Читать книгу A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride - Страница 22

‘Thanks. Thanks a lot. And now I’m late.’ Franklin sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, scowling.

‘It’s only just gone half ten.’ Callum swung the pool car around the roundabout and into a shabby industrial estate. Past boarded-up business units with empty car parks and rusty chain-link fencing speckled with ancient carrier bags – their colours bleached and brittle. Through puddles the size of lochans, sending arcs of spray up onto the pavements. Windscreen wipers thumping back-and-forth across the glass. ‘It’s like going to the pictures: first fifteen minutes is all adverts and trailers.’

‘I happen to like the trailers.’

Yeah, she would.

Left, past a garage selling shiny four-by-four flatbed trucks, and down to the end of the road.

A thick line of green bushes – at least twelve foot tall – stretched out from either side of a big automatic gate topped with razor wire. An intercom unit sat in front of the gate, mounted on top of a big concrete bollard. Callum pulled up beside it and wound down his window. Pressed the button.

Its speaker crackled and popped, then hissed something unintelligible at him. So he stuck his thumb on the button again and held it there till the gates squealed and rumbled their way open.

The pool car rocked its way over a speed bump and into the compound.

If the architect was going for warm and welcoming when he designed Oldcastle’s overflow mortuary he’d done a sodding rotten job of it. The building looked like something out of a Cold War thriller – a concrete bunker with tiny windows along its length. A Transit van sat outside the loading bay, down the far end, two men in grey overalls manhandling a plain gunmetal coffin onto a gurney.

It wasn’t the only vehicle there – a handful of manky pool cars had been abandoned as close to the mortuary’s front doors as possible. Because clearly police officers weren’t waterproof.

Callum parked on the periphery of the clump. ‘There you go: five minutes. They’ll still be going on about switching off your mobile phone and getting a drink and a snack from the lobby.’

‘You’re an idiot.’ She climbed out into the rain and slammed the door behind her.

‘So people keep telling me.’ He locked the car and followed her inside.

They’d decorated since last time, the smell of fresh paint fighting against several plug-in air fresheners and the dirty-bowel-like stench of decay. All the posters were new too – motivational landscapes and quotes about peace and forgiveness. As if that was going to do any good to the poor sods who had to come all the way out here to identify their dead child’s body. The wee stainless-steel reception desk hadn’t changed, and nor had the big dusty rubber plant in the corner. Its thick waxy leaves like slabs of green liver, aerial roots searching the walls for sustenance.

A little old man lounged behind the desk, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he wrestled with the Castle News and Post crossword. The effort must have been quite something, because his wrinkles were even more tortured than normal, his hair a mixture of silver and cigarette-tar yellow.

Callum went over and had a look. Poked the newspaper. ‘Three across, “Decapitated”.’

The old man glanced up, showing off a pair of dark, glittering eyes. ‘It doesn’t fit.’

‘It does if you spell “Robespierre” properly, Dougal. Three Es, two Rs and an I.’

‘Oh.’ He made the correction, then put the paper to one side. Grinned at Franklin with a big grey wall of perfectly straight false teeth. ‘Well, well, well, when DS McAdams called to say you were coming over he didn’t tell me you were such a beauty.’

She bared her teeth back at him, but it wasn’t a smile. ‘Where’s the post mortem?’

‘Ah, straight to business.’ Dougal winked. ‘I like that in a woman.’

‘Do you also like a punch in the throat?’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a little light spanking. But maybe I should just show you through to the cutting room?’

‘Maybe you should.’

Dougal stepped out from behind the reception desk and led the way through a pair of double doors and into a long corridor with doors opening off either side. ‘We’ve got a full house this morning. Yesterday must’ve been buy-one-get-one-free on dead bodies.’ The door at the end opened on an aisle between two sets of refrigeration units – big rectangles of stainless steel, each one covered in a grid of metal hatches. Four high, eight wide. Each hatch was about the same size as an oven door, only they didn’t contain Christmas dinner.

Well, hopefully not anyway.

