Page 120 of Dying Truth

As expected Keats was already preparing for his first job of the day when they entered.

‘Did you get it?’ she asked.

Keats frowned at her. ‘You know, Inspector, I get more common courtesy from my customers than I do from you,’ he said, looking towards the sheet covering the dead body.

She didn’t doubt it.

‘So, did you?’ she repeated.

‘An email may have arrived from your detective constable,’ he said, taking out his Dictaphone. ‘And I shall have a look once I’ve completed—’

‘No problem. I’ll wait,’ she said, hopping onto the work surface. Her legs dangled in mid-air. ‘I’m a patient person.’

He narrowed his eyes as he pulled back the sheet and switched on his recorder.

‘Ooh, he’s in a bad way, isn’t he?’ she asked loudly.

He switched it off. The ghostly white flesh bore the scars of the insects that had feasted all over him. Keats switched on the machine and opened his mouth to start again.

‘Bloody hell, he fed a few communities, didn’t he?’ she asked, loudly.

He offered her a warning glance and tried again.

‘Missing two weeks, eh?’ she asked.

‘Stone, quiet,’ he snapped, pressing the pause button.

She nodded her understanding as he began again.

‘Conducting the post-mortem of—’

‘Just look at that lividity down his right side, Bryant,’ she called out.

Keats switched off the Dictaphone. ‘An email you said?’ he asked, conceding defeat.

‘It’ll be better on the computer,’ she said, jumping down, as he pulled the cover back over his customer.

‘And what exactly am I looking for?’ he asked, taking a seat at his desk in the corner.

Kim stood behind him.

He pointed to the chair opposite and turned his screen so she could see it.

‘Post-mortem report of a fifteen-year-old girl,’ Kim answered.

He squinted at the date.

‘From the mid-nineties?’ he asked.

‘Hey, Keats, it wasn’t that long ago,’ Bryant said.

‘What am I looking for?’ he asked.

‘Anything,’ Kim answered.

He scrolled through the document that had been scanned on to the computer.

‘She was pregnant,’ he said, more to himself. ‘Approximately nine weeks, which clearly you already knew.’