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use expensive moisturizers or paint her nails. She had her bikini line waxed modestly…” Ruiz is moving around the room again, with his mouth slightly open and a puckered brow.
    “She took care of herself. She exercised regularly and ate healthy food. She was probably concerned about putting on weight. I’d say she was of average or slightly above average intel igence. Her schooling would have been solid; her background most likely middle class.
    “I don’t think she’s from London. Someone would have reported her missing by now. This sort of girl doesn’t go missing. She has friends and family. But if she came to London for a job interview, or for a holiday, people might not have expected to hear from her for a while. They’l start to get worried soon.” Pushing back my chair a little, I lack the conviction to stand. What else can I tel him?
    “The medal ion— it’s not St. Christopher. I think it’s probably St. Camil us. If you look closely the figure is holding a pitcher and towel.”
    “And who was he?”
    “The patron saint of nurses.”
    The statement concentrates his attention. He cocks his head to one side and I can almost see him cataloguing the information. In his right hand he flicks open a book of matches and closes it again. Open and then closed.
    I shuffle the papers and glance at the ful postmortem report. A paragraph catches my attention.

    There is evidence of old lacerations running the length of her right and left forearms and inside her upper thighs. The degree of scarring suggests an attempt at self-suturing.
    These wounds were most likely self-inflicted and point toward past attempts at self-harm or self-mutilation.

    “I need to see the photographs.”
    Ruiz pushes the ring-bound folders toward me and in the same breath announces, “I have to make a phone cal . We might have a lead. An X-ray technician has reported her flatmate missing in Liverpool. She matches the age, height and hair color. And how’s this for a coincidence, Sherlock? She’s a nurse.” After he’s gone I open the first folder of photographs and turn the pages quickly. Her arms had been along her sides when I viewed her body. I couldn’t see her wrists or inner thighs. A self-mutilator with multiple stab wounds, al self-inflicted.
    The first photographs are wide-angle shots of open ground, littered with rusting forty-four-gal on drums, rol s of wire and scaffolding poles. The Grand Union Canal forms an immediate backdrop but on the far side I see a smattering of wel -established trees and the headstones in between.
    The photographs begin to focus down onto the banks of the canal. Blue-and-white police tape has been threaded around metal posts to mark out the area.
    The second set of photographs shows the ditch and a splash of white that looks like a discarded milk container. As the camera zooms closer it reveals it to be a hand, with fingers outstretched, reaching upward from the earth. Soil is scraped away slowly, sifted and bagged. The corpse is final y exposed, lying with one leg twisted awkwardly beneath her and her left arm draped over her eyes as though shielding them from the arc lights.
    Moving quickly, I skim over the pages until I reach the postmortem pictures. The camera records every smear, scratch and bruise. I’m looking for one photograph.
    Here it is. Her forearms are turned outward and lying flat against the dul silver of the bench top. Awkwardly, I stand and retrace my steps along the corridors. My left leg locks up and I have to swing it in an arc from back to front.
    The operator buzzes me into the secure room and I stare for a few seconds at the same bank of metal crypts. Four across. Three down. I check the label, grasp the handle and slide the drawer open. This time I force myself to look at her ruined face. Recognition is like a tiny spark that fires a bigger machine. I know this woman. She used to be a patient. Her hair is shorter now and slightly darker. And she has put on weight, but