Shaw tried to reanimate the face in his mind as he’d been trained to do. He tightened up the jaw, balanced the eyes, replaced the graceful bow of the lips. Not a cerebral face, a muscular face.
It was Valentine who first saw the mark on the arm. The sea water had washed it clean and so it bled no more, but there was no mistaking the shape: a bite, a human bite, the teeth puncturing the skin deeply, viciously driving into the sinew and muscle, almost meeting in a crisp double incision.