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<h2>3</h2>
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<p>Jack Fallon stood with his back to the window, hands deep in the
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pockets of his coat. Ronnie Jeffrey was down on his knees in front
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of the fireplace, taking close-up pictures of what lay on the
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floor, half on the carpet and half on the stone kerb. The camera
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flashed twice in quick succession. When Ronnie turned, Jack could
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only see his eyes. The rest of his face was covered with a
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handkerchief knotted behind his neck, worn like a bank robber in an
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old western movie.</p>
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<p>"Right, Ronnie," Jack said. "That should do it."</p>
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<p>"About time too," Ronnie said, his voice only slightly muffled
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by the mask. "What a stink. She must have been here for days."</p>
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<p>"Maybe. Where's Ralph? I want him to start the prints. And watch
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your feet on that glass."</p>
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<p>"I'll ask him in." Ronnie heaved himself to his feet and backed
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away carefully, unable to avoid the smaller shards on the floor
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under his heavy shoes. They crunched with a sound that grated in
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Jack's ears and tingled the nerves between his shoulderblades. The
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photographer got to the door and pulled the handkerchief down.</p>
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<p>"Still stinks, even from here. Like a barbecue in a
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cemetery."</p>
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<p>"Could have been worse. Might have been summer," Jack agreed. He
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hadn't moved position since he'd taken up station at the window.
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His frame blocked off some of the light coming through the dusty
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pane, but not much. Outside it was cold and overcast. Implacable
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winter weather. If it <em>had</em> been summer, the stench in the
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room would have been overwhelming, stomach-clenching. The place
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would have been buzzing with bluebottles and the body would have
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been squirming with maggots wriggling under the skin.</p>
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<p>"Thank God for small mercies," Ronnie grunted as he left the
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room.</p>
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<p>Jack stood for a while longer, eyes drifting almost lazily
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around the room, trying to shake off an oppressive feeling of
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threat that had been sparked off by the grating sound.</p>
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<p>The place was a shambles. Three of the chairs which would have
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sat around the circular table were overturned, lying on their
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sides. A fourth was upside down on a low settee on the far side by
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the door. It looked as if it had been flung violently. The table
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itself, set solid in the centre of the room under a drop light, was
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deeply scored in grooves, fresh by the look of it, in the places
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where the blood hadn't flowed. It was blood, Jack Fallon knew from
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long experience - too long, he sometimes thought - though it had
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blackened and caked in the runnels. He'd have known the smell
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anywhere, just as he knew the smell of burned flesh and decaying
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corpses. All three were here, present and correct, each clamouring
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for his attention and getting it. He felt the muscles of his throat
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twitch and he gulped beck the reflex. He hadn't had breakfast, and
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that was definitely a bonus.</p>
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<p>The old woman hadn't been covered up yet. An ambulance crew were
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waiting downstairs, and they'd have to wait a little longer. She
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wasn't going anywhere. Hadn't been going anywhere for a couple of
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days, maybe a week, Jack estimated, though Robbie Cattenach's
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pathology lab would give him a better guess. no doubt. He looked
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down at her. The sleeve and half the bodice of her black dress were
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burned away, along with her arm, which was stretched out right into
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the cold embers of the fire. They hadn't been cold, though. What
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stretched out from the woman's body was a twisted skeletal claw on
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a black, stick-like extension. The flesh had shrivelled and melted,
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causing the arm to warp. At the crook of the elbow, the tendons and
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muscles had bunched and torqued in the heat. On the floor just
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beneath, a two-foot wide greasy splatter had hardened on the floor.
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Jack knew it was the woman's body fats. They'd have sizzled out and
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dripped, like a roast on a spit. The fire hadn't gone far, maybe
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because there was little to burn on the woman. It hadn't made the
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leap over the kerb, or the whole place would have gone up. The room
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was a fire hazard. Old dry books lined the shelves on the walls, or
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at least some of them. Most of them were scattered around the
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floor. Some of them were ripped apart, and a few single torn pages
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were strewn about the floor just at Jack's feet. On a shelf, a box
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filled with newspaper clippings. Lace curtains on the window, and
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dried flowers in vases. They had probably stood on every horizontal
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surface, but now they too were strewn about like weeds in a cut
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hayfield. It would have gone up like a torch.</p>
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<p>He shifted his stance, allowing the weak light to filter through
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the net curtain onto the woman's face. Only half of it was intact.
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The side nearest the fire was wasted, burned almost away. The flesh
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was gone, exposing the animal-like clench of the jaw right up to
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behind the ear. The eye had shrunk, probably burst first, then
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dissolved into the dark socket. The other side of the face was
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still human, though the shrivelling of skin and muscle on the
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burned side had pulled everything out of shape, drawing that side
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into a strange plastic grimace. The skin on the unburned side was
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blackened with bruising. Blood streaks had hardened into thick
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scabs. The mouth, the half that was left, was wide open.</p>
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<p>Almost on the terminator line, where the burned and puckered
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skin stopped and the untouched part remained, a piece of glass was
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wedged into the centre of the forehead. It glinted weakly like an
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eye, giving the corpse an alien look that was oddly alive. Above
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that, slender shards of glass stuck up from the wasted scalp like
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shiny bristles. Slivers were strewn around the body, twinkling on
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the hearth around the blackened, contorted arm. Fragments of the
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flower-vases were scattered like sharp confetti all over the floor.
