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agricultural – at least, was recently.’
    ‘Not a factory hand?’ There were several manufacturing plants in the area employing casual, unskilled workers. If any one of them were missing a member of the workforce, it would be a quick step closer to solving the case.
    Rizzotti ruled it out. ‘No. There are three types of production around here: metal-working, which produces oil and swarf – sharp metal coils to you – which cut and stain the skin; assembly-line operations which leave the hands roughened but clean; and tyre factories which leave traces of rubber under the nails. I’d say this man’s been nowhere near any of those.’ He hesitated, which made Rocco look up.
    ‘There’s a but?’
    ‘The knife that killed him. I’m not really experienced enough to tell, but it was probably a double-sided, narrow blade with a good point.’
    ‘A hunting knife?’
    ‘Could be. But definitely not a kitchen knife, which would have a single-sided blade.’ He pointed at the wound. ‘This has been sliced on both sides.’
    ‘A dagger?’
    ‘Possibly. It narrows the field, but that’s all I can tell you. Sorry.’
    Rocco accepted his summation. Rizzotti had come a long way since they had first met. Initially defensive and reluctant toadmit his lack of experience, being merely a local practitioner on loan to the police, he had slowly come to accept Rocco’s experience and suggestions and was now more forthcoming with his own views, right or wrong.
    ‘Fair enough,’ said Rocco. ‘Can you check the inside of the clothing?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I mean inside the material. Slice it open; check for hidden papers.’
    ‘Am I looking for something specific?’
    ‘I’m only guessing, but if he came from further south, he might have papers hidden on him. It’s a trick common among illegals to prevent theft of personal documents.’
    ‘Good point. I’ll see to it.’
    ‘Anything else?’ Rocco was frustrated by the lack of clues. This man had died because of – what? An argument? Robbery? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe that was a stretch, but he’d seen too many similar cases before in busy cities where, for want of turning a different corner, of taking an alternative route home, someone’s life might not have been cut short.
    Except that the canal near Poissons wasn’t a crowded city. How random could it be in such a quiet location?
    Rizzotti turned towards a side table and picked up a bundle of wet cloth which turned out to be the man’s trousers. They were dark green, with a rough weave and badly finished hems, and a cheap, woven leather belt. Rizzotti pointed to a ragged tear in one leg. ‘This piece of the trouser leg is missing.’ He tugged at some long strands of cloth. ‘The cloth wasn’t cut away – it was ripped by considerable force. It’s cheap material but tough and not easy to tear. It could have beenrecent, that’s all I’m saying.’ He looked apologetic, as if the lack of clear evidence was his failure and his alone.
    ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ Rocco stood cogitating for a moment, running the facts through his mind but coming to no clear conclusion. ‘Do we run to a decent camera here?’
    ‘Yes, we do.’
    ‘Can you take some photos of our mystery man? Headshots will do. I need a batch printed up for distribution.’
    Rizzotti glanced at the body. ‘I can do that, no problem. I’ll see if I can tidy up the face a little first.’
    ‘Good work, Doctor.’

CHAPTER NINE
    He arrived back home in Poissons to find Claude waiting for him, pacing up and down impatiently, eager for the chase. Mme Denis, his immediate neighbour, elderly and grey-haired, was keeping watch from her garden. She waved cheerily, signalling all was well, but scowled at Claude. Rocco returned the smile, aware that petty rivalries here were a way of life and had to be managed carefully.
    ‘I think I know where our swimmer may have entered the water,’ the garde champêtre announced