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?’