toggled up to her chin, shoulders hunched, hands in her pockets. ‘Shouldn’t we be wearing masks and safety goggles and things?’
Professor Twining looked up from the remains. ‘Not a huge amount of point, I’m afraid: no soft tissue, no DNA, just bones. And they’ve been cleaned by the soil science people, so there’s nothing left for us to contaminate. Can I have the corresponding X-ray, please, Alf? … Thank you.’
Twining worked his way through Lauren Burges’s skeletal remains, comparing the damage to her medical records and the photos on the birthday cards. Confirming her identity.
Three sets of bones on three separate cutting tables. It wouldn’t be long before the SEB turned up the other victims. Only they’d get one more than they were expecting: Rebecca, laid out on a cold metal slab. My little girl, reduced to a collection of mud-stained bones. Chipped and scarred where he slashed and stabbed and broke …
The mortuary air was like cold treacle, sticking in my throat.
I thrust my hands in my pockets. Clenched my jaw.
No one knew: there was still time to find the bastard.
So why couldn’t I breathe?
Think about something else. Anything else. Anything but Rebecca.
Money. Think about the money. About how utterly and completely screwed I was.
That was better …
OK, so I didn’t get the chance to squeeze money out of anyone before the post mortems, but there was still time, wasn’t there? Slip out for a couple of hours while they were examining the other remains. Plenty of time.
Yeah, plenty of time …
‘… median damage and periosteal hematoma evident on the left humerus, anterior …’
There was no way in hell I’d ever get enough money. Turn up at the Westing with a fistful of fivers and Mrs Kerrigan’s goons would send me home in a wheelchair.
‘… compound fracture of the right radius and ulna, seven centimetres from the wrist joint …’
So don’t. Don’t turn up at all. As long as I kept my head down till the ferry left Aberdeen at seven tonight, I’d be fine.
‘… striated scarring on the fourth and fifth ribs consistent with a serrated blade …’
Well, maybe not fine, but it’d buy some time.
And all this would still be waiting for me when I got back.
The hands on the mortuary clock clicked around to eleven thirty: two and a half hours of watching Professor Twining pick his way through a murdered girl’s bones.
‘… and one tea: milk, no sugar.’ Alf handed me a mug with ‘World’s Greatest Proctologist!’ printed on the side.
‘Thanks.’ One thing you can say about Anatomical Pathology Technicians: they make a decent cup of tea.
Twining stretched out his arms, hands locked together, as if he was about to crack a safe. ‘Well, I think we can confirm that the remains belong to Lauren Burges.’
I settled back against the working surface. ‘And it only took you two and a half hours. Dr McDonald did it in thirty-five seconds.’
Pink bloomed on her cheeks. ‘Well, the position of the head was a bit of a giveaway, I mean there might be other victims he’s decapitated that we don’t know about. We don’t have a complete collection of birthday cards, and most haven’t got to the bit where he kills them yet …’ She cleared her throat, shuffled her feet. ‘It was an educated guess.’
Twining brushed a hand through his floppy hair. ‘Unfortunately, I have to make my identification stand up in a court of law.’ He took his tea across to the two flip charts with Lauren Burges’s details on them, and pointed at the second-last photo in the series of birthday cards. ‘She was almost certainly dead by the time this one was taken. Difficult to tell with no internal organs left to examine, but working from the photographs I’d say heart failure triggered by blood loss and shock.’
Maybe she was lucky – maybe she was dead when he hacked her open and pulled out her insides. Maybe Rebecca was lucky too …
That fizzing sensation burned at the base of my throat again.
Twining tapped the first card. ‘Given the size and colour variation of the bruises between this picture and when she was killed – I’d say Lauren was probably tortured over a period of six or seven hours. Nine at most.’
Dr McDonald looked up at me. ‘She went missing four days before her birthday.’
‘Yes …’ Twining squinted at the first card again. ‘That would be consistent with her appearance in this photograph. As if she’s been living in those clothes for a couple of days.’
Eight or nine hours screaming into a duct-tape gag while he carved names into Rebecca’s skin, burned her head with bleach, ripped out her teeth with pliers …
I put my tea down, worked hard to keep my voice level. ‘So …’ Try again. ‘So he doesn’t kill them till it’s their actual birthday. He grabs them, he ties them to a chair and leaves them sitting there till it’s time. Waiting.’
Dr McDonald crossed to the dissecting table, with its collection of red-brown bones. ‘Can I hold Lauren’s skull?’
Twining shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t see why not. As long as you don’t drop it.’
I stepped out into the corridor and let the mortuary door swing shut behind me. ‘Are you OK?’
Dr McDonald sniffed, then rubbed a hand across her eyes. She did the same with the shiny trails beneath her nose. ‘Felt like some fresh air …’
In a subterranean corridor, in the bowels of a hospital.
She turned, so I couldn’t see her face. ‘Perhaps I’m allergic to formaldehyde or something.’
Yes. That was it. ‘We’re breaking for lunch. The food’s pretty dreadful, but there’s a private canteen for senior staff Twining can sneak us into.’
‘Right. Great.’
‘That was your first post mortem, wasn’t it?’ I moved around so I could look at her … And stopped. A pair of eyes glittered in the shadow of a missing bulb about thirty feet away. The Rat Catcher was back: just standing there, watching Dr McDonald.
‘Poor Lauren … He makes you sit there till it’s your birthday, three days tied to a chair, waiting for the pain to begin, can you imagine how lonely, how terrified you’d be, and she was only twelve …’ A sniff, and another wipe. ‘Well, thirteen, at the end.’
Of course I could. Every bloody day.
The Rat Catcher was like a statue. Standing. Watching. Staring. Not moving.
I took a couple of steps towards her, put a bit of gravel into my voice. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
Dr McDonald flinched, then turned to see who I was shouting at.
The Rat Catcher didn’t even flinch.
‘Go on, fuck off!’
Nothing.
And then, finally, she turned and walked away, no rush, her trolley squeaking and groaning in the darkness. A sudden flare of light as she passed beneath a working bulb, her greying hair glowed around her head like a grubby halo. And then she was gone.
‘Freak.’ I put a hand on Dr McDonald’s shoulder. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
A small nod. ‘Sorry.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘Just being stupid.’
‘If we’re going to make the ferry we have to be out of here by about … half four? Five at the latest.’
‘I