‘Kate Greenlaw. She’s a twenty-three-year-old “Exotic Dancer”.’

Clarke rolled her eyes, although she was careful that the girl didn’t see it. She thought Simms looked pale. She asked him to show her the crime scene and he led her through to Harry Baskin’s office.

Simms talked Clarke through the facts: ‘The lad, Cecil Rhodes, was shot at point-blank range. From the doorway, here.’

A Forensics officer kneeled by the door, his tape measure stretching several feet from a filing cabinet spattered with blood. Clarke realized that Simms had been waiting for her; though his confidence over the last year had grown, he still valued a second opinion, especially in something as serious as a shooting. As things stood either one of the victims might die, and Eagle Lane would find themselves in the middle of a murder inquiry. It was a wonder that no one was dead already; there was blood everywhere.

‘You can tell from the blood smears on the cabinet that he was hit from this angle,’ the Forensics officer said.

‘Were either Rhodes or Baskin armed?’ Clarke asked, addressing Simms.

He shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Someone they both knew?’

‘Or they were taken by surprise. Looks like a hit to me – see.’ He gestured to the pile of notes scattered on the desk and floor. ‘Unlikely to be a robbery.’

‘Better get that accounted for,’ she said.

Clarke had never been inside Baskin’s office before. Oddly enough, it was not dissimilar to Mullett’s – smaller of course, but wood-panelled with garish furniture and an over-the-top leather chair, trappings typical of the terminally self-important. However, the super’s office had certainly never been sprayed with blood, and she’d never seen as much as a pound note in there either, while there must be at least five grand lying scattered around the desk and on the floor.

‘Any witnesses?’

Simms was at the window, impatiently rattling the latch. ‘The girl was the only other one here. She’d arrived with Rhodes at 9.30, him to admin the takings from last night and she to practise her moves. Baskin was already here when they arrived and she was under the impression he’d been here all night, slept in the office.’

‘So, did she hear the shots?’

Simms finally opened the window, releasing the metallic stench that was starting to claw at Clarke’s throat. ‘Claims she didn’t see or hear anything.’

‘Silencer?’

‘Possibly. Or maybe she shot them?’ Simms proffered.

Clarke pulled a doubtful face. ‘An old lag like Harry, it could’ve been any number of people. He’ll have run up dozens of enemies over the years.’

A cigar, half smoked, lay resting on the blood-soaked carpet by the side of the oak desk. ‘What sort of shape was he in when they found him?’

‘Unconscious but alive. He’s a tough old bird. He took a bullet to the shoulder. Just the one, though.’

‘Just the one …’ Clarke repeated, following Simms’s line of thought. ‘If it was a hit, you’d think they’d shoot again, just to make sure.’

‘Exactly,’ Simms said, his brow furrowed. Then, for the first time since she’d arrived, he seemed to look at her properly. There was an awkward pause. ‘How’s your day been going?’ he asked; though he must have known full well – Sanderson’s foot was all over the airwaves.

‘A foot in a field,’ she replied with mock jauntiness. She wanted to ask about the funeral, knowing that’s where he’d been, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so.

‘A foot,’ mused Simms, as if it were nothing more unusual than finding a lost dog. He wasn’t interested in her, she realized; he was consumed by the here and now, this bloody mess.