He was wearing white boxers, not his own, but otherwise was just as he had been the day before. Whoever had gone to the trouble of changing his underwear had obviously stopped short of giving him a bath into the bargain. Very sensible. Hanging from the handle of a built-in wardrobe opposite the end of the bed was a faded blue set of overalls, and on the carpet stood a new pair of Dr Martens boots. Those he guessed would be his uniform for the duration of his employment with The Quarry Company. So this was it, he thought, pulling himself out of bed. This was where they brought the quarry ahead of the hunt. No doubt where they’d brought Cookie. According to the autopsy report, there had been no ethyl glucuronide in Cookie’s system, which meant no alcohol. And by Shelley’s reckoning, that indicated Cookie was dry for at least three days before he was killed, maybe four. Three days of eating steak and drying out. The equivalent of fattening the goose for Christmas. He found the bathroom.
