She left him alone in her office, and let him get on with sorting the dossiers. A staffer brought him a cup of something over-brewed and over-sweetened late in the afternoon. By then, he was pinning things to the walls, and had switched to paper to make his notes. He accessed Macks’ cogitator, and called up some city-plan maps.

Macks came back just as it was getting dark outside.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to show you.’

She seemed cheerful, upbeat.

‘Something I have to show you first,’ she said.

Macks led him down to the morgue. A crowd of officers and uniformed staffers had gathered, and there was almost a party atmosphere. Falken was passing round bottles of contraband amasec, so everyone could take a slug.

‘Here he is!’ Falken cried. ‘Magos Biologis Dresher!’

There was some clapping.

‘Drusher,’ Drusher said.

‘Whatever,’ Falken said, putting his arm around Drusher’s shoulders. ‘Couldn’t have done it without you, friend! Really, you were on the money! Eh? What do think? Is this a… a…’

‘Carnodon,’ Drusher said, painfully aware of how big Falken was beside him, squeezing him in the hug.

The felid had been laid across four gurneys, heavy and limp in death. Its tusked snout seemed to grimace, as if it, like Drusher, wished it was somewhere else. Small, dark punctures in its belly showed where Falken had shot it.

‘May I?’ Drusher asked, and Falken let him go over and examine the beast. The crowd turned back to toasting and laughing.

It had once been a wonderful thing, master of its world, afraid of nothing. An apex predator. Drusher smiled sadly as he thought of the phrase. A big specimen too, maybe five and a half metres body length, nine hundred kilos healthy body weight. But at the time of its miserable, hunted death, it had been less than six hundred kilos, emaciated, its ribs poking out like tent braces. It was old too, post-mature. The coat was raddled by sarcoptic mange and laden with lice, fungus and parasites. Drusher ran his hand along its flank anyway. So knotted, gristly, starved. He peeled back the black lips and examined the dentition.

‘Where did you get it?’ he called out to Falken.

‘In the cellars under the Lexicon,’ Falken said, coming over. ‘We got a heads-up. We’d circulated your picture, you see. Thanks for that. I went in, saw it, and boom-boom.’

Drusher nodded.

‘Truth be told,’ Falken said, dropping his voice, ‘it didn’t put up much of a fight. But I wasn’t taking any chances.’

‘I understand.’

Falken turned back to the crowd.

‘For Onnie Rimbaud, poor bastard!’ he cried. ‘This one’s for you, son!’

Falken offered the nearest bottle to Drusher. Drusher shook his head.

‘Thanks for your help, Dresher,’ Falken said.

‘Drusher.’

Macks came over.