‘We won’t bother with a viewing room, seeing as we’re the only ones here,’ said the mortician briskly. ‘Light’s best in the middle,’ he added, positioning the trolley just beside the drain, and pulling back the sheet.

The body of Rochelle Onifade was revealed, bloated and distended, her face forever wiped of suspicion, replaced by a kind of empty wonder. Strike had known, from Wardle’s brief description on the telephone, whom he would see when the sheet was revealed, but the awful vulnerability of the dead struck him anew as he looked down on the body, far smaller than it had been when she had sat opposite him, consuming fries and concealing information.

Strike told them her name, spelling it so that both the mortician and Wardle could transcribe it accurately on to clipboard and notebook respectively; he also gave the only address he had ever known for her: St Elmo’s Hostel for the Homeless, in Hammersmith.

‘Who found her?’

‘River police hooked her out late last night,’ said Carver, speaking for the first time. His voice, with its south London accent, held a definite undertone of animosity. ‘Bodies usually take about three weeks to rise to the surface, eh?’ he added, directing the comment, more statement than question, at the mortician, who gave a tiny, cautious cough.

‘That’s the accepted average, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out to be less in this case. There are certain indications…’

‘Yeah, well, we’ll get all that from the pathologist,’ said Carver, dismissively.

‘It can’t have been three weeks,’ said Strike, and the mortician gave him a tiny smile of solidarity.

‘Why not?’ demanded Carver.

‘Because I bought her a burger and chips two weeks ago yesterday.’

‘Ah,’ said the mortician, nodding at Strike across the body. ‘I was going to say that a lot of carbohydrates taken prior to death can affect the body’s buoyancy. There’s a degree of bloating…’

‘That’s when you gave her your card, is it?’ Wardle asked Strike.

‘Yeah. I’m surprised it was still legible.’

‘It was stuck in with her Oyster card, in a plastic cover inside her back jeans pocket. The plastic protected it.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘Big pink fake-fur coat. Like a skinned Muppet. Jeans and trainers.’

‘That’s what she was wearing when I bought her the burger.’

‘In that case, the contents of the stomach should give an accurate—’ began the mortician.

‘D’you know if she’s got any next of kin?’ Carver demanded of Strike.

‘There’s an aunt in Kilburn. I don’t know her name.’

Slivers of glistening eyeball showed through Rochelle’s almost closed lids; they had the characteristic brightness of the drowned. There were traces of bloody foam in the creases around her nostrils.

‘How are her hands?’ Strike asked the mortician, because Rochelle was uncovered only to the chest.

‘Never mind her hands,’ snapped Carver. ‘We’re done here, thanks,’ he told the mortician loudly, his voice reverberating around the room; and then, to Strike: ‘We want a word with you. Car’s outside.’