‘We’ve got those post-mortem results back.’ Ajay de Vaz planted one buttock on the sticky side of the desk. ‘You’re going to want to hear this.’

‘Uh.’ Sasha pointed vaguely at his bum. ‘I wouldn’t—’

Eager to share the forensic pathologist’s conclusions, Ajay didn’t hear her. ‘Andrew Dean died instantly from massive internal injuries consistent with being hit by a train, no great surprise there. And he was very intoxicated – his blood alcohol level was nearly 300 milligrams. He was a big lad, six foot tall and over a hundred and fifteen kilos, but it’s pretty amazing that he even managed to get to the station.’

‘A hardened drinker.’

Detectives from Sasha’s team had gone to the Hockley pub where Andrew Dean had spent the hours before his death. The landlord had provided names and addresses of regulars who had witnessed Dean being abusive to various people. He’d pestered a couple of women, the landlord said, and increasingly made a nuisance of himself with everyone, which is why he was eventually thrown out.

‘So in all likelihood Dean drunkenly fell into the path of the train,’ said Sasha. ‘Despite the mysterious person on the platform.’

‘No,’ said Ajay. ‘He had hydrochloric acid in his eyes. He was blinded.’

Sasha sat back in her chair. ‘Holy cow.’

‘And, wait, that’s not all.’ Ajay was enjoying his big reveal. ‘There were burns on his forearms, neck and lower stomach.’

‘Burns?’

‘Scorch marks, very localized, in several places. I’ll send the images to you. The train driver said the figure on the platform was holding a walking stick, remember? What if it wasn’t a walking stick, what if it was something else?’

Sasha realized she was still clutching the soggy clump of tissue in her fist and dropped it discreetly in the bin at her feet. ‘Go on.’

‘Dean was drunk, very drunk, and most likely unsteady on his feet. Then he was blinded.’ Ajay made vicious movements with one arm, as if he was prodding with a pointy thing. ‘And herded into the path of the train.’

‘With a cattle prod.’ Sasha sat up quickly. ‘Okay, then. Let’s go over his flat, speak to friends and family. As of this moment, we treat his death as a homicide.’

She thought again about the man she had glimpsed in the crowd at Hockley station. Stephen Gosling was a petty criminal who had done time for numerous offences, including dealing drugs and shifting stolen goods. It could be a pure coincidence that he was passing Hockley station this morning, but the name she had seen on his list of known associates on the PNC had immediately rung alarm bells.

‘Let’s find our nosy friend Stephen Gosling and speak to him.’

Detective Constable Craig Power came over and stood behind Ajay, waiting to speak to her.

‘You don’t have to queue up, Craig,’ she told him. ‘I’m not an ATM.’

He dropped photos on the desk. ‘Do you want the bad news or the bad news?’