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'And how many cases are there?'

'Same as there are passengers, forty-two.'

Anderson rubbed his chin. 'Well, are we dealing with a coachload of armed bank robbers going on holiday, or what? An eccentric millionaires' outing?'

'It's hard to say, sir. Only the driver had any identification. A Mr Selwyn Hughes from Llanfer Ceiriog, according to his driving licence. He's no longer with us, I'm afraid, sir.’

'The passengers have all been taken to Condicote Hospital, have they?'

'That's right, sir. But I wouldn't be too hopeful, there'll have been a lot DOA.'

'I'd better get over there, anyway. Oh, and I'll expect an inventory of those cases when I get back to the station,' Anderson said as he turned and began to trudge his way through the sodden vegetation. He managed to slip on his way back up the banking.

***

The casualty department at Condicote had gone to full alert at the first news of the crash on the motorway, but gradually it had become apparent that the coach was the only vehicle involved in the incident and, further, that most of the passengers on the coach were beyond the help of even the best doctors. There was still work to be done, but nothing on the scale that was originally expected. A queue of bodies, their contours muffled by thin, white sheets, lay waiting for transport to a more suitable resting place. One by one, a police sergeant pulled the sheets and examined the bodies for identifying features. He scribbled brief descriptions on to a clipboard which he balanced on his subjects' chests while he looked at them. He turned at the sound of footfalls behind him.

'Hello, Sergeant Yardley,' Inspector Anderson greeted the stocky Yorkshireman cordially. The dark eyes gazed back him from beneath caterpillar eyebrows. 'Evenin', 'spector, sir,' Yardley returned. He leant the clipboard against a young lady's head and slipped his biro into his top pocket.

'The living aren't in any state to help me just now, so I thought I'd come and see you,' Anderson told him. 'Are you making any progress?'

'There's a couple of things, sir. I don't know if they're of any particular significance.' Anderson grinned inwardly at the way Yardley pronounced each syllable of the word 'particular’ separately.

'Oh, yes, what are they?' he asked.

'Well, firstly, they're all wearing very similar clothes, every thing's been 'ad from Marks and Sparks.'

'No room in their suitcases' for any other clothes,' said Anderson to himself.

'What's that, sir?'

Anderson waved a hand dismissively. 'Nothing, nothing. Go on.'

'The other thing about the clothes is that they all appear to be brand spanking new. Look.' He pulled at the sweater the young girl was wearing so that the back was visible. Pushed through the nylon was a thin strand of plastic with a thickened end. It was threaded through a hole in a small scrap of card.

'A price tag.'

'Exactly, sir. And this isn't the only one that still has price tags in her clothes. Like I said, it's as though they all bought new clothes for this trip.'

'Well, that's not so unusual. People often buy something new for their holidays. '

'Aye,' shrugged Yardley, 'but this stuffs so plain. Not what you'd choose at all.'

'Hmmm. What else?'

'The other thing I noticed, sir, is this.' He slipped the sheet back over the girl's head after he had removed his clipboard, then he walked along the row of corpses until he found what he' was looking for.

He revealed the pallid face of an old man, his wrinkled head covered by straggly white hair. He pulled back a portion of this matted and knotty mess to show something more clearly to Anderson. A dark, discoloured patch of skin was uncovered on the old man's neck. It was regularly shaped and split into three distinct sections, joined by jagged brown lines. At one point of this triangle was a half-moon shape, at the highest point rested a hexagon, and the other point was made tip by a circular mark.

'That's one hell of a birthmark,' the Inspector commented.

'That's not