Still, it was nice she’d been interested in his mummies, because no one else seemed to give a sod.
Callum folded his arms. Searched the room for Franklin and her amazing exploding temper. She was standing in the corner, scribbling away in her notebook as the APT finished washing down the swollen corpse.
So, could be worse. At least he wasn’t marinating in the Marmite stench of a decomposing body, like Franklin. No, his remains just smelled of … What?
Callum leaned in and took a sniff, but it was just the usual ever-present stink that permeated the mortuary: bleach, bowels, and decay. Which was odd – when they’d opened the car boot yesterday there’d been a distinct smell of wood smoke. And a hint of it back at the tip, with Mummy Number One too. Unless this was Mummy Number One. Kind of difficult to tell them apart.
He inched closer and tried again.
The scent was still there, lying under everything else. Like the old armchair his grandad used to smoke his pipe in. Puffing away, getting the scent of sandalwood and cherry deep into the leather.
Someone cleared their throat behind him. ‘Can I help you?’
He flinched up. Smoothed down his thin plastic apron. ‘Just …’ Warmth tingled in the tips of his ears, as if he’d been caught snogging the remains instead of just sniffing them. ‘Callum MacGregor, I’m Senior Investigating Officer.’
‘Oh aye?’ She was a large woman, compact and powerful looking. The kind of person that could pick up a fridge and beat you to death with it. Her green scrubs looked fresh out of the packet, but her arms looked fresh out of Barlinnie – covered in DIY tattoos. She leaned on the chunk of machinery she’d been wheeling across the mortuary floor. ‘You sure?’
‘Yes. Are you Ms Compton?’
She flexed her muscles. ‘Lucy.’
‘OK, Lucy.’ He pointed at the body. ‘Does this smell of wood smoke to you?’
She pulled down her mask, revealing a mole at the corner of her mouth. Sniffed. ‘Oak. And …’ Another sniff. ‘I’m going to go with beechwood.’
‘What about the other one?’
Lucy shifted the machinery over to the other cutting table, bent over the curled body and filled her nostrils. ‘Definitely beechwood and oak. This one’s a lot stronger.’
That would be the one from the car boot. Maybe lying about in the tip for God knew how long masked Mummy Number One’s natural smell?
The APT went back to her trolley and pushed it next to the cutting table. Clunked on some sort of footbrake, then fiddled about with pins and levers until a big C-shaped arm swung out from the main unit. It had a box on either end, each about the size of small microwave.
‘Right.’ She handed him a heavy blue apron. ‘Stick that on and we’ll get some X-rays done.’
‘X-rays?’
She looked at him as if he was a very thick little boy. ‘Well we’re not going to actually post mortem them, are we? They’re mummies. Priceless relics of a long-dead civilisation. Cause of death isn’t going to do you a hell of a lot of good, is it? Or are you planning on climbing into your DeLorean and travelling back to ancient Egypt with an arrest warrant?’
Yeah, she had a point.
‘Now,’ the APT pointed at Mummy Number Two, ‘help me get it sitting up and we’ll see what we can see …’
13
‘I know it’s not nice, but you need to eat it. It’s good for you.’
The spoon is cold against his cracked lips, its contents hard and gritty.
He’d raise his hands and bat the spoon away, but his arms don’t work any more. They don’t even float in the water, just sink into its filthy depths to lie against the steel tank. Nothing works.
Can’t even hold his own head up.
So the Priest holds it up for him, a warm hand on the back of his neck.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll help.’
The other hand forces his mouth open, then pours the grit inside.
It sits there, in his mouth, like tiny stones. Sticking to his tongue and cheeks. Making him gag and cough. But there’s not enough breath left to shift anything.
The walls are louder now, singing at the top of their splintered lungs: ‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
Their voices send a tremor rattling through him, shaking his teeth, making his ribs ache.
‘Shhh …’ A hand strokes his forehead. ‘Shhh …’
Then a kiss.
‘I think it’s time, don’t you?’
Oh God please let it be time to die. Time for the pain to go away. Please.
‘They’ll worship you, They’ll worship you …’
‘Come on.’
The water falls away and he’s being carried, arms and legs swinging in the cool air, rivulets of brackish water falling to the floor. There’s almost nothing left of him now. Nothing but skin and bone.
‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
The singing walls swim and pulse around him, worshipping. And finally he makes the transition into the other room. The one where the fish hang in silent prayer.
Even the walls are quiet in here. Reverential. Waiting for the blessed relief.
Soon he’ll be dead and all this will be over.
‘Here we go.’ Gentle hands lay him on the stone floor.
High up above, a sliver of grey sunlight dances with dust motes. Spiralling and swirling.
There’s a pressure on his ankles, but not much more than that.
Then the squeal of wood on wood and his legs raise themselves off the ground, then his hips, his back, and finally his head leaves the earth. He sways gently, ascending to heaven with his arms dangling either side of his ears.
Swaying and rising.
Up and up into the darkness.
Up and up into death’s comforting embrace.
He opens his mouth to say thank you, but all that comes out is a cascade of little gritty pellets.
The Priest smiles up at him, a thick rope held in one hand. ‘You’ll be a god …’
A god of skin and bone.
14
‘And one more …’ Lucy stepped back and the machinery buzzed again. Then clunked. ‘OK, all done.’ The muscles in her arm rippled as she pushed the portable X-ray machine’s arm out of the way, making the tattoos dance. ‘Now all we have to do is download the data, format it, and you’ll get your glimpse into the ancient past. Might take a while, though.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Thanks.’
A grin. ‘Who did you piss off?’
‘Hmm?’
‘To get lumbered with this. No one asks for a PM on a thousand-year-old mummy unless they’re being punished for something.’ She flipped off the footbrake. ‘So who did you piss off?’
Callum forced a smile. ‘Pretty much everyone.’
‘Thought so.’ Lucy took hold of the handles and shoved, setting the X-ray kit rolling. ‘You can wait here, in the smell, or you can come through to the IT lab. It’ll be warmer. With seats.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wise choice. Oh, and on the way? There’s a drinks machine in the APTs’ lounge, I’ll have a hot chocolate.’
Cheeky sod.
A dull buzzing thrum ran through the lab, mingling with the soft whirr of desktop computers, and the ping-click-ping-click of a small electric heater.
Callum took the last slurp from what the machine claimed was a white tea.
It had lied.
He stuck the empty plastic cup on the desk and shifted in his seat. Closed his book and put it down.
‘Any good?’
He looked up. ‘Hmm?’
‘The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting.’ Lucy pointed. ‘Any good?’
‘It was OK.’
‘I had a mate who was great at shoplifting. You name it, she could swipe it: food, booze, electric toasters. Made off with a bass guitar once.’
‘Yeah, it’s more a collection of short stories than a how-to guide.’ He stood and stretched, little knots cracking across his spine. ‘Pff …’ Sagged. Checked his watch. ‘Which way to the toilet?’
‘Use the disabled: down the hall, on the left. I’m guessing another fifteen minutes? Servers are running like treacle today.’
‘What happened to your mate, the shoplifter, she get caught?’
‘Married a Glaswegian and emigrated to Newcastle.’
Callum wandered over to the door. ‘Might make some calls too.’
Lucy went back to her computers. ‘Wouldn’t mind another hot chocolate if you’re passing …?’
‘See what I can do.’
Sodding hand dryers never worked.
He wiped his hands on his trousers as he made his way down the corridor to the far end. A window looked out over the mortuary car park – the reception area just visible in the middle distance.
Callum pulled out his Airwave and called Control. ‘Any news on Ainsley Dugdale?’
‘Give us a minute.’
The rain hadn’t let up any, it still hammered down from a slate-coloured sky trying to batter the earth flat. It sparked back from waterlogged potholes, bounced off the parked cars and …
A big man staggered out of the reception doors, both hands clutched over his face.
Was that blood?
It was.
It poured through his fingers, staining the white shirt above the disposable green apron.
‘Aye, Ainsley Dugdale: released on bail pending trial in six weeks’ time.’
‘What? How the hell could they let him out on bail?’
The big man lurched against one of the pool cars and stood there, shoulders hunched in the rain, blood turning his shirt dark pink.
‘How should I know? You want details? Speak to the officer in charge: DS McAdams. Anything else?’
