‘Always nice to host a reunion.’ Patch gave the welcoming smile of a genial host. ‘I met him several times at functions,’ continued the Prof as he threw the corpse a sideways glance. I was pretty sure I heard him say, under his breath, to the cadaver:
‘And a right arrogant bastard you were too.’
I looked up sharply at Patch. He smiled and nodded in my direction. My eyes met Frank’s over the gurney. Simultaneously, we rolled them upwards. Although it had been several years since we had been in his class, Patch’s irreverent attitude to death could never be forgotten. Nothing, except children, was so horrific or sacrosanct that he wouldn’t make a joke about it.
‘Lord, Lord, let’s start the cutting.’
The lilt of his voice was high and poetic; it reverberated round the austere, windowless room. Patch had left Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis over fifty years ago, but living amongst the Sassenachs had not dulled his accent. Adhering still to the traditions of his childhood and a staunch member of the Free Church of Scotland, he compounded his position as an outsider. Social pariahs acknowledge one another, and like all fatherless children I collected father figures. I was as close as Patch would come to a friend, and it cut both ways.
With the flourish of a magician, he yanked the sheet away. Lord Arbuthnot lay pale, naked and bloodless. The silence of the dead hung heavy in the room, as we came to terms with our own thoughts. I thought of the droves of reporters outside–how much would a photograph like this command? Perhaps Patch was thinking along similar lines as he shouted: ‘I don’t want anyone within fifty feet of this room, is that clear?’
The young morgue assistant responded to his high sharp command, and shuffling off, replied: ‘I’ll see to it, sir.’ A dynamic nod followed, as he affirmed, ‘I’ll keep an eye out…I sure will.’ Hobbling out on his loose-laced skateboarding shoes, the young man did not return to the autopsy room.
The four of us were left alone. Lord Arbuthnot hardly counted, although he was the reason we were there. My eyes explored inches of his exposed flesh at a time. Age had undermined his muscle tone and he lay flaccidly before us. Nonetheless, I could see that in his youth, he had been an athlete, and as my mother would have said prior to his demise, he was still ‘a fine figure of a man.’
Ordinarily, death masks are peaceful. Lord Arbuthnot’s face seemed irate. Most of the blood had been washed from his body, but it was still accumulated between his fingers and under his nails. In life, I was sure his hands would have been immaculate–in death, they were downright grubby.
‘He literally bled to death.’
Patch had read my mind–he had an uncanny knack of doing that.
‘Hardly a drop of the red stuff left in him.’
His gloved finger pointed to a jagged scratch on Lord Arbuthnot’s neck.
‘Insignificant, isn’t it?’
Patch was now poking into the small puncture hole.
‘I’ve had worse nicks than that shaving.’
Frank Pearson’s mouth was slightly agape, staring incredulously at Patch’s actions.
‘Could that really be the cause of death?’ he asked.
‘It was the means by which he appears to have died. However, if Ms Coutts had merely placed her forefinger like so…’ Patch pressed down hard with his finger, ‘he would be alive…and looking down on us all.’
Accidental death? My mind was racing ahead to petitioning the High Court for Kailash’s release from prison. I wasn’t really present in the room, my mind was so busy on the next job. I almost didn’t hear Patch speak again.
‘So simple to have saved him, to have saved the life of Scotland’s highest Law Lord.’
Patch’s voice always got higher, when he was onto something. To my ears, he was almost squeaking. My heart was sinking as I knew that this case was just about to get difficult again.
‘Rudimentary first aid was all that was needed. A Girl Guide could have saved this man.’
Patch was almost singing now.
‘I seriously doubt that Kailash Coutts was ever in the Girl Guides,’ I interrupted. ‘Although she’s probably got the uniform these days.’
It was an off-the-cuff remark I was shortly about to regret.
‘Presumption rarely leads to the truth, Ms McLennan, and when you assume facts, you are invariably led on a wild goose chase.’
Patch smiled at me condescendingly.
‘What evidence do you have that Ms Coutts was not a perfectly ordinary child?’
‘It was you who taught me, Professor, that aberrant behaviour in adults has its roots in childhood.’
‘How very Freudian of you, Brodie, but the aberrant behaviour you have accused your client of–is it murder or prostitution?’
Frank Pearson stared at me like the adversary he was. I had forgotten he was there. At university he was so insignificant. Obviously the Fiscal’s office had honed his wits. I stared at him with a new respect.
‘Who’s the deviant?’ I asked, trying to regain lost ground. ‘The man who pays ten grand to get his arse whipped, or the woman who does it to him?’
‘I guess we’ll have to ask Roddie Buchanan that one,’ sniggered Frank. He caught himself quickly, clearly recognising it was inappropriate to be laughing as he stood over Lord Arbuthnot’s naked corpse.
‘If I may continue…’
Patch spoke sternly as if addressing two school children. He switched on his tape recorder and spoke clearly.
‘Although, the entry wound is small…observe the jagged edges of the lesion…it would appear to be consistent with a blow from a broken glass…the downward serration…would indicate the glass was propelled from above the carotid artery…severing it immediately…the assailant was left handed…and strong.’
Patch switched off the tape recorder. He never did that. It was against the standard operating procedure.
‘In view of the deceased’s position and status, details of this autopsy must be held under the strictest security.’
He looked shiftily around. Clearing his throat he continued.
‘It has been proposed that the Lord Advocate may place a one hundred year banning order on some of the papers in this case.’
‘They can’t do that. It’s a murder trial.’ Frank Pearson sounded outraged.
‘They did it with the Dunblane Report initially,’ I reminded him. ‘They had no good reason to do that, and it would have remained sealed unless some people had fought to get it changed.’
‘Brodie, they didn’t have a trial there. Thomas Hamilton was shot dead after he massacred those children.’ Frank Pearson had forgotten himself, and was leaning across Lord Arbuthnot’s body. I was wincing at the sight of it, but we court lawyers love a good argument. The rights and wrongs get lost in the fight.
‘Thomas Hamilton was a paedophile. As far back as 1968 if talk is to be believed. Police officers had been questioning his right to run boys’ clubs for years. In particular, in 1991 a police report said he should be prosecuted for the way he ran his boys’ clubs, and his gun licence was revoked. But the report was returned marked “no-pro.” No prosecution by the Fiscal’s service, Frank, because, according to some–nonsense conspiracy theorists in your eyes, I’m sure–in the reports three other people were mentioned: two Scottish politicians and a lawyer.’
Frank Pearson glared at me as I continued to shout at him across the cadaver.
‘The