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It was coming from a small canteen, just a handful of tables, straight ahead. Immediately to the right was a busy
area where there were three PCs and people sitting around waiting to use them. There was the noise of dishes and chatter. The place was busy.
    ‘Hello, mate – sorry to interrupt. Who’s in charge here?’ Carter asked a young man waiting for the computer.
    ‘Simon. Over there.’ He nodded in the direction of the café counter and to a dark-haired man in a white overall disappearing through double doors behind.
    ‘Appreciate it.’
    They walked behind the counter and through to the kitchen beyond. There were two women inside, clearing up, loading a dishwasher. The man they’d followed in was about to start drying pots
from the draining board.
    Carter showed his warrant card. ‘Simon – are you in charge? Can we have a word?’
    ‘Yes, of course.’ His voice was soft public school. He put down his tea towel, took off his overall and hung it on a row of pegs to the right of the door.’ We can talk in my
office.’ He had curly dark hair, long on the top, almost shaved at the sides. He had a pensive look with a ready-made frown line across his forehead. His dark eyebrows and brown eyes gave him
a Spanish look, although his skin was too pale to be Mediterranean. He was very young-looking, thought Carter.
    He escorted them through to a room off the kitchen and closed the door after him.
    ‘I’d ask you both to sit but there’s only one chair, which you’re welcome to. Please?’ He smiled. His eyes flitted from one detective to the other.
    ‘No need.’ Carter smiled. The room was small enough to have been a storeroom at one time. It had no window. ‘We won’t keep you long.’
    He sat with his back to his monitor, his hands in his lap, waiting.
    ‘How can I help you?’
    He pushed his hair away from his forehead. The floppy collar on his polo-shirt was half sticking up.
    ‘I’m Detective Inspector Carter and this is Detective Constable Willis. You are Simon . . .?’
    ‘Smith. How can I help?’
    ‘A woman died near here last night, Mr Smith – on Parade Street,’ said Carter. ‘Do you know it?’
    ‘Yes, I do. What happened?’
    ‘We don’t know exactly. Her body was found this morning after a tip-off from an anonymous caller. We think she went into the building early yesterday evening. What do you know about
the street?’
    ‘There are problems there all the time, fights over drink. It’s where the younger drug addicts congregate as well as the older drinkers. It’s not somewhere you’d expect a
woman to sleep. It’s too dangerous.’
    ‘We are pretty sure we know the identity of the victim,’ began Carter. ‘Her name was Olivia Grantham. She was a lawyer working in London Bridge. Does that name mean anything to
you, Mr Smith?’ Simon shook his head. ‘We think several people would have seen what happened to her and might have been involved. Her car was parked just down the road from here. As
this is the nearest homeless centre to Parade Street, we were hoping that someone here might know something. Did you notice anything that made you think that something wasn’t right yesterday
evening or this morning?’
    ‘No, sorry. Last night there were the usual in. It’s always chaotic. And I’ve been rushed off my feet this morning. The cold weather is bringing everyone in for some hot
food.’ He paused, looked at Carter’s face and shrugged. ‘Sorry. I tend to be so busy with the hostel I don’t have time to look a couple of streets away. But a lawyer
sleeping rough? It wouldn’t be the first time – it can happen to anyone, you know.’
    ‘Yes. But she wasn’t homeless.’
    Willis could see the tension building in Carter’s shoulders. He had the same problem talking to Sandford when they first started working together. Carter had an issue with posh
accents.
    ‘We believe that there would have been a substantial amount of blood,’ said Willis. ‘Both from