He exchanged a look with Nanda. She swallowed, her face very white and her eyes wide. ‘You don’t suppose…?’ she said.
Konrad just nodded. ‘Oh, I do.’
Neither of them moved. It was Nuritov who, with a swift sigh, applied himself to the unhappy task of unfastening the dead man’s velvet coat and opening his shirt.
Carved deeply into his torso was a long, straight line, running from his throat to his navel. No old wound, this, inflicted while he lived and duly healed. Someone had cut him open after he had died, and carefully stitched the incision closed again afterwards.
Konrad should recognise the signs. It was a duty he was too often called upon to perform himself.
He did not imagine, though, that the motive in this instance bore any resemblance to his own. Why might somebody have wante
