Erling brought her up to date as she got kitted up. How a local farmer had spotted what looked like a body on the beach late yesterday afternoon and called it in.

‘I’d been expecting a body to turn up from the Orlova,’ he admitted. ‘And I don’t think it’ll be the last, although the tide might deposit them elsewhere on the islands.’ He went on, ‘The beach we’re heading for is easily accessible. If the body had been spotted at the bottom of the cliffs it would have been another matter.’

‘So nothing like Kilt Rock,’ she said. ‘That’s good.’

‘The weather’s set to stay breezy and dry, but the light will start to go by nine o’clock,’ Erling said as they reached the beach. ‘Just give us a shout should you need anything.’

The seashore was small and curved, tucked between two headlands. The great slabs of rock that Orkney was famed for framed it with shingle and sand layers between. Here the air was ripe with the smell of seaweed, fresh and rotting, while clouds of small flies rose to follow her as she walked towards the cordoned-off area.

Stepping across the tape, Rhona approached the tarpaulin and carefully drew it back.

The young black male lay on his front, his head to one side, partially exposing his right cheek. The images taken last night in fading light had been, she acknowledged, a poor substitute for seeing the real thing.

Her first thought was that the sea had been kind to him, the low water temperature delaying bacterial action on his body until he’d reached the shore at least. His back hadn’t been feasted on by fish. Nor had the rocks of Orkney battered and broken his skin. In fact, in this position he looked virtually intact, apart from the wound just visible on the right side of his neck.

Rhona tilted his head a little for a better view. Even at this angle you could see his neck had been sliced with a sharp implement, the wound most likely stretching from ear to ear.

Often it wasn’t possible to distinguish injuries inflicted before a body entered the water from those inflicted afterwards, by rocks, sea creatures or even boat propellers. Not in this case, though.

Turning the head a little had also exposed the GW insignia on the shirt collar. If there had been any doubt that the body had come from the Orlova, there was no longer.

By the time she’d requested help with turning him over, the wind had strengthened, indicating that any tent they might have erected wouldn’t have stayed upright for long. The light, however, had remained as promised, allowing her the opportunity to study the victim face on.

The frontal evidence of feeding had been more obvious, his eyes partially consumed, the soft fleshy lips nibbled on, as well as general feasting at the knife wound.