Doc Fraser slipped his feet out of his shoes, dropped his trousers, took off his cardigan and shirt, then clambered into his own SOC suit, getting the APT to help him with the zip. Hiding his baggy grey Y-fronts and string vest. ‘Thanks, Sheila.’
A small bow. ‘Shall I fetch … the remains?’
‘Might as well, it’s not…’ He glanced down at the grey socks poking out from the legs of his SOC suit. There was a hole in one. ‘You haven’t still got my PM slippers, have you?’
She nodded, let her fingers creep through the air for a moment, picked up his discarded clothes, then turned and stalked from the room.
Doc Fraser waited until the door clunked shut. ‘Is it just me, or has Ms Dalrymple gone a bit strange since I retired?’
Steel hauled up the hood of her oversuit. ‘She’s got a bet on with Biohazard.’
The pathologist shook his head, then looked around the low room. ‘Can we get started, or are we expecting an audience?’
Logan snapped on a pair of gloves. ‘Just Finnie.’
‘Well, he’ll have to get a shift on: I’ve got a three o’clock tee-time at Meldrum House and if I’m late there’ll be trouble.’ He picked a facemask from a box in the corner, stretched the elastic over his head, and let the mask dangle just under his chin. ‘Can someone get the lights, please? And do something about the music, it’s like a bloody funeral parlour in here.’
The spotlights above the cutting table blazed into life, glaring back from the stainless steel cutting table. The whole place reeked of disinfectant, bleach, and formaldehyde. The bowl of potpourri sitting next to the stereo didn’t even make a dent in it. Logan flicked through the iPod, replacing Barber’s Adagio for Strings with Del Amitri’s Move Away Jimmy Blue.
‘That’s better.’ The pathologist pulled at a roll of green plastic mounted on the wall, tearing off a length like a bin-bag and unfurling it into an apron. Putting it on as the door banged open. ‘Ah, about time.’
Finnie bustled into the room and snatched up an SOC suit for himself, and another for the younger man who followed him in. ‘Everyone, this is Superintendent Green from SOCA. He’ll be observing.’
Superintendent Green – wavy blond hair, chiselled jaw, serious blue eyes, broad shoulders, narrow waist. Like something off the television. He gave a tight-lipped smile, a little tilt of the head. ‘I’ll try not to get in the way.’ He even sounded as if he belonged on a cop show – a rich baritone voice with a faint London accent.
Steel leaned over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘Sodding hell: I would, wouldn’t you?’
‘No. And you’re married.’
‘Laz, I’m gay, no’ dead…’
The head of CID zipped up his hood, then did the introductions – Steel holding onto Superintendent Green’s hand for way longer than was either necessary or professional. When she finally let go, Finnie pointed across the cutting table. ‘And last, but not least, this is Dr Duncan Fraser. Our forensic pathologist.’
Doc Fraser gave the superintendent a wave. ‘Retired.’ Sniff. ‘Who’s corroborating?’
Finnie pulled on a facemask.
Steel rocked back and forth on her heels.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘You’re it, Doc. Isobel’s off at some conference and the new guy, Hudson’s—’
‘Indisposed.’ Sheila, the APT, glided back into the cutting room, carrying a stainless steel tray with a pair of white plastic clogs on it. The kind with little holes in the top to let your feet breathe. She froze, then turned to stare at the stereo. ‘Tsk…’
Steel nodded. ‘Dose of the killer squits, apparently. Turning himself inside out as we speak.’
The APT rolled her eyes, then placed the clogs on the floor at Doc Fraser’s feet. ‘Most…unfortunate.’ She stalked over to the iPod, and five seconds later Barber’s Adagio was back.
Doc Fraser rolled his shoulders, an indistinct rustling inside his white paper suit. ‘Ah well, I’m not happy about it, but McRae said it was urgent, so I suppose needs must.’ He drummed his fingers on the cutting table. ‘Sheila, can you fetch the little girl’s remains please? And can we please listen to something a bit cheerier? Bad enough as it is.’
The APT nodded at the tray, spotlights sparking off the shiny surface. A small evidence bag sat on one side.
The pathologist looked at her. ‘What?’
She plucked the bag from the tray and lowered it reverently onto the slab. ‘The remains.’
Silence. Just the mournful dirge of violins coming from the stereo.
‘Seriously?’ He opened the bag and tipped Jenny McGregor’s toe out onto his palm. ‘Is this it?’
Which probably made him the only person in the country who didn’t know.
Doc Fraser held the digit up to the light, turning it back and forth, round and round. ‘Unbelievable…’
It had been cleaned up since Logan last saw it, all the congealed blood removed for testing, the whole thing gone over with sticky tape to lift any fibres so they could be analysed. Nothing left but flesh, nail, and bone.
Steel tried to put her hands into pockets that weren’t there. ‘Do you no’ read the papers?’
‘Inspector, one of the best things about retiring – apart from the golf, the gardening, and the Viagra – is not having to wallow in society’s filth every morning.’ He raised his safety goggles, until they were sitting on top of his head, and peered at the pale yellow chunk of little girl.
Finnie stepped closer to the table. ‘What can you tell us?’
There was a long pause. Then the pathologist placed the digit back on the slab.
‘You see, this is why I retired.’ Doc Fraser crumpled for a moment. Sighed. Then peeled back the hood of his SOC suit. ‘Sheila, I want the usual tests.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
Finnie leant over the cutting table. ‘What?’
Doc Fraser shuffled over to the pedal bin in the corner, peeled off his gloves and dropped them in. ‘We’re finished here.’
That had to go on record as the shortest post mortem ever.
‘Doctor?’ Finnie straightened up. ‘Where are you—’
‘She’s dead.’ He removed his mask and apron, and sent them after the gloves. ‘A wee girl…’
Steel groaned. Superintendent Green straightened his shoulders, chin up. Finnie swore.
Logan stared at the severed toe. Pale, bloodless, almost translucent. ‘Are you sure she isn’t just—’
‘Look at the cut end.’ Doc Fraser unzipped his SOC suit. ‘No bruising, no discolouration, no lividity. Cut a toe off a living person and you make a hell of a mess: the tissue gets inflamed, blood flows to the damaged area, capillaries burst, subcutaneous bleeding makes a dark stain around the wound.’ He struggled out of the suit, stood there in his vest and pants, one sock crumpled around an ankle. ‘That toe was cut from a dead body. Your wee girl’s dead.’
Logan followed DI Steel back up the mortuary steps and out onto the sun-bathed tarmac of the Rear Podium car park. It was bounded on one side by the seven-storey bulk of FHQ; the squat admin and mortuary blocks on two others; and – across a narrow lane – the dark granite wall of tenement buildings that made up the back of King Street. Normally it was wrapped in chilly shadows, but today it was positively Mediterranean.
Logan