One of the hatches lay wide open so the two guys from the loading bay could wrestle a body bag out of the gunmetal-grey coffin and onto a sliding drawer. The contents all bendy and awkward.

Dougal waved as they passed. ‘Let’s not drop the guests, guys.’

A nod. ‘Dougie.’

‘Bodies, bodies, and more bodies.’ He glanced back over his shoulder at Callum. ‘It’s the same every time you lot go digging about in the tip. Think you’d have more sense.’

At the end of the block, Franklin stopped. Stood there on the damp grey floor with her mouth hanging open. Staring. ‘Holy mother of hell …’

From here, the full size of the room became apparent. A mini warehouse, with row after row after row of refrigerated units in it.

She gave a low whistle. ‘How many bodies have you got here?’

‘One hundred and twelve.’ Dougal stuck out his chest, sounding every inch the proud father. ‘But we’ve got space for three hundred and sixty, including the freezers. A seven-three-seven falls out of the sky at Oldcastle airport? We can take every single passenger, a full bendy bus, plus two football teams as well.’

And what a fun weekend that would be.

Callum followed the pair of them into the visitor’s changing room, with its rows of lockers, racks of blue wellington boots, boxes of gloves and other assorted paraphernalia. Slipped off his shoes and stuck them in a locker. Helped himself to a pair of size-nine wellies. ‘Who’s doing the mummies?’

‘The mummy?’ Dougal scrunched up his wrinkles, then peered at a clipboard hanging on a hook by the door marked ‘DISSECTING ROOM ~ SAFETY EQUIPMENT MUST BE WORN BEYOND THIS POINT’.

‘Mummies. Two of them.’ Callum pulled a plastic apron from the roll by the door and unfurled it. Slipped it over his head and tied the ties. ‘Came in yesterday?’

‘Right. Right. Well … OK, you’ve got Lucy Compton.’

‘Never heard of her.’ He helped himself to a pair of safety goggles.

‘New APT. This is her first week. Young lass, you’ll like her.’

Callum stared at him. ‘Can we at least pretend we’re taking this seriously, Dougal? I want a pathologist, not some wee Anatomical Pathology Technician just out of nappies.’

Franklin yanked an apron from the roll. ‘What, she’s not good enough just because she’s a woman?’

‘I don’t care if she’s a man, a woman, or a transgendered squirrel – she’s not a pathologist!’ He watched Franklin make a cat’s breakfast out of tying on her apron. ‘You’ve ripped the plastic.’

Dougal shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me. All I know is we’ve got two pathologists on duty and four bodies to PM today. Four to do tomorrow, and four more the day after that. Assuming no one else dies in the meantime. You want to moan at someone? Talk to Teabag and Hairy Harry.’

‘Oh don’t you worry, I will.’

Franklin tore off another apron and tried again. Finally got herself sorted out with goggles, wellies, a surgical mask, and gloves. Crossed her arms and shuffled on the tiled floor. ‘Well?’ Looking about as comfortable as a Seventies TV star in a police interview room.

Callum snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Have you been to a post mortem before?’

Her nostrils flared. ‘Why, because I’m a weak and feeble—’

‘Fine, sod you then.’ He nodded at the door. ‘Come on, Dougal, let’s not keep Detective Constable Franklin waiting. She’s keen to see her dead body being hacked apart.’

Dougal opened the dissecting room door and stood back to let them past.

A dozen cutting tables sat in a row down the middle, the air redolent with eau de mortuary. CCTV cameras hung from the ceiling above each one, their black bulbous eyes ready to capture the most intimate and thorough violation anyone would ever experience.

One table was surrounded by half a dozen people doing their best not to look like plainclothes police officers and failing miserably. They’d donned the same safety gear as Callum and Franklin, a couple of them laughing, two looking serious and boot-faced, two taking notes as a tall thin man in purple scrubs arranged a collection of trainers and shoes on the stainless-steel surface. Someone in green scrubs followed him, taking photos – the flash turning everything monochrome for a moment, before the colour seeped back in.

Down at the far end of the room, a dark body lay beneath a set of industrial extractor fans going full pelt. Not that it made much of an impact on the stench. But then it was difficult to imagine what would. Tip three gallons of Febreze in here and it would still stink of perforated bowels and rotten meat.

