Читать книгу Close to the Bone - Stuart MacBride - Страница 17

‘. . .complete and utter disaster.’ The pathologists’ office was empty, so Logan shifted Isobel’s ‘MUMMY AT WORK’ mug out of the way, then perched one bum-cheek on her desk. ‘The ACC looked as if he was going to have an aneurysm.’

Samantha laughed down the phone at him. ‘So you ran away and hid in the mortuary? ’

‘I’m not hiding, I’m. . .’ He switched his mobile from one ear to the other. ‘I beat a tactical retreat till Steel and the ACC calm down. And yes: my nose still hurts, thanks for asking.’

‘Coward.’

‘What am I supposed to do? Everyone’s acting like Agnes and Anthony are this pair of lost wee kids, but they’re old enough to get married, join the army and get shot at. . . So what if they’ve run off to be together? Who are they hurting? ’

‘You going to be late again tonight? ’

‘It’s Agnes’s bloody parents causing all the trouble. Don’t like to think about their wee girl out there shagging Anthony Chung.’

‘Moan, whinge, moan. Don’t forget to pick up some milk on your way home. And you’re all out of Marmite too.’

‘Like they’ve not been at it for years already. You know what horny little sods teenagers are, any excuse and. . .’

He sat up straight, setting Isobel’s china mug rattling against its saucer: the mortuary’s outer door had just slammed shut. Then came the sound of footsteps, echoing down the corridor outside.

‘Got to go – someone’s coming.’

‘Don’t be such a wimp; you’re a DI now, take your medicine like a man.’

‘Acting DI, and no thanks.’ He hung up and jumped down from the desk. The footsteps were getting closer. As long as they kept on going, through to the cutting room, he’d be fine. Just have to sneak out once they were in there.

Crap. . . The footsteps stopped right outside the pathologists’ office.

Logan spun around on the spot. Had to be somewhere to hide in here. Behind the filing cabinet? Not enough space. Under one of the desks? . . . Yeah, and how would he explain that when they caught him? Looking for a contact lens?

Might be worth a go.

He pulled out the nearest chair—

The door swung open and he froze, halfway into a crouch.

‘Guv? ’

Logan looked up, and there was Rennie, frowning down at him.

‘You OK, Guv? Only you look like you’re about to curl one out on the floor there.’

Heat bloomed in Logan’s cheeks. ‘I was just—’

‘Should probably pull your trousers and pants down first though,’ a grin broke across Rennie’s face, ‘going to be hell of a mess otherwise.’

Logan stood. ‘Did you want something, Sergeant? ’

‘See, if I was going to take a dump in someone’s office, I’d do it in their desk drawer. Or in the filing cabinet, under “J” for jobbie, that way it’s all organized and—’

‘Rennie!’

‘Oh, right. Yeah.’ He stood to one side and swept his arm out in a grandiose gesture, as if he was a magician introducing his glamorous assistant. ‘Got a Dr Graham here to see La Monarch De Iceberg.’

A woman stepped past Rennie, into the room. Short, big smile, tiny diamond earrings twinkling between strands of long blonde hair. Big brown boots, blue jeans, and a pink twinset. Petite and girly. She stuck out a thin hand for Logan to shake. It was like an industrial car crusher. ‘I hear you need a forensic anthropologist? ’

Already?

Logan took his hand back while it still worked. ‘You’re keen: we only put the call out an hour ago.’

She flashed him a smile that made little crow’s feet around her eyes. ‘Are you kidding? Jobs like this are hen’s teeth: had to get here before any other bugger did. Forensic anthropology’s a cut-throat business.’

‘Dr Graham—’

‘April, please.’ She shook her head. ‘I blame the telly – they show all these glamorous actors running about the place, solving murders, then everyone and their dog thinks, “Hey, why don’t I train to be one of them bone people?” Seriously, you can’t throw a brick these days without braining two dozen unemployed forensic anthropologists.’

‘That’s very—’

‘You know,’ she frowned up at him, ‘you should’ve put some ice on that, it would’ve brought the swelling down. Might be too late now, but it’s probably still worth a go. Trust me: if there’s one thing I know, it’s being punched in the face.’

