Thorne turned back. ‘Bloody hell, that was quick work.’

‘We’ve got a flag on the PIMS system. Lets us know if anyone’s taking a look.’

‘Where are you based?’

‘Jubilee House, Putney.’

‘Well, that’s at least an hour away, even with no traffic, so you must have left the minute your “flag” came up.’

‘I finished my tea first.’

‘This must be important.’

‘Sundays are slow,’ Nunn said. ‘Not a lot else on.’

‘Same here.’

‘So, tell me about Skinner.’

They looked at each other. The fact that Thorne was the senior officer meant nothing. When the DPS was involved, rank went out of the window. A DC could interview a commander as aggressively as he or she liked; and, unless they were supremely confident and well connected, a wise commander would answer all their questions.

‘I’m investigating a series of murders,’ Thorne said. ‘Skinner’s been targeted by my prime suspect.’

‘Your prime suspect’s name?’

Another look; another pause. ‘Marcus Brooks. And if you’re that interested in Skinner, I’m guessing the name’s probably familiar to you.’

Nunn’s face showed nothing. ‘So, you thought information in Skinner’s PIMS record would be helpful to your murder investigation?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it?’

‘Not hugely, to be honest.’ Thorne carried on quickly, before Nunn had a chance to ask anything else. ‘Look, I’m guessing this is a one-way street. That I don’t get to ask why you’re interested in Skinner.’

‘You can ask, by all means.’

‘OK, then. Why?’

Nunn showed a great many of his American teeth. ‘Paul Skinner is an officer that my team has been… monitoring for some time.’

‘As in months? Years?’

More teeth. ‘Some time.’

‘In which case, you’re probably monitoring at least one other officer with whom Skinner’s involved, right?’ Nunn held up his hands; now they were straying into ‘need to know’ territory. Thorne pressed on. ‘This is information that would be helpful to my investigation. This other man is somebody my prime suspect will almost certainly be taking a pop at next.’

‘I can’t,’ Nunn said.

‘“Can’t” as in “not allowed” or “can’t” as in “don’t know”?’

‘“Can’t” as in “can’t”.’

‘So, you tell me sod all, and possibly endanger the life of another officer. Meantime, I carry on trying to catch a killer, with no help whatsoever from you, while your team maintains an “active interest” in my case. That about right?’

‘Close enough.’

‘Then you step in when it’s done and dusted and help yourself to the bits that’ll do you any good.’

‘Look, none of this is my decision. But everything’s done for a very good reason.’

‘Well, you’ve got competition, mate. I don’t suppose you know Keith Bannard, do you? A DCI in Serious and Organised…’

Nunn was shaking his head before Thorne had finished speaking.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Thorne said. ‘Just someone else who’s “interested” in my case. Someone else who’s happy to sit back, while me and all the other mugs on the Murder Squad work our arses off. Tell you the truth, I’ve never worked on anything in which so many different people were so desperately interested. It must be the most fascinating case of my entire fucking career…’

Thorne’s phone rang, and he turned away to answer it. The runner had come a little closer; was jogging slowly towards them. He grabbed at his feet, pulling them up towards the small of his back as he ran. Considering that his fellow-cadets were almost certainly making nuisances of themselves in The Oak, Thorne guessed he was either hugely keen or had made very few friends.

It was Brigstocke calling: ‘We’re in big fucking trouble.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Skinner’s dead.’

Thorne felt something jump against his ribs and instinctively stepped further away from Adrian Nunn. ‘What? How the fuck-?’

‘Right now, you know as much as I do.’

Thorne started slightly when Nunn’s phone rang behind him; turned to see the DPS man walking away to take his own call.

‘I don’t understand. We had men on Skinner’s house.’

‘I know. Do you not think I fucking know?’

‘Who found the body?’

Thorne could hear the anger, the tension in Brigstocke’s silence. In the background there were raised voices; none he recognised, the words indecipherable as they were shouted one over another. He listened to the fractured breathing that told him Brigstocke was on the move; heard him tell someone to wait.

The runner jogged past a few feet away.

‘Russell?’

‘Just get over there, Tom.’

Thorne hung up and turned. It was clear from the look on the face of the man marching towards him that they had been having much the same conversation.

‘We might as well take the one car,’ Nunn said.

It always amazed him. How death drew a crowd.

Though it was obviously less of a novelty for him than it was for most people, Thorne still found the fascination strange. It wasn’t as though any of them were actually going to see anything. The men in the shiny suits like the ones off the telly weren’t suddenly going to come trotting out and carry the body across. They weren’t going to pull back the sheet and invite everyone to take a good look, maybe fire off a few quick snaps for friends and neighbours.

And yet, there they were.

While those in the adjacent streets of Stoke Newington laid out school uniforms, ironed shirts for the morning or just drank tea and grew miserable as Sunday fizzled out, a few lucky punters were outside, making their own entertainment. Thorne pushed his way through them: the cluster of gawpers fragmenting for just a moment; one or two exchanging snippets of whispered guesswork as they came back together; as a pissed-off uniform raised the tape for Thorne to duck under.

‘Shouldn’t this lot be indoors watching Antiques Road-show?’ the copper asked.

Thorne pressed on towards the house, heard a child somewhere behind him asking if he was the man who’d come to chop up the dead body…

There was as much of a gathering inside, and at the back of the house. Inside, it was as though there were at least two teams of SOCOs working the scene; investigators squeezing past one another in the narrow hallway that ran between the kitchen and the living room, where Paul Skinner’s body had been found. In the first few minutes Thorne spoke to three different photographers and video cameramen and, approaching the body, he half expected to see Phil Hendricks battling it out with rival pathologists for prime position.

Hendricks looked up from his Dictaphone. ‘Head smashed in, I’d guess with a hammer, much the same as the first victim. Dead at least twenty-four hours. And you need to call your girlfriend.’

‘Still pissed off?’

Leaning to one side, Hendricks pointed to what was left of Skinner’s head. ‘What do you think?’

‘You crack me up,’ Thorne said, stony-faced.

Hendricks grinned, pleased with himself. ‘OK, she’s probably happier than our friend with the hammer, but then she did eat a lot of ice-cream. I’m not an expert, obviously, but isn’t that supposed to be a major giveaway?’

‘I’ll ring later on, if I get a chance…’

Thorne pushed on towards the back of the house, stepped through sliding patio doors on to a small paved area: a round table, umbrella and chairs; a rotary washing-line; a grime-covered barbecue on wheels.

There was barely room to move.

The patio was heaving with the overspill from the crime scene and more besides: ambulancemen and a mortuary crew, waiting until they were needed; a CSE or two catching their breath, or using it to smoke a crafty fag; a woman dispensing tea and coffee from catering-sized flasks.

But the majority were in the Job.

A few in uniform, but most wearing whatever they’d had on when the call had come through: Sunday best on one or two; jeans and puffa jackets; black tie on the poor bugger who had been dragged from a charity dinner. They stood around, muttering to one another in awkward groups of two and three. Like guests at an unconventional barbecue party.