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sounding name.’ ‘But Dickson got it down all right, sir. He asked the fellow to spell it for him-he told me that.’
    ‘I see I shall have to congratulate Constable Dickson the next time I have the misfortune to meet him.’
    ‘We’re only talking about a name, sir.’ Lewis was feeling that” incipient surge of frustrated anger he’d so often experienced with Morse.
    ‘Only? What are you talking about? “Simon”? With a surname like “Rowbotham”? Lew-is! Now George Rowbotnam -that’s fine, that squares with your actual proletarian parentage. Or Simon Comakers, or something-that’s what you’d expect from some aristocrat from Saffron Waldon. But Simon Rowbotham’? Come off it, Lewis. The fellow who rang was making it up as he went along.’
    The surgeon, who had remained sipping placidly during this oddly intemperate exchange, now decided it was time to rescue the hapless Lewis. ‘You do talk a load of nonsense, Morse. I’ve never known your first name, and I don’t give a sod what it is. For all I know, it’s “Eric” or “Ernie” or something. But so} bloody what?’
    Morse, who had ever sought to surround his Christian name in the decent mists of anonymity, made no reply. Instead, he poured himself another measure of the pale yellow spirit, thereafter lapsing into silent thought.
    It was Max who picked up the thread of the earlier discussion. ‘At least you’re not likely to get bogged down in any doubts about accident or suicide – unless you find some boat-propeller’s sliced his head off-and his hands-and his legs.’
    ‘No chance of that?’
    ‘I haven’t examined the body yet, have I?’ f
    Morse grunted with frustration. ‘I asked you, and I ask you again. How long’s he been in the water?’
    ‘I just told you. I haven’t-’
    ‘Can’t you try a feeble bloody guess?’
    ‘Not all that long-in the water, that is. But he may have been dead a few days before then.’
    ‘Have a guess, for Christ’s sake!’
    ‘That’s tricky.’
    ‘It’s always “tricky” for you, isn’t it? You do actually think the fellow’s dead, I suppose?’
    The surgeon finished his whisky, and poured himself more, his lined face creasing into something approaching geniality. ‘Time of death? That’s always going to play a prominent part in your business, Morse. But it’s never been my view that an experienced pathologist-such as myself-can ever really put too much faith in the accuracy of his observations. So many variables, you see -’
    ‘Forget it!’
    ‘Ah! But if someone actually saw this fellow being chucked in-well, we’d have a much better ideas of things, um?’
    Morse nodded slowly and turned his eyes to Lewis; and Lewis, in turn, nodded his own understanding.
    ‘It shouldn’t take long, sir. There’s only a dozen or so houses along the towpath.’
    He prepared to go. Before leaving, however, he asked one question of the surgeon. ‘Have you got the slightest idea, sir, when the body might have been put in the canal?’
    ‘Two, three days ago, sergeant.’
    ‘How the hell do you know that?’ growled Morse after Lewis had gone.
    ‘I don’t really. But he’s a polite fellow, your Lewis, isn’t he? Deserves a bit of help, as I see it.’
    ‘About two or three days, then…’
    ‘Not much more-and probably been dead about a day longer. His skin’s gone past the “washerwoman” effect, and that suggests he’s certainly been in the water more than twenty-four hours. And I’d guess -guess, mind! -that we’re past the “sodden” stage and almost up to the time when the skin gets blanched. Let’s say about two, two-and-a-half days.’
    ‘And nobody would be fool enough to dump him in during the hours of daylight, so-’
    ‘Yep. Sunday night- that’s about the time I’d suggest, Morse. But if I find a few live fleas on him, it’ll mean I’m talking a load of balls; they’d usually be dead after twenty-four hours in the water.’
    ‘He doesn’t look much like a