"He was… cold. I don't know how I could have thought I could- His throat looked like mince. I ran. I don't mean that I decided to run- I just found myself running. And then I was sick.

"I know I should have called the police straightaway, but I wasn't… And afterwards… afterwards, I didn't know how I would explain what I'd done, or why I'd been there in the first place."

"What did you do then?"

"I went back to my flat. I had a few drinks. I suppose I must have gone to sleep." Alex met Gemma's gaze bleakly. "This means he didn't kill her, doesn't it? That all this time, I've been hating him, and hating myself because I felt responsible for what I thought he'd done… and all this time it was someone else."

"Alex, did you see anything last night?" she urged. "Anything odd or suspicious around Arrowood's house, or the church?"

"No." He looked devastated by his failure. "I didn't see anything at all."

"Nice musculature," commented Kate Ling. The corners of her eyes crinkled in a slight smile as she glanced at Kincaid. She was masked and gowned, and had Karl Arrowood's naked body laid out on her table, his mutilated throat exposed to her lamp.

"If you're trying to shock me with pathologist's humor, you won't succeed," Kincaid replied, grinning.

"Well, I am entitled to notice that he was a nice-looking man- I mean that in a professional way, of course. And it's obvious he took pride in himself. I'd say he worked out at a gym several times a week. He had regular manicures, too, which make the defense wounds on his right hand all the more obvious. See the cuts in his fingertips, and across his palm?"

"So he fought hard?"

"Very. See these blood smears in his hair? My guess is that's how the killer finally overpowered him, by getting a grip on this nice, thick hair and forcing his head back."

"What about the wounds themselves? Can you tell if they were made by the same weapon as his wife's, or by the same perpetrator?"

"The instrument was sharp and clean-edged, that I can tell you. The killer just never managed to get really good purchase. This man died from blood loss from multiple wounds, not from a complete severing of a main artery. And I'd guess that your killer was male, and of good height, and right-handed."

"Well, that rules out a certain percentage of the population, anyway. What about the chest wound? Did the killer intend the sort of mutilation performed on Dawn Arrowood?"

"You're thinking he was interrupted? That's possible. Although the psychology of inflicting that sort of injury on both women and men is beyond my scope."

"Time of death?"

"That old chestnut?"

Again he heard the suggestion of a smile in her voice. "I'm afraid so."

Ling reached up and turned off the tape recorder. "Off the record? I'd say somewhere in the vicinity of eight p.m. Officially, I'll have to be boringly vague, say, somewhere between seven and ten. Once I've done the stomach contents, you may be able to pin it down a bit more accurately."

"Thanks," he said with genuine feeling.

"Let's go outside for a minute," the pathologist suggested. "There's no need for you to stay for the icky part, organs and so forth. I'll send you a report." When they reached the hallway, she pulled off her mask and her cap, letting her glossy black hair swing loose, and stripped off her gloves. "That reminds me. I said the same thing not long ago to Gemma. I thought she might faint on me for a moment- That's not like her, is it?"

"No." He replied noncommittally, wondering where this was going. "She must have been having a particularly bad day."

Kate Ling frowned at him. "Duncan, I've always wondered… I know it's none of my business, but are you two an item?"

"We've just moved into a house together," he answered, seeing no reason to dissemble. "Now that she doesn't work with me directly, it's a bit more politically correct."

"Oh, well," Kate said, then shrugged and flashed him a smile whose meaning he couldn't mistake. He found himself utterly and unexpectedly tongue-tied, but she rescued him. "I hope things work out for you. She is pregnant, isn't she?"

"Yes. The baby's due in May."

"Is she feeling all right? She looked a bit peaky when I saw her that day."

"She has had a problem with her placenta. Some bleeding. But she seems to be fine now."

"Good." Kate gave him a reassuring smile, but not before he'd glimpsed the flash of concern in her eyes.

Gemma stepped out into the late-morning daylight outside the station, blinking as if emerging from a long, if unwelcome, hibernation. It had stopped snowing during the night, but gray clouds still hovered over the rooftops, and dirty slush filled gutters and pavement.

Shivering as she waited for Kincaid to fetch the car, she thought of the morning's progress, and her spirits sank even lower.

They had kept Alex Dunn at the station until Mrs. Du Ray had been able to come in and make a positive identification, but once that formality was completed, they'd had to send him home with a caution.

The same was true of Gavin Farley, which galled Gemma considerably more. Both his in-laws and his neighbors, the Simmonses, had confirmed his alibi, insisting that Farley had not left their sight for more than five minutes during the time period in which the pathologist estimated Arrowood had been murdered. The Simmonses had also made it clear they didn't care for Farley, so it seemed unlikely that they would be inclined to protect him. Nor had the search team found anything, although with the Christmas slowdown there was no telling how long it would take to get the trace evidence results back from the Home Office lab.

Then, it had fallen to Gemma to inform Karl Arrowood's sons and his ex-wife of his murder. Sean, the younger son, had answered the door at his mother's residence.

"Inspector James!" Wariness replaced his first cheerful response. "Do come in."

"I'm afraid I have some very bad news. Your father was killed last night."

He gaped at her, shock draining the color from his face.

"Sean, do you want to sit down?"

He ignored the suggestion. "My father can't be dead. There must be some mistake. We're having lunch today, a make-up-with-Richard occasion. Dad actually rang us."

"I'm sorry. There's no mistake. He was found in his drive by a neighbor."

"You mean… he was killed… like her?"

"The circumstances are quite similar, yes. Would you like me to speak to your mother? Is she here?"

"No. She and Richard have gone out for a bit." More firmly, he added, "I'll tell Mum. And Richard." His face had aged decades in five minutes.

"Is there anyone else we should inform?"

"Not that I know of. Dad's parents have been dead for years. I suppose I can ring his staff. And his business associates."

"We'll let you know when you can make funeral arrangements. Sean… there is one other thing." She hesitated, in the face of his obvious grief and shock, but knew she must ask. "Where were you and Richard yesterday evening?"

"Here," he answered without rancor. "Mother gives a monster party every Christmas Eve- a gala, she calls it. Rich and I are expected to dance attendance on all the old dears, without fail. Our mother's wrath is not something to be trifled with. Oh, God," he groaned, as if it had finally sunk in, "she's not going to want to hear this."

"I'm sorry." Gemma felt as helpless as she always did when faced with the response to sudden death. "We will be in touch, possibly with a few more questions. But we'll try to intrude as little as possible. And you can ring me if you like." She left, not envying him the task he faced.