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Down one side of the room, two lengths of the thick, old fashioned
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wallpaper had been stripped from ceiling to floor and lay tangled
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and crumpled. Down the pillar-like lines, three yards apart, were
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two words, daubed vertically on the plain plaster in bold, dark
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capitals. That more than anything else raised a question mark in
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Jack Fallon's mind. It took his mind off everything else.</p>
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<p>"She's been thrown all over the place. Hit with everything," he
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said aloud into the dull room. The smell was overwhelming.</p>
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<p>"What's that?"</p>
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<p>Ralph Slater came in from the hallway. There was a streak of
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powder on his cheek. He was wearing thin rubber gloves which made
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his hands look artificial. All his gear was in the battered leather
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case.</p>
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<p>"Nothing Ralph. Just thinking."</p>
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<p>"Smell would stop a clock. Want a mint?"</p>
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<p>Jack shook his head. He needed a coffee, strong and black, with
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three sugars. In the palpable air of the claustrophobic, ransacked
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room, even the thought of coffee was nauseating. He really needed a
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drink, but he'd been needing a drink for a while.</p>
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<p>"No. Might as well get on. You know your bit. Ronnie's taken his
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snaps. I'll need everything from here."</p>
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<p>Ralph nodded. He put his case down on the old brocade settee,
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after making sure there was nothing there worth checking. There
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were enough smooth surfaces in the room to make the fabric of the
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upholstery hardly worth dusting.</p>
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<p>"What about that then? Looks like a gang slogan," Ralph said,
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nodding at the scrawled words.</p>
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<p>"Not any gang from around here."</p>
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<p><em>Heteros.</em> There was an odd slant to the letters on the
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bare space next to the door.</p>
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<p><em>Etheros</em>. The same twist to the right on the wall where
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the paper had been stripped beside the window.</p>
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<p>The words, if they <em>were</em> words, started at the ceiling,
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at twice the height of a man. Whoever had written them must have
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used something to get up there, and then removed whatever he'd
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used. He must also have been confident that nobody would disturb
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him. Did that mean she'd known her attacker? That would make it
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easier, Jack thought.</p>
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<p>Still it was too early to say. He'd got the call an hour before
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and had arrived ten minutes after that. A young policeman, just out
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of cadet school, had been standing at the outside door, one foot in
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a dirty puddle. When Jack had approached him, the youngster had
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turned and retched violently, obviously not for the first time.
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Jack dug into his pocket and gave him a fresh tissue. The constable
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had wiped his mouth vigorously before straightening up. His eyes
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were red-rimmed.</p>
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<p>"They told me to wait here for you sir. It's the third floor.
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neighbours were complaining about the smell. Doors weren't
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locked."</p>
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<p>"Touch anything?"</p>
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<p>The young man - he looked no more than a boy - gave Jack a look
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which declared he would have just as soon cut off his hand. He gave
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another shiver and tried to gag again, shaking his head all the
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time.</p>
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<p>"There's a car on its way," Jack told him. "When it gets here,
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get back up to division and have a cup of tea. Then when you're
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feeling a bit fresher, write down everything you saw."</p>
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<p>The constable nodded, still wiping at his lips. Jack by-passed
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him. At the second level, he realised what the neighbours had been
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complaining about. Once inside, he wondered why they hadn't noticed
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sooner.</p>
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<p>Ralph's two assistants came in and were going over the place,
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starting at the door and working their way in. They didn't seem
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badly affected by the smell. They were used to working with the
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dead. Jack could have done without it.</p>
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<p>Oh, he could have done without it, nothing was surer.</p>
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<p>He turned away and pulled the curtain to the side. The window
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faced north, across the main street up to the Barwoods behind the
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town. They clouds were dark and heavy, getting set to drop two days
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of clammy misery. After that, the weathermen said it was going to
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be cold. it was already cold out there. Down in the street, he
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could see the winking lights of the ambulance and the police cars,
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bright electric-blue flashes against the background of grey. People
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were walking past, heads down against the cold west wind.</p>
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<p><em>Working with the dead.</em></p>
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<p>Somebody had to do it. There was always somebody who
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<em>would</em> do it. Jack Fallon did not know if he was man enough
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for it any more. He wasn't sure he was man enough for
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<em>anything</em> any more. On the window, the smirr of rain had
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thickened to droplets which ran in jagged streaks, fuzzing out the
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grey outside, breaking up the winking blue lights. His mind started
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going back to another dismal day when he'd seen the same electric
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flicker through the rain on the windscreen of the unmarked car, and
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something had flickered through his mind, not like a light, but a
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darkness. It had come blaring in like radio message with no source,
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over and above the hubbub of sirens and lights and real radio
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crackle and a sudden surge of dread had made his stomach drop like
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a weight. That had been...that had...</p>
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<p>He turned himself away from the window before the vision came
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back to him, otherwise he would not be able to function. He shook
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it away with an almost savage twist of his body, gritting his teeth
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so hard he could feel them grind like stones. The memory tried to
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edge in, and he knew it would come back in force later on, when the
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work was done, when his mind wasn't focussed, and then it would
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take him on the black dance again. But now, he had to think
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clearly.</p>
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<p>Ralph's scene of crimes team worked quickly and efficiently.
