Breathing deeply, he took a moment to find his centre, to compose himself. Over his career, he’d seen more dead bodies than he cared to count, examined victims killed in the most gruesome and cruel of ways, even small children. But he’d never seen the outcome from a stoning before and suddenly felt unsure that he was adequately prepared. For individuals who dispensed stoning punishments, this wasn’t murder – it was an act of moral self-righteousness. It was also a twisted mode of entertainment that came with a party-like atmosphere. Like picnics at Wild West hangings or packed Roman coliseums for the throwing of Christians to lions.

Manolis shook his head lightly, as if to erase his weary brain of its thoughts. He badly needed a smoke.

The fluorescent light continued to flicker with maddening irregularity. Deep in the bowels of the hospital, the morgue’s eerie silence now hurt Manolis’s ears. He held his breath, clasped the freezer handle and twisted.

The metal tray slid out in one swift motion, making a cold, hollow clank. He exhaled and finally let his tired eyes fall upon the dead body of much-loved local schoolteacher Molly Abbott.

His breath escaped like he’d been king-hit in the guts. ‘Theos kai Panagia…’

It wasn’t often that Manolis invoked God and the Holy Virgin. But he did then.

The woman’s head and chest were gravely bloodied and bruised, her forehead split open. Her lips were swollen, she had lost teeth, and her head drooped at a grotesque angle. A purple halo ringed her neck, the dead blood trapped, unable to seep down into her back with gravity.

And yet, Manolis could not help but feel surprised. He’d expected the victim to be more disfigured. Perhaps he’d built stonings up in his mind. Were they, by their nature as a punishment, somehow less injurious than an aggravated assault? More controlled, with a purpose, and thereby less violent?

Manolis stopped. He reminded himself that this was no retribution or entertainment. This was murder. An appallingly vile and savage homicide perpetrated by a sick, sadistic individual. It could be nothing else. At that moment, in that silence, Manolis vowed to Molly, to her body and memory, that he would catch the party responsible and bring them to swift and severe justice.

‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ he whispered to himself.

Casting his eyes down, he examined the torso and limbs: covered in dried blood, but largely untouched, incredibly. He scrutinised every inch of her lifeless body, the yellow-white skin, looking for something, anything – a cigarette butt, a fingernail, toenail, piece of skin, eyelash, stray hair. Whatever jot of foreign matter might provide another lead. But she was, regrettably, incredibly, clean.

Something doesn’t add up here, Manolis thought. What was he missing…?

Fast running out of ideas, he worked his way back up the body. Delicately, he lifted the fragile head and inspected the underside.