The Inspector considers the woman on the table, thirty years her senior, dark brown skin fading around wrinkles, and very clearly deceased. Hinde has put her back together with great sympathy, but the evidence of keyhole neurosurgery and various stents, shunts and insertions is not erased. The coroner’s own investigations are concealed for the most part by a modest green blanket. Still, there might be something there. Same hairline, perhaps, but different hair. Generous mouths but differently quirked—or rather, Hunter’s mouth is quirked, suggesting that she smiled often and the dead muscles are tugging her lips even now into the posture most often adopted in life.