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and egg sandwich, a bottle of water and a box of Solpadeine Max.
    ‘Breakfast too. You, Jane, are a bloody marvel.’
    He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out his insulin pen. Despite the sling, he was able to hold the end of the pen in his left hand and turn the dial to the correct number of units with his right. He then pushed the needle into his right thigh through his trousers and pressed the button with his thumb.
    ‘I’m not sure I’d ever get used to that,’ said Jane.
    ‘There’s not a lot of choice.’
    ‘I suppose.’
    ‘Right, let’s get over to Musgrove Park and don’t spare the...’
    ‘Don’t say it.’
     
    The second post mortem was well under way by the time Dixon and Jane arrived at Musgrove Park Hospital. They watched Roger Poland at work from the comparative safety of the anteroom until one of the laboratory assistants spotted them and alerted Poland. He waved at them to go in.
    ‘Tracey, a mask for the Inspector, please,’ said Poland.
    ‘No, I’m fine, really.’
    Noel Woodman was lying on the slab. He had short dark hair, although most of it had been shaved off, and the top of his skull had been removed and then replaced. Rudimentary stitches held it in place. He had extensive facial injuries that the funeral director had attempted to hide with make up. Decomposition was not well advanced, which Dixon took to be evidence of the effectiveness of the available cold storage facilities. Noel’s chest cavity was open, which turned both Dixon and Jane’s stomachs.
    ‘I’m on to internal injuries,’ explained Poland. ‘There are several broken ribs and a right sided pulmonary laceration where the rib has penetrated the lung.’
    ‘He’s small, isn’t he?’ said Jane.
    ‘Well, he was going to be a jockey, don’t forget,’ replied Dixon.
    ‘Ideal size for that, I’d have thought,’ said Poland.
    ‘Are these the samples?’ asked Dixon, looking at a collection of small jars on the metal worktop at the foot of the slab.
    ‘Yes. Davidson was very thorough. We’ve got blood and tissue samples, stomach contents, the usual stuff, and also two lots of horse dung, one from his nose and the other from his mouth.’
    ‘Anything interesting?’
    ‘No drink or drugs or anything like that but I haven’t run those tests again. Do you want me to?’
    ‘No,’ replied Dixon, ‘not at this stage.’
    Dixon walked around to the top of the slab and looked at Noel’s head injuries.
    ‘What about the cause of death then?’
    ‘Davidson got that right too, I’m pleased to say. Multiple injuries. Any number of which would have killed him on their own. He had the severe pulmonary laceration, of course. Very severe sharp impact head injuries, which penetrated the skull. An epidural haematoma. Massive internal bleeding. Need I go on?’
    ‘No. I get the picture,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about the cause of those injuries then?’
    ‘That’s easy,’ replied Poland. ‘We’ll start with this bundle of photos.’ He pointed to a photograph of the left side of Noel’s forehead.
    ‘What do you see?’
    ‘The imprint of a horse shoe,’ replied Jane.
    ‘Exactly,’ said Poland. ‘Tracey, wash the make up off his face, will you?’
    ‘Where are the others on the body?’ asked Dixon.
    ‘Two on the back of his head, a partial one on his jaw and others on his back and chest. That one broke the ribs.’
    ‘Do we have a diagram of them?’
    ‘I can do one, easily,’ said Poland.
    ‘Yes, please.’
    Dixon and Jane waited while Poland marked the horse shoe imprints on two outline drawings of a human body, one marked "front" and the other "back".
    ‘I’m assuming we can’t read anything into the orientation of the marks without knowing Noel’s relative position to the horse?’ asked Dixon.
    ‘And whether Westbrook Warrior kicked him with his front or his back hooves,’ said Jane.
    ‘That’s right,’ replied Poland, ‘my understanding is that an aggressive horse will