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 didn’t bother stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. Shuddered. Blinked. Dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
Steel paused beside a CID pool car with ‘D IRTY P IGGY B ASTARDS !!!’ spray-painted in dripping letters along the side, and produced a little plastic stick coloured to look like a cigarette. She stuck it in her mouth and tried for a puff. Then pulled the thing out and squinted at it. Had another go, sooking her cheeks hollow.
‘Sodding bugger-monkeys…’ She thrust the fake cigarette at Logan. ‘You – man – fix.’
Logan watched DCI Finnie storm through the back doors into FHQ, Superintendent Green flowing along behind him. Like a cat in a reasonably-priced suit.
‘When the press find out Jenny’s dead, we’re screwed. They’ll—’
‘Fix it, fix it, fix it!’
Logan twisted the fake plastic filter, and the e-cigarette went ‘ click ’, then the end glowed an artificial ruby colour. He handed it back. ‘SOCA’s going to take over the investigation; we’ll all be up in front of Professional Standards; and every newspaper, TV crew, and tosser on the street, is going to play Bash Grampian Police.’
Steel sucked on her fake cigarette. A thin wisp of vapour curled from the end. ‘Aye, that’s the real tragedy here, isn’t it? No’ a wee girl being dead or anything.’
Logan could feel the blush rushing up his cheeks, ears tingling.
Six years old, and they barely had enough to bury.
He looked away. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
Fuck.
So much for the compassionate face of modern policing.
Steel patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t sweat it. I’ll bet Finnie’s arse isn’t eating his frilly man-panties because Jenny’s dead either. But do you no’ think it might be nice if someone kept an eye on what actually matters?’ Another sook. ‘But you’re right – we are fucked.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Steel marched off towards the back door, sticking the fake fag back in her pocket, ‘but I’m no’ lying back and thinking of England.’
Chapter 9
They pushed through the double doors into the custody area – a bare concrete floor, breezeblock walls, ‘H AVE Y OU S EEN T HIS M AN ?’ posters, the smell of old sweat and stale biscuits.
A shrill, jagged, cry echoed down the corridor: ‘I want a
‘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 didn’t bother stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. Shuddered. Blinked. Dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
Steel paused beside a CID pool car with ‘D IRTY P IGGY B ASTARDS !!!’ spray-painted in dripping letters along the side, and produced a little plastic stick coloured to look like a cigarette. She stuck it in her mouth and tried for a puff. Then pulled the thing out and squinted at it. Had another go, sooking her cheeks hollow.
‘Sodding bugger-monkeys…’ She thrust the fake cigarette at Logan. ‘You – man – fix.’
Logan watched DCI Finnie storm through the back doors into FHQ, Superintendent Green flowing along behind him. Like a cat in a reasonably-priced suit.
‘When the press find out Jenny’s dead, we’re screwed. They’ll—’
‘Fix it, fix it, fix it!’
Logan twisted the fake plastic filter, and the e-cigarette went ‘ click ’, then the end glowed an artificial ruby colour. He handed it back. ‘SOCA’s going to take over the investigation; we’ll all be up in front of Professional Standards; and every newspaper, TV crew, and tosser on the street, is going to play Bash Grampian Police.’
Steel sucked on her fake cigarette. A thin wisp of vapour curled from the end. ‘Aye, that’s the real tragedy here, isn’t it? No’ a wee girl being dead or anything.’
Logan could feel the blush rushing up his cheeks, ears tingling.
Six years old, and they barely had enough to bury.
He looked away. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
Fuck.
So much for the compassionate face of modern policing.
Steel patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t sweat it. I’ll bet Finnie’s arse isn’t eating his frilly man-panties because Jenny’s dead either. But do you no’ think it might be nice if someone kept an eye on what actually matters?’ Another sook. ‘But you’re right – we are fucked.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Steel marched off towards the back door, sticking the fake fag back in her pocket, ‘but I’m no’ lying back and thinking of England.’
Chapter 9
They pushed through the double doors into the custody area – a bare concrete floor, breezeblock walls, ‘H AVE Y OU S EEN T HIS M AN ?’ posters, the smell of old sweat and stale biscuits.
A shrill, jagged, cry echoed down the corridor: ‘I want a
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