‘Get one of each of the wounds,’ DCI Bruce instructed the photographer. ‘I mean each one individually… as well as the whole skull.’ He turned his attention to the Professor: ‘Presumably a hammer or something?’
Professor McConnachie nodded his head, before saying, almost conversationally, ‘Mmmmm. Cranial vault fractures and that one-’ he pointed with a bloody finger, ‘extends into the base of the skull… The weapon used must have had a relatively small surface area, but had been wielded with considerable force. Not a hammer, mind. Then you get depressed circular fractures. I’d say something rod-shaped-maybe a thick iron bar-something more like that.’
A bluebottle dawdled on the Sheriff’s hairless thigh. Alice became spellbound by its slow upward progress, its unconscious defiling of the grey corpse, but she was unwilling to swat it, in a quandary as to what to do. A wet, gurgling sound distracted her as the attendant slowly withdrew a single kidney from the exposed cavity and laid it, briefly, on the Sheriff’s pelvis before delving back inside to extract its twin. Bile rose to her mouth and she swayed, colliding with a coiled hosepipe, willing herself not to be sick. Not this time, not here, not now, not in front of Elaine Bell’s replacement.
She glanced towards the new DCI, aware that he was still talking to the Professor, and tried to concentrate on the living rather than the dead. She noted how small he was, dwarfed by the lanky form of the Professor, and yet, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, he appeared to be in control of all around him, directing the photographer and, simultaneously, quizzing the principal pathologist. As she watched him she became aware that he had shifted his attention on to her and, for an instant, their eyes met. She quickly closed hers, swept by another wave of nausea, and on hearing the sounds of male laughter, assumed that it was at her expense. Just another fifteen minutes or so, she prayed, let me last another fifteen minutes.
The old habit, inculcated at an impressionable age by nuns, was slow to die. In times of stress she found herself involuntarily mouthing the rosary, although she had not uttered a Hail Mary out loud since her convent schooling had ended over thirteen years earlier. She half opened her eyes for a second, just long enough to take in that the face was now being peeled back and heard herself retching. All her resources would need to be marshalled. I will remain upright. I will not vomit. As she was concentrating, she felt a hand on her elbow gently directing her towards the only bench in the white-tiled room. The powerful scent of nicotine told her that her saviour must be the photographer, and she sat beside him as he changed the lens on his camera.
‘It’s just another body, eh?’ he said, by way of comfort. She nodded, speechless. Another unwelcome thought had entered her head unbidden, and she had seen the surgeon’s scalpel on her mother’s pale skin.
‘Any indication yet as to time of death, Prof?’ DCI Bruce asked.
‘Well, taking into account the liver stab, the fixation of the livor mortis and rigor mortis, I’d say he must have died sometime between early last night and this morning. Of course, he only had his pyjamas on so I suppose he’ll have cooled more rapidly, and the room temperature was fairly low. But, overall, I think that’s a reasonable estimate.’
‘Can you not narrow it down a bit more precisely than that for us?’
‘Well, if you’re pushing me-and it’s a bloody inexact science as you know-I reckon, maybe, sometime between seven and ten or thereabouts.’
‘AM or PM?’
‘PM.’
‘And the cause… presumably the hammer, or whatever it was?’
The Professor looked up from his examination of the brain, now cradled in his left hand. ‘Some atheroma of the basal vessels…’ he muttered almost to himself, before turning his attention to the question. ‘Now, the likely cause-blunt force trauma, almost certainly, causing a massive sub-dural haemorrhage.’
Unbeknownst to Alice, she was being watched. In the final stages of the post mortem DCI Bruce’s interest in it had waned. He now knew all that mattered. In common with her, he had shifted his attention from the dead to the living, taking in her good looks, unmistakable despite the greenish hue, and tall, slim figure. Her appearance at least could not be faulted, but he had hoped for a little more stoicism from a member of his squad. Obviously, only the truly bone-headed, those devoid of all imagination, could witness the cutting, sawing, weighing and bagging involved in the procedure and remain untouched by it, but a bit more mettle would not go amiss. On her ability to cope with just such ordeals his advancement might depend, and he had weeks rather than months to make his mark.
Professor McConnachie removed his gloves with a snap and went over to the bench.
‘You nearly made it this time, Alice. Must be a record?’
‘Yes.’ The reply was of necessity, brief.
‘If it’s of any comfort, DI Oswald passed out earlier today when we were going into a head, and he’s a hard, hard man.’
At eight pm new statements for marking-up were delivered to Alistair Watt’s desk in the detective sergeant’s room. Alice, clutching a mug of tea and still feeling weak, wandered over to take a look. As she was picking them up, Alistair returned to the room and noticed her.
‘Not a pass, eh?’ It was a rhetorical question: a single glance at his friend had already provided the answer.
‘No, a fail since you ask. Jock didn’t help, slapping organs under my nose. This time it was a kidney that was my undoing.’
‘You kidney take it, eh?’
‘Worthy of DI Manson, Alistair. Have you looked at the results yet?’
‘No, and I don’t intend to. I am off to get a pie and chips then home. Want some? I’ll bring them up for you.’
‘I think I’d bring them up myself without any assistance at the moment. Thanks, but I can’t face anything at present.’
The phone call must be made and Alice steeled herself for it. Her neighbour, Miss Spinell, would, in all probability, be thrilled to remain as a dog-minder for Quill on her behalf for a few extra hours, but nothing with the Alzheimer victim was ever entirely straightforward. The old lady’s attachment to the collie-cross dog was passionate, but did not extend to his owner who was tolerated, simply, as a necessary evil. Alice dialled the familiar number.
‘Hello… hello, how can I help you?’
A tone of bewilderment was apparent in the quavering voice, which had begun to speak before Alice had a chance to introduce herself.
‘Miss Spinnell, it’s Alice. Quill’s owner. I was just ringing to see if it would be all right for you to keep him this evening until, say, ten thirty?’
‘Keep who until ten thirty?’
‘Quill. There is something on at the station and-’ she was interrupted by Miss Spinnell’s impatient tone.
‘Of course… of course I’ll keep the dog, and I’ll see you later Alison.’
The last remark, which was followed by the replacement of Miss Spinnell’s receiver, sounded like a veiled threat, the sort made by a tetchy headmistress when prevented by circumstances from giving vent to her true emotions.