Norman just gave Shefford a foul look; he no longer bothered answering questions that presumed he was telepathic or had X-ray vision. He looked around the room and called to an assistant, “Right, body-bag!”

Two men lifted the body into the black plastic bag. Shefford winced and averted his head, shocked at the disfiguration of her face. He had seen only her profile, which was hardly recognizable as human; her nose and cheek were a mass of clotted blood and the eye was completely gone.

“Not a pretty sight,” said Norman, without emotion.

Shefford nodded, but his voice was muffled as he replied, “She was, though—pretty. Her name’s Della Mornay. Booked her myself when I was on Vice.”

Norman sniffed. “Yeah, well, let’s get her out of here an’ down to the mortuary. Quicker I get at her, faster you’ll get results.”

Even though he had asked once, Shefford could not stop himself repeating the question, “Was she raped?”

Norman pulled a face. “Fuck off, I’ll tell you everything you wanna know after the post-mortem.” He stared around the efficiency while the bag was closed and the body lifted onto a stretcher. “They’ll need a bloody pantechnicon to take this lot down to Forensic. You had breakfast? You’d better grab some before you schlepp over to me. Gimme a couple of hours.”

With a wave, Shefford shouldered his way to the landing. He paused and turned his back to the uniformed PC as he swiftly transferred a small object into Otley’s hand. No one had seen him slip it from under the mattress. Otley quickly pocketed the little book.

It was not yet dawn, but the street was just as lively when Shefford left the house. The spectators watched avidly as the stretcher was carried to the waiting mortuary van and the police brought bag after bag of evidence from the house. Mrs. Salbanna and Shefford himself had both identified the corpse.

The Scenes of Crime officers, or SOCOs, had started fingerprinting every possible surface, covering most of the room in a film of gray, shining dust. They were none too happy; many of the best spots had been carefully wiped.

After snatching a quick breakfast in the canteen and detailing Otley to make sure the Incident Room was being organized, Shefford was at the mortuary by nine o’clock. DI Frank Burkin and DC Dave Jones joined him there to discuss the day’s itinerary. They sat in the anteroom of the main laboratory, all but Jones blatantly disregarding the large NO SMOKING notices.

While they waited, John Shefford used the payphone to call his home. It was his son’s birthday the next day and Otley, the boy’s godfather, wanted to know what to buy him. His wife, however, had more on her mind.

“Have you booked the clown for Tommy’s party, John?” Sheila asked. “I gave you the number last week, remember?”