Logan’s fingers stroked the side of his swollen nose. ‘OK. . .’

‘Are the remains ready? ’ She got a step closer. ‘I’d really like to get cracking as soon as I can.’

He backed away, until the desktop dug into the back of his legs. Retreat no longer an option. ‘They’re through the house. . .’

‘Good stuff.’ She spun around, as if she was mounted on castors. ‘Right, lead the way, and we—’ Her pillow-sized handbag swung out as she turned, caught Isobel’s china mug and sent it flying.

It hit the carpet tiles with a delicate ping, then shattered into a dozen glinting fragments.

April stared down at it, mouth hanging open. She cleared her throat, clutched at the demon handbag, kneaded at the tan leather. ‘Oh God. . . It was an accident.’ She shuffled sideways, into the filing cabinet. ‘It . . . I’ll pay for it. I didn’t mean to break it.’

Rennie hunkered down and picked a shard up between thumb and forefinger, dropping it into his palm. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just—’

‘No, you don’t understand, it. . . They’re just waiting for me to screw something up, so they can barge in and take over.’

Logan leaned back against the desk. ‘They? ’

‘The other forensic anthropologists. I told you it was cut-throat, didn’t I? I’m good at my job, and it was an accident, and—’

‘It’s OK. We didn’t see anything, did we, Sergeant? ’

Rennie dropped another sliver into his palm, then shook his head. ‘Mug? What mug? Was missing when we got here, someone probably nicked it. Bunch of thieving bastards round here.’

April smiled at them, eyes shining. ‘Thanks.’

Rennie picked up the last of the shards. ‘Don’t thank us – we didn’t do, or see, anything.’ He went to tip the remains into the wastepaper basket.

Logan hit him. ‘Don’t be thick – she’s going to look there, isn’t she? Wrap it in toilet paper and dump it in the gents’ bin. Then go see if anyone’s caught Reuben yet.’

A wink. ‘Got you.’ And he was off, cradling the shattered mug like a baby bird.

Logan ushered April out into the corridor. ‘So, what, you just happened to be in the area? ’

She followed him through the double doors into the cutting room. ‘It was on the news this morning. So I jumped in the car and called your pathologist – met her at the Forensic Society conference at RGU two years ago. In this job, it pays to network.’

The doors whumped closed behind them, letting the air wrap them in its chilly arms. Not quite cold enough to make their breath plume, but close.

Overhead strip-lights glinted back from the stainless-steel work surfaces, cutting tables, and wall of refrigerated drawers. White tiles clicked beneath Logan’s shoes as he marched over and read the labels slipped into the little holders on the doors. ‘UNKNOWN VICTIM: MURDER ~ 003613’ was second from the bottom on the left. He clacked up the handle and hauled the drawer out.

April looked down at the white plastic body-bag. ‘Are forensics finished with trace evidence? ’

‘Yes.’

‘Everything’s done? ’

‘Just said that, didn’t I? ’

‘Good. In that case. . .’ She snapped on a pair blue nitrile gloves, took hold of the body-bag’s zip and pulled it down.

The scent of raw meat and scorched barbecue oozed out into the cold room.

‘Hmm. . . I know it sounds daft, but it’s so nice to get a fresh one. Normally, the smell of them. . .’ She peered down at what was left of the head, up on her tiptoes, then down again, then left and right, as if she was expecting it to do something. Not touching anything. ‘I need a practising medical professional with five years’ experience, and you’ll have to sign a release.’

‘Isn’t my body.’ He looked at the mortuary doors. ‘If Dalrymple’s about, she can do it.’

‘There’s a fair bit of work to be done. . .’ April headed for the nearest cutting table and dumped her demon handbag on it, popped open the clasp and went rummaging inside while Logan went off to find the Anatomical Pathology Technician.

