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years.’
    ‘And you’re in the civil service, I was told. Ministry of Defence.’
    He glared. ‘You’ve been talking to my neighbours.’
    ‘Is it top secret, then, your work?’
    ‘Not at all. I’m an office worker. I don’t like being talked about, that’s all.’
    ‘Do the talking yourself, then. You’re single?’
    ‘Yes. It is allowed.’
    Diamond waited for more, and eventually got it.
    ‘In case you’re wondering, I do have women friends, and they sometimes stay the night, and that’s allowed too, even in the Paragon.’
    ‘Were you sleeping alone last night?’
    ‘Unfortunately, yes. But I expect you got that already from my talkative neighbours.’
    ‘Actually, no. There was no gossip.’
    ‘Otherwise I’m a model of respectability, educated at Sherborne and Oxford, a non-smoker, vegetarian, church-goer and I serve the community as a teller at elections.’
    ‘Where did you learn to shoot?’
    ‘The school rifle club, along with most of my contemporaries. It’s not unusual in public schools.’
    ‘He’s smooth and he’s smart,’ Diamond said to Halliwell on the way down the stone steps. ‘I don’t expect to find anything in the car, but some of his prints will come in useful.’

4
    A ny policeman will tell you the worst duty of all is informing the next of kin. Traditionally the young bobby straight out of training gets the job and his more experienced colleagues tell themselves they had their turn when they were recruits and can delegate with clear consciences.
    Peter Diamond bucked the tradition. Years ago as a fresh-faced rookie in the Met he’d served his rites of passage, knocking on a door in Hammersmith to inform an elderly couple that their only son had been killed in a hit and run. In those days you were given no advice how to break the news. You improvised as well as you could. With mixed results. He’d done it ineptly. The parents had assumed the worst when they saw him in uniform solemn-faced at the door, yet, after repeatedly rehearsing what he would say, he’d stumbled over the words and – sin of sins – got the name of the deceased wrong, calling him Mike when he should have said Mark. ‘That isn’t our son,’ the man had said, clutching at any straw. Diamond had been forced to stumble through his piece again, causing even more distress. That night he’d drunk himself legless. The memory was still vivid and painful. He’d resolved never to ask an inexperienced officer to do the job.
    In the near-panic after the Walcot Street shooting, with every available officer called to the scene, no one had visited Harry Tasker’s next of kin. The thing had to be done urgently, before the story broke in the media.
    Others may have thought of it and kept quiet. Diamond was the first to speak out.
    The uniformed sergeant he raised it with said, ‘God, yes. We should have done this an hour ago. I’d better find someone.’
    ‘Do we know who the next of kin is? Was he married?’
    ‘Married, yes, or in a partnership for sure. He lived near the old gasworks off the Upper Bristol Road.’
    ‘I pass there on the way to work,’ Diamond said. ‘Is there anyone on the strength who would know the partner?’
    ‘Unlikely. Harry was a quiet guy. A bit of a loner, in fact. We’ll just have to send one of the young lads he worked with.’
    ‘We won’t.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘Get me the address. I’ll break the news. I’ve done this before.’
    His part of the investigation was on hold. Each of the potential witnesses in the Paragon house had been seen and Keith Halliwell was interviewing the neighbours. Until the search of the basement flat and garden was complete, little else could happen. Nothing would be gained from standing over the crime scene investigators.
    The Upper Bristol Road is busy, dirty and noisy and has some oddly named addresses, like Comfortable Place, which has the look of an almshouse and actually houses a fitness centre. Just behind Comfortable Place stands