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question this time and Marmion was touched. He was reminded that the superintendent was a family man himself and had four children, though he had no son of an age that made him liable to conscription.
    ‘He’s … getting better, sir,’ said Marmion, guardedly.
    ‘One reads terrible things about shell shock.’
    ‘Paul is learning to cope.’
    ‘I wish him well.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    After a brief foray into Marmion’s private life, Chatfield reverted to being the peppery superintendent who was always respected but never liked by those of lower rank. The return to normality pleased Marmion. He always felt uneasy when Chatfield talked to him as a human being rather than as a colleague who needed to be kept firmly in his place. They discussed the report line by line and the superintendent made a few small adjustments.
    ‘I like to face the press well prepared,’ he said.
    ‘That’s to your credit, sir.’
    ‘Unfortunately, I don’t expect to get the publicity we need. We have sixteen newspapers in London alone and details of this murder should be on the front pages of every one of them. But it’s not going to happen, is it?’
    ‘No, sir, the shooting-down of that Zeppelin will be the main news.’
    ‘I hope they pour contempt on those ghastly souvenir-hunters.’
    ‘We’re dealing with one ourselves,’ said Marmion, grimly.
    Chatfield was checked. ‘Are we?’
    ‘Yes, sir – the killer wanted keepsakes from his victim and I’m not just talking about his wallet, watch and wedding ring.’
    ‘Quite so,’ said the other, face darkening. ‘You were right to give no details of the mutilation in your report. There are times when information is best held back from the press. Apart from anything else, it would distress the widow beyond bearing. Thank heaven that Mrs Wilder doesn’t have to view the body.’
    ‘But she’s eager to do so.’
    Chatfield was startled. ‘I can’t believe that.’
    ‘She more or less insisted, sir.’
    ‘When she heard what had actually happened, I thought she fainted.’
    ‘It’s true,’ replied Marmion, ‘but she recovered very quickly. Mrs Wilder wanted proof that it really was her husband who was murdered. She’s clinging on to a pathetic hope that it might just be someone else.’
    ‘And she really wants to put herself through that ordeal?’
    ‘I advised against it, sir, but to no avail.’
    ‘She’s going to have the most awful shock.’
    ‘A neighbour will be with her to offer support.’
    ‘I saw the corpse, remember. That face of his was like something out of a nightmare. I strongly urge Mrs Wilder to reconsider her decision.’
    ‘It’s too late, Superintendent,’ said Marmion, looking at his watch. ‘My guess is that the lady will be arriving at the morgue with Sergeant Keedy at any moment.’
     
    Joe Keedy had lost count of the number of times he’d had to catch people who collapsed when they viewed the corpse of a loved one. It was not only women who let out a shriek of horror and lost consciousness. Apparently strong men had also been overcome by emotion. Keedy had once had to catch a vicar whose wife was the victim of a hit-and-run road accident. A person who’d seen many dead bodies in the course of his work fell into Keedy’s arms when confronted with the corpse of the woman he’d married. The sergeant felt that he would need to be alert yet again. Having recovered from the initial shock, Catherine Wilder had revealed an inner steeliness that was quite at variance with her appearance. She had not merely asked to see the body of her husband, she had demanded it as next of kin. The arguments put to her by Marmion and Keedy had been swept aside.
    As they entered the morgue, Keedy had the consolation of knowing that most of the wounds would be kept hidden from her. All that she would see was the eyeless face of her husband. The worst excesses of the attack would remain beneath the shroud. It was a source of relief to him. He was then