As reason and calm, insofar as they were possible, returned, an overwhelming instinct told her that, with nothing to be done for Morahan himself, the priority, whatever the reason for his death, was to protect the original of the Sayyid folder. She assumed that, along with the Blackburn files, it must contain some sort of communication – a note or a letter – from Sayyid to Morahan. In the unexplained circumstances of his death, the police were bound to cordon off his office and conduct a search. Should they come across the Sayyid material, they would take possession of it – with unknowable consequences. This might be her only chance to secure it.

A second instinct was that the phone call to the emergency services should not be delayed too long.

Morahan was clearly dead; she could allow herself a few minutes. She recalled the moment he’d handed her the envelope with the photocopies. She approached the front of his desk and looked down. He’d taken a key from the middle drawer. It was closed. She mustn’t leave evidence that she’d opened it. She looked around for a cloth or handkerchief – anything to cover her hands. Of course, she realised, there was an easier solution. She removed her hijab and wound its silk material through her fingers so that each one could move individually. She opened the drawer. Two set of keys, probably his house and car. She pulled further – a single key lay at the right back corner. She grabbed it – it felt smooth and slithery in her silken hands. She leant down to the left pedestal and tried the key in the bottom drawer. It fitted. She began to turn it; it moved. She slid the door out.

Empty. Nothing. Bare wood.

She looked at her watch; that operation had taken nearly five minutes. How much longer could she give herself? She must remove the evidence of her tampering. Fingers sweating inside the silk, she closed the bottom left drawer. No need to re-lock it as they wouldn’t know it ever had been.

Had he moved the folder? Perhaps the original had never been there. Unless someone had already taken it.

Where else in his office could he have hidden it? She retreated to the position from where she’d had her last conversation with him and surveyed the room. Apart from the desk, there were no obvious secure places. Chair, sofa, open shelves, glass cabinets. She remembered him getting up and addressing her from the window, leaning back on the ledge. She sensed it was a place he liked to stand, whether to look outside or to talk from. Below it was a boxed in radiator with a brass grille. She approached it.