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pocket of a linen jacket and four pounds thirty-three pence in change from the back pocket of a pair of jeans. But there was nothing much else. If the man had credit cards or a driving licence he would probably have been carrying them with him in a wallet. And if the occupant of the room was indeed their mystery corpse, that wallet was either in the possession of whoever killed him or at the bottom of the river.
    Wesley pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began to examine the room in more detail. But there was nothing much to find. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste still stood in a glass in the en suite bathroom beside an electric razor. Mr Evans, whoever he was, hadn’t decided to stay with friends or a woman he’d just met if he had left these essentials behind. It was looking more and more likely that Evans was their man. He could feel it in his water, as Gerry Heffeman would say.
    They left the room, closing the door carefully behind them, and made their way down the thickly carpeted stairs to Fellowes’s office. He invited them to sit down but no tea was offered, much to Wesley’s disappointment. Gerry Heffeman would have demanded some but Wesley lacked his audacity.
    Wesley drew a photograph from his pocket and handed it to Fellowes; a picture of the corpse, tastefully arranged so as not to alarm the sensitive. ‘Is this Mr Evans?’
    Fellowes went pale and nodded. ‘Is he … ?’
    ‘I’m afraid so. I suppose you have an address for him?’
    ‘Of course.’ Fellowes wrote the address on a piece of
     
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    paper and handed it to Wesley. ‘He arrived the Sunday before last and booked in for a fortnight, saying he might want to stay longer. He gave us his credit card details. Usual practice.’
    ‘In case the guest disappears without paying?’ said Rachel.
    ‘A precaution.’
    ‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ Wesleyasked. ‘Did he say why he was here? What his line of work was?’
    Fellowes shook his head. ‘I presumed he was down here on business but I’ve told you all I know, I’m afraid.’ Fellowes assumed an apologetic look.
    ‘I’ll arrange for some officers to come over and talk to the staff and the Other guests. He might have talked to someone.’
    Fellowes looked alarmed. ‘I hope they’ll be discreet. Our guests…’
    ‘You won’t even know they’re here,’ he said with a reassuring smile.
    Wesley studied the piece of paper in his hand. Evans’s initial was P and the address was in south-east Londoh. The only thing he knew about the district was that it had once been a no go area but now it was facing an invasion of young professionals courted by developers of smart warehouse-style apartments. It wasn’t an area he knew well: London was a big place. One of the reasons he had been glad to get away from it.
    As they left the Tradmouth Castle Hotel they saw two uniformed constables making for the entrance. ‘Will you tell them or shall I?’ he said to Rachel.
    Rachel did the honours: Fellowes would still be convinced that the two CID officers had rushed there in answer to his call. Why disillusion the man?
    They returned to the office, to report their findings but Gerry Heffeman was still in his budget meeting. He’d be in a foul mood when he got back, Wesley thought. Budget meetings always affected him that way.
     
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    After sending a couple of DCs back to the Tradmouth Castle to interview the staff and guests, Wesley made for his desk and tapped the name P. Evans and the address into the computer. If Evans had been convicted of any crime under that name, the details would come up in a matter of seconds.
    But he drew a blank. P. Evans, whoever he was, had either been a law-abiding citizen or he’d never been caught. But at least Wesley had an address. And he had friends in not so high places.
    His heart began to beat fast as he picked up the telephone. It was a long time since he’d spoken to his old friend in the Met, Pete Jarrod - now, like Wesley,