‘Yes. I got a PNC on one Irene Brown yesterday, I need a list of all known associates going back about … seven, eight years?’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No.’
A sigh battered out of the speaker. Then silence.
Out front, another man joined the first – picking his way between the puddles with a newspaper, or maybe a file folder held over his head as a makeshift umbrella. He stopped beside Captain Bleedy and patted him on the back.
There, there, poor thing.
Ah well, wasn’t Callum’s problem. ‘You still there?’
‘No, I’ve jetted off to Barbados for piña coladas and a barbequed lobster.’
He headed back down the corridor. ‘Well?’
‘I’ve got eight different names on here and according to the flags there’s about another three that aren’t on the system. One armed robber, two drug dealers, one got done for raping a nurse, one unlawful remover, one attempted murderer, and two aggravated assaulters. Well, they’ve all got charges for that, but two of your woman’s mates didn’t branch out into anything else. Or they never got caught.’
Eleven violent scumbags, and Irene Brown was barely in her twenties.
Little Mike was right: this is what real life looks like from down here at the bottom.
‘Can you email me the details? Names, dates, convictions, everything you’ve got.’
‘Urgh …’ Another big put-upon sigh. ‘Fine. Anything else, Your Majesty, or can I go back to working my fingers to the bone?’
Yes. Away boil your head.
‘No. Thank you.’ Callum stuck the handset back in his pocket.
Why did everyone have to be such a prima donna?
He paused at the entrance to the technicians’ lounge. There was no point getting another tea from the machine – once poisoned, twice shy – but the hot chocolate couldn’t be all that bad if Lucy was having another, so—
The door leading through to the dissecting room burst open and DCI Powel stormed into the corridor with his monkey ears bright red. He turned and jabbed a finger at his own feet. ‘IN HERE NOW!’
Franklin stepped in after him, shoulders back, chin up, jaw clenched.
Powel’s voice dropped to a growling whisper soon as the door shut behind her. ‘I do not care what you got away with in Edinburgh, but you do not assault members of my team without serious repercussions. Do you understand?’
She glared back at him. ‘With all due respect, sir—’
‘I SAID, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Bellowing it out, spittle flashing in the overhead lighting.
‘Yes, sir.’ There it was again: that burning-pus tone.
‘Now you will wait here and you will not move a muscle while I go check on the man you assaulted. And while I’m gone I want you to have a good hard think about how screwed you are.’ Powel barged past her and back into the dissecting room again, slamming the door on his way.
Franklin bared her teeth. ‘I will rip your bloody balls off, you …’ She must have realised she wasn’t alone, because she clicked her mouth shut and turned her glare on Callum instead. ‘What the hell are you looking at?’
He wandered over, hands in his pockets. ‘Let me guess: the guy with the busted face …?’
‘I don’t answer to you.’
‘Never said you did.’
She paced the width of the corridor in two steps then turned and did it again. ‘What is wrong with you people?’
‘Me people?’
‘He grabbed my arse! Of course I hit him!’
Ooh …
Callum stuck his head on one side. ‘Let me guess – big guy with sideburns and a wonky eye? DS Jimmy Blake. AKA: Blakey the Octopus.’
‘And do you know what he called me when I hit him? An “effing darkie bitch”!’ She thumped her hand against the wall.
‘No.’ Callum frowned. ‘Blakey said, “effing”?’
‘Oh shut up.’ She went back to short-form pacing again.
The door thumped open, and there was Powel, suit darkened across the shoulders and legs. He hooked a finger an inch from Franklin’s face. ‘You. With me. Now.’ Then turned and marched off.
She caught the door. Took a deep breath and went after him.
She was a pain in the backside, but still …
Callum followed the pair of them into the dissecting room’s foetid air, across the stained floor to the cutting table covered in naked disembodied feet. It was surrounded by plainclothes officers, shuffling about and avoiding eye contact. Fidgeting. Looking shifty and embarrassed about the whole thing.
Blakey was a pillar of indignation off to one side, a wad of green paper towels clutched to his nose, shirt stained a lovely Ribena red all down the front.
Powel stopped right in front of him, and did the pointing-at-his-own-feet thing again. ‘Detective Constable Franklin. You will apologise to DS Blake and you will do it now.’
She stood where she was told, muscles writhing along her jawline.
