Half an hour later she was re-entering the office – card pass, floor code, door open. A couple of ceiling lights – left on overnight for security, she assumed – guided her through the open-plan area to the passage leading to Morahan’s door. It was slightly ajar, a streak of light escaping onto the wood-effect floor. An old man working through the night on his unexpected adventure. What had he discovered? She assumed it was connected to Sayyid; perhaps he had revealed himself, was even behind that door, unmasked. She listened for voices or whispers. Nothing.

She knocked gently and eased the door part-way open. The desk was empty, illuminated by an anglepoise light and a lamp beyond in the far corner. Blinds were drawn over the picture window. He must have popped out for a breath of air. She closed the door and retreated to the open-plan office to await his return.

She reminded herself that at the end of the passage beyond Morahan’s door were the emergency stairs which also led down to the car park. As it was the exit and entrance nearest his office, she guessed that he might use them. She went to check. The emergency exit door was firmly in place. For fear of setting off an alarm, she decided not to test it by pushing the bar. Turning round, she thought she’d better check his office again.

A squeak – something moving behind her? She whipped round. Nothing.

Unnerved, she silently retreated, trying to conceal herself by hugging the corridor wall. She scanned her own office – no one, no sign of movement, no spirit of the night. Pamela’s office door locked tight. No movement beyond, no other doors open. It must be her imagination. A door hinge creaking, wind beating against a window, a water pipe gurgling, a building emitting a groan.

She returned to Morahan’s office and pushed the door further open – no change. She entered and did a visual sweep right to left ending on the sofa, now in shadow, where she had been talking to him just a couple of hours before.

In that shadow lay a prone figure.

Chapter 12

12

The head lolled over the sofa’s arm, the body sprawled across its breadth. In the dimness she could make out two legs stretched wide apart. One lay on the sofa cushions, the other dangled down to the floor, the foot still in a dark grey sock resting on the carpet. The shape gave no sound or movement. Creeping closer, she saw that the trousers, still loosely belted, were lowered down to mid-thigh, a flaccid penis extending back from just above the belt.

Sara stretched out an arm and with the back of her hand lightly brushed his forehead. It was cold; no movement or reaction. Withdrawing the hand, her skin touched strands of lifeless hair. She recoiled.