Constable Hawk sighed and shifted in his seat. ‘Yeah, but that attitude’s not going to help you if you have to get them to co-operate.’

Craig snorted and put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘No. No you’re right. Hey, it’s okay to beat your woman into a pile of bloody mush if you just tell me everything you know about this corpse. Is that what you’re saying? Is it?’

Daniel shook his head as if Craig was a lost cause. ‘Listen, I’m no social worker. I just know a lot about these people since I am one of these people.’

‘No you’re not, Constable Hawk. You’re a Kinchuinick Indian, but you’re not a filthy piece of scum who fucks kids and hits women. Try to separate the two. Native Canadians don’t have exclusive rights to those crimes. Whites do it too.’

Daniel looked impassive. ‘And a lot more besides.’

‘Yeah. A lot more besides. But our behaviour doesn’t excuse theirs. We’re all human. We’re all trying to be better at it.’

They were arriving in town and Daniel gratefully peeled off from the traffic and headed for the Stoke Detachment. It was a low, modern building in the centre of town, the compound piled high with snow that wasn’t going anywhere until spring. Daniel pulled up to the line of Crown Vics abandoned outside and stepped on the foot brake.

‘You want me to wait here sir?’

‘No, constable. I want you to come with me.’

Hawk reached for his hat and put it on while Craig studied his face.

‘You don’t want to see this stuff again, do you?’

‘Part of the job I guess.’

They left the car and walked up the concrete ramp to the door. Part of the job, yes. But Constable Hawk could have lived without it.

‘That’s it, Craig.’

The file, a thin one, slapped onto the table.

Sergeant Cochrane rested his hand on the metal back of Craig’s chair, looking over his shoulder at the pastel green cardboard cover.

‘Thanks, Bob. Any chance of a coffee?’

‘Sure. Dan, you know where it is. How’s about it?’

Daniel Hawk took the hint gratefully and left the interview room. Bob Cochrane sat down on the other chair as Craig flicked open the file.

Hawk was right. Not similar. Identical.

The photos and the autopsy report told the same story. The corpse, found in a buckskin sack, had been slit up the spine, the organs removed, the heart stuffed up the anus, the penis in the mouth. Twenty years had concealed a lot of detail, but miraculously the body was mummified and still sufficiently intact to tell a tale. A man. They thought about fortyish and possibly, though not definitely, Indian. Interviews with almost every family on the reserve and surprise, surprise, nobody knew anything.