The Flesh Tailor by Kate Ellis

Wesley knew he didn’t speak from experience. As far as he knew,
     Gerry’s marriage to his late wife, Kathy, had been happy and he hadn’t embarked upon another relationship until a long time
     after her tragic death in a hit and run accident.
    Colin began work, dictating his notes into a microphone suspended above the corpse. According to Colin’s observations, James
     Dalcott was a fairly healthy fifty-four-year-old man; a little overweight but with no sign of serious disease. Cause of death
     was a bullet wound to the head. One shot through the forehead at fairly close range. An efficient assassination. The bullet,
     which had passed through the brain, leaving a larger exit wound in the back of the head, had been retrieved from the scene
     and sent off for analysis.
    Dalcott’s killer had stood a couple of feet away and looked into his victim’s eyes as he pulled the trigger. It took a great
     deal of hatred, Colin observed, to do something like that. Either that or a cold-hearted assassin with no ounce of human feeling.
     And Wesley, his eyes fixed on a steel trolley at the other side of the room, thought Colin had probably got it spot on.
    If they discounted the hit man theory, they were left with the possibility that someone had hated James Dalcott enough to
     make them a cold-blooded killer. Adam Tey and Charleen Anstice had reason to hate the doctor who’dmisdiagnosed their child’s meningitis. And they weren’t answering the door, which meant either that they were spending Sunday
     away from home, or that they didn’t want to speak to the police. As far as Wesley was concerned, Tey was top of their list
     with the widow and her new partner a close second.
    ‘I’ll let you have the full report as soon as possible,’ Colin said as he left his assistant to sew up the incisions and clear
     up. ‘Now, about these skeletons.’
    Wesley felt relieved. Skeletons he could handle. It was the blood and gore he didn’t like. ‘What about them?’
    ‘Well, I’ve made a quick examination. Why don’t we have a look, eh?’ He began to lead them into the next room – white tiled
     again like the post mortem room. The two skeletons were arranged on separate trolleys, the bones a grubby beige against the
     crisp white of the sheets they lay on. Someone, Colin probably, had laid them out properly and Wesley could see immediately
     that one skeleton, the female, was considerably smaller than the other.
    ‘The female has Harris lines. I noticed them particularly on the shin bones.’
    Wesley looked up sharply. ‘That’s interesting.’
    ‘What are Harris lines when they’re at home?’ Gerry asked, impatient.
    ‘They’re lines in the bones which indicate a halt in growth during childhood and adolescence, say in a time of illness or
     famine. At some time in this woman’s early life she went hungry.’ He turned to Colin. ‘What about ages?’
    ‘A few of the male’s teeth are missing and those that are left are worn but not decayed. And he shows signs of having done
     manual labour. Don’t you agree?’
    It was a long time since Wesley had studied ancientskeletons as part of his degree course but he remembered the basics. At Colin’s invitation, he conducted his own cursory examination,
     while Gerry watched, interested.
    The man was around five feet six inches tall and, as well as the wear on the teeth, there were signs of wear and tear on the
     joints that indicated that he was probably middle-aged when he met his end. Wesley had seen similar skeletons in his student
     days – manual workers from centuries gone by. And there was something else. A healed fracture of the left arm, the bones set
     at an awkward angle. This man, whoever he was, had not had access to medical expertise and had probably been in considerable
     discomfort. There also appeared to be an old injury to the left shoulder area, healed like the arm with the bones fused untidily
     together.
    ‘So he underwent some sort of trauma at