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It was too early to form an opinion, but Laurence found himself working through possible scenarios. Hobbes was clearly rich—orhadbeen, he supposed, given you famously couldn’t take it with you. Money conferred privilege but rarely came without problems of its own. You made enemies along with it, and there would always be people who wanted to take it from you once you had it. The torture could suggest either—itwas impossible to say right now. But Laurence was already confident that the motive would ultimately reside, as they so frequently did, in the dead man’s bank account.

Pettifer was standing beside him. He was sure she would have formed the same opinion. He was about to voice it anyway, as it was important to be first, but then there was a cough from behind them.

They both turned around.

The man standing there was not a police officer. Instead, he was dressed in an expensive-looking three-piece suit, and his brown hair was gelled into neat curls. He was thirty, at most, and obviously trying to appear older than he was.

Like a little boy trying on his father’s suit, Laurence thought. Which he might have considered uncharitable if the man hadn’t also been curling his lip slightly as he looked between Laurence and Pettifer, as though trying to work out who was the superior, and if so, why.

Laurence saved him the bother. He beckoned to the nearest uniform.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Who is this young man, and why is he in my crime scene?”

The uniform, predictably, looked slightly helpless.

The man coughed again.

“My name is Richard Gaunt,” he said. “I’m a lawyer at the firm that deals with Mr. Hobbes’s estate. We look after his investments and finances.”

Good God, Laurence thought—Gaunt was actually extending a hand, as though this was a business meeting rather than a room with a murder victim lying on the bed.

“Which doesn’t explain why you’re here.” Laurence nodded toward the body behind him. “I mean, the paint is barely even dry yet.”

He felt Pettifer tense slightly beside him.

Gaunt lowered his hand.

“It was me who found Mr. Hobbes this morning,” he said quietly. Then he rallied slightly. “And actually, I have permission from your superior. Ispoke to Chief Barnes earlier. It was considered useful for me to be here, as I have knowledge of the property’s inventory.”

Laurence looked at Pettifer, but she just raised an eyebrow at him.

“Andisanything missing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Gaunt glanced toward the dark archway at the far end of the room. Laurence followed his gaze. A camera flashed. It was pointed at the corpse on the bed, but the light briefly illuminated a corridor beyond the archway. Old stone walls. Cobwebs clinging to the ceiling.

And still that faint rush of air.

There were no windows here, Laurence noticed. It was a room without a view. But one with a breeze.

He turned back to Gaunt.

“You said you found the body this morning. Why were you here?”

“I had an appointment,” Gaunt said. “Mr. Hobbes had requested a meeting to discuss his finances. I was given a key and told to let myself in—although the door was open when I arrived.”

Laurence frowned. That bothered him. Not the open door, as such, but the arrangements. Why would a key be required? Hobbes had been an old man, and the cart beside the bed pointed to him relying on some degree of medical assistance. Surely there must have been carers? That aside, the property was large and must have required a team of staff to handle general upkeep and maintenance.

“So there was nobody else here?”

“That’s correct.”

“Mr. Hobbes had no family?”

“No.”

“And no staff at all?”