‘We were supposed to be going out,’ said Lizzie Rasson. Her voice was dull. ‘To dinner with friends.’

‘Can I come in for a minute?’

‘Dead, you say? Sandy?’

Hussein led her into the living room.

‘Will you sit down?’

But Lizzie Rasson remained standing in the middle of the room. Her attractive face had taken on a bony, vacant look. Upstairs the child’s screaming got louder and higher, piercing enough to break glass; Hussein could picture the furious red face.

‘How did he die? He was healthy. He went running most days.’

‘Your brother’s body was found in the Thames earlier today.’

‘In the Thames? Sandy drowned? But he was a good swimmer. Why was he in the river anyway?’

Hussein paused. ‘His throat was cut.’

Suddenly the crying stopped. The room filled with silence. Lizzie Rasson looked around her as if she were searching for something; her blank gaze drifted across furniture, books, family photographs. Then she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said assertively. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘I know this is a terrible shock, but there are questions we need to ask you.’

‘His throat?’

‘Yes.’

Lizzie Rasson sat down heavily in one of the armchairs, her long legs splayed. She looked suddenly clumsy. ‘How do you know it’s him? It could be someone else.’

‘He has been identified.’

‘Identified by whom?’

‘Dr Frieda Klein.’

Hussein was watching Lizzie Rasson’s face as she spoke. She saw the involuntary flinch, the tightening of the mouth.

‘Frieda. Poor Sandy,’ she said, but softly, as if to herself. ‘Poor, poor Sandy.’

They heard footsteps running down the stairs and a solid, open-faced man with reddish hair came into the room.

‘You’ll be glad to know he’s asleep at last. Was that Shona at the door?’ he said, then saw Hussein, saw his wife’s stricken face, stopped in his tracks.

‘Sandy’s dead.’ Saying the words seemed to make them true for the first time. Lizzie Rasson lifted a hand to her face, held it against her mouth, then her cheek. ‘She says his throat was cut.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said her husband. He put a hand against the wall as if to steady himself. ‘He was killed? Sandy?’

‘That’s what she says.’

He crossed the room and squatted beside the chair in which she was sprawled, lifting both her slim hands in his large, broad-knuckled ones and holding them tightly. ‘Are they certain?’

She gave a strangled, angry sob. ‘Frieda identified him.’

‘Frieda,’ he said. ‘Jesus, Lizzie.’

His arm was round her shoulders now and her blue dress was crumpled. Tears were gathering in her eyes and starting to roll down her cheeks.

‘I know.’ She gave a gulp, swiped her wrist under her nose.

He turned to Hussein at last. ‘You don’t need to believe everything that woman tells you,’ he said. His pleasant face had hardened. ‘Why did she identify him, anyway?’

Bryant entered the room and stood beside Hussein; by smell, she knew he had smoked a cigarette before coming back in again. He hated things like this.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hussein. ‘But there are questions we need to ask you, and the sooner we do so the better for the investigation.’

She looked at the couple. It wasn’t clear if they understood what was being said to them. Bryant had taken out his notebook.

‘First of all, can you confirm your brother’s full name, date of birth and current address – and can you tell us the last time that you saw him?’

By the time they left the Rassons’ house, the sky was dark although the air was still soft and warm against their skin.

‘What do we know?’ asked Hussein, climbing into the car.

Bryant took a large bite from the sandwich he’d bought. Tuna mayonnaise, thought Hussein – that was what he always had, that or chicken and pesto.

‘We know,’ she continued, not waiting for him to answer, ‘that Alexander Holland was forty-two years old, that he was an academic at King George’s and his subject was neurology. He came back from the US a couple of years ago after a brief stint there. He lived in a flat off the Caledonian Road.’

She held up the key that Lizzie Rasson had given them.

‘That he lives alone. That he has no regular partner, as far as his sister knows. That she last saw him eleven days ago, on Monday, June the ninth, when he seemed much as usual. That his throat was cut left to right, so it’s likely we’re looking for a right-hander, and he was found floating in the Thames. No indication of where the body entered the water. That he has been dead a week minimum, so that gives us a window of possibility, from June the tenth, or even late on the ninth, to Friday, June the thirteenth.’

‘Unlucky for some,’ put in Bryant.

Hussein ignored this. ‘That he was found on Friday, June the twentieth. That, according to his sister, he has many friends and no enemies. The last of which cannot be true.’

She held out her hand and Bryant handed her his sandwich. She took a bite from it and gave it back. Her phone vibrated in her pocket but she didn’t take it out: it was probably one of her daughters and would make her feel guilty and distracted.

‘Anything else?’ she went on.

‘They don’t like Frieda Klein much.’

4

‘Oh, well,’ said Bryant.

‘You sound disappointed,’ said Hussein.

Hussein and Bryant were standing in Sandy Holland’s flat, their feet bagged, their hands gloved.

‘I thought there might be blood,’ said Bryant. ‘Signs of a struggle. But there’s nothing. It looks like he just left of his own accord.’

Hussein shook her head. ‘If you kill someone in their own home, you probably leave them there. Getting the body out is just too much of a risk.’

‘You don’t think the murderer could have killed him here and cleaned the place up?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Hussein, but she sounded doubtful. ‘Forensics will tell us anyway. It looks pristine to me.’

The two of them walked around the flat briskly. It was on the two top floors. There was a living room with two big windows and a narrow kitchen leading off it, a small study and, upstairs, a bedroom with a roof terrace that looked out over rooftops and cranes.

There were shelves of books in every room. Bryant took out a large one, opened it and pulled a face.

‘Do you think he’d read all of these? I can barely understand a single word.’

Hussein was about to reply when her phone rang. She answered and Bryant watched her as her expression changed from irritation to surprise to a kind of alarm.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. I’ll be there.’

She rang off and stood for a moment, lost in thought. She seemed to have forgotten where she was.

‘Bad news?’ said Bryant.

‘I don’t know,’ said Hussein slowly. ‘It’s about the woman who identified the body: Frieda Klein. She popped up on the system. Two weeks ago she reported someone missing.’

‘Alexander Holland?’

‘No, a man called Miles Thornton. Sophie followed it up and the next thing she knew there was a call from the commissioner’s office.’

‘You mean Crawford? What about?’

‘About the case. About Frieda Klein. He wants to see me. Straight away.’

‘Are we in trouble?’

Hussein seemed puzzled. ‘How can we be? We haven’t done anything yet.’

‘Do you want me to come along?’

‘No, you need to stay here.’

‘Where do I start? What am I searching for?’

Hussein thought for a moment. ‘I was looking for a phone or a computer or a wallet, but I didn’t find anything. Could you have another go?’