The Inspector doesn’t, not yet. She looks around first, at the disposition of the parts. Perfectly centred, each in its own pool of light. Unshifting light, not dynamic, not now. The traffic is stilled and the lighting algorithm has recognised a special circumstance and reverted to a static posture. Once, as a child, Mielikki Neith read a story about an old man who lived in the forest and was kind to all the animals, and when he eventually died the forest was silent and dark for a year, so that the people of the town believed it cursed, until the old fellow’s daughter, hearing of the darkness in her father’s favourite place, came home and chose to be married in a sunlit clearing in the heart of the wood and occupy his home with her new husband, and the whole forest rustled and awoke, and the birds and the flowers bloomed once more. It is almost as if the tunnel itself is taking note of Smith’s death and honouring its dead with its own version of that silence.