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Three
“What’s this with googles?” Daley and
Scott were driving into Glasgow
“ Aye, he’s one stupid bastard wi’ that,”
Scott laughed heartily. “He telt me the other day he wiz away tae poke Sheila
Robertson- you know, that wee cracker in the child protection unit. Fuckin’
Facebook he was on aboot. Though ye canna be sure.” The laughter became
raucous.
“I’d love to read his Facebook page,”
tears were streaming down Daley’s face.
“ Better on Twatter,” they laughed the
car around a corner in Argyle
Street
It didn’t matter how long it had been
since Daley’s last visit to Glasgow
Part of the training of young police
constables in years gone by included at least one trip to this place to witness
a post mortem. Around a dozen pale, putative policemen and women would huddle
around a bluff pathologist, as he hacked, cut, tore, drained, and generally
showcased his talents in a way only the most strong-stomached could withstand.
He had managed not to faint or be sick;
however he was in the minority. These incidents of revulsion were so common in
fact, that each Muppet, (as trainee cops were then affectionately known), would
be given a paper bag and told to be ready to grab whomever was next to them, in
the likely event they passed out. The young WPC who had stood next to Daley was
so traumatised that she left police college that day, never to return.
Things had changed: brushed aluminium
sheets replaced the badly grouted Victorian tiles that had served as ubiquitous
wall covering; heavy footed industrial carpet silenced the ominous tread of the
cracked linoleum flooring; soft, mood lighting illuminated, where once the
harsh glow of humming strip lights had served to augment a visceral scene of
blood, shit and gore.
One thing had not changed- not in the
slightest- the smell. The orifactory sense being as it is, instantly
transported Daley back to his first visit every time he came here. A cloying,
sickening mix of death, decay, disinfectant and refrigeration. A smell in fact,
that no matter how you tried, would be your unwelcome companion, uninvited
house guest for days on end after departing this Faustian repository of hell on
earth.
Not everyone was affected in the same
way, of course. Scott, slouched along the corridors untroubled by odour or
clammy taint that the building seemed to impart.
“Aye an’ see if he disna’ get another
centre half- he can forget it,” the DS was expostulating on his favourite
subject: Rangers Football Club. “That fuckin’ ‘keeper’s fuck a’ use un
a’.” From different sides of the West of
Scotland sectarian divide, inspector and sergeant usually kept up a healthy
banter on the subject of football. At the moment though, Scott found his
interlocutor uncharacteristically silent. “Are ye followin’ me, Jim?” The
clatter of a large mortuary fire-door being slammed shut startled both men and
negated the need for an answer.
“Well, well, if it’s not the dream team.”
The sarcasm was palpable, even at a distance of ten yards. Another thing was
unchanged from the first time Jim Daley had been to the mortuary, and he was
now trying to secure a fire door with one hand as he pocketed a black pipe into
a short, white, coat with the other: Chief Forensic Pathologist Andrew
Crichton.
“Still at the pipe, Andy?- I dread to
think what shape your lungs are in.” Daley walked towards Crichton and slapped
him on the back. “How are you keeping? Surely you must be past retirement age.”
He smiled at the older man affectionately.
“One of the advantages of a professional
career, Inspector Daley, is that one doesn’t have to retire in ones forties and
get a job delivering newspapers or doing odd jobs in order to make ends meet.”
Crichton was referring to the fact that most junior uniformed police officers
retired after thirty years service. Many would indeed find themselves in rather
menial employment, either from boredom, or the real need to supplement an
inadequate pension. In the CID, and from the rank of Inspector and above the
situation was different; the higher grades regularly stayed well beyond thirty
years in The Job. However, forces were slowly encouraging ordinary cops
to stay on as well, realising that there was indeed, no substitute for
experience.
“Aye listen tae it,” Scott held an
expression of mock outrage. “It’ll be nae bother fir you tae get a wee part
time job; that butcher in Kilmalcolm’s
a’ways needin’ help- an’ think, no reports tae write or fuck a’.”
“I’m so glad those elocution lessons you
took have paid off, Brian; your ready turn of phrase never ceases to amaze
me.” Crichton surveyed the DS with a
critical eye, “All that drink is having a devastating effect on your looks,
too; good grief man, you look like you’ve aged ten years in the last two.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Scott chuckled. “Anyhow
me an’ the boss havn’a time for a’ this, he’s getting’ sent tae the wilds
tomorrow. Whit have you got for us, Andy?”
“Well, gents, as you can no doubt discern
with the use of your legendary detection skills and the pall of expensive pipe
tobacco, I have been having a smoke; really nothing is sacred these days. My
old professor never had a cigar out of his mouth when he performed a post
mortem; now, if you light up within ten feet of the building, you’re liable to
go down for ten years.”
“Aye, an’ you’ve ay’ways been a stickler
for the rule book, Andy.” Ironic laughter filled the corridor as they headed
for the pathology theatre.
Two technicians were working on a body
lying on a metal operating table. The room itself was dimly lit, however a
large bank of lights suspended in a metal frame above the operation emitted an
ethereal glow, illuminating the scene with an ice-white precision.
