He waited, crouching in the dark beside the corpse, hearing shouts and seeing lanterns waving in the distance across the rubble. It had started to rain again. The light shone yellow on the faces of the rocks and black pools of water between. The giant machine roared in the mist like some monstrous, half-human creature, still grinding and thumping as more debris was hauled up. Monk was not sure if it was his imagination, but it seemed to be settling deeper into the earth.

It was about half an hour when at last Orme appeared, waving a lantern, Crow on his heels.

"You got 'im?" Orme asked, bending to look at the dead body.

"Yes." Monk had no doubt at all.

Crow stared at him. His face was lit on one side, and shadowed on the other, but his expression was a mask of anger and scalding contempt. "Doesn't look so much dead, does he!" he said quietly. Then he bent down, frowning a little. Experimentally he touched one of the man's hands, then picked it up. His frown deepened and he looked up at Monk. "You think he was killed in the fall?"

"Yes. His legs are crushed. He was probably trapped." He was half ashamed as he said it. "I should feel sorry for anyone caught like that, but all I feel for him is angry we can't make him tell us who paid him. I'd bring him into court, broken legs, broken back, and all."

"Scuff II be all right," Orme said quietly, looking not at Monk but at Crow. "Won't 'e?"

"Yes, I should think so," Crow agreed. "But look at his legs, Mr. Monk."

"What about them? They're both broken."

"See any blood?"

"No. Probably washed off in the water we took him through. I dragged him; he's heavier than you'd think."

Crow looked at the body again, more carefully. Orme and Monk watched, growing more curious and then unaccountably concerned.

"Why does it matter?" Monk said finally.

Crow stood up, his legs stiff, moving awkwardly. "Because he was dead before the slide hit him," he replied. "Dead bodies don't bleed. The only blood staining anything is on his coat, from the bullet hole in his chest. The river didn't wash that out."

Monk found himself shaking even more violently. "You mean he's been murdered? Surely he'd never have shot himself!"

"Not in the back, anyway," Crow replied. "Went in under his left shoulder blade, came out the front. I reckon whoever employed him paid his last account."

Monk swallowed.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

Crow pulled his mouth tight and rolled his eyes very slightly. "Take a look at the bastard yourself, but of course I'm sure! I'm no police surgeon, and don't want to be, but I know a bullet hole when I see one! Heavy caliber, I'd say, but ask the experts."