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any so-called thriller for more than a few minutes without starting to drift away, and yet a jargon-filled description of ruined flesh had him riveted. He was confident that there was nothing overly perverse in this. He could honestly say that he had never enjoyed watching an autopsy.
    The truth was that an intimate knowledge of real killers and real victims made him a difficult reader to please.
    Thorne had seen enough wild-eyed gunmen and bloodied blades, and soft-spoken, heavy-lidded perverts. He'd seen plenty of batterers and arsonists and smiling poisoners. He'd seen more than his fair share of damaged bodies: some dead, and others more damaged still, left behind to remember.
    He'd seen holes in flesh and holes in lives. Thorne picked up his coffee cup and was heading for the kitchen to make another when the doorbell rang.
    Hendricks was standing on the doorstep wearing a floor-length black leather coat and watch cap. He was brandishing a blue-striped plastic bag that was threatening to break at any instant thanks to the vast quantity of cheap lager it contained. The accent hardly suited dramatic declamation, but he did his best. 'Let us drink beer and talk of death.'
    Thorne turned and headed back inside. Neither of them was big on ceremony. 'It sounds like you've already started on the drinking bit...'
    Hendricks slammed the outer door and followed Thorne inside.
    'I've been doing both, mate. I've been with Dr Duggan most of the day...' He closed the inner door and moved into the living room.
    'He the one who did the first post-mortem on Ruth Murray?'
    'She. Emma Duggan. Very good, and very fanciable, if you like that kind of thing.'
    Thorne shook his head and reached into the plastic bag that Hendricks was now cradling gently. 'Formaldehyde does nothing for me, sorry.'
    'And I've spent the last few hours up to my elbows in Ruth Murray myself, so yes,' Hendricks said, dumping the .bag on the sofa, 'I did have a couple on the way over.'
    While Hendricks took off his coat, Thorne opened a beer and picked up the CD remote control. He switched Cash's Solitary Man back to the beginning. The guitar kicked in on 'I Won't Back Down'. Thorne took the chair and Hendricks the sofa. It was a familiar and comfortable arrangement that, bar a few awkward weeks the year before, had been repeated at least weekly since Thorne had first moved in nearly eighteen months ago. He'd rattled around in the big house in Highbury for three years after his divorce, before finally taking the plunge and buying the flat He still hadn't got used to the place. He did like the oatmeal IKEA sofa a lot better now it had a few beer stains, but though the place was at last starting to look worn, it had become no more welcoming.
    The person responsible for most of the stains grunted, at home now and ready to talk about death.
    'So...?' Thorne was trying not to sound impatient.
    'So... interesting.'
    The phone rang. Thorne sighed, pulled himself out of the chair and marched across to where the cordless phone stood, near the front door.
    'Thorne...'
    'Sir, it's Holland...'
    'Nothing so far then?' He could hear the confusion in the silence from the other end. 'Don't worry, Holland, I can always tell if you're excited. Your voice goes up an octave.'
    'Sir . . .'
    'So, nothing at all? Maybe we need to widen things geographically as well...'
    'There were a couple that looked likely, but there were arrests on both of them and the only other ones, two assaults.., and two women stabbed on the same day in July, didn't pan out timing-wise.'
    'Sure?'
    'Positive. McEvoy double-checked. Couldn't have been the same killer who did both. Even if... you know, the times of death were a bit off.., he'd have needed a helicopter to have done both of them.'
    'OK, knock it on the head ... like you weren't about to anyway. Tomorrow you might have more luck. I'm sure this wasn't his first time. You'll get something. Besides, you won't have any distractions.'
    'Sorry?'
    'I'm taking DS