Deadly Burial. Jon Richter

gave no indication that she had heard him, but evidently she was just considering her response carefully. When it finally came, Sigurdsson was shocked by its vehemence.

      ‘The only one playing games here is you. I know Wells thinks I’m useless, and wants me out. Sexist fucking pig. So if you’re here to babysit me then at least be fucking honest about it.’

      ‘Look, I don’t know what he’s said to you, but you’ve got this all wrong. I’m n–’

      ‘Just save it! If you want to go to the morgue that’s fine by me, but I’ve got my day job to do. So we’re going to the station to get you your own car, and then you can do whatever you bloody want.’

      She hadn’t looked at him once during her outburst, but Sigurdsson could see the whiteness of her knuckles as her fingers gripped the steering wheel.

      ‘Mason, I am not your enemy here. I don’t know why Wells doesn’t rate you, and to be honest I don’t care. But I’m not exactly flavour of the month with him either, so if anyone is being punished here it isn’t you.’

      She stared straight ahead, piercing the lashing torrents in front of them with her glare.

      ‘Oh yeah? The way he phrased it you’re some sort of golden boy.’

      ‘See, that’s what he does!’ Sigurdsson clenched his teeth in fury at his scheming superior officer. ‘He’s trying to play us off against each other. I don’t know, maybe he thinks it’s bloody motivational or something. Trust me, I’m far from a golden boy in his eyes.’

      She seemed to relax a little in the face of his evident ire.

      ‘So what did you do to get into his bad books then? As far as I know all I did was take time off to have a baby.’

      ‘Finally, I find out something about you! So who’s the unlucky father?’

      A pained expression tweaked the corners of her mouth. ‘He’s… not around any more. Me and Holly moved here to get away from him. Let’s just leave it at that.’

      ‘Okay, of course,’ Sigurdsson replied, regretting his joke. ‘Holly is a pretty name,’ he added eventually.

      ‘Thank you.’

      Silence descended once again, broken only by the metallic battering of the rain on the roof and the rhythmic thunk of the wipers.

      ‘I reported a colleague for punching a young boy,’ Sigurdsson said eventually. The memory was still vivid in his mind. ‘The lad was in for drink driving, and he was mouthing off like an idiot. I was only in the station so late because we were investigating a murder. I wandered out when I heard the commotion and saw a sergeant punch the boy in the stomach. The lad was trying to go down but the sergeant held his head upright and got right in his face, threatened him, before he realised I was watching. I think at first he thought I was going to join in.’

      The susurrus of the raindrops and the thudding beat of the wipers continued as if they would never stop.

      ‘What did Wells do about it?’ Mason asked eventually.

      ‘My colleague was suspended for two weeks. But since then my career has… stagnated somewhat. And the other lads in the station don’t trust me any more.’

      Silence once again. He looked down at his hands, saw the lines etched across them. Thought about age and decay.

      Another burst of static interrupted his reverie, this time as Mason initiated a transmission.

      ‘This is Mason,’ she spoke into the receiver. ‘Change of plan: we’ll be in the station a little later. First we’re going to pay Dr Leithauser a visit.’

      *

      The mortuary was housed within the island’s only hospital, the Salvation Island Infirmary. Mason hadn’t spoken again after their sort-of-truce, and Sigurdsson didn’t want to push it any further, so they remained silent as she led him through to the reception area of the small, antiquated building. They showed their ID to the young man behind the desk, who made a quick call before telling them to head straight down. They walked along a few corridors painted the colour of weak tea before a sign guided them down a flight of stairs to their destination. Mortuary: an innocuous word for such terrible finality. Sigurdsson felt his heart shake as he descended.

      The pathologist met them at the entrance, wearing scrubs and a mask pulled down to reveal an ageing, kindly face.

      ‘Hello, Inspector; good to see you again. Is this a new colleague? Forgive me for not shaking your hands.’ He held up his gloved extremities and then offered them a box containing similar coverings, as well as their own face masks. Mason had radioed ahead to let him know they were coming, and that they were going to take a look at the body. Sigurdsson introduced himself and Leithauser did likewise – his first name was Hamish.

      ‘Good to see they’ve sent reinforcements,’ the doctor commented. ‘There’s clearly something amiss here, in my opinion.’

      They entered a tiled room where three gurneys were arranged in a neat line. The harsh lighting glinted off their polished surfaces, except for the one covered by a plastic sheet.

      ‘I gather he’s something of a celebrity?’ the doctor asked as he removed the covering without ceremony. The body beneath had of course been in cold storage, so decomposition had barely progressed. Long, dark hair framed features identical to those that Sigurdsson had seen in pictures on the internet – except that they were a little older, and contorted into an agonised grimace. Blotches of silver face paint still clung to the flesh of his face, as well as two black chevron shapes, one beneath each eye, with what appeared to be a stylised teardrop snaking its way from the bottom of one of them. VV, for Vic Valiant. The teeth, visible between rabidly snarling lips, were clamped solidly together, and Schultz’s eyes were widened into frenzied discs.

      Sigurdsson stared down at the corpse, momentarily transfixed, only registering the pathologist’s question when Mason answered it.

      ‘Yes doc, he used to be a big deal in the wrestling business. You’re a fan, aren’t you Sigurdsson?’

      He wondered if her jibe was a kind of apology for her earlier treatment of him, and managed a smile.

      ‘Yep, I’ve still got posters of them all on my wall at home. And I know it’s tragically common for them to die of heart attacks when they get to his age. Steroids, or the lifestyle, or whatever. What makes you think this isn’t just the same thing?’

      The wrestler’s face, a frozen mask of torment, seemed to scream denial at this version of events.