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Pickard looked a little baffled.

„So is this all you have to show?‟ Mike continued briskly.

„Butcher‟s leftovers? No complete bodies?‟

„There‟s one,‟ said Pickard. „We haven‟t had a formal ID yet, but we think it‟s the skipper‟s son, Terry Robson.‟

„But the entire crew have been accounted for?‟ said Mike. „I mean, among all these bits and pieces?‟

Pickard shook his head. „It‟s still too early for that. We won‟t know for sure what we‟ve got here until later this afternoon. Unofficially we reckon we‟ve got the bits of at least five bodies here.‟

„And the sixth crewmember?‟

„Dead too, I‟d guess.‟

„What makes you so sure?‟

Pickard led the way across to a blanket beside the wheelhouse. The bulge beneath this blanket was more substantial than the others. Glancing back at the police line at the end of the jetty - Mike guessed to ensure that the public couldn‟t see what he was about to reveal - Pickard pulled the blanket back.

The man was lying on his back, eyes partially open and glazed with death, head lolled on to his left shoulder. The exposed side of his neck and throat was ripped and gouged as if he had been attacked by a wild animal. His clothes and the wooden deck of the boat beneath him were soaked with blood. By his side, inches from his hand, was a stubby handgun with a wide muzzle.

„Flare gun?‟ said Mike.

Pickard nodded. „I think Terry here fired it point-blank at his attacker, who then either fell or was blown overboard.‟

„And Terry died later from loss of blood,‟ murmured Mike.

Pickard let the blanket fall back over the corpse. Mike straightened up.

„Well, thanks again for your help, Inspector. You will keep me informed if there are any developments, won‟t you?‟

Pickard smiled thinly. „If that‟s what you want. Though I don‟t think we‟ll be arresting any little green men from Mars for this.‟

Mike matched Pickard‟s smile with a disarming one of his own. „You never know, Inspector,‟ he said. „You never know.‟

Guy Elkins woke up thinking about who in the world he would most like to kill. Just lately his mind was refusing to turn itself to any other subject. If his mates started talking about football or motorbikes or girls they‟d like to sleep with, his thoughts would begin to slip and a strange buzzing would start up in his brain, drowning out their words. The last time he had been in the pub, four days ago, all he had been able to think about was smashing his beer glass on the counter and ramming the jagged edge into Carl Collier‟s throat.

Carl was his best mate, they had known each other since they were babies, but the thought of Carl‟s blood spurting out filled him with a shudder of excitement he could barely control. He had felt sweat spring up on his brow, had clenched his teeth and gripped his beer glass so hard it was a wonder it hadn‟t exploded in his fist. Carl had noticed the state he was in, had frowned and asked Guy if he was feeling all right. Guy had known what Carl was saying despite his words being drowned out by a buzzing so loud it was like having an electricity pylon in his head.

The only reason he hadn‟t slashed his best friend‟s throat on that occasion was that he had forced himself, with a mighty effort of will, to let go of the glass, shove Carl out of the way and stagger out of the pub. He had set off for home at a stumbling run and hadn‟t stopped until he got there. He had no idea whether Carl had come after him to find out what was wrong. Certainly Guy hadn‟t seen him since he‟d left him sitting bemusedly in a pool of beer on the pub floor.

Guy and Carl, both eighteen now, had been getting into trouble together almost since they could walk. They‟d been done for affray, burglary, vandalism, shoplifting, stealing cars. They knew each other‟s strengths and limitations, knew they could rely on one another in a crisis. At least, they did until about ten days ago. It was then that Guy‟s mind had started to... change.

Guy, like Carl, had always enjoyed