Which was ridiculous, of course. The man he’d photographed in the cemetery resembled someone who had been hanged over fifty-odd years ago. So what? He himself had a friend who was the spitting image of the Yorkshire Ripper. The deputy manager at his local Barclays could have doubled for Heinrich Himmler (their personalities were not dissimilar either). Everyone has his or her Doppelgänger, they say. And anyway, fifty years was a long time: a person would change considerably. Creed shrugged. What the hell was he on about? There couldn’t possibly be any connection, unless . . . unless, of course, the crazyman was related to the hanged man. Now that might make an interesting angle. Then again, he, Creed, was a photographer, not a journalist: such stories weren’t really his department. Still, it was curious, no matter which way you hacked it. Why the obscene act over Lily Neverless’ remains – an act that had been almost like a ritual with its twice-around-the-grave routine?
