Geraint would never have believed a body had so much blood in it. Great pools of it were congealing on the carpet and the covers, and the far wall looked as if someone had flung a bucketful of blood from one end of the room to the other. The curtains were dappled with it, drops still leaking onto the parquet tiles by the window. The great gash across Annie Chapman’s throat found its hideous, enlarged echo in a ragged, bloody gash across the breadth of her stomach. A ribbon of internal organs had been flung in a ghastly pile around one shoulder of the woman’s body in a horrific parody of modern fashions.