‘Now, Constable!’
Franklin took a deep breath, opened her mouth—
But Callum got there first. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv, but I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding.’
Powel didn’t even look at him. ‘This is none of your business, MacGregor.’
‘Let’s imagine for a moment that DC Franklin was the victim of a serious sexual assault in the workplace. She’d be well within her rights to defend herself, wouldn’t she?’
At that, Powel turned. ‘She attacked DS Blake.’
‘There’s a reason they call him “Blakey the Octopus”, Guv.’
Blake took the towels from his face. His left eye pointed about ten degrees off from the right one, but both of them had already gone a dark shade of pink. ‘I nebber tudged her!’
Ooh … Yeah. Mental note: never try to cop a feel of Franklin’s bum. She’d completely flattened Blake’s nose, leaving a squint lump of bloody gristle behind.
Franklin bared her teeth. ‘You lying, sexist, racist scumbag!’ She took a step forward, hands snapping into fists again.
Callum grabbed her arm. ‘We can easily check, Blakey.’ He pointed up at the dark CCTV globe mounted above the cutting table. ‘Big brother sees all.’
‘Ah …’ Blake stared up at the camera.
‘So maybe what actually happened is you slipped on the wet floor and tried to break the fall with your face?’
Blake pressed the towels against his nose again. Looked down at his feet. ‘I slibbed ad fell.’
Callum held his arms out, like he was about to accept applause for a magic trick. ‘There you go: told you it was nothing but a silly misunderstanding.’
‘What was that supposed to be?’ Franklin paced the length of the APTs’ lounge, between an off-grey sofa and a coffee table covered in tabloid magazines, one arm jabbing in the general direction of the dissecting room.
Callum poked buttons on the vending machine, setting it whirring and clunking. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’m welcome? Well thank you so much. He grabbed my arse!’
Oh joy.
A plastic cup clunked down in the dispenser, then the hissing and gurgling started.
‘He grabs your backside – that’s sexual harassment. If you’d reported him, that would’ve been it: Blake gets hauled up in front of Professional Standards for being a dirty sex offender. End of.’ The machine stopped its noises, so Callum extracted the scalding hot cup and pressed the buttons again. ‘But no, you had to lash out. You break his nose – that’s assault. Now it’s you in front of the rubber heelers and everyone thinks he’s the victim.’
Gurgling and hissing.
‘That what you want?’
She stopped pacing. ‘So you just swan in and save the poor powerless black woman, do you? Because you know best.’
He stared at the ceiling. ‘I give up. I really do.’
‘The Great White Saviour rides again!’
‘For God’s sake … Do you never stop? All I’ve done since you got here is try to be nice. I was just looking out for a member of my team, OK? Even though she’s hell-bent on leaping feet-first into the sodding wood chipper!’
She threw herself down into the sofa. Sat there seething. Looked away. Closed her eyes. Then let out a barely audible, ‘Thank you.’
He picked up one of the scalding cups and held it out. ‘Here.’
Franklin took it. Held it in her lap as her head fell back against the couch. ‘Why do so many white guys see a black woman and think she’s going to be an easy shag? You think it’s hard being a police officer? Try doing it when you’re a woman, you’re black, you’re attractive, and everyone thinks you’re “gagging for it” .’ She ran her spare hand across her forehead. ‘If I’m sleeping my way to the top, how come I’m still a sodding constable?’
Callum smiled. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’re in the least bit attractive.’ He took a sip of burning-hot chocolate. ‘Oh, I did for two or three seconds when I first met you, but soon as I got to know you? Not a chance.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘When I was fourteen my geography teacher tried to feel me up in the stationery cupboard, said he’d always wanted to try a black girl. Wasn’t the first to chance his arm and he wasn’t the last.’
‘Did you break his nose too? Or …’ Callum sniffed. Wait a minute. He sat on the other end of the couch. ‘That’s why you got lumped into Mother’s Misfit Mob, isn’t it? You said you punched a superintendent – all hands was he?’
Franklin held up her cup in salute. ‘Welcome to the world of hyper-sexualisation.’
‘Yeah: they can’t fire us. They want to, but they can’t. So they chuck us all together and drip-feed us crappy nothing cases till we get fed up and quit.’
