Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

He passed the thing over. ‘As soon as possible would be good.’

She arched an eyebrow and grunted, then snapped on a pair of purple nitrile gloves from the dispenser on her desk and opened the bag. Pulled out the wax-paper cup inside. Grunted again. Then returned it to the bag.

Logan tried an ingratiating smile. ‘Right now, if you can?’

‘You are joking, I take it?’ She pointed at the window and the bustling techs behind it. ‘These arson attacks have got us at full capacity for about the next three months.’

‘This takes priority, Dr McEvoy.’ King folded his arms. ‘And before you complain: check with DCI Hardie, Superintendent Young, or even the Chief Super. All the same to me.’ A shrug. ‘Young’s got his hobnail boots on for this case, so I see no reason why our backsides should be the only ones getting kicked.’

Dr McEvoy stiffened. ‘You people think we’re like Santa’s little helpers, don’t you? I’m at my overtime limit as it is. We can’t just—’

King’s phone sang in his pocket and he grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ He stepped away and answered it. ‘King... OK... But— No.’

Time to try a more diplomatic approach.

Logan settled on the edge of her desk. ‘It’s important, Lesley. This case? Hugely high profile. Everyone from Sky News to the Chief Constable is waiting for us to screw it up and there’s a man’s life on the line.’

She turned to face the window, looking out at her bustling minions. ‘I still can’t magic personnel out of thin air.’

‘Professor Wilson will die if we don’t find him soon. He’ll die.’

Dr McEvoy groaned again, her reflection in the window rolling its eyes. ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do...’ She stomped over to the whiteboard and stared at it for a moment, then nodded. Back at her desk, she reached past Logan to poke a button on her big grey landline phone. ‘Jeffers, come to my office, would you?’

Her words were clearly being relayed through speakers in the lab, because they were just audible, muffled by the glass, with a half-second delay.

As one, all the technicians looked up from their lab equipment to stare through the window at the office, followed by a chorus of ‘Ooo-ooo-ooh!’ as one of their number slumped, then marched towards the door.

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, Lesley.’

Over by the plastic rubber plant, King had one finger in his other ear. ‘Why is she— OK... Yes.’

There was a knock on the open door and the sacrificial Jeffers lurked on the threshold. His SOC suit wasn’t as pristine white as his colleagues’, instead a grimy grey patina smeared the end of his sleeves and his chest. Blue biro pen marks around his mouth. ‘Boss?’ Fidgeting with a fat round brush as he peered at them through little round glasses.

Dr McEvoy waved him into the room. ‘You’ve done your DNA training, haven’t you?’

‘Well, yeah, but I’m really more of a fingerprint—’

‘Excellent. Stop what you’re doing and get this analysed.’ She handed him Logan’s evidence bag. ‘I want it sequenced, checked, and back here ASAP. ASABP if possible.’

Jeffers peeked into the bag, worrying away at his bottom lip with his teeth. ‘Er... Is that a coffee cup? What if the coffee’s degraded the sample? What if I can’t—’

‘I have every faith in you. Now,’ she clapped her hands, ‘chop, chop.’

A little defeated noise escaped from his mouth, then he sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But it’ll take a while to get the sample run against the database. Gimme... an hour?’

Dr McEvoy looked at Logan. ‘There you go, can’t say fairer than that.’

‘Thanks.’

King abandoned the fake greenery. ‘No, I understand. We’ll be right there.’ He hung up and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘We’re needed at the mortuary.’

Logan stared at Jeffers. ‘We’ve got a press conference at two o’clock. Please : try and find something before then.’

All he got in reply was a shrug.

Which meant they were probably doomed.

Logan pushed through the door into the cutting room... Paused — King bumping into him as he stood there, sniffing.

Something rancid and rotten. A burst bin-bag stuffed with off meat. The extractor fans were going full pelt, but the stench was still eye-watering.

Isobel and Creepy Sheila stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, scowls on their faces as they glared across a cutting table at Steel. They were in scrubs and wellies, ready to go, but Steel was in her civvies, hands in her pockets, whistling something jaunty.

A Jiffy bag sat on the table between them, its underside discoloured and soggy looking.

Isobel raised her chin at Logan. ‘About time too!’ She jabbed an imperious finger in Steel’s direction. ‘Will you talk to your subordinate officer, Inspector McRae? She won’t sign the chain of evidence!’

‘Aye, I will.’ Steel held out her hands to Sheila. ‘Come on then; haven’t got all day.’

Sheila whacked a clipboard down on the cutting table and Steel signed it with a flourish and a biro. ‘See, no’ so hard, was it?’

King marched past Logan, into the room, looming over her. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘They wanted to open the package without the two of you, Kingy. I said no. See? Team player, me.’

Isobel snapped on a pair of purple nitrile gloves. ‘Sheila, tell Mr Black we’re ready for him. The rest of you can suit up if you wish to remain.’

Steel held a hand up. ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Sheila. Your Aunty Roberta will get the nice Mr Black for you.’ Then she turned and marched for the cutting room door, booted it open and stuck her head out. Deep breath. ‘GAV! GET YER ARSE OOT THAT CHUNTY, IT’S CLICKY-SNAPPY TIME!’

A deep crimson blush bloomed across Sheila’s cheeks as she handed Logan and King a set of Tyvek coveralls, dumped another one on the worktop, then bustled off in the other direction.

Steel swaggered over and struggled her way into the spare suit. ‘They never make these things long enough in the crotch.’ Hauling at it. ‘Like I’m sitting on a cheese wire.’

A wee round man appeared in the doorway, in full SOC getup, a huge digital camera strung around his neck. ‘I would just like to say that I wasn’t in the toilet, I was finalising a crime scene report!’

Logan pulled on his hood and zipped himself up. Tried not to smile.

Steel helped herself a pair of purple gloves. ‘Oh, aye? You left the bog like a crime scene? Filthy wee bugger.’

‘That’s not what I—’

‘Bet you didn’t flush either.’ She wiggled her way into blue plastic booties, grinning at Isobel. ‘Men, eh?’

Sheila returned with a couple of trays and some tools, laying them on the cutting table beside the Jiffy bag like last time. ‘Ready, Professor.’

‘Everyone: masks and safety goggles.’ And as soon as they’d complied, Isobel pointed at the photographer, snapped her fingers, then pointed at the Jiffy bag.

Gav harrumphed, then fired off a couple of shots. ‘I wasn’t in the toilet.’ He checked the camera’s screen. Nodded.

The camera clacked and bleeped as Isobel slit the bag open along the bottom and tipped the Jiffy bag up. A carrier bag slithered out onto the tray — the plastic filthy and dripping, sitting there, oozing brown watery liquid. The rancid meaty bin-bag smell increased about twentyfold. A stench so thick it was chewy .

Logan backed off a couple of paces, wafting a hand in front of his face. It didn’t help. ‘God...’

Steel curled her head away from the bag, voice choked: ‘Bet you’re glad I made them wait, now.’