“None at all. Again, we’ll have to wait for a complete analysis of samples to confirm it, but none of the common signs of cocaine use are present.”

“Anything else?”

“There is that scar.”

“What about it?”

Dr. Galway paused and glanced at the painting on her wall, as if for inspiration. “Again, I hesitate to draw conclusions, but it’s too broad to have been caused by a knife blade, and it went deep. It also went largely untreated. You just have to look at the scar tissue to see that.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I have some experience of these types of wounds from my misspent youth, and I’d say it’s an old gunshot wound—what you might call a flesh wound, painful but not life-threatening—or perhaps caused by a piece of shrapnel.”

“Where on earth did you get such experience?”

Dr. Galway paused before answering, then said, “Iraq. Courtesy of Mr. Blair.”

“Good Lord. How old is it?”

Dr. Galway shrugged. “Hard to say. It’s healed. Badly. But it’s healed. The tissue is no longer inflamed, and there’s no infection. It’s a clean scar. Again, perhaps months, maybe a year. He was still growing, so it’s hard to know how much it has already been distorted by that process. And malnutrition slows down growth, so that might have had an effect, too.”

“Even so . . . If he suffered from malnutrition, and perhaps bore the effects of a bullet or shrapnel wound, and he came from the Middle East, I think that narrows down our search quite a lot. At least it gives us some idea as to what he was doing here.”

“Escaping a war? Looking for a better life? Don’t forget, Superintendent, a fair bit of the Middle East is a war zone at any given time.”

Banks stood up. “Thanks very much, Doctor,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.”

Dr. Galway smiled. “It’s kind of you to say so. But probably not true. I’ll be in touch if I get any further in proving my theories.”

“Please do,” said Banks, and left.

“COFFEE?” SAID Banks when he bumped into Annie in the corridor back at the station.

Annie held up the folder she was carrying. “Just let me dump this on my desk. I’m on my way back from the lab. See you downstairs in a couple of minutes?”

Banks idled away the time chatting with the desk officer, who had been fending off reporters for most of the morning. When Annie came down, her jacket slung over her shoulder, they headed out for the Costa on Market Street. One or two members of the press shouted questions, but Banks and Annie ignored them. It was another fine spring morning, and a couple of tourist coaches were disgorging their elderly passengers in the cobbled market square. The Costa wasn’t too crowded, and they found a table easily enough. Fortunately, none of the reporters followed them in. Banks inhaled the fresh-ground coffee smell as he stood in the short queue and ordered two lattes.