Within ten minutes of Karen’s phone calls, Chancery Lane was chock-full, from end to end, with police cars. Officers were streaming into the building, down the stairs and into the basements. Karen’s boss, CS Boyle, came straight over to her. She was sitting on the pavement, Eleanor’s body in her lap. Stiff, cold, wrapped in the tartan rug. ‘Jesus, Karen.’ He sat down beside her, on the cold wet pavement. ‘I don’t – I just – I don’t know what to say.’ Karen said nothing. She hoped he wouldn’t cry. If he started crying she would cry again: she had already wept for untold minutes, before summoning what was left of her senses and ringing for assistance, drawing half the police officers in central London to 102 Chancery Lane. Half the cops, and one big ambulance. The paramedics approached her cautiously. They had a stretcher. The young ambulancemen were in green hospital uniforms and they leaned forward to take Eleanor’s body. ‘No,’ said Karen. ‘No.’ ‘Karen …’ CS Boyle put a hand on her shoulder, speaking very gently.