‘And he was married.’
Callum had another sip. Lucy was right – the hot chocolate wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the tea. ‘How you getting on with our body in the bath?’
‘You know what I should’ve done? I should’ve agreed to go to that hotel with him and recorded him being a sleazy git. Then sent the tape to his wife. Let’s see Superintendent Neil Lambert slither his way out of that one.’
‘Nice to know your first thought was revenge instead of blackmail.’
She gave her forehead a little slap. ‘Blackmail. Damn – why didn’t I think of that?’ Franklin sagged in her seat. ‘Our body’s a Caucasian male, five eleven, difficult to tell how old. Turns out the water in the bath was a very heavy brine solution with leaves and flowers and herbs and spices thrown in. Little bits of bark. His lungs are full of it too, so he was alive when he went in. You think you’re a bit wrinkly after half an hour in the bath? Our victim looks like he’s about ninety.’
‘At least all that salt will have preserved the tissue.’
‘Only the outside layers. Didn’t stop his stomach bursting in the water. Gah …’ She had a little shudder. ‘God, I hate post mortems.’
He stood and wandered over to the machine again. Punched the buttons for a third hot chocolate. ‘What do you reckon to Glen Carmichael and his mates being responsible? Three of them, killing the guy in the bath together – holding his head under till he stops struggling. Or it could be one of them. They fall out, fight, same result.’ The machine hissed and gurgled. ‘Or maybe they get their hands on a load of dodgy drugs? One of them has a catastrophically bad trip so they try to sober him up in the bath. But he drowns. They panic and do a runner.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Makes sense. Three blokes, stuck in that flat for months together, the windows all covered with hardcore pornography, getting drunk and wasted. Can’t expect sensible decisions from—’
The door battered open and Lucy staggered to a halt on the carpet tiles. ‘Callum?’ A bit out of breath, but grinning too. ‘You are not going to believe it.’ She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, tattoos rippling. ‘Digital X-rays have finished processing. You’ve got to see this!’
OK.
He gathered up his hot chocolates and followed her down the corridor to the lab.
Lucy pointed at a large computer monitor sitting on a desk covered in empty Quality Street wrappers. ‘Look.’
He hunched over and squinted at the screen. It was filled with human bones, the skin reduced to pale wisps of grey around them. The X-ray had been taken from the side, showing the body curled up with its elbows in, hands against its chest and knees against them, neck bent so far forward that the front of the skull was obscured by the kneecaps. Definitely one of the mummies. ‘And?’
‘This is so cool.’ She clattered her fingers across the keyboard and the image zoomed in on the jumbled monochrome mess where the face met the kneecaps. ‘See?’
‘No.’
‘I thought it was an artefact on the machinery – some of the APTs X-ray all sorts of crap for a laugh and if they damage the equipment it shows up on the digital prints – so I checked the anterior plates.’ The tip of her tongue poked out between her teeth as she typed, and the picture changed to a close-up that was little more than a mess of white lines and grey masses. ‘Now do you see?’
Callum squinted, forcing the image out of focus, letting it … There. OK, those were the eye sockets, there were the cheekbones, difficult to pick them out from the leg bones, but not impossible. That made those the nasal cavities, and they would be the teeth.
Oh.
He sank into the office chair. Of course: it was obvious now. ‘The hard white blobs in the mouth.’
‘Yup.’ Lucy grinned at him, eyebrows way up her forehead. ‘I’m no expert on ancient Egyptian burial rituals, but I’m pretty sure Tutankhamun didn’t go to his grave with a mouth full of NHS fillings.’
15
‘Are you actually hiding in here?’ Franklin stood in the doorway, holding the door to the disabled toilets open with her foot.
Callum gave her a grunt, then went back to the sink. Stuck a folded paper towel against the open neck of the disinfectant bottle and upended the thing till it soaked into the off-grey paper. ‘I’m not hiding, I’m busy.’ He dabbed the damp tissue against the wallet, blotting away a stain.
‘Mother’s here.’
‘Course she is.’ More blotting. The stuff was working even better than Lucy had promised. OK, so his dad’s wallet would never look new again, but at least it didn’t stink like the inside of whatever bin Willow Brown had fished it out of.