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dabbing here, collecting pieces there. The small tools of that
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trade were cutting and picking and probing around the room, watched
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by the dispassionate, drily blind eye of the dead woman, and the
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winking cyclopean shard set in the middle of her forehead.</p>
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<p>"Any of you know her?"</p>
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<p>"Name's Herkik. Polish or something," Ralph mumbled back. His
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tongue was poking out between his teeth and he scraped a sample of
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the blood on the table, working with delicate deliberation.</p>
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<p>"Hungarian," Jack corrected. "No, I mean, does anybody know
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anything about her?"</p>
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<p>Ralph shook his head. the two others made no reply.</p>
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<p>"Right. We'll get it door to door. How long will this take
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you?"</p>
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<p>"Another half an hour. Dr Cuthbert's made a prelim. The drivers
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can take her away when you're done."</p>
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<p>Jack crossed the room, careful not to stand on anything, which
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was difficult enough in the tight confines of the demolished room.
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He got to the door.</p>
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<p>"Finished here?"</p>
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<p>Ralph nodded, letting him know that he could touch the door.
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Jack closed it behind him and made his way downstairs, ignoring the
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old woman who peeked out, nose almost caught in the
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burglar-chain.</p>
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<p>In the street, the air was clean, but the drizzle made it a
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dirty morning.</p>
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<p>John McColl was standing at the back of the nearest police car,
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using his big hands for emphasis as he spoke to two younger men in
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long raincoats and another three uniformed policemen. Jack reached
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him just as the others turned away.</p>
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<p>"Bit of a mess," the big sergeant said matter-of-factly. "Got an
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idea or two from the neighbours, nothing much. They've had their
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heads up their arses this past week."</p>
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<p>John was a couple of inches taller than Jack Fallon's six foot,
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and another few inches wider. His hair had gone prematurely gray.
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he looked the senior officer of the two, but Jack outranked him by
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two levels.</p>
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<p>"You're telling me." Jack took a deep breath of air. He could
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feel the winter on the west wind.</p>
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<p>He ran through the procedure. John McColl told him what the
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door-to-door team were doing, and what they'd got so far. He
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flipped open his notebook, turned against the rain and used a big
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broad forefinger to point out the words as he spoke.</p>
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<p>"Marta Herkik. Hungarian. Came to live with her brother. He's
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been dead about six years. Bit of a faith healer, the old lady,
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into spiritualism, that sort of thing. Fortune telling and the
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like. Should have been able to see this coming if she'd been any
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good, eh?"</p>
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<p>Jack nodded him on. John was a straight-talking, irreverent
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policeman who had little respect for authority unless it was
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earned. His father ran the family's three pubs in Glasgow, and John
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could have had an easy life if he'd chosen. The family wealth
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perhaps allowed him to forego the obsequiousness often demanded by
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superiors, but he liked Jack Fallon, and they had a mutual,
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easy-going respect.</p>
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<p>"Neighbour below has been on night-shift at the rig yard. Hasn't
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heard a thing. The one next door said there was a bit of a rumble
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on Saturday last week. Nothing much. She thought the old dear was
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shifting furniture. The walls here are two feet thick and the
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floors nearly the same. Built to last, this old place. Not much
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noise drift."</p>
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<p>McColl closed the book. "Any idea what killed her?"</p>
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<p>"Just about everything in the place."</p>
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<p>"There was a case like that up in Creggan a few years back.
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Bastard got off on impeachment. Blamed somebody else and the jury
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was pulled both ways."</p>
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<p>"We'll wait for the street teams. No point in jumping in. When
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Ralph's finished, let the ambulance crew go up. I'll be back at the
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office."</p>
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<p>"Taking the car?"</p>
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<p>"No. I'll stroll it. Want to think for a bit."</p>
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<p>Jack shrugged his collar up higher against the rain. A hank of
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black hair had fallen down over his forehead and was trickling
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water onto his brow. He wiped it away with his hand and turned
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along River Street, took a left turn at Market Vennel, easing his
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way through the throng of umbrellas which stabbed at his eyes in
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the narrow lane, and out to College Way towards the station.</p>
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<p>The sense of unease he'd felt in the house where the dead woman
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sprawled on the hearth stayed with him all the way.</p>
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