“So, the body would have to have been dumped there after ten?” Dr. Burns asked.

“That’s right.”

Dr. Burns nodded and took out his thermometer. “There is one other thing . . .”

“That the victim is dark-skinned?”

“Yes. Middle Eastern, I’d say. We don’t usually get many people from that part of the world around these parts.”

“True enough,” Banks said. “I was just thinking about that, myself. It’ll make identifying him either easy or bloody impossible. Either way, we’d better brace ourselves. I have a feeling this is going to be a big case.”

ZELDA KNEW that something was wrong the minute she entered the lobby of the unassuming building on Cambridge Circus late that Monday morning. There was usually just one man at the reception desk, and if it was Sam, she would breeze by with little more than a smile and a hello. Today, however, Sam was absent, and the lobby was crowded with strangers, mostly plainclothes police, by the look of them. She was asked for identification and the purpose of her visit twice before she was even allowed to get into the ancient lift. Fortunately, her ID card worked when she put it in the slot, and the lift groaned into life. A woman in a navy-blue suit accompanied her in silence all the way up to the third floor.

When the lift disgorged them, Zelda found yet more unfamiliar faces. It was nearly lunchtime, and she knew that by now the others would have been at work since nine, but everyone had congregated at the far end of the long office, and nobody seemed to be working at all. She didn’t even need her pass to open the main door; it was propped open with a wedge. The woman who had been with her nodded brusquely and went back down in the lift.

Two people Zelda didn’t recognize sat behind the glass partition of Hawkins’s office. The man who sat at Hawkins’s desk was gray-haired, red-faced and portly, wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and what Zelda took to be an old school, or regimental, tie. He gestured for her to come in and sit opposite him. A woman, rather severe and buttoned-up, Zelda thought, sat by the side of the desk, at an angle to them both.

“And you are?” the man asked. His accent was every bit as plummy as Zelda had expected, but his voice was high-pitched, producing a strange, squeaky effect. That made it harder for her to take him seriously, and she could tell that he was a man who clearly wanted to be taken seriously. A detective, undoubtedly.

“I think it might be better if you told me who you are first,” Zelda said.

“Oh, dear. Has nobody explained?”

“Not yet.”

“There’s been a bit of trouble.” The man fumbled in his inside pocket and brought out an official government identification card. “I’m Paul Danvers,” he said. “National Crime Agency.” The photo on the card matched his face.