I had to admit that all I knew was that his first name was Tony and that he worked for Alexander Smith as muscle and that he had no neck. Subtle clues in her manner told me that Stephanopoulis was less than impressed with my police work.

“You idiot, Peter,” she said. “How could you not get his name. Everything, Peter, you have to nail down everything.”

I could hear Guleed not sniggering behind me—so could Stephanopoulis.

“I want you”—Stephanopoulis jabbed a finger at me—“to go back to West End Central and reinterview Smith about who this guy is and what he knows about him.”

“Shall I tell him he’s dead?”

“Do me a favor,” said Stephanopoulis wearily. “Once he finds out about this he’s going to shut the fuck right up and I don’t blame him.”

“Yes, guv,” I said.

Guleed asked if Stephanopoulis wanted her to go with me.

“Christ no,” she said. “I don’t want you picking up any more bad habits from him.” She looked at me again. “Are you still here?”

*  *  *

IT’S A truism that in a secure building like a police station, once you’re past the perimeter security you walk around unchallenged by adopting a purposeful stride and holding a clipboard. I don’t recommend testing this for two reasons: For one thing there’s nothing worth nicking from a police station that you can’t get easier from somewhere else, usually by bribing a police officer. And for another, it’s full of police officers who are often suspicious to the point of clinical paranoia. Even an acclaimed uniform hanger and all-around waste of space like PC Phillip Purdy. This evening he made a spectacular bid to get his name inscribed in the police book of remembrance. As events were reconstructed later Purdy, having successfully navigated his tutu-wearing prisoner into the custody suite, was on his way to the canteen to do his “paperwork” when he spotted an IC1 female walking up a side staircase in the direction of the CID interview rooms. On the CCTV footage from the stairwell he’s clearly seen calling after her and, when she fails to respond, following her up the stairs.

At just that moment, at least according to the time code from the CCTV camera in the foyer, yours truly was flashing his warrant card and getting buzzed into the building. I then head, with my Costa Coffee double macchiato in one hand and a cinnamon swirl in the other, for the central staircase and make my way up toward the same interview room—at this stage I’m one floor down.