wall and across the ceiling – a constellation of blood – shockingly scarlet against the Time Police beige.

Jane’s first reaction was one of disbelief. There was blood everywhere. How could one person hold so much? Her training dictated she should move calmly forwards and deal with the situation, but all her stupid brain could do was run and re-run the famous quotation: ‘Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’

And then came the guilt. Was it possible that Smith had been bleeding to death all the time that she, Jane, had been standing around the corner, too embarrassed to move?

Slowly, on legs that felt too weak to hold her and trailing her hand along the wall for support, Jane moved towards the body. Smith’s eyes were open. For a moment Jane grabbed at the thought she might still be alive after all. She licked suddenly dry lips and forced herself to look properly at the body. The hope died. Someone had cut Smith’s throat.

Kneeling carefully on a blood-free patch of carpet, she struggled to put aside the shock and recall her first-aid training. First – she should check for signs of life. Her fingers felt rubbery as she picked up Smith’s hand and fumbled for a pulse, but there was nothing. No movement of the chest. She stared at those glassy, lifeless eyes. Sarah Smith was definitely dead.

She swallowed down the impulse to throw up. Not here. Not now. Closing her eyes, she took two or three deep breaths to try and clear her head.