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future Smales thought twice about trying to steal his professional thunder. Rafferty, who had tried and failed on various occasions to get Smales to control his schoolboy enthusiasm for corpses—whole ones, anyway—wasn't averse to trying a harsher method.
    “You know me, Sam,” he remarked airily. “Like you, I'm all for encouraging the young. Of course he can go. Just give me time to wheel in a replacement.”
    Sam, not being a believer in compromise, went for the full complement of victims. “You'll be there, of course?”
    Rafferty made his excuses. “Afraid I've got too much to do at this end.” Besides, he was damned if the old bugger was going to get two sacrificial victims for his officially-sanctioned sadism. “Seems our late cadaver is not only likely to be seriously unlamented, but would have brought up the rear in a popularity contest that included the entire ranks of both Labour and Tory parties. Anyway,” he added waspishly, as Sam's knowing grin made him forget his earlier wise resolution, “you”ll hardly need me. Not with young Dr Smales there to hand you your knives.”
    Thankfully, just then, Llewellyn interrupted to let Rafferty know that the key holder had arrived and he was able to make his escape before Sam was tempted to stick a knife into
him
.
    “So what killed him?” In the way of Americans, Hal Gallagher, the key holder and deputy manager, was upfront with both curiosity and questions.
    Rafferty was surprised to find an American at such a small firm; he had always considered them a go-getting people and he thought it unlikely go-getting tendencies would find much scope at Aimhurst And Son.
    Although now obviously pushing sixty, with little worry lines radiating out from his eyes, Hal Gallagher still had a fresh-faced ruddiness that was more usually seen in a younger man. He had a rangy figure that would look more at home riding a horse than an office chair. “Was that guy I saw going out the sawbones?”
    Rafferty nodded. He wondered how long the American had lived in England; he had certainly lost little of his accent, which sounded as rough as the Brooklynese Rafferty was familiar with from the American films he had devoured in their hundreds in his youth.
    He drew Gallagher along the corridor to the empty office. Llewellyn followed. “You must prepare yourself for a shock,” Rafferty said. “I'm afraid Clive Barstaple was almost certainly poisoned. Of course, we'll know for sure after the post-mortem.”
    Gallagher whistled softly. “You mean somebody waste-killed him I take it?”
    Rafferty was amused at Gallagher's gangsterese. It sounded like a throwback to an earlier era and he wondered if the American had consciously adopted more vigorous expressions as a way of retaining his identity so far from home. “Let's put it this way—he's dead, and if our supposition as to the cause is correct, no one in their right mind would choose this particular poison as a means of suicide. Nor does it seem likely that Mr Barstaple took it by accident.” Rafferty paused. “You don't seem very surprised, Mr Gallagher.”
    Gallagher shrugged. “I guess I'm not. Clive wasn't a real nice guy.”
    Rafferty nodded. “Tell me, sir, have you any idea what else—apart from the nut yoghurt that was discarded in his wastebin—Mr Barstaple might have eaten today?”
    Gallagher frowned. “There was a large dish of prawns defrosting in the kitchen this morning. I guess they were Clive's. He generally went out for lunch, but he's been on a diet for the past few weeks and tended to stick with the kind of stuff that didn't need cooking, like supermarket prawns, smoked salmon and so on. Nothing but the best for Clive.”
    Rafferty nodded again. Seemed Barstaple's diet was a happy coincidence for somebody. He'd already checked the kitchen. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. He mentioned as much to Gallagher. “Would Mr Barstaple have washed the plate and cutlery himself?”
    Gallagher laughed.