"It burned, didn't it?"

Melody nodded. "A few years before the war. I suppose it was unlikely to have escaped the bombing, in any case, a target like that." She gestured upwards, towards the rise of Clapham Common and the wall of fog above it. "You could see it from the City, you know."

"It was that big?"

"Huge. And plunked right on top of Sydenham Hill, the highest point between London and the south coast."

"What's it like, Crystal Palace? The area, I mean." Having grown up in North London, and until this new posting, having worked mostly in West London, Gemma was still learning her new patch.

"Going upmarket a bit, I think, but I don't know it well myself. Look." Melody pointed at the blue patches appearing in the fog, and Gemma glimpsed one of the Crystal Palace television masts before cloud shrouded it once again.

Melody concentrated on her sat nav as they looped round the elegant buildings of Dulwich College, then wound up through bare trees until the road leveled again at the top of Gipsy Hill.

Gemma glimpsed pubs and shops as they looped around a triangle of streets at the hill's summit, following the one-way system. Then as they began a gentle descent down a tree-lined road, she saw the familiar strobe of blue lights. The journey had taken them less than forty-five minutes, door to door, so they'd made good time.

"The Belvedere, I believe," said Melody as she pulled up behind the last panda car.

The hotel was on their right, a large, sprawling building, pale-pink stucco with deep-blue awnings on the lower windows. A uniformed constable was stringing blue-and-white tape across the stairs leading up to the entry. At the top of the steps, DC Shara MacNicols seemed to be engaged in a heated discussion with a stocky woman in a blue suit.

"Hotel manager?" murmured Melody as she killed the Clio's engine and snapped open her seat belt.

"That would be my guess." Gemma got out, flashing her ID at one of the uniformed constables keeping an eye on the perimeter as she and Melody made their way towards the hotel's entrance.

As they drew closer, Gemma saw that Shara had red beads in the ends of the tiny braids in her hair, a splash of color bright as berries against the gray day. The other woman's pale skin looked blotched from shock, her straw-blond hair dry and disheveled.

"You didn't check his identification?" Shara was saying as Gemma and Melody reached the two women.

"Mr. Smith, he always paid in cash. It did not seem necessary," answered the woman, and from her faint accent Gemma guessed she was Eastern European.

Shara acknowledged them with a nod. "Guv. Sarge. This is Irene Dusek. She's the night manager who checked in our victim."

"I'm Detective Inspector James, Ms. Dusek," said Gemma. "And this is Detective Sergeant Talbot." She frowned as she continued. "Ms. Dusek, I'm sure you're aware that hotels are required to take down their guests' identification details."

"Yes, but Mr. Smith, we know him. He was never any trouble, and he never stayed long."

"Well, he's a bit of trouble now, isn't he?" said Shara, and Gemma shot her a quelling look. Dusek sounded frightened, and Gemma was more concerned about information than government hotel regulations.

"What time did Mr. Smith check in last night?" she asked.

Dusek seemed to relax. "It was maybe eleven, but I am not sure exactly."

"Was someone with him?"

"Oh, no. Mr. Smith, he always comes alone."

"Did he have luggage?" asked Melody.

"Oh, I did not see. I was busy-there was a phone call. Maybe he got something from the car." Dusek shifted, and Gemma guessed she was lying.

"You saw his car?" she asked.

"No, no. But I thought-he looked like a man who would have a car. A nice car, you know."

"So this gentleman"-Shara put heavy emphasis on the word-"came regularly, on his own, with no luggage. And you said he didn't stay long. Did you mean he didn't usually stay the entire night? It sounds to me like you're running a brothel here."

Dusek shook her head emphatically. "No, no," the woman said. "We do nothing bad. The housekeeper said he check out early. We are respectable hotel." Her grasp of English seemed to be deteriorating under stress.

Gemma examined the frontage of the hotel, seeing no obvious secondary entrances. "Ms. Dusek, are there other accesses to the hotel?"

"We have the fire doors, of course. They are required." Dusek seemed glad of firmer ground. "On the sides and in the back of hotel."

"Okay," said Gemma. "We'll have a look at those. But first we'd better see your Mr. Smith."

Dusek gave a little sob and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. "He was nice man, always very nice. I do not understand how this thing could happen."

"That's our job to find out, Ms. Dusek. We'll need to speak to you again. Is there someone who can sit with you?"

"There is Raymond, the day clerk. And the housekeeper. She is very upset." Coatless, Dusek had begun to shiver.

"Let's get you inside, then." Gemma guided the woman into the lobby and Melody and Shara followed.

The lobby, adorned with a violently patterned carpet in pink and blue, had a slightly scuffed reception desk to one side and a sitting area with a television on the other. Grouped around one of the tables in the sitting area were a woman in a maid's smock who was sniffing into a handkerchief, a young spotty-faced man in white shirt and black trousers, and a large uniformed constable. They looked as if they might be unlikely partic.i.p.ants in a card game, or, considering the pot and cups arrayed on the table, a tea party.

