‘The Fingermen call it the Ring Knot, it’s meant to keep them safe during interrogations.’ He glanced down at the photographs. ‘How could anyone do that to another human being? ’

Logan licked a dribble of melted choc ice from his wrist. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘You see all those little wounds? It’s called “pricking”, they do it to find the Devil’s mark. Theory was that when you enter into the Devil’s service, he gives you this mark that shows you’re his. It’s meant to be impervious to pain, so they’d jab you all over with pins and knives, looking for some spot where it didn’t hurt. If they found it, that meant you were a witch. And they always found it, even if it wasn’t there.’ He took a deep breath and checked the photos again. ‘In the fifteenth century, the Malleus Maleficarum was the witch-finders’ bible. It details shaving off all the witches’ body hair before interrogation begins, because they could be hiding something underneath – a charm, or power, or something else they can use against the inquisitor.’

‘But he should’ve been outside the circle.’

‘The circle’s for protection: if you were the Fingerman, why would you want to protect the witch? ’ He stared into the depths of his Coke can. ‘Did he . . . was it the loss of blood? You know . . . that killed him.’

‘Won’t find out till they’ve done the post mortem.’ Logan pulled out the other set of photographs – the ones from Saturday evening – and placed them on top of the first lot. The unknown necklacing victim stared up at them with cooked eyes. ‘The trial by fire. Identical to the book.’

Alex just sat there with his mouth hanging open.

A wasp swooped down onto the Cornetto in his hand, buzzing like a happy serial killer.

‘Half strangled, then burned alive.’

‘In Scotland they veerit you first. . . Wrap a rope around your neck and twist it while you’re tied to the stake, waiting for them the light the fire and. . . Ayabastard!’ He dropped the ice-cream cone and flapped his hand around, dancing up from the bench.

Logan took another bite of choc ice. ‘Why didn’t they necklace the body in there?’

‘Bloody thing stung me. . .’ He sucked on the back of his hand.

‘I mean, they necklaced the other victim, why not this one? ’

‘Bloody wasps. . .’

Logan’s phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out: unknown number. ‘Hello? ’

‘Hello? DI McRae? It’s April. I mean, Dr Graham. The forensic anthropologist? ’

‘It’s OK, I know who you are.’

‘Good. Yes, well, I thought you’d want to know: I’ve almost finished the facial reconstruction. Do you want me to start on the skeletonized remains from the caravan roof next? ’

‘Give me . . .’ Logan checked his watch, ‘half an hour.’

‘If you can get them to OK the budget for it, a facial reconstruction could—’