Bernie Westwater stood under the fierce blast of hot water and scrubbed herself, outside and in, to remove as much of Martin Elginbrod's DNA as she possibly could; the first thing she had done on returning to her own flat had been to phone Dixie and give a report on her date with Martin Elginbrod – detailed and thorough, neglecting nothing, not even the most intimate details of the man, where he'd been and what he'd done; the kind of meticulous reporting that she had been trained to do, it distanced her true self from the person she had been while with Elginbrod, removing the psychological evidence, the words and thoughts which her mind had recorded and stored, now she was divesting herself of the physical traces and washing them down through the plughole at the end of her bath; this was the part she always enjoyed, alternating scalding heat with freezing cold and then, while she towelled her body, running a lovely, deep and foamy bath for a relaxing soaky soap, which would ensure an untroubled sleep; if she did it properly, Elginbrod's presence would be erased – his clumsy groping, his slobbery kisses, his need for a Viagra before entering and thrusting – unfortunately, the erectile dysfunction medication meant that part of the evening took longer than she would have wished, and he was certainly meticulous – squeezing every last drop of his nocturnal emission from it and managing to fuck her in all three orifices, not to forget her hands and face, which just meant that the cleansing also took a little longer; she suddenly laughed – levity was never far beneath her business-like façade – as she remembered the sight of him, standing naked after their coupling had finished and while she was quickly and efficiently dressing, and getting her first (oh, God, and Last, I pray, Hail Mary Mother of Jesus) sight of him standing there, belly hanging down, his man boobs (bigger than her own – does he take hormones, she wondered) - and the sad little shrivelled prick, and her eyes had found a tattoo, of all things, just to the right of his left nipple (probably done when it would have been over his heart, before he expanded) and which looked like a sturdy penis rising from a little bush of pubic hair and it occurred to her that if she narrowed her eyes it could look like a gravestone, some kind of hierogram, with grass growing at the base and an epitaph, but he was just too far away for her to read the words, and as she bent forward to zip up her boots she could just read the first line 'Here Lies Martin Elginbrod . . . . .' - oh, how very appropriate, considering where his little prick had been that night; and she was still grinning at the thought when, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe, with a towel around her head, she was sitting on the sofa, watching the BBC News Channel, when the door opened and her True Love came in, after working late, much later than usual, kissed her deeply on and in the mouth, and handed her a copy of the morning paper: “page 8, it's quite a splash, you'll be proud of me” and Tammy threw herself onto the sofa and threw her arms round Bernie.