“What the hell,” said Hamilton. “It’s Friday evening. The weekend starts here.”

“Do you know that it takes about an hour or an hour and a half at between sixteen and eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit to cremate a human body?” Dr. Glendenning asked, apropos of nothing in particular. “And that the ordinary house – or, in this case, boat – fire rarely exceeds twelve hundred? That, ladies and gentlemen, is why we have so much material left to work with.”

The postmortem lab in the basement of Eastvale General Infirmary was hardly hi-tech, but Dr. Glendenning’s experience more than made up for that. To Banks, the blackened shape laid out on the stainless-steel table looked more like one of those Iron Age bodies preserved in peat bogs than someone who had been a living, breathing human being less than twenty-four hours ago. Already, the remnants of clothing had been removed to be tested for traces of accelerant, blood samples had been sent for analysis, and the body had been X-rayed for any signs of gunshot wounds and internal injuries. None had been found, only a belt buckle, three pounds sixty-five in loose change, and a signet ring without initials engraved on it.

“Thought you wouldn’t know that,” Glendenning went on, casting an eye over his audience: Banks, Geoff Hamilton and Annie Cabbot, fresh from the scene. “And I hope you appreciate my working on a Friday evening,” he went on as he examined the body’s exterior with the help of his new assistant, Wendy Gauge, all kitted out in blue scrubs and a hairnet. Glendenning looked at his watch. “This could take a long time, and you also probably don’t know that I have an important dinner engagement.”

“We realize you’re a very important man,” said Banks, “and we’re eternally grateful to you, aren’t we, Annie?” He nudged Annie gently.

“We are, indeed,” said Annie.

Glendenning scowled. “Enough of your lip, laddie. Do we know who he is?”

Banks shook his head. “All we know was in the report I sent you. His name’s probably Tom, and he was an artist.”

“It would help if I knew something about his medical history,” Dr. Glendenning complained.

“Afraid we can’t help you,” said Banks.

“I mean, if he was a drug addict or a drunk or on some sort of dodgy medication… Why do you always make my job so much more bloody difficult than it needs to be, Banks? Can you tell me that?”

“Search me.”

“One day I probably will,” Glendenning said. “Inside and out.” He scowled, lit a cigarette, though it was strictly forbidden, and went back to work. Banks envied him the cigarette. He had always smoked at postmortems. It helped to mask the smell of the bodies. And they always smelled. Even this one would smell when Dr. Glendenning opened him up. He’d be like one of those fancy, expensive steaks: charred on the outside and pink in the middle, and if he’d got enough carbon monoxide in his system, his blood would look like cherryade.

“Anyway,” Glendenning went on, “if he was an artist, he was probably a boozer. Usually are in my experience.”

Annie said nothing, though her father, Ray, was an artist, and a boozer. She stood beside Banks, eyes fixed on the doctor, already looking a little pale. Banks knew she didn’t like postmortems – nobody really did except, arguably, the pathologist – but the more she attended, the sooner she’d get used to them.

“He’s got burns over about seventy-five percent of the body’s surface area. The most severe burning, the greatest combination of third-and fourth-degree burning, occurs in the upper body area.”

“That would be the area closest to the point of origin,” said Geoff Hamilton, cool and glum-looking as ever.

Dr. Glendenning nodded. “Makes sense. Mostly what we’ve got is full-thickness burning on the front upper body. You can see where the surface looks black and charred. That’s caused by boiling subcutaneous fat. The human body keeps on burning long after the fire’s been put out. Sort of like a candle, burning in its own fat.”

Banks noticed Annie make an expression of distaste.

“Farther down,” Glendenning continued, “on the legs and feet, for example, you can see the skin is pink and mottled in places, covered with blisters. That indicates brief exposure and lower temperature.”

When Dr. Glendenning got to the external examination of the victim’s head, Banks noticed what looked like skull fractures. “Found something, Doc?” he asked.

“Look, I’ve told you before not to call me Doc. It’s lacking in respect.”

“But have you found evidence of blows to the head?”

Glendenning bent over and probed the wounds, examining them carefully. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“But that’s what they look like to me,” Annie said.

“To you, lassie, maybe. But to me, they look like fractures caused by the heat.”

“The heat causes fractures?” Annie said.

Dr. Glendenning sighed. Banks could imagine the sort of teacher he’d be and how he’d terrify the poor medical students.

“Of course it does,” he said. “Heat contracts the skin and causes splits that may easily be interpreted as cuts inflicted during life. It can also cause fractures in the long bones of the arms and legs, or make them so bloody brittle that they’re fractured while the body is being moved. Remember, we’re sixty-six percent water, and fire is a great dehydrator.”

“But what about the skull?” Annie asked.

Glendenning looked at her, a glint in his eye. “The fractures are caused by pressure. The brain and the blood start to boil, and the steam needs an outlet, so it blows a hole in the skull. Pop. Just like a bottle of champagne.”

Annie shuddered. Even Banks felt a little queasy. Dr. Glendenning went back to work, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Anyway,” he went on, “skull fractures caused by fire often radiate along suture lines, the weakest point in the skull’s surface, and that’s the case here. Also, the skull splinters haven’t been driven into the brain matter, which would most likely be the case if blunt-instrument trauma were present. They’ve been forced outward.”

“So you’re saying he wasn’t hit over the head?”

“I’m saying nothing of the kind,” Glendenning said. “I’m only saying it seems unlikely. That’s typical of you, Banks, jumping to conclusions when you’ve got only part of the evidence, going off half-cocked. What about a bit of scientific method, laddie? Haven’t you been reading your Sherlock Holmes lately?”

“I know that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Or something like that.”

“Well, in this case,” said Glendenning, “almost anything’s still possible. Your report mentioned that the body was covered by debris, and I’ve seen the crime scene photos and sketches. The damage might have been caused by a section of the ceiling falling on the deceased after his death.”

“I suppose it could have happened that way,” said Banks.

“Definitely possible,” said Geoff Hamilton.

“I’m glad you both agree,” Glendenning said.

“On the other hand, though,” Banks argued, “wouldn’t you expect to find skull splinters in the brain if that were the case?”

Glendenning graced him with a rare smile. “You’re learning, laddie. Anyway, we don’t even know whether the injury was post-or antemortem yet. That’s my point.”

“Do you think you could find out?”

Glendenning rolled his eyes. “Do I think I could find out?” he mimicked, then went back to the body. “Well, why don’t we start by looking for signs of smoke inhalation?” He held out his hand theatrically. “Scalpel.”

Wendy Gauge suppressed a smile as she handed him the required instrument, and the pathologist bent over the corpse. The nose had burned away, along with enough skin and flesh to allow the chin and jawbone to show through in places. Glendenning worked away at exposing the tracheal area and bronchial passage, parts of which Banks could see were black with soot or charring, then he bent over the body again. “There’s definitely some thermal injury to the mouth, nose and upper airways,” he said, “but that’s not unusual, and it doesn’t tell us much.” He poked around some more. “There’s soot present, but not a great deal. In fact, in this case, there’s little enough to conclude that he was still breathing, but shallowly.”