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Stapleton, will you, Brian, and the undertakers. Has the police surgeon seen them?’
    â€˜Yes, as luck would have it he was driving past, so he stopped and did the necessary.’
    â€˜I’d better go and have a look.’ Webb moved cautiously inside the screen, stepping over the equipment which lay in the road. The senior Scene of Crime man looked up with a grimace. ‘I don’t know about you, Dave, but give me the winter any time. This warm weather does nothing for my job satisfaction.’
    Webb’s throat closed in sympathy. ‘I see what you mean. So what’s the gen?’
    â€˜Prepare for a double take – it’s uncanny how alike they are. Gave me quite a turn, I can tell you, seeing them side by side like that.’
    Webb moved forward and glanced inside the van. The two young men lay on their backs like broken dolls, covered from the waist down in dirty tarpaulin. Their heads were turned slightly towards each other, and as Dick Hodges had said it was like looking at the same person twice. Everything about them was identical, not only the style and colour of their hair but the way it grew, the neat ears set close against their heads, the full, rather childish mouths, each with a small mole at the left-hand corner; and, of course, the identical green tracksuits which were the training uniform of Shillingham United. And it was here that the sole distinguishing feature could be seen: the sweatshirt of the twin on the right had a jagged tear which was caked with dark blood and surrounded by a swarm of flies.
    Webb stood looking down on the bodies, filled with an angry sadness. They looked so young. Whatever their lives had been, it was a tragic waste that they’d ended so soon.
    â€˜We’ve finished the photos and fingerprinting,’ Hodges said, breaking the silence. ‘Trouble is, since they were dead when they were dumped in there, we haven’t got a scene to work on.’
    â€˜Doc Pringle have any comments?’
    â€˜Without moving them he couldn’t tell much. As you see, only one of them has an obvious wound, but the other could have got it in the back.’
    â€˜At least time of death shouldn’t pose too many problems; they left their lodgings “after supper” on Monday and according to the report the van was dumped here around midnight.’
    â€˜That makes sense – rigor mortis has worn off. If we can establish the time of that last meal, the stomach contents should clinch it.’
    The sound of a car drawing up and voices beyond the screen alerted them to the arrival of the pathologist, and Webb went out to greet him.
    â€˜You were lucky to catch me,’ Dr Stapleton said tersely. ‘I was on my way to a lecture.’
    He was a thin-faced man with sparse hair and an unbending manner. Even in the warm sunshine he gave an impression of coldness. Too much preoccupation with death, Jackson reflected, watching him talk to Smithers and the Governor. Then Stapleton disappeared behind the screens and Webb turned to Penrose, jerking his head towards the houses behind them.
    â€˜One of the residents reported the van, right?’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Number five.’
    Webb turned and surveyed the handsome terrace of houses. There were nine in all, each with an imposing flight of steps leading up to a portico and, along the pavement, a stretch of railings tipped with gold paint which screened off a basement area. The façades were smooth stucco uniformly painted cream, the sash windows typically Georgian.
    â€˜Very tasteful,’ he said. ‘Has no one been out to inquire what we’re up to?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Not even the woman who complained about the van?’
    â€˜That was Miss Tovey, sir, of Randall Tovey. You know, the JP. I suppose she’ll be at the shop.’
    â€˜Well, I’ll try knocking on her door and see what we come up with.’
    The woman who answered his knock was