The constable rose immediately and came towards them. When Gemma had identified herself, he said, "DC Turner, ma'am. Gipsy Hill Station." He was fair and slightly bovine, but his blue eyes were sharp.

"Ms. Dusek is going to stay with you for the moment. I'll want to speak to the others later as well. Can you send the SOCOs to us when they arrive? And the doctor? Oh, and, Turner, I don't want any of the guests leaving until we've interviewed them."

"In hand, ma'am. There's only a dozen in this whole place, apparently. Not exactly a booming business. Those that have come down, I've put in the dining room."

Gemma nodded. "Good. And can you see that no one leaves through the fire doors?"

"Done, ma'am," Turner said, with obvious self-satisfaction that was redeemed by his grin.

"Cheeky sod," Shara muttered.

Although Gemma would have preferred the scene-of-crime team on hand before she viewed the body, she felt there was little point in interviewing further staff until she knew exactly what they were dealing with. "All right, Turner. We'll be-"

"Through reception, down the stairs and to your right. You'll see the constable on the door." Turner's smile had disappeared. "And you'll be glad if you missed your breakfast."

Gemma followed his directions. Any moderately favorable impression she'd had of the hotel vanished as they left the public areas. The stairwell was dim, the walls scuffed and chipped. It smelled of damp, thinly disguised by industrial disinfectant. The bas.e.m.e.nt corridor was no better. Two of the fluorescent light fixtures were out, and the others hummed unpleasantly. The uniformed officer standing at parade rest towards the end of the hall was a welcome sight.

He was younger than Turner, and she suspected he had drawn the short straw.

"Ma'am." He nodded when she showed her ID, but didn't meet her eyes.

The door in front of which he stood guard was closed, but the key was in the lock.

"Has anyone touched this other than the housekeeper?" she asked.

"DC Turner was the first on scene, ma'am, but he used his gloves. I-didn't go in."

"Right, then. Good lad." Gemma pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from her coat pocket and slipped them on. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

Turning the key, she pushed the door open and stood on the threshold.

The smell hit her in a wave. Urine, feces, and the unmistakable stench of death. The hotel might be short on guests but was not stinting on its central heating. The room was like an oven, and Gemma felt the sweat p.r.i.c.kle beneath the collar of her coat.

Gray daylight poured in through windows set high up in the room's outside wall. She blinked as her eyes adjusted, then focused on the room's double bed, illuminated by a sudden shaft of sunlight like a tableau in a medieval painting.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," she said.

CHAPTER THREE.

The Crystal Palace was a huge gla.s.s and iron structure originally built in 1851 for the Great Exhibition held in London's Hyde Park. Prince Albert, head of the Society of Arts, had the idea of an exhibition to impress the world with Britain's industrial achievements. Countries including France, the United States, Russia, Turkey and Egypt all attended with exhibits falling into four main categories-Raw Materials, Machinery, Manufacturers and Fine Arts.

-www.bbc.co.uk Gemma pressed her lips together. Melody and Shara stood just behind her, their breathing loud in her ears. They all seemed suspended in that instant.

Then Shara said, "Trussed up like a b.l.o.o.d.y chicken, isn't he? But a bit scrawny, if you ask me," and that broke the tension.

Letting the air out through her nose, Gemma moved a step forward into the room, careful not to touch anything. Her first thought on hearing the description of the scene had been that a bit of autoerotica had gone wrong. Now she said, "Not likely he did this to himself, is it?"

The man lay faceup on the bed. The thin top sheet was rumpled beneath his feet, which were bound tightly with a black leather belt. Although otherwise naked, he still wore socks, and the right one was pushed halfway down his foot, as if he'd managed to dislodge it in a struggle. The dangling sock somehow made the scene more grotesque.

His knees were drawn up. Beneath them were stains on the bottom sheet where he had voided his bowels and bladder. His hands were beneath his b.u.t.tocks, and the tail end of a conservatively patterned red-and-blue necktie peeped out to one side.

"He must have been tied facedown," said Melody. "Not just the hands. Look"-she pointed at his feet-"the belt buckle and knot are on the backside of his ankles."

"So, did he turn himself over, or did someone else turn him, either before or after they strangled him?" asked Gemma. The ligature bruising was clearly visible on his throat, as was the fixed lividity, but there was no sign of the implement that had been used.

"I should be able to tell you that," said a familiar voice, and Gemma turned to see Dr. Rashid Kaleem, Home Office pathologist, and her friend. His short hair was the color of the black leather jacket that covered his T-shirt, and his smile would have done justice to a toothpaste advert.

"Rashid. I'm glad it's you." Although Gemma had met Rashid on a case in which she had not been officially involved, she'd found that he was often a.s.signed to South London investigations, and she liked working with him. He was young, smart, precise, and he didn't treat police officers as an annoyance. The only drawback was the swoon rate among female officers.

"Someone had a bit of fun here, eh?" Rashid set his bag just outside the door and drew on gloves. "Any idea who he is?"

