I knew as soon as I saw them sitting at their old table, surprisingly small and situated at half past one in relation to the band. There was a trio of bottles arrayed on it—one each. I had a pit in my chest and a ringing in my ears but I made myself go down the stairs to check. They were still in the clothes they’d been wearing when they’d left, but they’d done their best with lipstick and mascara to make themselves look presentable. Later tests by Dr. Walid indicated that they’d done the deed with alcohol and phenobarbital, the formulation matching the empty tablet strips found neatly stowed in Peggy’s handbag.

Suicides are rarely pretty, but the sisters had managed to avoid slumping or lolling or dribbling vomit down their fronts. I think they would have been satisfied with the tableau they created—three bright young things caught just on the cusp of their futures. I was so angry I had to force myself to stop and breathe deeply before I could carry on.

Simone’s eyes were open. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and I had to brush it back so I could put my fingers on her throat. Her skin was only slightly cool, and the time of death was later determined to have been approximately twenty minutes before I’d arrived—about when I was discussing comparative ethics with Nightingale. This close to her, I could smell honeysuckle and brick dust. But the music, which I only now realized had been there all the time, had gone.

I didn’t kiss her or anything like that.

I didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene.

Chapter 14 - I Woke up this Morning

THIS IS how you get out of bed the next day. You push off your duvet, rotate your body, put your feet on the floor, and stand up. Then it’s have a wee, have a bath, get dressed, go downstairs, eat breakfast, talk to your boss, practice your forma, eat lunch, smack the shit out of the punching bag in the gym, shower, get dressed, get in the Ford Asbo, and head into town to make sure that your face is being seen. You do this because it is your job, because it’s necessary, and because, if you’re honest, you love it. Repeat this process until the bad dreams stop or you just get used to them—whichever comes first.

There was a coroner’s report on their deaths, which ruled that they had committed suicide and so the sisters won a brief moment of fame as a suicide pact. But nobody in the media was so interested that they did any investigation beyond that. Nightingale handled the follow-up inquiry with the aid of a couple of detective constables on loan from Westminster CID, one of them my favorite Somali ninja girl. They couldn’t be told that the victims were immortal jazz vampires, so it was down to me to take the story back to the war.