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the surgeon sounded unwontedly sombre. ‘You’ve got a nasty case on your hands here, Morse, and-well, I reckon you ought to have a look at one or two things while we’re in situ, as it were-you were a classicist once, I believe? Any clues going’ll pretty certainly be gone by the time I start carving him up.’
    ‘I don’t think there’s much point in that, Max. You just give him a good going-over-that’ll be fine!’
    In kindly fashion, Max put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. ‘I know! Pretty dreadful sight, isn’t it? But I’ve missed things in the past-you know that! And if-’
    ‘All right. But I need a drink first, Max.’
    ‘After. Don’t worry-I know the landlord.’
    ‘So do I,’ said Morse.
    ‘OK, then?’
    ‘OK!’
    But, as the surgeon drew back the tarpaulin once more, Morse found himself quite incapable of looking a second time at that crudely jagged neck. Instead he concentrated his narrowed eyes upon the only limbs that someone – someone (already the old instincts were quickened again)-had felt it safe to leave intact. The upper part of the man’s body was dressed in a formal, dark-blue, pin-striped jacket, matching the material of the truncated trousers below; and, beneath the jacket, in a white shirt, adorned with a plain rust-red tie-rather awkwardly fastened. Morse shuddered as the surgeon peeled off the sodden jacket, and placed the squelching material by the side of the dismembered torso.
    ‘You want the trousers too?-what’s left of ‘em?’
    Morse shook his head. ‘Anything in the pockets?’
    The surgeon inserted his hands roughly into the left and right pockets; but his fingers showed through the bottom of each, and Morse felt as sick as some sensitively palated patient in the dentist’s chair having a wax impression taken of his upper jaw.
    ‘Back pocket?’ he suggested weakly.
    ‘Ah!’ The surgeon withdrew a sodden sheet of paper, folded over several times, and handed it to Morse. ‘See what I mean? Good job we-’
    ‘You’d have found it, anyway.’
    ‘Think so? Who’s the criminologist here, Morse? They pay me to look at the bodies-not a lump of pulp like that. I’d have sent the trousers to Oxfam, like as not-better still, the Boy Scouts, eh?’
    Morse managed to raise a feeble grin, but he wanted the job over.
    ‘Nothing else?’
    Max shook his head; and as Morse (there being nothing less nauseating to contemplate) looked vaguely down along the outstretched arms, the surgeon interrupted his thoughts.
    ‘Not much good, arms, you know. Now if you’ve got teeth -which in our case we have not got-or-’
    But Morse was no longer listening to his colleague’s idle commentary. ‘Will you pull his shirt-sleeves up for me, Max?’
    ‘Might take a bit of skin with ‘em. Depends how long-’
    ‘Shut up!’
    The surgeon carefully unfastened the cuff-links and pushed the sleeves slowly up the slender arms. ‘Not exactly a weight-lifter, was he?’
    ‘No.’
    The surgeon looked at Morse curiously. ‘You expecting to find a tattoo or something, with the fellow’s name stuck next to his sweetheart’s?’
    ‘You never know your luck, Max. There might even be a name-tape on his suit somewhere.’
    ‘Somehow I don’t reckon you’re going to have too much luck in this case,’ said the surgeon.
    ‘Perhaps not…’ But Morse was hardly listening. He felt the sickness rising to the top of his gullet, but not before he’d noticed the slight contusion on the inner hollow between the left biceps and the forearm. Then he suddenly turned away from the body and retched up violently on the grass.
    Sergeant Lewis looked on with a sad and vulnerable concern. Morse was his hero, and always would be. But even heroes had their momentary weaknesses, as Lewis had so often learned.

CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday, 23rd July
     
    In which Morse’s mind drifts elsewhere as the police surgeon enunicates some of the scientific principles concerning immersion in fluids.
     
    It was