‘Asian guy, fit looking, sharp hairdo.’

‘Not sure, maybe out the back. The nightshift people are just going.’

Gillard slipped through into the service area. He recognised three of the five women working there. There were no men. He moved past into the kitchen. The main chef, a Cypriot called Miko, was up to his elbows in flour.

‘Can I help you, Craig?’ he asked. The detective lifted a finger to his lips and nodded beyond where Miko was standing, to a sink at which two young Asian men were tackling a stack of saucepans. As Gillard approached, one turned and saw him.

It was him.

Despite the kitchen uniform and hairnet, the new red-framed spectacles, the buzz-cut hair, and the clean-shaven look, Gillard had no doubt that this was Zayan Lal. And the fugitive exploded into action, heaving the pressure cooker he was washing straight at the detective. Gillard’s reflex duck saved him from the impact of the heavy metal saucepan, but not the scalding lash of the hot water within it. Blinded for a moment, he then saw Lal grab a huge knife from the drying rack and come for him. Gillard, constrained in the galley layout, backed along the central island. Hooks above him held various kitchen implements, and the detective flung in rapid and noisy succession a ladle, a colander, and a milk saucepan. A large wok he kept as a shield, while yelling for assistance.

Lal threw the knife, which clanged off the wok, and raced away out of the rear kitchen door. Gillard went in pursuit, only to be tripped by a kitchen bin that his fugitive had tipped behind him as he ran. The detective skidded out through the fire exit and into a narrow piece of waste ground which ran between the refectory and the forensic unit. Through the ground floor window Gillard could see Townsend’s research intelligence team, working away trying to trace Zayan Lal’s movements, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the suspect himself was sprinting just two feet away past the window. A couple of puzzled-looking heads came up as Gillard went in pursuit. The strip of land ran out thirty yards on, against a disused, single-storey, brick lean-to. Lal didn’t slow at all, but leaped onto the ledge of the bricked-in window, then vaulted onto the corrugated sheeting roof.

Gillard managed to get onto the window ledge, but hauling himself onto the roof looked a bit tricky. He looked to his left, and saw half a dozen of his forensic colleagues staring out at him as he clung on to the rickety plastic guttering. Someone opened the window and yelled at him. ‘Put too many sugars in your coffee, did he?’

There followed a gale of laughter.

Bested, the detective dropped off, onto the ground, managing to land reasonably neatly. He did an elaborate bow to his audience, and then shouted: ‘The murderer of Mrs Roy is on the roof. Can someone call the dog team? Thank you.’