I asked the paramedics for a cause of death, but they shrugged and said heart failure.

“Is he dead?” I heard Max say behind me.

“No, he’s just having a wee lie-down,” said James.

I asked Purdy if he had any identification and he held up a ziplock bag with a wallet in it. “This your shout?” he asked.

I nodded, took the bag, and signed the paperwork to carefully ensure the chain of custody against any future legal proceedings before stuffing the whole lot in my trouser pocket.

“Was there anyone with him?”

Purdy shook his head. “Nobody that I saw.”

“Who made the 999 call?”

“Dunno,” said Purdy. “Mobile probably.”

It’s officers like Purdy that give the Metropolitan Police the reputation for sterling customer service that makes us the envy of the civilized world.

As they loaded the gurney into the ambulance I heard Max being noisily sick.

Purdy eyed Max with the particular interest of a copper who’s facing a long Saturday-night shift and who could easily make dropping a drunk and disorderly off at the cells last at least a couple of hours. Paperwork to be done in the canteen with a cup of tea and a sandwich—curse this bureaucratic red tape that keeps good police officers away from the front lines where the action is. I disappointed Purdy by saying I’d take care of it.

The paramedics said they wanted to be off, but I told them to wait. I didn’t want to risk the body going astray before Dr. Walid had a chance to look at it but I needed to know whether this guy had been playing at the Mysterioso. Of the irregulars, Daniel looked the most upright.

“Daniel,” I said. “Are you sober?”

“Yes,” he said. “And getting soberer with every passing second.”

“I’ve got to go with the ambulance. Can you nip back to the club and get a copy of the playlist?” I gave him my card. “Call me on the mobile when you’ve got it.”

“You think the same thing happened to him?” he said. “As Cyrus, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “As soon as I know something I’ll call you guys.”

The paramedics called over, “You coming or what?”

“You all right with this?”

Daniel gave me a grin. “Jazzman, remember,” he said. I held up my fist and after a moment of incomprehension Daniel knocked knuckles with me.

I climbed into the ambulance, and the paramedic pulled the door closed behind us.

“Are we going to UCH?” I asked.

“That’s the general idea,” he said.

We didn’t bother with the blues and twos.

YOU CAN’T just deposit a body at the morgue. For a start it has to be certified by a bona fide doctor. It doesn’t matter how many bits the body is in; until your actual fully accredited member of the BMA says it’s dead, it occupies, bureaucratically speaking, an indeterminate state just like an electron, an atomic cat-in-a-box, and my authority to conduct what was tantamount to a murder investigation on my own recognizance.