David Madack was staring at the dead body of a forty-three-year-old man named Campbell Relly. Madack's eyes were weary, his brow was furrowed and his arms were crossed. He had a charming yet messy appearance with his crinkled shirt and five-o'clock shadow. He stared at the man's body, lying in a cold examination table; it was fit and strong, limbs lean, hair a dirty blonde. The corpse was neatly presented and emitted a strong sense of authority, like the centre of an orbit of power.
Madack broke his concentration to bend over the body and inhale the dead man's scent. Laundry powder masked a subtle aroma of cigarettes. He frowned. Only yesterday had Mr Relly's distraught wife come to the station crying for help. She had told him, through sobs, that her husband had been died of a stroke and yet she was certain he had been murdered. Why she has this hunch Madack could not understand. But she was right.