“Be so good as to put these on.” An
assistant had arrived bearing green aprons, masks, and rubber overshoes.
Crichton removed his white coat, then headed over to a large metal sink, where
he rolled up his shirt sleeves and soaped his hands and forearms copiously,
operating the taps with his elbows when he was finished. This done, he shrugged
on his green rubber overall with a great deal more ease than the two police
officers had displayed, having required the help of an assistant.
Now fully kitted out, the three proceeded
to the operating table where Daley recognised the blackened, slightly bloated
features of the deceased he had first seen on the emails in Donald’s office.
The body cavity had been exposed, both sides of her ribcage and flesh pinned
back with large stainless steel clamps. As usual, Daley had to suppress his
gagging reflex, Scott, however took the scene in intently, eyes visible over
his mask, which was moving in a less than flattering manner as he continued to
chew an ever-present piece of gum.
“Aye, you’ve had a good start, Andy.”
Scott’s eyes flicked from the eviscerated corpse to the pathologist.
“When I heard who was in charge of this
investigation, I thought I would get any sawing over with before you got here,
Jim.” Daley could only imagine the broad grin hidden by the older man’s mask.
“Right, progress so far…”
“As you can see we have managed a pretty
comprehensive examination of the subject,” Crichton was talking in a more
business-like manner now, almost matter of fact, like a dentist announcing to
his nurse which teeth were to be filled. What appeared to be a large microphone
hung down above the scene, ensuring no utterances from anyone around the
operating table were missed.
“At first glance-despite one or two
anomalies, which I will come to- a straightforward strangulation. However, if I
may, can I draw your attention to this?”
Surprisingly, Crichton moved down the
corpse to an exposed leg. “This mark around the ankle indicates restraint.” He
pointed to a band about two inches thick encompassing the right ankle. The skin
here was a lighter hew than the rest of the body, which was turning regulation
black as the process of putrefaction began. “However, this mark was left on the
body post mortem, so someone felt the need to tie her up even though she was
dead.”
Without giving the officer’s time to take
this in, or ask any questions, he pulled the green sheet which had been
covering the waist of the dead woman asunder, revealing a deep black gash,
bisecting the remains. Daley could taste bile in the back of his throat.
“Again, after death, the body suffered a
major trauma, completed I am told by your colleagues in Kinloch, who saw fit to
pull the subject apart like a Christmas cracker.” Crichton looked towards
Daley, laughter lines visible above his mask. “If you need a chair, please just
ask, Jim.”
“Very good, Andy,” the Inspector changed
the subject quickly. “ How- when- could that have happened?”
“If you’re asking me to make a wild
guess, I would say she was nearly cleft in two by a large, sharp metallic
object- a ships propeller for example. The wound is precise and clean, which
suggests to me a swift slice, rather than the kind of sawing or cutting that
would be required if manpower, or even a tool had been used. I’ll have to do
more tests on the flesh surrounding the wound. That will take a couple of days
though.”
“Fucking hell, this is some mess, Jim.
Fuck, yer better taking Sherlock Holmes doon with ye, rather than me.” As
normal, Scott had displayed his uncanny knack of distilling the most complex of
situations down to the lowest common denominator.
“I must admit, in my many years as a
forensic pathologist, I have never encountered such circumstances. However, as
I say, we have a number of lab based tests yet to perform: stomach contents,
other bodily fluids etc. She definitely had sex within the last forty-eight
hours. I will be in a position to tell you more on that point after yet more
lab work.”
“What do you mean, Andy?” Daley was
curious; he had known Crichton for so many years that he had become used to the
nuances of his voice and presentation. He suspected the pathologist had
discovered something significant.
“Oh, merely a theory-nothing more. By the
time you’ve had lunch down in Kinloch tomorrow, I should be able to give you
some answers.”
Suddenly Crichton raised his head from
the body and looked at the police officers “ Wonderful place, Kinloch. I have a
friend down there: great fishing, golf; fantastic scenery,” he had a far away look.
“People are as mad as fuck though.”
“What are you?- a shite tourist board?”
DS Scott, straight to the point. “Once you’re done wi’ the rough guide, mebe
you’ll tell us how long she’s been deid for.”
“Again, immersion in water has made that
more difficult- no more than sixty, no less than twenty eight hours, I would
say. Sorry to be repetitive, I’ll be able to be more precise within the next
day or so.”
“What about her age, Andy; any
distinguishing marks?” Daley was intrigued; despite the gruesome surroundings,
attending the post mortem had whetted his appetite for the investigation.
“I was just coming to that. I would say
she was between twenty five and thirty. She has given birth within the last
three years or so; oh and look at this.” He moved the corpse’s right leg. On
her inner thigh, the letters ‘IS’, had been tattooed, roughly. “As you
can see, not professional - ink and
knife job if you ask me- most unusual for a woman to let herself be disfigured
in that way- don’t you think gents?”
For once, DS Scott had nothing to say.
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