‘A vague indication of possible motive,’ confirmed Lofthouse. ‘That Spatley was worried about being listened in on, that he might have been about to do … something.’ The room they were in was clean and plush, all leather on the desk, panelling on the walls, wooden floors. Outside was a more modern cubicle space, where Treasury civil servants worked. Lofthouse, Quill noted, did what she always did when she entered a crime scene: went to touch the walls, as if measuring something. He found himself wondering if that had anything to do with her mysterious links to the Continuing Projects Team from the Docklands ruins. They were meant to be architects, weren’t they?

She saw him watching her, and dropped her hand from the wall. ‘What?’

Quill shook his head. ‘Things I am not allowed to ask you about.’

‘You know I wouldn’t conceal anything that could harm your team.’

‘Then—’

‘But I’m really not going to go into it. I can’t. Okay?’

Quill could only force a dissatisfied smile.

Lofthouse pulled on a pair of evidence gloves and threw another pair to Quill. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘let’s get started.’

They started by turning out the desk drawers, looking under them, tapping them for false bottoms. ‘You know, when you said I didn’t need to bring one of my officers—’ began Quill.

‘You thought you’d be doing this on your own?’

‘Kind of.’

Lofthouse gave him a look of mock annoyance.

A young suit stepped into the room, saw they were there and reacted in shock for a moment, then obviously remembered who they were, made his apologies and left.

‘That,’ said Quill. ‘That.’

‘What?’

‘Spatley felt this place had been searched. But even with him deceased, civil servants have to keep popping in here. No search that went unnoticed could have been very thorough. And it can’t have been done by anything invisible and occult, because that couldn’t have got in here.’

‘We are in a Ripper-free zone.’

‘A suspect still on our Ops Board – that is, Tunstall – came in here for regular cups of tea. Nobody would have paid attention to him popping in when Spatley wasn’t about.’

Lofthouse stopped what she was doing. ‘And do you know what I would have said if I was Tunstall and I’d just been accused of murdering someone I’d had regular cups of tea with?’

‘I’d say I’d never do that, that we were friends,’ said Quill, feeling as if he wanted to slap her heartily on the back or something equally inappropriate. ‘But Tunstall hasn’t seen fit to mention that, has he? It’s as if he knows that drawing attention to his close relationship with Spatley, and mentioning that he popped in here for tea and sympathy, might implicate rather than exonerate him.’