Her first sharp intakes of breath, and a repressed shriek of ‘Oh God!’, multiplied into a violent thumping of the heart and bile rising in her throat. Her stomach seemed literally to be dropping, her bowels involuntarily loosening. She turned and sprinted for the toilet, some trick of memory recalling the impact of a soldier’s fear before going into battle. Afterwards she removed her scarf, washed her hands and face, checking in the mirror that this was still her true self – intact, unaltered, survived. She tied the scarf back on, breathed deeply and regularly, telling her heart and brain to calm.

She walked back into the open-plan area and sat down. What mattered was not to panic. First, she must steel herself to go back into his office, switch on the main light to confirm what had happened, then remember to switch it off again. She’d been sure when the first outline of the figure came into view that it had to be Morahan; it was there in the shape and length of the body and legs. But, even as she touched him, she’d only managed the most fleeting look at him before retreating.

Back in his office, under the main light, she inspected his face. It hung backwards and upright from the sofa arm on which his neck rested, staring blankly at the ceiling. Around the neck was a tightly buckled belt. She felt an urge to release it, to unshackle him. But she knew enough not to touch anything; there was no doubt he was lifeless.

The back of Morahan’s hair dangled limply like loose tassels from a damp mop, the angle of his head allowing the strands to fall separately in slim branches from his collar. His eyes were open and blank, his cheeks and forehead pallid. She could see purple around the base of the neck. She had a sense that he had not been dead for long; the timing of his text meant it must have happened within the last hour and a half. Her eyes ranged briefly over his body to confirm the partial lowering of his trousers and pants. The penis lay surprisingly long between his legs. She caught a strange whiff… like paraffin.

She should phone an ambulance and the police without delay. She withdrew to the door, switched off the main light and made a quick tour of the floor. The Legal office was untouched and the Archive door remained locked. There was no sign of disturbance in the open-plan area. Pamela Bailly’s office door was still locked. She scanned the ground from the windows on both sides of the open-plan area. No evidence of people or movement or cars or bikes. She moved a hand towards a phone, then hesitated. She was alone, no spectators inside or out. She sat down to think.