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the body on the bed afterward. Posed it.”
    â€œRight…”
    â€œUnfortunately, I still can’t tell for sure whether or not he was strangled before, after, or during the sodomy.”
    â€œSo, you’re not perfect, then?”
    â€œI know one thing. Whoever did it has a big future in gay porn. Our killer’s hung like a donkey. He did quite a bit of damage up there….”
    Thorne knew he’d been right to get rid of the sandwich. He’d lost count of the conversations like this he’d had with Hendricks over the years. His head was used to them, but his stomach still found them tricky.
    Thorne called it the H-plan diet…
    â€œWhat about secretions?”
    â€œSorry, mate, bugger all. Only thing up there that shouldn’t have been was a trace of spermicidal lubricant from the condom he was wearing. He was careful, in every sense…”
    Thorne sighed. “Where’s Holland? He still with you?”
    â€œNo chance, mate. He shot away first chance he had. Why did you send him down anyway? Actually, I’m hurt you didn’t want to watch me work…”
    These conversations, the ones that followed bodies, always ended on something lighthearted. Football, TV, anything…
    â€œDC Holland hasn’t seen you work nearly enough, though, Phil,” Thorne said. “It still gives him the heebies. I’m doing him a favor, toughening him up…”
    Hendricks laughed. “Right…”
    Right, Thorne thought. He knew very well that when it came to slabs and scalpels you never toughened up. You just pretended you had…
    Â 
    Standing in the Incident Room, preparing to brief the team, Thorne felt, as he often did on these occasions, like a teacher who was feared but not particularly liked. The slightly psychotic PE teacher. These thirty or so people in front of him—detectives, uniformed officers, civilian and auxiliary staff—might just as well have been children. There were as many different types as could be found sitting in any drafty school hall in London, even as Thorne was speaking.
    There were those who appeared to be listening intently but would have to check with colleagues later to find out exactly what they were supposed to be doing. Some, on the other hand, would be overkeen, asking questions and nodding eagerly, with every intention of doing as little as possible when the time came. There were the bullies and the picked upon. The geeks and the morons.
    The Metropolitan Police Service. Service, note, with the emphasis on caring and efficiency. Thorne knew very well that most of the people in the room, himself on some occasions included, were happier back when they were a force .
    One to be reckoned with.
    It was four days since that first postmortem conversation with Hendricks, and if the pathologist had been quick, the team at Forensic Science Services had outdone him. Seventy-two hours for DNA results was really going some, especially when the crime scene was as muchof a DNA nightmare as that hotel room had been. One notch up from a homeless shelter, it had yielded hair and skin samples from upward of a dozen individuals, male and female. Then there were the cats and dogs and at least two other animal species as yet unidentified.
    And yet, incredibly, they’d found a match.
    They were no nearer finding the killer, of course, but now they were at least certain who his victim had been. The dead man’s DNA had been on file, for a very good reason.
    Thorne cleared his throat, got a bit of hush. “Douglas Andrew Remfry, thirty-six years of age, was released from Derby Prison ten days ago, having served seven years of a twelve-year sentence for the rapes of three young women. We’re putting together an accurate picture of his movements since then, but so far it looks like a pretty consistent shuttle between pub, betting shop, and the house in New Cross where he was living with his mother and