‘Ugh,’ says Barker, ‘how come you eat so much of that crap?’

‘Sir,’ says Lockhart, swallowing.

‘Why don’t you go over and get a pasty for God’s sake, they’re much more healthy for you. I hope your mother raised you to brush your teeth regularly.’ Barker stops where he stands and his expression takes on a philosophical air. ‘When you think about it, all we really are is teeth.’

Lockhart gives Barker a querying look.

‘Yes, think about it, son,’ Barker says, warming to his topic. ‘DNA doesn’t count because that’s everything, and invisible, it’s just science, and I know there’s fingerprints but think how quickly they go – decomposition I mean.’ Lockhart has an image of insects, many types of insect but blowflies mostly, hiding in eyes and mouths and nostrils. Thanks for that, sir, he thinks. ‘So discounting fingerprints,’ Barker continues, ‘it’s really all about teeth.’ Barker bares his own teeth in a grin that has only a fleeting relationship with mirth. ‘Show me yours.’

‘Sir?’

‘Show me your teeth.’

Lockhart runs his tongue over his teeth and pushes his lips letterbox-shaped.

‘Thought so,’ says Barker. ‘They aren’t any whiter than mine, it’s just the skin contrast. You’re lucky, you know, you lot, must save you money on cosmetic dentistry.’

Lockhart wants to say, that will be You Lot with a capital Y and a capital L then, meaning all Asian or part-Asian people all over the world who regardless of age, class or geographical location all have the same characteristic because we just do. He does not share this thought with his boss. Instead he says mildly, ‘I must admit I’ve never thought of it that way, sir.’

Barker claps his hand on Lockhart’s shoulder. ‘Stick with me, son, you’ll learn a whole load of things you’ve never thought of.’ He is sort of taking the mickey out of himself at this point. ‘How’s the report coming along?’

Lockhart swivels in his chair and taps the pile of papers with his forefinger. ‘Nearly there. Off to the hospital to pick up the pathology report, then we’re all done.’

Barker hitches his right buttock onto a neighbouring desk and folds his arms. ‘And what about that other one, find anything out?’

Lockhart is pleased he is asking, knowing his boss to be a little sceptical about his interest in the other death.

‘Spoke to CID,’ Lockhart says. ‘They checked her phone records. She didn’t call anyone in the moments before but she’d left a suicide note, boyfriend saw it too late.’

Barker looks at him. ‘And …’

‘And something about it still doesn’t smell right.’

Leyla.

Barker gazes at his young PC. I watch the way he looks at him and I know that he is thinking of his younger self, how the one thing he learned was to trust his own instinct, to follow his nose. There are some young officers, perfectly decent ones, who just want to come in and do their hours and get the pay cheque, which is perfectly understandable of course, and there are some who have a nose, and having just speculated on Lockhart’s teeth he is now thinking about his nose – physically a slender, rather fine nose. It’s a good nose.