He followed the attendant along the rows of tables, sheet covered, some with the stark outline of corpses beneath, others empty. His feet rang in the silence on the stone floor. The light was harsh, beaming back from bare walls. It was as if no one but the dead inhabited the place. There were no concessions to the living. They were intruders here.

The attendant stopped by one of the tables and pulled the sheet off slowly, uncovering the body of a middle-aged, slightly plump man of average height. Riley had cleaned him up very little, perhaps so Evan could make his own deductions. But with his clothes absent it was possible to see the terrible extent of his injuries. His entire torso was covered in contusions, black and dull purple where they had bled internally while he was still alive. On some the skin was torn. From the misshapen ribs, several of them were obviously broken.

"Poor devil," the attendant repeated between his teeth. "Put up one 'ell of a fight afore they got 'im.”

Evan looked down at the hand nearer him. The knuckles were burst open and at least two fingers were dislocated. All but one of the nails were torn.

"Other 'and's the same," the attendant offered.

Evan leaned over and picked it up gently. The attendant was correct.

That was the right hand and, if anything, it was worse.

"Will you be wanting to see his clothes?" the attendant asked after a moment.

"Yes, please." They might tell him something, possibly something he could not already guess. Most of all he wanted to know the man's name.

He must have family, perhaps a wife, wondering what had happened to him. Would they have any idea where he had gone, or why? Probably not. He would have the wretched duty not only of informing them of his death, and the dreadful manner in which it had happened, but where he had been at the time.