Doggett nods and beckons Tyler to follow him over to the rear wall. The activity is busier here. The pathologist, Elliot, is a reedlike Geordie who reeks of stale tobacco. Tyler keeps his distance and holds his breath.

“Have you had your breakfast this morning, Detective Sergeant?”

He shakes his head.

“Probably for the best, man.”

The wall is built of cinder blocks and cuts across the back of the stairs. It’s obviously a late addition to the house, not part of the original construction. An irregular hole has been smashed out of it and the corpse lies half exposed in the rubble, caught in the harsh glare of an arc lamp. The three of them are forced to crouch by the descending beams of the ceiling. The body’s little more than a skeleton, its remaining skin pulled thinly over its frame. Doggett, on his left, is watching for his reaction, so he determines not to give one. Elliot, to his right, has a yellowy roll-up tucked behind his ear. “From the clothes and general size,” he says, pointing, “I’d say it was a man.” He gestures to the wasted hands that jut awkwardly above the cinder blocks. “There’s enough damage to the fingernails to make me think he was probably alive when he went in.”

The stench of Elliot’s tobacco breath makes Tyler shudder again. “What about the fire?” he asks.

Elliot looks at the cellar walls. “Could’ve killed him. He’d have been protected from most of the heat, but the smoke, mind . . .” He leaves the sentence unfinished. “Depends how soon the fire started after he went in, like.”

“Could he have been buried there after the fire?” Doggett asks.

Elliot shakes his head, and the roll-up slides loose but somehow doesn’t fall. He points at the rubble at their feet. “The bricks are soot covered, same as everything else. He was in there first, all right. This is interesting, though.” He moves closer to the body and indicates a dark patch at the back of the skull. “Blunt trauma. Crushed the skull. Not necessarily fatal, but without medical attention . . .” Again he trails off.

“So,” says Doggett without feeling, “it’s a jolly murder then.”

Elliot looks up at him. “Unless he sealed himself in, Jim, and I can’t see a trowel in his hand, can you?” Elliot turns back to the body, ignoring Doggett’s scowl. “Hopefully we’ll know more when we get him out.”

Tyler stares at the ragged fingers on the corpse’s hands. “Forgetting the fire for a minute, and assuming he was alive when he went in there, how long would it have taken him to die?”

Elliot blows out his cheeks. “Hard to say. If he had been healthy, with plenty of water, food, and oxygen . . . in theory anything up to nine or ten days.”

“Jesus!” Doggett scratches absently at his stubbled chin. “Ten days?”