The moment they’d seen the trademark mouth wound they’d recognised just how routine it was going to be. By now the professional hitman would be on his way to Alaska or New Mexico or California or Timbuctoo, the unmarked weapon already disposed of, the contract money already deposited and earning interest. All they could do was go through the motions, write up the reports, enjoy a little unofficial time off on supposed inquiries and commit the whole file to the ‘unsolved’ cabinet along with all the rest. And it wouldn’t even reflect badly on their record, because no-one was expected to solve Mafia murders. That wasn’t the way things worked. Ever.

The coroner stood, stretched and ducked under the tape. ‘Want a closer look?’

‘It’s a body,’ said Rafferty, with practised boredom.

‘We’ve seen one before,’ said Johannsen. ‘Lots.’

The medical examiner, whose name was Brierly, was the odd one out in the murder team: after only three years he had some enthusiasm. ‘White Caucasian. Male. Death was due to gunshot wounds.’

‘You sure about that?’ asked Rafferty.

Brierly ignored the sarcasm. ‘Two to the body, one through the heart. Slugs were either hollow nosed or dum-dummed, flattening on impact. Took away most of his back on exit. There’s some bone and flesh debris’ – the man turned and pointed – ‘about five yards from where the body is. I guess he was standing when he was first hit. No burn marks, so I’d say from about five or six feet.’

‘What about the mouth?’ asked Rafferty.

‘That came later,’ judged the medical expert. ‘The lips are bruised but it’s after-death damage. And externally it’s comparatively slight. The barrel was pushed right inside before it was fired. Most of the back of the head’s blown away: forensic will get the bullet from somewhere in the mess.’

‘It’ll be useless,’ dismissed Johannsen, in a been-there-seen-it-before voice. ‘The flattening destroys barrel marking.’