A sudden urge of excitement swept through me. What other identification marks had Farnell got? I couldn't think of any, but surely there must be something, some mark on his body. I turned to Jill. 'Jill,' I said. 'Is there anything by which you would know George Farnell, other than his face and the little finger on his left hand?'
Something in my voice must have communicated itself to her, for she stopped sobbing and turned her head towards me. 'Why do you want to know?' she asked.
'Because I want to know if this is, in fact, the body of George Farnell.' I had spoken slowly, and as I finished she straightened up and came towards the coffin.
I pulled the shroud over the corpse. 'No,' I said. 'It's not a — a very pretty sight. Just tell me — will you? Anything by which I can identify him?'
'Yes,' she said. Her voice was quite clear now. 'He had marks on the soles of his feet. The Nazis caught him once here in Norway. They beat the soles of his feet. But he wouldn't talk and they released him.'
I looked down at the coffin. Both feet were intact — one was twisted round where the ankle had been broken, that was all. I forced the stiffened right leg out of the coffin and shone my torch on to the sole of the foot. It was unmarked. So was the other. I looked up at Jill. Her eyes were bright with excitement. 'Are you certain about that?' I asked.
'Yes. Yes, of course, I'm certain. They were like white scars. Are they there?'
'No,' I said.
'And there was the mark of a bullet under the right armpit.'
I forced up the right arm. There was no mark under the armpit.