He is pleased to see her. Doctor Jones isn’t like the others. She isn’t afraid of him. She isn’t jittery like the nurses and support staff and cares only for his well-being.

She places a thermometer in his ear, measures his heartbeat, checks the monitors by his bed and begins to write on a form attached to a clipboard.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something,’ he says.

‘What would that be?’

‘You’re a learned woman.’

‘I have my moments.’

‘You have an appreciation of art.’

Her eyes flicker to his. ‘Is that a question?’

‘Tell me. When you look at a piece of art do you wonder if it’s an imitation of reality or an expression of the artist’s emotions?’

She peers at him over the clipboard. ‘That would depend on the art. I would say that great art is a combination of both.’

‘Mmm. I thought you might say that.’

‘Then why ask?’

‘I wanted to hear your opinion.’

She slips the clipboard under her arm. ‘I hope I have not disappointed you.’

‘Not in the slightest. I was also wondering . . .’ He holds her gaze and smiles. ‘Gunther von Hagens . . .’

‘Who?’

‘German anatomist. Invented plastination, a technique for preserving flayed bodies and body parts. All above board and academic too. There is a returning exhibition of his work at Tate Modern next week. When I get out of here I thought perhaps you’d like to come with me?’

‘That’s very considerate of you, however, I expect as is the norm I will have precious little time off and you might be relaxing at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

‘Yes, that might impede our plans.’

‘If you need anything, please call the nurse.’

‘Thank you, Sarah.’

She checks her wristwatch and leaves, passing the two uniformed sentinels that guard his room. One of them looks in at him with wide bunny-like eyes. It’s the heavy officer with the awkward gait.

‘Hello again, PC Simpson.’

PC Simpson winces and quickly looks away.

‘Did you pass on my message to her, PC Simpson? I hope you did.’

PC Simpson doesn’t reply. Instead he pulls the door closed.

He wakes sometime later to a dimly lit room and the deafening silence of hospital night-time. He senses a tremor in the air. Something is out of place. He listens and hears the soft measured breathing of another person.

He isn’t alone.

He blinks and turns to his right. Someone watches him from the shadows. The knife wound in his stomach seems to burn and he shudders.

‘I didn’t think you would come,’ he says.

Detective Inspector Grace Archer steps closer to the bed and looks down at him with a cold expression.

‘I hope you won’t get into trouble for paying me this unusual night-time visit?’

‘What do you want?’

He smiles at her. ‘First, I wanted to congratulate you, and second: what did it feel like with Bernard Morrice?’