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didn’t have an enemy in the world.
    Mills carefully placed his glass down on the floor next to the bottle and looked at the sergeant, hopeful that he might prove to be more reasonable than his rather snide boss. ‘It had to
be her enemies.’
    ‘Her enemies?’ parroted the inspector.
    ‘Yes.’ Henry Mills nodded. ‘I’m sure it was them. No one else would have done this. Not to Agatha.’
    C ommander Carole Simpson eyed the large plate of sandwiches that had been placed on the table in front of her and groaned. Looking out across the river from the tenth floor of
New Scotland Yard, she was suddenly struck by the thought that there must be millions of people out there who were actually having an enjoyable day. Not her. To say that being promoted had turned
out to be something of a mixed blessing was an understatement. Meetings like this made Simpson feel that she had been transformed from a copper into a pen-pusher.
    The Planning, Performance and Review Committee was almost three hours into its scheduled eight-hour session, and it was heavy going indeed. Sixteen people around the table, who either
didn’t know each other or didn’t like each other, were reviewing the latest Specialist Crime Directorate Management Information Report , which presented the Directorate’s
‘key objectives and core performance indicators’.
    The conference room was hot and stuffy. Simpson stifled a yawn as best she could. For her this was increasingly what modern policing looked like: number-crunching while hidden away in an airless
room, as far away from the public as possible; as far away from the criminals as possible. It was enough to send anyone to sleep.
    After everyone had carefully chosen their food, the committee turned to the Homicide section of the report. The overall homicide detection rate for the previous year was 85 per cent, slightly
worse than the year before but still very satisfactory and – crucially – well within the performance target band.
    As the discussion rambled on, Simpson recalled with some satisfaction how she had personally overseen the investigations regarding four of the murders in question. Her officers had enjoyed a 100
per cent success rate. And now she was putting all that effort to good use. Although technically not part of the SCD’s efforts, she had made sure that the cases were included in the report,
in order to boost the overall clean-up rate figures. After all, when you were locked in an endless battle with the politicians for money and resources, every little helped.
    Having made the mistake of biting into a cheese sandwich, which was foul, she washed it quickly away with a mouthful of coffee while listening to someone raise the issue of the recently proposed
changes in the murder law. The plan was to replace the existing partial defence of ‘provocation’ with one of ‘fear of serious violence’ or, in exceptional circumstances,
‘seriously wronged’. Neither was much of a defence, Simpson reckoned. She was nervous at the constant attempts to fiddle with the laws of the land. Britain was a safe country; London
was a safe city. Most people were good citizens or, at least, respectful subjects. The laws worked – they should be left alone.
    Like any decent copper, the commander basically thought that the only successful defence against a serious charge should be ‘I didn’t do it’. Lots of people thought that they
were ‘seriously wronged’ one way or another. In her book, that could never be any kind of excuse for murder.
    ‘What is your opinion, Commander?’ someone asked.
    It was a question that neither expected nor deserved an answer. ‘I think it is an interesting proposal,’ she replied, letting her gaze move smoothly round the table. ‘However,
whatever happens, I am sure that we will maintain and build on our excellent performance record in this area.’

 
SIX
    F or the first time, Carlyle began to wonder if they were dealing with someone who