‘You see, that’s the real trouble. . .’ April slipped the blade through the last strands of tendon and eased the head away from the body. She’d changed into an orangey-grey sweater, the turtleneck pulled up over her nose and mouth, like a makeshift facemask. ‘Britain’s too small – remains get found too quickly. What you want is somewhere like America, or Australia, dump your victim out there and it’ll stay hidden for years.’

She placed the head down on a white plastic tray. It rocked a couple of times, then lay there, screaming up at the ceiling with its cracked yellow teeth.

Logan adjusted his mask. ‘How long’s this going to take? ’

On the other side of the room, the duty doctor sat in one of the chairs dragged through from the staff room. Dr Ramsey: a short man in a baggy suit, with a threadbare goatee beard, chubby cheeks, a mini-quiff at the front and a bald patch at the back; Ramsey had his feet up on an empty brain bucket, and his head buried in a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner. ‘MAN BURNED TO DEATH IN SICK “NECKLACING” MURDER’ in big black letters above a photo of the Joyriders’ Graveyard out by Thainstone Mart. ‘Well, you could always move.’

‘Don’t get me wrong: I’ve thought about it a couple of times, but I’d miss Scotland too much. All that sunshine and warm weather just isn’t natural. Mind you, must be nice not to have to fight for every single job.’

‘Dr Graham: how long? ’

The forensic anthropologist glanced up at him. ‘Well, I’ve got to remove the residual skin, clean the skull, work out the correct tissue depth, add the markers, model the musculature, then the skin, hair. . . Like I said, it’s a fair bit of work, but obviously I’ll go as fast as I—’

A loud bang came from outside, in the corridor: the mortuary door slamming against the wall. Then a voice: ‘WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS SHE? ’

April wrapped her gloved hands around the head. Bared her teeth. ‘Dempsey.’

BOOM and the cutting-room doors flew open. A man stood on the threshold, his round face flushed and trembling. Two streaks of grey ran back across his head from the temples, as if he’d been a badger in a former life. It went with the yellowy-tweed suit. He jabbed a sausage finger at April. ‘You unprofessional bitch!’

Rennie stumbled in after him. ‘If you don’t calm down, sir, I’m going to have to—’

He spun around. ‘Don’t let her fool you: this is my job, not hers. She’s got no business being here.’

April cradled the head against her chest, pressing the scorched flesh into the off-orange fabric. ‘That’s not fair, Jack, I got here first.’

‘I have an agreement!’ He threw his chest out, shoulders back. ‘And it’s Doctor Dempsey to you, Graham.’ He dug into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘See? The local pathologist called in my services, not yours. Now put down my remains and go peddle your clumsy excuse for forensic anthropology somewhere else.’

Still holding the head with one arm, she grabbed the clipboard from the cutting table. ‘I’ve got a release, do you have a release? No, you don’t.’

‘Don’t you “I’ve got a release” me: you only got that under false pretences. This is my job and you bloody well know it!’

Rennie took the sheet of paper from Dempsey’s hand and peered at it for a moment. Then looked up at Logan. ‘It’s from Pukey Pete. Blah, blah, blah, Dr Peter Forsyth cordially invites you to assist with the identification of an unknown male found last night suffering from severe burns to the head, neck, and chest. . .’

‘See? I told you: this is my job.’ He beamed, teeth bared, eyes narrowed to piggy little slits. ‘Now sling your hook, Graham.’

April brought her chin up. ‘I was asked to come by Dr McAllister.’

‘Well I was asked first.’

Raised voices echoed down the corridor, the noise amplified by all the cold hard surfaces in the cutting room. Rennie peered through the gap between the doors. ‘They’re still going at it.’

‘Pffff. . .’ Logan hissed out a breath, then leaned back against the corridor wall. ‘Any news? ’

Blank look. Then a blink. ‘Oh, right: Reuben. No. They’ve tried his house, Wee Hamish’s place, the garage in Mastrick, all the bookies he runs, the docks. . .’ Shrug. ‘He’s gone all ninja on us.’

