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the room he shared with Anna. She caught up with him at the door, two polystyrene cups in her hands, one of which she gave to him.
    ‘Thanks,’ Trevor walked into the office and saw Peter sitting behind his desk, the swivel chair tilted back to its limit, his feet propped dangerously near the in-tray. ‘Comfortable?’ Trevor asked.
    ‘Chair could be softer. Where’s my coffee?’ he asked Anna.
    ‘Get your own.’ Anna dumped her handbag and coffee on her desk. ‘Where’s the fire?’
    ‘No fire. Boss wants to sort out work schedules in the light of information received.’
    ‘Speak English.’ Anna sipped her coffee.
    Peter picked up a paper from the desk. ‘Our victim is one Anthony George, solicitor. The casualty doctor who treated him telephoned in and identified him, as did two people who worked with him in his office, his mother’s cleaner, three of his friends and the retired policeman who investigated the mutilation of his face in the mortuary of the hospital where he died.’
    ‘Mutilation?’ Anna sat on her chair and began to rummage in her desk drawers.
    Peter referred to the notes he’d made.
    ‘According to our informants there’s no doubt as to the victim’s identity. Anthony George, twenty-eight years old at the time of his death, two years ago from a heart attack during a game of squash. No doubt about the death either. It was verified by the doctor in casualty, and two others. His body was identified by his boss and the family solicitor due to the ill-health of his mother who was his closest living relative. Inspector Edwards who investigated the case at the time was most helpful.’
    ‘Our victim has to be a close relative.’ Ousted from his desk, Trevor sat on the edge of Anna’s.
    ‘Anthony George was an only child.’
    ‘A cousin, a look-alike. We’re all supposed to have a double somewhere,’ Trevor sipped the coffee Anna had given him.
    ‘So close, nine people phone in to tell us our victim is a dead man?’
    ‘Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?’
    Anna grumbled.
    ‘Where’s your dedication, Anna?’ Peter pulled out the inevitable cigar.
    ‘Trevor, Anna. Thanks for coming in.’ Dan strode into the office, a wad of paper in his hand. ‘I asked the Crawley Woods station to forward us their files on the George case.’ Pushing the clutter, and Peter’s feet, from Trevor’s desk he spread out the sheets. ‘Anthony George’s face was removed from his corpse shortly after death.’
    ‘Removed?’ Anna looked at Peter. ‘You said it was mutilated?’
    ‘According to the pathologist’s report it was skinned,’ Dan read.
    ‘As in rabbit?’
    ‘There was no question of a suspicious death.
    Anthony George died in a casualty unit. After his death was certified his body was taken to the hospital mortuary. The attendant was halfway through laying it out when he was called away to pick up a corpse. Contrary to hospital regulations he didn’t lock the mortuary when he left. When he returned Anthony George was minus his face.’
    ‘Surely Tony and this Anthony George can’t be one and the same?’ Anna protested.
    ‘Obviously not.’ Dan continued to flick through the papers. ‘But there’s something else – something the super in the Crawley Woods station mentioned –
    a clipping from a newspaper.’
    ‘Giving a clairvoyant’s number?’
    ‘What would we do without your humour, Peter?’ Anna tossed her cup into the bin.
    ‘It’s a report on pioneering surgery. Face transplants for burns and accident victims.’
    ‘I’ve heard of partial transplants – that woman in Paris…’
    Dan cut Anna short. ‘Apparently a complete face transplant can save years of surgery. A face from a compatible donor can, in theory, be grafted on in one. Ears, nose and all, which would cut down on the bone grafts and screw-in ears used for burn victims at present.’
    ‘Spare us the details.’
    ‘Squeamish, Anna?’ Peter needled.
    ‘I’ve just eaten.’
    Trevor slid