His own flat, high above the Thames at Queenhithe, was within walking distance, and he turned his eyes towards the river. Even if he had time or needed to go there, he knew he wouldn’t find Emma. Although she had a key she never visited the flat when she was in London unless he was there. It was, he knew, part of her unspoken and careful distancing of herself from his job, a wish that amounted almost to an obsession not to invade his privacy, a privacy which she respected because she understood and shared it. A lover was not an acquisition or a trophy to be possessed. There was always some part of the personality which remained inviolate. When they first fell in love, she would fall asleep at night in his arms, and he would stir in the small hours, reaching for her but knowing she was no longer there. It was to the guest room that he took her early-morning tea. This happened less often now. At first the separation had worried him. Inhibited from asking her, partly because he feared to know the answer, he had arrived at his own conclusions. Because he didn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t speak openly about the reality of his job, she needed to separate the lover from the detective. They could talk about her Cambridge job and frequently did, sometimes happily arguing, because they shared a passion for literature. His offered no common ground. She wasn’t a fool or over-sensitive, she recognised the importance of his work, but he knew that it still lay between them like unexplored scrubland dangerously mined.

He had been on the roof for less than a minute. From this high and private place, Rhoda Gradwyn would have watched the dawn touching the City spires and towers and painting them with light. Now, climbing down, he joined Kate.

He said, “We’d better get started on the files.”

They seated themselves side by side at the desk. All the boxes were neatly labelled. The one named Sanctuary Court contained her copy of the complicated lease—now, he saw, with sixty-seven years outstanding—correspondence with her solicitor, details and quotations relating to redecoration and maintenance. Her agent and solicitor both had named files. In another, under Finance, were her bank statements and regular reports from her private bankers on the state of her investments. Looking through them, Dalgliesh was surprised how well she was doing. She was worth nearly two million pounds, the portfolio clearly balanced between equities and government securities.

Kate said, “You would expect to see these reports in one of the locked drawers. She didn’t seem worried that an intruder might find out exactly what she was worth, probably because she thought the house secure. Or perhaps she didn’t greatly care. She didn’t live like a rich woman.”