Someone in green scrubs was washing the body with a sponge, wringing out dirty grey water into a drain set into the floor.

Franklin took a deep breath and stiffened her shoulders. ‘That our victim?’

‘Shall we?’ Dougal offered her his arm, as if they were off to the ball.

She ignored it and marched off, back straight, wellington boots making week-wonk noises on the stained floor.

The far wall was home to a long line of sinks and taps, with a glass wall above them looking in on a viewing gallery. A wee bloke with a red Henry hoover shuffled about inside looking as if he was in need of a post mortem himself.

Only two other tables were occupied – as far away from Franklin’s corpse as possible – and both of them sported a mahogany-coloured body, curled up on its side. One of which was being circled by a small figure wearing pink scrubs. Dark curly hair pinned up in a lopsided bun, purple nitrile gloves, surgical mask.

That would be his brand new APT then.

Ah well.

He wandered over. ‘Hi. You Ms Compton?’

She stopped and turned to him. ‘No, I’m not, sorry, I’m not Ms Compton, who’s Ms Compton?’ She’d put her pink scrubs on over a black-and-grey stripy top. Its sleeves were rolled up just far enough to expose an inch of yoghurt-pale skin between them and the purple nitrile gloves. Not Ms Compton pointed at the curled body. ‘Sorry, I know it’s not my case, but I saw the mummies over here and I thought “that looks interesting”, I mean I always loved those films when I was little, you know with Boris Karloff all wrapped up in bandages exacting revenge on the archaeologists who dared to disturb his tomb?’ The words were delivered like machine-gun fire, in a cheery unplaceable Scottish accent. ‘To be honest, I’m supposed to be consulting on another case about some severed feet, but the heart wants what the heart wants.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Ooh, and it’s Alice, by the way, Alice McDonald, technically it’s Doctor Alice McDonald, but that sounds a bit uppity doesn’t it, so just Alice is fine, all gets a bit confusing doesn’t it, maybe if everyone in the world wore name badges it’d be easier, what do you think?’

Yeah … this one was a freak.

He shook her hand, warm and slightly sticky through his gloves. ‘Detective Constable Callum MacGregor.’

‘Right, yes, great, good name, couldn’t get much more Scottish, could you, not with a name like that, well, I mean it could be, if your middle name was Angus or Hamish. Is it?’

‘You said you’re consulting on a case. You’re not a pathologist are—’

‘Oh no, not a pathologist at all, I’m here doing Behavioural Evidence Analysis, which is what we call profiling now, because if we call it profiling people think it’ll be just like the movies where the forensic psychologist says, “Whoever killed all these women and ate their uteruses was a white middle-aged man with one leg shorter than the other and an unnatural affinity with the music of Johnny Cash”, because it doesn’t work like that and lots of people like Johnny Cash but never kill anyone, though I’m not a fan myself. Do you see?’

No.

‘Err …’ Wait a minute. Forensic psychologist. Alice. Rambling. He lowered his own surgical mask and the dirty-brown smell of the mortuary swelled in his nostrils. ‘Dr McDonald? It’s me, Callum. I was on the Birthday Boy investigation, five years ago? You were consulting.’ No reaction. ‘I was on DCI Weber’s team?’

She lowered her own mask and shared a slightly painful smile, as if she’d got something bitter caught between her back teeth. ‘Ah, sorry, it’s nothing personal, but I tend to just see a big sea of faces when I’m up giving presentations and then there’s all the different investigations all over the country and there must have been at least three thousand police officers over the years, probably more, and I would love to be able to remember them all, but I haven’t got that kind of brain, and I get a bit nervous when I’m up there, so I’m picturing you all in your underwear if that’s—’

‘Dr McDonald?’ A figure appeared at Callum’s shoulder, green plastic apron pulled on over a smart dark-grey suit. Half of his face was hidden behind a surgical mask, but there was no mistaking the voice or sticky-out ears. Detective Chief Inspector Powel. ‘They’re ready for you.’

