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Denton stood.
    ‘Were you in CID?’ Denton said.
    ‘Used to be. Metropolitan, not City. Then I was crippled. ’ He hesitated. ‘Fell off a roof.’
    ‘Line of duty?’
    ‘Pointing the chimney at home.’
    Denton went out. Munro had never smiled, he realized. Nor, he guessed, had he.
     
    Detective Sergeant Willey barely knew Munro, as it turned out, but was glad for a chance to get out of the bustle of Bishopsgate Police Station and sit down to listen to Denton’s ‘evidence’. He had a clerk there to take it down in shorthand, along with the questions and answers that followed, all the things that Denton had already been over in his own mind. Willey, long-headed, stooped, tired, was as sceptical as Atkins, but he was polite because Denton was at least nominally a gentleman. ‘Many thanks,’ he said when they were done. ‘We appreciate citizen cooperation. Every bit of information of value.’
    Denton wondered how many murders the man had investigated, as he seemed nervous and defeated already. Contrary to what Hench-Rose had thought, Denton knew London pretty well, could have told him that the Minories were in the City if he’d stopped to think about it - knew, too, that City police probably spent most of their time on business crime, not murder.
    Denton said, ‘I’m afraid I’d like something in return.’ Willey’s face froze. ‘That’s why I originally went to Mr Hench-Rose. Is it possible for me to see the corpse?’ That idea had come to him as they had talked. Why did he want to see a mutilated female corpse? Emma had swum into his consciousness; he had refused to believe there was a connection.
    ‘Absolutely not.’ Shocked.
    ‘Isn’t there going to be a post-mortem?’
    ‘Of course.’ Stiff now, defending the procedures of the City Police.
    ‘Post-mortems are sometimes open.’
    ‘Mr Denton!’ Willey leaned towards him, hands clasped on the scarred desktop. He had hairy backs to his hands, dark curls like wires springing out. ‘This is a sensational case. Do you really think we want details of the poor woman’s body known to civilians?’
    ‘There’ve been a good many descriptions already, and she’s dead. Plus, she was a tart. Anyway, I’m not about to write about it. I simply want to—’ He wanted to say to know what frightened Mulcahy , but Willey would misinterpret that, he was sure. So he said, lamely, ‘To follow up.’
    Willey was a cynic, like most policemen. ‘Oh, yes?’ he said in a tone that said everything about men who wanted to see post-mortems on female bodies.
    ‘To compare it with what the man told me.’
    ‘That’s police business, and you’re to stay out of it.’
    ‘Where’s the post-mortem?’
    Willey stood. He was two inches shorter than Denton but secure of his mastery on his own turf. ‘We’re done here.’ He nodded to the clerk, who got up and went out. ‘Thank you for your information, Mr Denton. I’ll show you out.’

     
    Denton went back to Hector Hench-Rose, missing his lunch - it was now after one - and so accepting Hector’s offer of scones because the hangover had turned to nausea, and got from him the information that the post-mortem on Stella Minter’s body would be at St Bartholomew’s Hospital at two, with Sir Frank Parmentier wielding the scalpel. Hector found this out only by sending five messengers in as many directions to other offices. ‘You owe me a lunch,’ he said when he’d got the news.
    ‘How do I get into the post-mortem?’
    ‘Oh, do you really want to? Well, as it’s at Bart’s, it’s probably in the theatre and so open to the students. You could just go in, probably, but—’ He took a piece of rather grand letterhead stationery and scribbled on it, signed with a huge and illegible flourish, then sent the young man off to get it stamped and initialled by the commissioner’s clerk.
    ‘Won’t it be under City Police control?’
    ‘The worst they can say is no, Denton.’ He twitched his ginger