I indicated to DC Yeats that we could leave the man in peace. The mortuary attendant was close by. We waited until he had once more covered our gentleman, and then took our leave. There was a lift. Without discussion, we ignored it. That lift had carried too much tragic weight. Neither of us spoke until we reached ground level.

Police and hospital staff are frequently on good terms with each other. DC Yeats was no exception. He and I sat in the staff canteen. Stewed tea steamed from thick white cups.

Yeats took a drink. “I thought our man might be a writer, because of callouses on his thumb and forefinger. I took the head-and-shoulders drawing to publishers, and to bookshops, all along Charing Cross Road. No one recognised him.”

“That was a good thing to try though.”

“Yet he gives me the impression of being a fit man, someone who spent time outdoors, not a man who lived his life entirely at a desk.”

That was my view too. “He has enjoyed sunshine, perhaps wearing shorts or a bathing suit.”

Yeats nodded. “Still discernible, that difference in his skin colouring.”

“He has been abroad then.” The puzzle was what brought him to the place he met his end, wherever that was. “You have thoughts on time of death?”

“He was placed in the sack before rigor mortis set in. The pathologist examined him early on Saturday and thought he had been dead for less than twelve hours.” Yeats placed an attaché case on the table and gave it a tap. “There’s additional background material in here. Shall we find a more congenial place, The Savoy where you’ll be having tea?”

“Yes, let’s. But I’ll telephone to Mrs. Kerner and we can re-arrange afternoon tea. She’ll understand.” I took one more drink from the thick cup.

He did the same, but a much longer drink. “I don’t like to offend the kitchen staff. They occasionally oblige me with a late-night meal.” He smiled. “How did you know it was Mrs. Kerner that the commander wanted you to meet?”

“I would love to say that female detectives are so numerous we have formed a club, but that wouldn’t be true.”

The truth is that Annette Kerner introduced herself to me a couple of years ago. We got on very well. She dubs herself the Mayfair Detective, loves to take cases for people of high social standing, and also works with Scotland Yard. Mr. Woodhead must have had a word in her ear, and would expect her to pass on his insights. But since he had already made up his mind, and agreed a press embargo, I thought it better to start from scratch.

We pushed our chairs from the table and rose at the same time. “Mr. Yeats, depending on how long you and I need for the briefing, I’d like to catch a train to Leeds this evening.”

He nodded. As we made our way back to the entrance, he took out a notebook. “I thought you might say that. There’s a 5.45 p.m. from King’s Cross to Leeds Central, with a restaurant car, arrives 9.35 p.m. I’ll ask the receptionist at The Savoy to make a booking. Is there anyone else you’d like me to ring?”