“Not sleeping very well,” said Banks. “Or not enough.”

“It’s the demon drink. I thought so. Plays havoc with your sleep patterns. Now, what do we have here?”

“A jigsaw puzzle?” Banks suggested.

“I’m not normally a fan of TV crime dramas, but did you ever see that Swedish program—­or was it Danish—­the one about the body on the bridge? That was in two halves, but in that case, it was top and bottom. This is much more unusual. And see how clean the cuts are. Look at those arms, taken off right at the shoulder joints, just like chicken wings. What does that suggest to you?”

“A chef?”

“Be serious, man.”

“A professional?” Banks ventured.

“But what kind? What kind?”

“Doctor, perhaps? A surgeon?”

“Hah. Apart from the personal insult implied, you couldn’t be more wrong. The body’s been jointed and split, Banks. Now, why on earth would a surgeon do that?”

“I don’t know. A butcher, then?”

“Possibly.” Glendenning scratched his bristly mustache. “Closer, at any rate.” He bent over the remains and poked and prodded for a while, at one point lifting up the right arm and examining it from various angles. He then put it down and picked up the other arm. “No sign of defensive wounds, but there’s some light bruising on the arms,” he said. “Premortem.”

“Somebody held him by his arms?”

“Well, laddie, he might not want to just stand still and get shot. Some ­people would take objection to that, you know.”

Banks noticed as he looked at the naked body that there were no genitals. “Was he castrated?” he asked.

“The genitalia were certainly removed,” said Glendenning. “As were all the internal organs and viscera. He was also exsanguinated. But all that was carried out postmortem. There are no incisions on what’s left. Each part is intact in itself, except the head.”

“Be thankful for small mercies,” Banks muttered.

“Aye.” Dr. Glendenning pointed to the head. The eyes were closed. “That’s what killed him, I’m almost certain. That bloody great hole in his head, to be technical about it. And you can see if you look carefully that the throat was cut before the head was severed. There are signs of two different incisions.” He selected a scalpel from the tray of instruments on the side table. “Now, let’s see what else we’ve got here. There’s no sign of lividity, no blood settled in the muscles or tissue.” He put down the scalpel and conferred with his assistant quietly for a few moments, then he turned back to Banks.

“The victim was shot in the forehead. And I’m glad you haven’t asked about time of death, because I’m afraid it would be very hard to tell.”

“We think it probably happened on Sunday morning.”

“Now look at this.” Dr. Glendenning pointed toward the ankles, where Banks could see the deeply cut groove of some sort of binding.

“Rope?” he asked. “Leather? Metal?”

“We’ll settle that later when we check the wound for fibers. For the moment, though, I can tell you that the throat was cut and the body was drained of blood, most likely while hanging upside down. The arms were expertly removed at the shoulder joints—­no cutting of bone involved—­and finally, the body was sliced in half by a very sharp blade and eviscerated. Scraped out. Look at the cleanness of those cut lines. There’s little tearing, no raggedness.”

“What was used? A chain saw or something?”

“Certainly something.” Glendenning nodded toward his assistant. “But probably not a chain saw. At least not an ordinary one. There would be much more tearing. Karen over there has a theory. Tell DCI Banks your theory, my dear.”

Karen gave Dr. Glendenning a daggers-­drawn look at the sexist endearment. Not that it would do any good, Banks thought. Glendenning loved to tease and play the politically incorrect male chauvinist pig, and he was too old to change now. “Taking everything together,” Karen said, “it very much looks to me as if this body was dressed in a working abattoir.”

“An abattoir?” Banks repeated.

“Yes.” Karen glanced at the remains, then back at Banks. She was a petite, serious brunette, most of her hair hidden under the surgeon’s cap, and she looked far too young and innocent to know such things. “That’s my opinion, DCI Banks. Your victim was shot first, and then taken and cut up in a slaughterhouse.”

“Of course.” Banks scratched his head. “Goes without saying. And the gunshot wound, the cause of death?”

“I just said shot,” Karen explained. “I did not say gunshot.”

“Christ,” said Banks. “No Country for Old Men.”

Dr. Glendenning gave him a surprised glance. “It certainly isn’t,” he agreed, “but this is hardly the time or place for a discussion of age and society.”

“It’s a movie,” said Banks. “The killer uses a bolt gun.”

“Give the man a cigar. I’ll bet you a grand to a bucket of slops that when I go inside I’ll find the frontal lobes scrambled, and no stray bullet. It’s rare in human murder cases, but as you can see it does the job. The way it usually works is a gas cylinder is used to power the bolt, which enters the skull to a certain point, causing massive and irreversible brain damage, then the bolt retracts back into the gun. Used on a cow or a pig, you couldn’t guarantee that death would ensue—­the animal may just be stunned—­so you’d probably have to be prepared for exsanguination on the spot, but with a human being . . . well, our skulls aren’t as thick, no matter what some of us might think. This man was shot with a penetrating bolt gun, the kind that a professional slaughterman would use.”

“So he would have died on the spot?”

“Most likely,” said Glendenning. “Though he might have survived for a short while, as his system was shutting down. Death is not always immediate from such wounds. Though he would most certainly have been incapacitated.”

“And the loss of blood?”

“Apart from the amount he lost at the scene—­there’s usually a lot of blood with head wounds—­the rest was drained later. Judging by the straps and the split carcass, I’d suggest that he was hung upside down and his throat was slit. All you need to bleed out then is gravity’s help. It doesn’t even matter if your heart’s stopped. After that, he was cut up, disjointed, eviscerated, and from what I can gather packaged up like a stillborn lamb and shipped off for incineration. No one would be any the wiser.”

Banks looked at the gruesome remains of Morgan Spencer on the steel table and felt the taste of hot acid bile in his throat. Christ, he wondered, what, and who, were they dealing with here?

ANNIE FELT disoriented when she woke early on Wednesday morning, and for a moment she experienced that terrifying sensation of not knowing where she was or how she had got there. It didn’t last long, thank the Lord, until the dry mouth and the throbbing headache told her she was on Alex Preston’s let-­down sofa and she had a bloody hangover. It was the strangest sensation, she reflected as she sat up and stretched, that split second when you don’t recognize the place you’re in. Maybe that’s what you felt when you woke up dead, she thought, then chided herself for being so stupid as to think you could wake up dead. It must be the hangover thinking.

It was just starting to get light outside, and nobody else in the flat was up yet. Then she heard an alarm ring and stop suddenly. A few moments later, Alex padded down the hall in her dressing gown and, without stopping to check on Annie, went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Annie lay on her back and pulled the blanket up to her chin. When Alex came back, she stopped in the half-­light by the sofa and looked down at Annie.

“You’re awake,” she said. “I wasn’t sure. Mind if I switch the light on?”

Annie rubbed her eyes. “Not at all.”

“The kettle will come to a boil in a minute. Stay where you are, if you like, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Right now I have to go and get Ian up. Believe me, it can be quite a job.”