Sod. He let his head rest against the gritty wallpaper. At least the ants were fading away. ‘Fancy a cup of tea? ’

‘You sure we should just leave them alone? What if they start smashing things up? ’

‘Why do you think I locked the remains back in the fridge? Anyway, if they break anything, Isobel will hunt them down and kill them.’ Logan pushed the door to the pathologists’ office open. ‘Get the kettle on, and. . .’

Dr Forsyth was hunched over his desk, cheeks glistening with tears as he packed files and personal effects into a large cardboard box. Out of his rumpled SOC suit, he was still . . . rumpled. A small man with a neatly trimmed beard and a pair of thick glasses in NHS-black frames. He flinched. Stared at Logan for a breath, then went back to clearing out his desk.

Rennie grabbed the kettle from the top of the filing cabinet and gave it a shoogle. It barely sloshed. ‘Afternoon, Doc. Fancy a brew? ’

‘I’m. . . I handed in my resignation.’

‘Ah. Right.’ Rennie backed out into the corridor again, pointing towards the cutting room. ‘I’ll fill the kettle, get it on, and we can all . . . have a nice cuppa.’

Logan waited until the door closed behind him. ‘Are you OK? ’

A sniff. ‘No. That’s the point.’ He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘I can’t do this any more. All the pain and the suffering and the relatives and the press and the courts and the bloody press. . .’

A smile. ‘You said “press” twice.’

‘Did you know they doorstepped me for that Rubislaw Den murder? Right outside my house. I was taking Natasha to playgroup. . .’ He dumped a box file in on top of some pilfered Post-it notes. ‘I’ve tried so hard to keep what I do separate, and they do something like that? ’ He wiped his hand across his cheeks, then dried it on the leg of his trousers. ‘And the smell. I wash and I wash and I wash and it never comes off. . .’

Logan nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

A knock came from the office door. Dr Ramsey was blinking at them from the corridor. ‘Turns out some shoplifter’s fallen down the stairs in the custody block.’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the bulk of FHQ. ‘If Tweedledee and Tweedledum ever stop shouting at each other, let me know.’

‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Anthropologists. . .’ Ramsey rolled his eyes, then sloped off, shoes scuffing on the floor.

Dr Forsyth hurled another manila folder into the box, following it up with one more for every word: ‘Just – can’t – take it – any more.’ He picked the box up, cradling it in his arms as if it were a severed head. ‘And all the time they’re telling us to cut costs, as if what we do is. . .’ He trembled, flecks of spittle frothing in the corners of his mouth. ‘Like we’re sitting about drinking coffee from golden mugs and eating bloody chocolates.’ A shrug. ‘Sorry. It’s just. . .’

He lowered his head and shuffled from the room. As he opened the door, the raised voices came through again:

‘Oh, don’t give me that, Graham, you’ve always been jealous of my success!’

‘I’m not arguing with you about this, Dempsey. I was here first.’

Dr Forsyth looked back over his shoulder. ‘Please. . .’ A frown. ‘Tell Isobel I stuck it for as long as I could.’

‘It’s my bloody job! Now pack up and bugger off!’

‘My life coach says I have to—’

‘Life coach? What kind of bloody idiot—’

The door clunked shut again.

Rennie backed into the room, carrying the kettle in one hand and a packet of Jaffa Cakes in the other. He waggled the orange-and-blue box at Logan. ‘Creepy Dalrymple didn’t lock her locker. What’s the point of hiding things in your locker if you don’t lock it? ’ He stuck the kettle onto its base and flicked the switch. ‘Clue’s in the name.’

Logan scrolled through the messages on his phone, deleting all the rubbish – most of which came from Steel. ‘Mmm. . .’

‘Exactly.’ Rennie clunked a couple of mugs down on the desk. ‘It’s gone all quiet out there. Think they’ve kissed and made up? Bet they’re at it on one of the cutting tables, getting their forensic anthropology freak on. Jumping each other’s bones.’

No wonder Steel never had any time to do her own paperwork, she was too busy sending pointless text messages. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Logan looked up from the little screen. ‘The ACC still on a rampage? ’

‘Nah, gone home. It’s Her Nibs you’ve got to worry about.’ The kettle rattled away to itself, grumbling steam out into the room. ‘Guv . . . this jewellery heist. . .’