Gemma pointed at the neatly folded clothing on the room's single chair-a Barbour-type jacket, dark trousers, a navy pullover that looked like it might be cashmere, and a pale-blue oxford shirt. Atop the shirt lay a man's leather wallet. She turned to the constable on the door. "Who checked his wallet, DC-"

"Gleason, ma'am. It was DC Turner. He said he didn't disturb the clothes any more than necessary."

"A Mr. Vincent Arnott, according to the initial report," put in Melody. "It seems he was accustomed to checking into the hotel as Mr. Smith."

Rashid raised his dark eyebrows. "Well. It will be interesting to see if Mr. Arnott-Smith was always so orderly, or if someone else was Mr. or Ms. Tidy. Was anyone seen with him?" Although Rashid's accent was perfect BBC-received English, Gemma knew that he'd grown up on a council estate in Bethnal Green, and his easy charm concealed a fierce intellect.

"According to the night manager, he checked in alone," answered Gemma.

"Sensible of him, if he had a habit of playing away." Rashid nodded towards the corridor. "Easy enough for him to let someone in through the fire door at the end of the hall, once he was settled in the room. The SOCOs are here," he added. "Just getting their gear from the van. They won't want anyone b.u.g.g.e.ring up their scene."

The pathologist had an ongoing friendly rivalry with the crime scene techs. It was important that the SOCOs had first access to the scene, but Rashid always liked to get an impression before others moved around the victim, and Gemma felt the same way. "I don't know whether the maid who discovered the body or either of the hotel clerks actually came into the room, but we'll find out," she told him.

Turning to PC Gleason, she added, "Why don't you go and have the SOCOs come in the fire door? No need to have them traipsing through reception."

"Yes, ma'am." The constable looked happy to have an excuse to get outside.

As he started towards the door, Gemma added, "See if you can prop that door open a bit, as long as there's a PC outside. It wouldn't hurt to have some air in here." Unfortunately, they couldn't turn the central heating down until the ambient temperature had been recorded, as Rashid would need it for his time-of-death calculations.

As they waited, Gemma studied the victim.

"What do you see, boss?" asked Melody.

"White. Obviously male." That got a flash of a smile from Rashid and a breath of a sn.i.g.g.e.r from Shara. "The hands are usually a good indicator of age," she went on as Rashid nodded agreement, "but as we can't see them, just going by his general condition and his face and neck, I'd put him in his late fifties to early sixties. The hair"-she gestured towards the victim's full silvery shock-"can be misleading. That type of hair can go gray or white quite early. I'd say he was reasonably fit-a golfer, maybe, by the tan." She indicated the darker area of skin below the throat. "He could play tennis, but I'm not seeing the definition in his arms or legs." Turning to Melody, she added, "Anything else jump out at you?"

Melody frowned, considering a moment before answering. "From the quality of his clothes-a.s.suming for the moment they are in fact his-the well-kept condition of his feet, and the good haircut, I'd say he's upper middle cla.s.s with a job that doesn't require manual labor."

A murmur of voices heralded the arrival of the two crime scene techs, escorted by PC Gleason. They often worked with Gemma's team, and she greeted them by name. "Sharon. Mike."

"Sounds like you've got an interesting one for us," said Sharon, a slight, dark woman who always looked as if she might be swallowed whole by the blue bunny suit.

Gemma nodded. "You could say that. I'd like the name and address from the driving license in the wallet as soon as you can get to it. The first officer on the scene extracted it to ID the victim, but he wore gloves."

"Turned our scene into a football pitch, have you?" Mike said with a good-natured nod to Rashid as he opened his evidence kit.

"Haven't touched a thing, mate," Rashid answered with a grin. "But I've got another scene to go to. Do you mind if I have a look at him, as long as you're observing?"

"Help yourself. Take notes of the good doctor's exam, will you, Sharon?" Mike answered as he took out his camera and began recording the scene.

As Rashid retrieved instruments from his bag, Gemma stepped back into the corridor, where Melody and Shara had already joined PC Gleason. The air was quite noticeably fresher and she breathed it gratefully as she watched Rashid.

Under Sharon's watchful eye, he moved round the bed with his own digital camera. Although the SOCOs would have a complete photographic record, Rashid focused on things that might be of particular interest to him when he conducted the postmortem.

Finishing with the camera, he ran his gloved fingertips gently beneath the victim's b.u.t.tocks, shoulders, and his one bare heel. "Lividity is well fixed. If he was moved postmortem, it wasn't long after. Rigor is also quite advanced. Stiff as the proverbial board," he added, as he tested the flexibility of the joints. "Although if the room was sweltering like this all night, the time he was last seen may be more useful."

"The night manager says she thinks it was about eleven," said Gemma.

"Then he may have been dead within an hour, but we'll try to be a bit more accurate."

As Rashid pulled a thermometer from his bag and shifted the corpse just enough to get a rectal temperature, Gemma looked away. She had no idea why she was always a bit squeamish about this-silly, really, considering the crime scenes she took in her stride.