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unless it had something to do with white people?’
    Bentley sighed again. ‘Do you know what the trouble with you keen young coppers is?’ he asked.
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜It’s that you’re always trying to make things seem far more complicated than they actually are.’
    For a moment Woodend considered telling Bentley about his second phone call, the one in which the caller – again, obviously white – had warned him not to investigate the girl’s death too enthusiastically. But he’d just be wasting his breath, he decided – because the chances were that the chief inspector would either tell him it was of no importance or – worse – would suspect him of inventing the whole thing in an effort to advance his own theories.
    â€˜I don’t suppose there’s any
real
harm in you indulging in your flights of fancy for a while – as long as, ultimately, they don’t get in the way of good police work,’ Bentley said magnanimously. ‘So you just go ahead. Come up with as many ridiculous theories about white men being involved as you like. But I think you’ll find, when you’ve completed your investigation, that I was right all along – and it was a nigger wot done it.’
    â€˜Did you say
my
investigation, sir?’ Woodend asked, almost sure he must have misheard.
    â€˜That’s exactly what I said,’ Bentley confirmed. ‘I’m putting you in sole charge.’
    â€˜But it’s a
murder
case, sir!’
    â€˜No doubt about that. She certainly didn’t cut her
own
throat.’
    â€˜An’ I’m only a sergeant.’
    â€˜Exactly,’ Bentley agreed. ‘And there are plenty of DCIs in this place who wouldn’t trust their sergeants to do a job like this. But I’m not one of them, you see. I realize that if you’re ever going to develop your skills as a detective, you’ll need the experience of handling a case on your own. So I’m giving you the chance now.’
    Or to put it another way, since the victim in this case was only a ‘nigger’, he couldn’t be bothered to get off his fat arse and investigate the case himself, Woodend thought.
    â€˜Thank you, sir, I appreciate the confidence you’re showin’ in me,’ he said.
    â€˜Think nothing of it,’ Bentley told him. ‘But bear in mind, I shall expect an arrest by lunchtime.’
    â€˜By lunchtime!’ Woodend repeated.
    Bentley chuckled throatily. ‘Just my little joke, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Some time tomorrow will be early enough.’
    The doctor who had carried out the post-mortem on the dead girl was fresher, younger – and seemed altogether less callous – than the one who had examined the body at the scene of the crime.
    â€˜I expect you’re surprised that we’ve managed to get the whole business of the PM over and done with so quickly,’ he said to Woodend, as he led him through the morgue.
    â€˜Yes, I am rather, sir,’ the sergeant admitted.
    Sir! he repeated silently, with just a hint of self-disgust.
    What he’d
wanted
to call the other man was not ‘sir’ at all, but ‘Doc’, as a more seasoned detective would have done. But somehow, despite the fact that they were more or less the same age, he simply hadn’t been able to force the word out.
    â€˜Because of the smog, things have been pretty quiet around here, you see,’ the doctor continued. ‘But we know from experience that that’s just the lull before the storm. By this afternoon, we’ll be swamped with bods whose respiratory systems have packed up. So, bearing that in mind, I thought I’d get your girl out of the way while I had the chance.’ He slid open a refrigerated drawer. ‘There she is. Want to take a closer look at her?’
    â€˜If you wouldn’t mind, si— Doc,’ Woodend said.
    The doctor pulled back the