as Pendragon stepped up to a whiteboard at the open end of a horseshoe arrangement of desks. The briefing room was small and hot; an electric fan on a spindly stand whirred away in the far corner, but it was almost completely ineffectual. The entire team had gathered in the room. Sergeants Rosalind Mackleby, Jimmy Thatcher and Terry Vickers sat to one side, Inspectors Rob Grant and Ken Towers to the other. Directly in front of Pendragon, Jez Turner was perched on a desk. At the back of the room, close to the door, stood Superintendent Jill Hughes, arms folded across her chest. ‘Okay, a quick summary,’ Pendragon began, surveying the room. He showed no signs of the anxiety he felt inside. ‘You all know about the body found in the club. Identified as Amal Karim, an Indian labourer who was employed by Bridgeport Construction.’ He tapped a photograph of the man, a passport picture from a few years back, copied and enlarged. Next to this were photographs of the crime scene, the body sprawled on a concrete floor, one side of the face a mass of black and red.