Here we go. Logan put his phone away. ‘You were asleep. We got a confession.’

‘Yeah, but I put in all the work and it’s not—’

‘Never is.’

‘But it isn’t fair. And look at this. . .’ He pulled out his notebook, flipped it open, and held it up. Someone had written ‘FIND THOSE BLOODY TRAMPS, YOU LAZY WEE BAWBAG!!!’ above a list of three names and a crude drawing of male genitalia. The handwriting was obviously Steel’s. Rennie clacked the thing shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘She drew a cock in my notebook. What am I supposed to do if I’ve got to produce it in court? Think the judge’ll be impressed? ’

The kettle clicked, then fell silent.

‘She keeps lumping these crappy make-work jobs on me. How am I going to make my mark, if she keeps—’

‘Make your mark? ’

A blush spread across his cheeks. ‘Well, it’s. . . You know what I mean.’

‘No wonder she drew a dick in your notebook; lucky she didn’t do it on your forehead. Anyway, you should be happy.’

He picked up the kettle and filled the mugs. ‘Ha bloody ha.’

‘She did the same thing to me. In her twisted little mind, it’s her way of singling you out. Testing you.’ Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re her favourite.’

Rennie sagged. ‘Oh God. . .’

‘Oh yes. Say goodbye to getting home at a reasonable hour, and hello to bizarre calls in the middle of the night.’

More sagging. ‘And how come I’m the one stuck hunting down tramps? It’s not like Hairy Mary, Scotty Scabs, and Fusty Forman did anything serious: two blokes and an auld wifie shoplifting cheese, bacon, and vodka doesn’t really count as organized crime, does it? ’

‘And you can forget about seeing Emma. But get ready for lots and lots of questions about your sex life, even though you’re never home in time to actually have one.’

‘Probably drunk themselves to death weeks ago. They’ll be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, covered in smoked streaky and Cheddar, getting all mouldy and fusty. . .’ A shudder. ‘Bad enough when they do it in winter, but in this weather? ’ Rennie’s bottom lip poked out. ‘Can’t we get the GED to look for them? ’

Logan smiled. ‘Trust me: soon as our beloved colleagues in the General Enquiries Division find out that Steel’s lumped you with finding these guys, they’ll disappear faster than you can say, “Someone else’s problem.”’ Logan fished his teabag out and dumped it in the wastepaper basket. ‘Besides, there’s only three of them. Don’t be such a wimp.’

Rennie ripped open the Jaffa Cakes, then tipped out a half-dozen brown flying-saucers onto the desk. ‘It’s not three any more, it’s two. Got Hairy Mary in the mortuary – found her under the Wellington Bridge with a bottle of turps in one hand and her knickers round her ankles.’

‘Sexual assault? ’

A shake of the head. ‘Call of nature, from the state of her.’ He bit a Jaffa Cake in half, talking with his mouth full. ‘Poor cow. Imagine going out like that? Everyone seeing you? ’ He chewed, then swallowed. ‘You want to take a look at her? ’

Dirty bugger. Logan pulled in his chin. ‘Do you really think that’s appropriate, because I—’

‘No! Not look at her with her knickers down. . . I mean take a look and make sure I’m not screwing anything up? ’

‘Oh.’ That was OK then. ‘Don’t be such a big Jessie.’

‘Come on, Guv. . .’ He popped the final Jaffa Cake in his mouth and fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Please? ’

Sigh. ‘This is the last time, understand? ’

A grin. ‘Thanks, Guv!’

Rennie was right – the corridor was quiet, not so much as an angry murmur coming from the cutting room. Logan pushed through the double doors . . . and stopped.

Dr Dempsey was sitting flat on his wide tweed bum in the middle of the room, both hands clasped over his nose, while Dr April Graham skipped back and forward in front of him, knees bent, feet barely moving. Fists up in classic Muhammad Ali pose.

She threw a couple of sharp right jabs into the air, making little puffing noises. ‘Told him to stop pushing me.’