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they waited. And waited. Cato cupped his hands to the door and peered through the glare for any signs of life or movement inside. Nothing. He swore loudly and pressed the bell a tenth time. Finally an elderly woman in a pink dressing gown floated into view with a cup of something steaming. She almost dropped her mug as she saw Cato’s face up against the glass. He pressed his ID against the door mouthing ‘POLICE’. It didn’t help; in fact she seemed even more determined to hurry back to her bed and hide under the covers.
    Jim Buckley stepped forward with a kindly smile, a cheery wave, and a non-Asian face. That seemed to do the trick. The old woman poked a button on the inside and the doors slid open. With a bedside manner that was a complete revelation to Cato, Buckley got directions to the operating theatre at the rear of the hospital as well as learning all he needed to know about her hernia and cataracts.
    ‘Thanks Deirdre, and you take care of yourself now, love.’
    ‘Are you coming back tomorrow, Roger?’
    ‘Yes love, ’course I am.’
    Buckley gave her a last little wave and led Cato down the corridor. Cato wondered who was meant to be looking after Deirdre overnight when he spotted a grumpy-looking woman with angry red hair knotted up in a bun. She was coming out of the ladies. She didn’t give either of the men a second glance, as if strangers wandering the hospital corridors at this hour was an everyday occurrence. Instead she thumped through a set of double doors behind which Cato could hear muffled cries and commotion. Dear Diary, remind me to avoid needing an overnight stay in Ravensthorpe General and to never whinge about city hospitals ever again.
    The lights were at least on in the operating theatre, a good sign. They pushed open the doors and walked through. A short wiry man paused, scalpel in hand. Behind him an assistant sat on a stool at a steel bench in the corner taking notes with one hand and eating a sandwich with the other. She didn’t pause or look up from behind her curtain of black hair. In the other corner stood Tess. She looked at her watch meaningfully and smiled mock-sweetly.
    ‘So you found the place okay.’
    Cato’s patience was stretched paper-thin. ‘Had a bit of trouble getting in.’
    The man with the scalpel was obviously keen to get on with it. ‘Evening gentlemen, you must be the detectives. I’m the pathologist. Harold Lewis, Harry to you. Forgive me for not shaking hands. Shall we proceed?’
    All this addressed in a fey voice to Jim Buckley who nodded. His attention was elsewhere.
    ‘That’s Sally,’ said Harry waving his scalpel in the general direction.
    It was a kind of low-rent Silent Witness, silent except for Sally munching on the sandwich and the scratching of her biro on a notepad. The body lay on a shiny steel table. Cato edged closer. His eyes travelled over the skin, the wounds, the stumps and the handless arm. Flipper. It didn’t look human any more. But it – correction, he – once was. This shapeless lump of meat had a family somewhere. Cato would try to hold on to that thought. The smell was like an extra presence in the room. Sally seemed oblivious to it, wiping a wholemeal crumb daintily from the corner of her lips.
    Dr Lewis got to work. The subject was a medium-sized male probably in the twenty to forty age-range. No obvious indications of any disease or illness. No scars, tattoos, or distinguishing birthmarks, and no obvious indications of racial origin. ‘Going by the general slippage and flesh deterioration I’d estimate he’s been in the water for up to a week. Sorry I can’t be more precise.’
    Harry examined, and Sally listed, the various wounds, mainly teeth-marks and tears. With the sandwich out of the way, Sally hopped off her stool and took some photographs.
    Dr Lewis held the pale arm up, quite gently. ‘Pity about the missing hand; it might have had a wedding finger, something to help us along. No such luck.’
    As far as