“He was wearing a college scarf. In May? Bit odd, I thought. Perhaps he was flaunting his credentials? Wanted to be noticed? Anyway, it was blue and green with a silver stripe. I had a lesson in college colours at Ede and Ravenscroft. Such charming gentlemen they have in there. Is that the man you’re interested in? The reason for all this palaver? I thought we’d get there. Well, good luck with that one! He’s not someone I’d like to tangle with, not without a blackjack in my hand.”

At his request, she gave him her telephone number and he gave her his card, asking that she should contact him to let him know of Abel’s safe arrival back home.

Thoday looked at his watch and decided to stay in the taxi, watching as she skipped in through the crowd towards the ticket office, followed by her porter and her luggage. Why had Edith Hardy fed him such an overflowing portion of codswallop? Did he really look that stupid? Perhaps it was the moustache that gave him an unserious air.

Confident that she was not doubling back, he turned to the cabby and redirected him back in to town. “Addenbrooke’s Hospital, please,” he said. There was just time for a quick survey of the tramp’s effects. Shouldn’t take long, he reasoned. Tramps travelled light.

Minutes later, he was at the morgue, being welcomed by an assistant. Dr. Beaufort wasn’t available, but he’d left all the effects at Thoday’s disposal, and the corpse itself was still in the cold room, should the sergeant need to inspect it, or indeed have someone identify it. “Oh, and the doc said to tell you to give the label a whirl . . .”

Thoday emptied the bags out onto the bench provided and sorted them into piles. Very little here. Every garment had a pathologist’s label pinned on it with an identifying number and the occasional comment in Beaufort’s writing. Some of these were perceptive to the point of pernickety, Thoday judged. Look at this one here. Sock found on left foot: hole in toe. Favours left foot? Not so with shoes. Right foot shows heavier wear. Worth checking? Thoday sighed. So he’d forgotten to trim his left toenail. That, or the socks—or could it be the shoes?—were secondhand. And that went for every other bit of clothing. The greatcoat and the suit were both good quality. Bought at a market stall? Donated by some generous and well-off person to one of the many charities for the homeless in town? No way of knowing. This was hopeless.