She had examined and photographed every inch of their bodies, every bruise and laceration, every graze and imperfection. She had clipped hair and nails and sent the samples for testing. She had made a careful note of body temperature as soon as the cadavers had come into her care, to narrow down the time of death. She had detailed the effects of rigor mortis; she had studied and documented the pathology of their organs; she had taken bloods and ordered extensive toxicology reports.

But they were still keeping their secrets from her.

Mathilda was an experienced pathologist and she understood that death was not always clear-cut. That the weather, the age, the weight of a victim could skew the results, even if they had all been killed in the same way. Her job was to seek out the common link, to interpret the architecture of the deceased’s body and construct her case.

But she had run out of building blocks.

The bodies had not yet been released to their families. They were being kept in the freezer to preserve evidence and in case the defense team in any future murder trial exercised the accused’s right to an independent postmortem. Adam Stanton was still in this mortuary, waiting to be transferred.

Mathilda had worked in this place for more years than most, and she was used to keeping company with the dead. Some of her colleagues found it too unsettling to stay there alone, the metal trays of refrigerated bodies enough to spook even the most rational of minds.

But she had always found a comfort in their presence. In all the time that she had been a pathologist, no corpse had ever gotten up and talked to her. In some ways, she wished they could. At least then she would know what had killed them.

The surfaces gleamed, giving off the smell of bleach and something darker underneath. She sipped her peppermint tea, her stomach rumbling but she was too engrossed in what she was doing to think about food.

She was rereading her preliminary notes on Adam Stanton. Bloody awful, the presence of his wife on Monday. But she had known Wildeve for a few years, had always liked and respected her, and had been reluctant to ask her to leave.

She had not been sure if Wildeve had turned up in her capacity as wife or investigating officer. A gray area, but one she was not about to challenge, even though she was almost certain the required permission from the coroner for next of kin to attend had not been sought. There was no way she’d be able to watch Jonathan’s postmortem, though. Or those of their children. She had always treated the dead with the respect they were due, but she was too well acquainted with what went on to witness the taking apart of her own family.