Alice the weirdo waved at him. ‘Hello, Reece, I was just admiring Callum’s mummies, aren’t they great, did you ever watch Boris Karloff when you were little?’

He barely inclined his head. ‘DC MacGregor. I thought they were supposed to fire you this morning?’

‘Nope.’ Callum leaned against the cutting table. ‘You’ll just have to try a little harder next time you fit me up.’

Powel cricked his head to one side, then back again – like a boxer getting ready to fight. Then turned back to the professional nutjob in pink. ‘Professor Twining’s ready to begin, so if you want to come have a look before we take the feet out of their shoes …?’

‘Yes, of course, the feet, duh, sorry got distracted. Do you think we should all have name badges, because I think we should all have name badges …’ Her voice faded into the distance, swallowed by the background growl of the extractor fans as Powel led her away.

Callum stuck two fingers up at the DCI’s back.

I thought they were supposed to fire you.

Dick.

And how could she not remember him? He remembered her. Mind you, she did stand out a bit, what with her whole ‘Day-Pass-From-The-Asylum’ shtick.

Still, it was nice she’d been interested in his mummies, because no one else seemed to give a sod.

Callum folded his arms. Searched the room for Franklin and her amazing exploding temper. She was standing in the corner, scribbling away in her notebook as the APT finished washing down the swollen corpse.

So, could be worse. At least he wasn’t marinating in the Marmite stench of a decomposing body, like Franklin. No, his remains just smelled of … What?

Callum leaned in and took a sniff, but it was just the usual ever-present stink that permeated the mortuary: bleach, bowels, and decay. Which was odd – when they’d opened the car boot yesterday there’d been a distinct smell of wood smoke. And a hint of it back at the tip, with Mummy Number One too. Unless this was Mummy Number One. Kind of difficult to tell them apart.

He inched closer and tried again.

The scent was still there, lying under everything else. Like the old armchair his grandad used to smoke his pipe in. Puffing away, getting the scent of sandalwood and cherry deep into the leather.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. ‘Can I help you?’

He flinched up. Smoothed down his thin plastic apron. ‘Just …’ Warmth tingled in the tips of his ears, as if he’d been caught snogging the remains instead of just sniffing them. ‘Callum MacGregor, I’m Senior Investigating Officer.’

‘Oh aye?’ She was a large woman, compact and powerful looking. The kind of person that could pick up a fridge and beat you to death with it. Her green scrubs looked fresh out of the packet, but her arms looked fresh out of Barlinnie – covered in DIY tattoos. She leaned on the chunk of machinery she’d been wheeling across the mortuary floor. ‘You sure?’

‘Yes. Are you Ms Compton?’

She flexed her muscles. ‘Lucy.’

‘OK, Lucy.’ He pointed at the body. ‘Does this smell of wood smoke to you?’

She pulled down her mask, revealing a mole at the corner of her mouth. Sniffed. ‘Oak. And …’ Another sniff. ‘I’m going to go with beechwood.’

‘What about the other one?’

Lucy shifted the machinery over to the other cutting table, bent over the curled body and filled her nostrils. ‘Definitely beechwood and oak. This one’s a lot stronger.’

That would be the one from the car boot. Maybe lying about in the tip for God knew how long masked Mummy Number One’s natural smell?

The APT went back to her trolley and pushed it next to the cutting table. Clunked on some sort of footbrake, then fiddled about with pins and levers until a big C-shaped arm swung out from the main unit. It had a box on either end, each about the size of small microwave.

‘Right.’ She handed him a heavy blue apron. ‘Stick that on and we’ll get some X-rays done.’

‘X-rays?’

She looked at him as if he was a very thick little boy. ‘Well we’re not going to actually post mortem them, are we? They’re mummies. Priceless relics of a long-dead civilisation. Cause of death isn’t going to do you a hell of a lot of good, is it? Or are you planning on climbing into your DeLorean and travelling back to ancient Egypt with an arrest warrant?’

Yeah, she had a point.

‘Now,’ the APT pointed at Mummy Number Two, ‘help me get it sitting up and we’ll see what we can see …’