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and the glassed-in booth by the entrance had an impregnable look. Olbeck drew the car into the side of the road and approached the guard, sat impassively behind the screen. After a long and suspicious perusal of their warrant cards, he pressed the button that drew back the gate and they were able to drive through.
    “They’re obviously expecting trouble here,” said Kate, noting the cameras and the high fences that surrounded the site. “They clearly value security. Why wasn’t Michael Frank more careful?”
    Olbeck shrugged. “He was new to the job. He was in a hurry. And, security or no security, they’ve never had a car bombing before. No one was expecting that .”
    “I suppose so,” said Kate. She watched as the buildings of MedGen came into view. They looked as if they had once been some kind of government building, perhaps ex-council offices or something similar, but had clearly undergone a huge and expensive renovation.
    Olbeck parked the car at the front of the main building. The two officers made their way through the automatic glass doors, into a reception area that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a luxury spa. Behind the curving steel and glass of the front desk sat a polished young woman in a tight black suit. Her well-shaped eyebrows twitched upward minutely as Kate and Olbeck flashed their warrant cards but otherwise she preserved the neutral expression of a shop window mannequin.
    Another glossy young woman, equally stone-faced, came out to usher them through to what was clearly the inner sanctum of the executive offices. Kate looked around as they waited. The glass-topped coffee table before them was scattered with a variety of glossy magazines and broadsheet newspapers; The Times, The Spectator, Tatler, Racing Times. The fittings were plush and expensive, with several vaguely medically themed objects d’art dotted about the room. An abstract painting on the wall, full of swirling reds and blues caught her eye. As she got up to take a closer look at the tiny label at the bottom of the frame, she realised it was actually a hugely magnified photograph of a cell from the smaller human intestine.
    “Nice,” she murmured to herself as the glass door to the office opened.
    Both directors of the company emerged to greet them. Jack Dorsey was a man who missed being handsome by a mere whisker; he was just a shade too thin, his face a little too bony for true good looks. He, according to Olbeck’s notes, was forty six – he looked older, partly because of his receding sandy-grey hair and the deep-cut wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. But there was still an element of freshness in his general demeanour; something of youth and vigour and keenness. Kate could imagine he was devoted to his job.
    His partner, Alex Hargreaves, seemed to embody the opposite qualities. Attractive, in a kind of coarse, slightly overfed way, Hargreaves was very much the businessman; well dressed in a Jermyn Street suit, thick black hair combed back, and the hint of a jowl developing above the collar of his expensive linen shirt.
    When they were all seated in Alex Hargreaves’ huge office, with coffee cups placed before them by the black-suited automaton who had shown them in, a small silence fell. Jack Dorsey sat forward in his leather chair, his bright blue eyes fixed on Olbeck’s face. Alex Hargreaves lounged back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other.
    Olbeck began by thanking them for their time. He was almost always courteous to begin with, Kate remembered.
    “We’re following up a number of leads in relation to the murder of Michael Frank,” Olbeck continued. “What would be really helpful for us is to find out more about the victim himself. Can you tell us anything about him? What was he like?”
    Both men went to answer, glanced at each other and half-laughed. Dorsey inclined his head in a kind of ‘after you’ gesture and Hargreaves nodded, leaning forwa rd in his chair. “I interviewed Michael for