Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘If you’re about to get romantic,’ said the newcomer with a grin, ‘I can come back later.’ Dr Dave Fraser, overweight, going on fifty-five, bald head, hairy ears. ‘I know you have a thing for the colder lady.’ He grinned and Logan couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Speaking of which: you will be disappointed to hear that Her Imperial Majesty the Ice Queen will not be joining us for this little funfest. Doctor’s appointment; not feeling well after last night.’ Logan breathed a sigh of relief. He was in no rush to see Isobel again after her foul mood at the crime scene this morning. Doc Fraser pointed at the six trolleys in the corner. ‘You can take a peek if you like, while I get set up.’

Against his better judgement, Logan walked across to the collection of trolleys in the corner. Up close the smell was worse: burnt meat and rendered fat. One of the body-bags had been carefully folded up in quarters, the resulting package held in place with silver tape, making it small enough to take a nine-month-old child. Taking a deep breath, Logan picked one of the other bags, standing motionless in the antiseptic room for a moment, wondering if this was really such a good idea, before pulling the zip down. There wasn’t much of a face left: nose and eyes gone, the teeth yellow-brown shards poking through scorched-black flesh. The mouth open in a final, silent scream. Logan took one look, gagged, and zipped it back up again. He shuddered his way back to the cutting table.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ asked Dr Fraser, smiling at him from behind his surgical mask. ‘Tell you, I did one when they brought them in: all crispy on the outside and raw in the middle. Like every time my wife tries to barbecue.’

Logan closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. ‘Shouldn’t they be in the fridges, instead of lying out there?’

Dr Fraser nodded. ‘Yup, but the winch is buggered, and I’m not doing it: bad back. Brian can shift them when he gets here.’

The aforementioned Brian — the mortuary’s senior Anatomical Pathology Technician — arrived bang on eight o’clock, along with the Procurator Fiscal, her assistant, a police photographer, and the corroborating pathologist: there to make sure Dr Fraser didn’t screw up the post mortem and cost them a conviction. He was a cadaverous man with eyes like an unwell fish and a handshake to match. The PF’s sidekick was the same one who’d attended the crime scene in the wee small hours, a brand-new substantive depute, two years out of law school and moving up the career ladder. She was dressed in full surgical get-up, complete with mask and hat, her eyes shining with a mixture of fear and excitement. Logan got the distinct impression this was her first time at a real post mortem.

‘Everybody ready?’ asked Dr Fraser when they’d all clambered into the ubiquitous SOC over suits so as not to contaminate the body.

‘Er... before we begin,’ said the new girl, looking at her boss for permission before continuing. ‘I’d like to know where the victim’s clothes are: have they been examined?’

Logan shook his head. ‘She was naked at the scene. No sign of any clothing. I had two uniforms search the alley and the surrounding ones as well.’

She frowned. ‘So whoever killed her took her clothes,’ she said, not noticing as Logan and Dr Fraser exchanged a pained look. ‘Has she been raped? Is there any sign of recent sexual congress?’

Dr Fraser screwed up his face and Logan could tell he was looking for a polite way to tell her to shut up and sod off. ‘We’ve not got that far yet, but as she was on the game I’d be pretty shocked if we didn’t find evidence of recent shagging.’ He told Brian to start the tape. ‘Now, if you’re sitting comfortably, we’ll begin.’

Logan tried not to watch too closely as Fraser finished the external examination and went in with the knife — seeing someone’s innards getting hauled out in four big chunks and rummaged through always made his stomach churn. From the looks of things the deputy PF’s breakfast was doing the post mortem dance too. Her eyes had gone a watery pink and all the colour had drained from the small part of her face on show between the hat and the mask. Nice to see it wasn’t just him.

When at last it was all over, and Rosie’s brain was floating in a bucket of formalin, Dr Fraser ordered Brian to stop the tape and go put the kettle on. It was time for tea and edited highlights.

They stood in the small office, waiting for the kettle to boil, listening to Dr Fraser translate the medical-speak into English. Rosie Williams had been beaten to death: stripped, punched, kicked, stomped on and strangled. Not necessarily in that order. ‘But,’ he said, ‘she didn’t die from manual asphyxiation. Left lung was punctured; the rib severed the vein on the way in so she basically drowned in her own blood. But it would only have been a matter of time before her other injuries killed her anyway. Oh and she was pregnant too. About eight weeks.’

The PF’s beeper went off, eliciting a small round of genteel swearing as she pulled out her mobile phone, couldn’t get a signal, and had to go outside. As soon as her boss was gone, the new deputy PF tried to take charge. ‘We should get a DNA analysis done on the foetus: we may have to prove a link between the death and the child’s father.’ Now that there wasn’t a butchery exhibition going on under her nose she was a lot more confident. She’d stripped off her surgical gear to reveal a severe black suit with sensible boots. Her long hair was the colour of stale beer, frizzy at the ends, her face pretty in a long-nosed, girl-next-door kind of way, a smattering of freckles marking the recent sunshine. ‘What about the sexual assault angle?’

Fraser shook his head. ‘Plenty of recent sexual activity — all three entrances — but nothing forced. Signs of lubricant in all orifices, probably spermicidal condoms, but we won’t know for sure until we get the lab results back. No semen.’

‘Right, Sergeant,’ she said, turning to Logan, ‘I want you to search the alley for any discarded contraceptives. If we can...’ she caught sight of Logan’s expression and stopped. ‘What?’

‘Shore Lane is one big open-air knocking shop. There’ll be hundreds of used condoms down there, and we’ve no way of telling how long they’ve been there for, who was wearing them, or who they’ve been inside.’

‘But the DNA—’

‘For DNA to count, first you’d have to prove it’d been inside her, then that it was worn by the killer and not just one of her regulars. Not to mention the whole “was it used at the time of her death” thing. And we don’t even know if her attacker had sex with her first.’ Something horrible occurred to Logan. ‘Or after?’ He cast a worried glance at Dr Fraser, but the man shook his head.

‘No fear of that,’ he said. There had been a nasty case a year ago when little boys were being abducted, strangled and then abused and mutilated. At least this wasn’t going to be one of those.

‘I see.’ She furrowed her neatly trimmed eyebrows. ‘I suppose there would also be considerable expense involved in getting DNA extracted from all those contraceptives.’

‘Considerable!’ said Logan and Dr Fraser at the same time.

‘I want them collected anyway,’ she said. ‘We can store them in deep freeze in case a suspect emerges.’

Logan couldn’t see the point, but what did he know? He was just a lowly detective sergeant. Just as long as he didn’t have to be the one telling the search teams to rummage about looking for old condoms, preferably filled. ‘Will do,’ he said.

‘OK.’ She reached into her immaculate suit and pulled out a slim black wallet, handing each of them a freshly minted business card. ‘If anything comes up, day or night, let me know.’ And then she was gone.