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hear different. OK?’
    â€˜If there is somebody there, do you want me to get a statement?’ asked Masters.
    â€˜No, just sit on ‘em. With a bit of luck we’ll be over ourselves before long, as soon as Old Nick has called in here.’ The younger officer left without further question and immediately afterwards a police car drew into the yard with the divisional detective superintendent and his inspector.
    The DDS was a famous character, known as ‘Old Nick’ to everyone from youngest cadet up to the Commissioner.
    Born Nicholas Meredith, his black Mephistophelian eyebrows, long menacing face and dark hair had clinched his nickname from the day he joined the force.
    Tall, even above the lankiest constable, he had habitually to stoop to get down to the level of other people, and this hunched stance added to his air of malevolence. He rarely smiled, his reaction to any sort of humour being a deepening of his habitual scowl; his closer colleagues knew that this was an act assumed in his earlier days to compensate for self-consciousness and had by now become an ingrained habit. His worth as a detective was undoubted and his appointment to one of the ‘plum’ divisions as chief of detection spoke for itself.
    He listened silently to the story, short as it was.
    â€˜What did the doctor say about it this morning?’ was his first question. The Welsh accent was still strong after all his years in London. As he looked at the wound, which Edgar once again displayed, Grey told him that they had done nothing yet in the way of investigation.
    â€˜Right, then you’d better start. Grey, get the Yard to send the photography and print men to meet us at this flat, as soon as they can get there. Have you sent anyone over there yet?’
    Grey, thankful for having anticipated this need, said that his sergeant was there.
    â€˜You’re the coroner’s officer, I take it?’
    Old Nick knew very well who Wally was, but this impersonal touch was all part of the act he kept up.
    â€˜Get hold of this damn doctor and get him over to that address as well. When did you say that Dr Chance is going to do his examination?’
    â€˜Twelve o’clock, his secretary said just now,’ answered Grey.
    â€˜Right, it’s twenty past ten now; the photo people can do the flat and get over here in time for the pathologist. He’s always late, so they’ll have time enough to finish at the scene first.’
    â€˜You’re reckoning on this being a true kill, then, sir?’ asked Wally Morris, pointing at the body on the trolley.
    â€˜Well, I haven’t got a hole in my chest; I don’t know about you!’ replied Meredith, more or less repeating the mortuary keeper’s sentiments. ‘So until proved otherwise by the pathologist, we’ll take it that she’s been the victim of some foul play. Now, we’ve got to round up all these characters from that party.’
    He led the way to his car and drove off fast in the direction of Great Beachy Street, taking with him the other detective from divisional headquarters, an officer named Stammers. Wally Morris stayed with Grey while the latter passed on the message to the Information Room at the Yard and arranged for the Photographic Section and the fingerprint men to go to the scene of the death.
    As they climbed into Morris’s Ford to follow the police car, Wally flung a parting shot at the stolid figure of Edgar Sidgwick.
    â€˜Mind you warm old Grizzle-Guts’ gown and give him some gloves without holes in! I’ve had enough trouble today without having him going into one of his tantrums when he gets here. Cheerio!’
    He let in the clutch with a jerk and sped off towards Marylebone Road and Great Beachy Street.

Chapter Six
    Geoffrey Tate sat at his desk, twisting a pencil endlessly between his fingers and staring down at Holborn through his office window. A small gilt clock on his inkstand showed