Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

King pulled something covered in crumpled tinfoil from the Jiffy bag: vaguely rectangular, four or five inches thick. Smears of dark reddish-brown on the shiny metal. Yeah, that was definitely blood. ‘Twenty quid says they’re through there, editing a piece starting with, “Some viewers may find this report distressing.”’

The foil package had a curled edge at the top, like a Cornish pasty. King unrolled the first corner.

‘Don’t! If you compromise the evidence we’ll—’

‘What?’ He bared his teeth, chest out. ‘What do you care? This is my investigation, OK? MINE!’ Spittle flying, deep creases around his pink eyes. ‘You shouldn’t even be here!’

Logan backed off a pace, sniffing. There was something there, beneath all the mint and the outrage. Something sharp and sour. ‘Have you been drinking ?’

‘I’m on duty, you idiot! And I don’t need Professional Standards sticking their nose into my case!’

Here we go.

‘I’m not “sticking my nose in”, I’m here to support you.’

‘You’re what ?’

‘They didn’t tell you?’ Oh great. Well that explained a lot.

‘All hail the mighty Inspector Logan McRae and his Queen’s Medal ! What, you think just because you were stupid enough to get yourself stabbed—’

‘Look, it wasn’t my idea, OK? All I wanted was a nice straightforward little investigation, ease my way into things, not... this!’

King closed the gap between them. Poked him with a finger. ‘I don’t need supervised by some jumped-up—’

‘I’m not supervising, I’m assisting .’ Logan stared him down. ‘And you can blame Jane McGrath, thank you very much. The brass wanted to fire you — this,’ pointing at the pair of them, ‘was all her idea. I could be in Bucksburn now, eating KitKats.’

King glared at him.

Sigh. ‘Look: if we cock this up, they’ll throw us both in the blender, OK? Career-and-jobbie smoothies for everyone.’

No response.

But at least no one had thrown a punch yet.

Logan softened his voice a bit. ‘Now put the package back where it came from and let’s try to pretend we have a clue about evidentiary procedure.’

King stared at him in silence, breath hissing in and out through his nose... Then he closed his eyes. Shook his head. And slid the tinfoil pack into the Jiffy bag again. Cleared his throat and looked away, the colour fading from his face. ‘I need to solve this case, Logan. I need to solve it soon. The press are going to... hammer dirty big nails into me if I don’t, and our top brass are going to let them.’

‘Not if I can help it.’ He tried for a reassuring smile. ‘Now come on, let’s get that package to the mortuary. And cheer up: we’ve finally got some forensic evidence!’

Logan shifted in his horrible SOC suit, setting it rustling. A trickle of sweat traced its way down his spine and into his underwear.

Normally the mortuary was the only cool room in Divisional Headquarters, but for some reason, today it was like a toaster. Or perhaps it was just the horrible Tyvek oversuits, trapping his body heat, not letting any moisture escape in case it contaminated the evidence. Turning his pants into a sauna.

King was pink-faced and shiny next to him, glancing up at the clock every two minutes.

Creepy Sheila Dalrymple seemed comfortable in her own SOC suit, her white wellies shiny against the mortuary’s off-grey tiles. A smile on her wide flat face that didn’t go as far as the eyes hiding behind her spectacles. Her long thin fingers in constant motion at the end of her long thin arms, as if they lived a life of their own, independent to the rest of her. She must have caught King looking at the clock again, because she turned her hollow smile on him. ‘Not long now... gentlemen.’

Even her pauses were creepy.

Another trickle of sweat joined the first.

Logan rustled a bit more.

Harsh overhead lights sparkled from the stainless-steel cutting tables and worktops. Dented, but clean. A couple of laptops, screensavers birling away. The low growl of the extractor fans. The harsh scent of bleach and formaldehyde undercut by something dark and bowel-like. Eau de Mortuary, pour cadavre .

And then, bang on the dot of ten, the cutting room door opened and Professor Isobel McAlister lurched in. Her SOC suit stretched taut over her swollen bulge, face a bit flushed, welly boots turned out at the toes to compensate for the extra weight growing inside her. She didn’t even look at Logan or King. ‘Well?’

‘All is prepared... Professor.’

About bloody time too.

Isobel pointed at the Jiffy bag. ‘Sheila, if you would?’

‘As you wish... Professor.’ All she needed was a lightning flash and the sound of nervous horses. Lacking that, Sheila slunk over to the nearest worktop — returning with a stainless-steel tray that had a couple of scalpels, a pair of pliers, three tweezers, and a spoon on it. She placed the tray beside the Jiffy bag, then laid out the implements on the cutting table as if she was setting it for dinner.

She gave Isobel a small nod, then pulled on a facemask and reached into the bag, easing out the tinfoil package and placing it in the middle of the now vacant tray.

Isobel frowned at the package, then at the room with its grubby tiles and shiny worktops. ‘Where’s my photographer? I specifically requested a photographer! How am I supposed to carry out any sort of examination without it being properly recorded?’

‘They haven’t turned up... Professor.’

‘Well we’re not going any further until they do .’

Logan groaned.

King shook his head. ‘Not acceptable.’

She glared at him. ‘A proper photographic record is vital. How am I supposed to present evidence in court without photographs?’

King held her gaze, then threw his hands up. ‘Fine! Get the camera and I’ll take the photographs.’

‘This isn’t a children’s birthday party, you can’t—’

‘I did the SIO course refresher last week and they had a module on crime scene photography.’ He stuck his hand out in Sheila’s direction. ‘Camera.’

Sheila looked at Isobel. ‘Professor?’

‘Very well, but if these pictures are of inferior quality it’s your investigation you’ll be ruining.’

Sheila rummaged in one of the cupboards and emerged with a chunky digital camera, turned it on, then presented it to King. ‘You have to press this button here to—’

‘I do know how a camera works, thank you.’ He removed the lens cap, fiddled with the settings, and took a couple of test shots. ‘Right: where’s the scale?’

She clicked a black-and-white ruler down alongside the package.

King rattled off half a dozen more, prowling around the table to get a variety of angles. The camera’s flash bounced off the shiny surfaces.

Isobel held out a gloved hand. ‘All right, let’s see what you’ve done.’

He turned the camera around and showed her the viewing screen.

‘Acceptable.’ She nodded. ‘Sheila, proceed.’

Those thin fingers took hold of the crimped top of the tinfoil pasty and unrolled it, spreading the sides open. Revealing a pair of severed human hands. The skin was pale as candlewax where it wasn’t clarted in dark red-brown stains.

They’d been put in the package one on top of the other, palms together, fingers interlaced. As if they’d been severed mid-prayer.

King lowered the camera. ‘Bloody hell...’

The butcher’s-shop smell of iron and bone joined the mortuary scent.

Isobel snapped her fingers. ‘You did a course, remember?’

King puffed out his cheeks and snapped off a few more pics as Isobel leaned in and had a good sniff.