The fire alarm in the club went off—it was time to move on. Me and the irregulars did the fifty-yard nonchalant stroll around the corner onto Frith Street in Olympic-qualifying time. It was late enough by then for the tourists to have gone back to their hotels and the streets were noisy with lads and ladettes.

James got in front of me and made me stop walking.

“This has something to do with Cy’s death, doesn’t it?”

I was too knackered to argue. “Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“Did someone do something to Cyrus?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “If you’d just finished a gig where would you go?”

James looked confused. “What?”

“Help me out, James. I’m trying to find this trombone player—where you would go?”

“The Potemkin has a late license,” said Max.

That made sense. You could get food there, and more important, alcohol, up until five o’clock in the morning. I headed down Frith Street with the irregulars in tow. They wanted to know what was going on—and so did I. James in particular was proving dangerously canny.

“Are you worried the same thing is going to happen to this trombone player?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”

We turned into Old Compton Street and as soon as I saw the flashing blue light on the ambulance I knew I was too late. It was parked outside a club, the back doors were open, and judging by the leisurely way the paramedics were moving about the victim was either unharmed or very dead. I wasn’t betting on unharmed. A desultory crowd of onlookers had gathered under the wary eye of a couple of PCSOs and a PC I recognized from my time at Charing Cross nick.

“Purdy,” I shouted and he looked over. “What’s the griff?”

Purdy lumbered over. When you’re wearing a stab vest, equipment belt, extendable baton, nipple-shaped helmet, shoulder harness, airwave radio, cuffs, pepper spray, notebook, and emergency Mars bar, lumbering is what you do. Phillip Purdy had a bit of a reputation as a “uniform carrier,” which is a copper who’s not good for anything but wearing the uniform. But that was all to the good—right now I didn’t want effective. Effective coppers ask too many questions.

“Ambulance pickup,” said Purdy. “Guy just dropped dead in the middle of the street.”

“Let’s have a look?” I made it a question. It pays to be polite.

“Are you working?”

“I don’t know until I have a look,” I said.

Purdy grunted and let me past.

The paramedics were just lifting the victim onto their gurney. He was younger than me, dark-skinned and African-featured—Nigerian or Ghanian if I had to guess, or more likely had a parent from one of those places. He was dressed smart, khaki chinos, custom suit jacket. The paramedics had ripped open an expensive-looking white cotton shirt in order to use the defibrillator. His eyes were open, dark brown, and empty. I didn’t need to get any closer. If he’d been playing “Body and Soul” any louder I could have roped off the street and sold tickets.