A standard well-fitted-out bathroom: tiles, twoelling rugs on the floor, towels on heated rails, mirrored medicine cabinet above the basin, a laundry basket in one corner and the usual litter of plastic bottles and aerosols.
Rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes, he lifted the toilet seat. And saw the water, pink-tinged, saw the head staring up at him with empty eye-sockets, the grey hair floating, shifting as though troubled by a slow current.
Retching and gagging, his hand clamped desperately over his mouth, he lurched across to the shower curtain, ripped it aside and doubled u over the bath. And saw the naked torso, the arms and legs severed and laid out neatly round it as though for some grotesque kit inspection...
This is not one of Richard Laymons best efforts. I usually enjoy his books but this one was just OK.