Page 84 of The Altar Girls

‘I undress the body. All the clothes are incinerated unless the family expressly requests their return. If the deceased is transferred here from hospital, the body is usually dressed in a gown. But you aren’t interested in that, are you?’

‘Just in general.’

‘Once the body is naked, it’s washed.’

‘Where do you wash it?’ She stepped closer to the table.

He pressed a button beneath the table, and soft jets of water spurted up from the holes embedded in the steel.

‘Ah, clever,’ she said, though she knew it was a similar procedure in Jane’s mortuary. Could this apparatus be used to drown a child?

‘But you knew that already,’ he said. ‘I can see it in your eyes. Were the little girls washed? Is that why you’re interested in this?’

‘What else do you use the water for?’ she asked, ignoring his question.

He straightened to his full height, a giant in a sterile room.

‘I carry out a process to remove the blood and then flush a formaldehyde chemical through the arteries. The organs in the chest cavity and abdomen are punctured and drained of gas and fluid contents. Then more formaldehyde is injected and the injection site is sutured. And that, my dear inspector, is the embalming process in a nutshell.’ He stared at her. ‘Are you okay?’

She must have paled. She had seen many dead bodies in her time, but his description of this process curdled her stomach. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just all a bit mechanical when you think of those grieving their loved one.’

‘It’s a job,’ he said. ‘My job.’

‘Why do you do it?’

‘If not me, someone else. I have competition in this town and I do my utmost to be professional.’

‘But what got you into it in the first place?’

‘Following footsteps. My father was a funeral director.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Do you?’ He rounded the table and moved towards her. ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. I love my job. I have reverence and respect for the dead. Not everyone has that. Certainly not the people who kill little children. Why would you even suspect me?’

Her mind was whirring. The way the little girls had been laid out on the ground spoke to her in some twisted way of reverence and respect. Even remorse. Was the killer standing in front of her?

‘I haven’t accused you of anything and I have to consider all possibilities.’

‘Of course.’ He backed away and pulled a black rubber apron on over his head.

‘What do you dress the dead in?’

‘Normally the family send in clothing. But if not, I dress them in a shroud. Adds to the bill, but I’m not complaining.’

‘And children, do you ever have to dress them in shrouds?’

‘Not usually, but occasionally.’

‘Can I see what a child’s shroud looks like?’

He paused, an apron clip in his hand. ‘So that’s why you’re here. The little girls must have been dressed in shrouds.’

He was too nosy for his own good, and she didn’t confirm or deny. ‘Can I see a shroud?’

His lip curved up to his nose in a snarl, and he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave. If you want to see anything further on my premises, you can return with a warrant. We’re done here.’

Looking at him, she noticed that his hands were balled into fists. They actually looked like dumb-bells, they were so large.