Page 6

Chapter

Five

A s I’d said to Alexander MacTire, sometimes it was nice to be important.

It was now my mission to make the anonymous victim of the River Tweed important enough to be dealt with appropriately, and I wouldn’t allow anyone to get in my way, not even the prim, bespectacled receptionist at the Mathers Street mortuary.

‘We only permit family members to enter the mortuary and view bodies,’ she said, tapping her pen against her desk in an incredibly irritating fashion.

I held my ground. ‘Unless anything has changed in the last two hours, this body doesn’t have a name and nobody knows who his family are,’ I said. ‘So your point is moot.’

‘As is yours,’ she replied. ‘Because it means that you’re not his family either.’

I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. ‘How much? How much will it take for you to let me in?’

Her brown eyes narrowed. ‘Are you seriously trying to bribe a Coldstream council employee?’

I considered my answer – and the receptionist’s well-worn clothes. There was an expensive-looking silk scarf around her neck and a delicate silver bracelet around her wrist, but the rest of her clothes, while clean, were definitely threadbare in several places. ‘Yes.’

Her lipsticked mouth tightened as her narrow gaze swept me up and down; I had the sense that even her ash-blonde up-do was quivering with hearty disapproval. Then she blinked and gave me a one-word response. ‘Hundred.’

My wallet was out before she could change her mind. Unlike the rest of the country, Coldstream was mostly a cash-based society and I had enough notes on me to cover the bribe. I hastily passed over five twenties. ‘Third room on the left,’ she said.

I didn’t bother thanking her; the money had done that for me.

I walked briskly down the hallway past several framed certificates and commendations.

I couldn’t fathom why they were displayed so proudly on the walls because the dead wouldn’t care and their families wouldn’t notice.

Then again, EEL had given me a titanium-coated curved dagger when I’d successfully completed my first twenty contracts and I still loved it.

Perhaps a gilt-framed piece of paper counted for the same when you worked in this sort of environment – and it was better than pictures of dead bodies.

I located the correct door and went inside without knocking.

The sterile room was exactly what I’d expected.

The floor was tiled, with a drain in one corner for easy cleaning.

The far wall was taken up with aluminium lockers, which contained all the bodies currently in residence.

There was a small desk with an empty clipboard resting on top and, in the centre of the room, there was a gurney with a body that had been covered with a white sheet.

Next to it was a trolley containing the gleaming, albeit somewhat gruesome, implements of the pathologist’s trade .

Another clipboard was hanging on a hook on the wall and I peered at it, noting the names, signatures and time stamps next to each one. It was some sort of sign-in sheet, and it didn’t help me. My John Doe hadn’t been here long enough and nobody knew who he was.

I turned away from the clipboard, moved to the gurney and pulled back the sheet – only to be greeted by the heavy, grey features of a deceased troll.

From the white hairs around the ears and on top of the flat skull, this particular one had died at a ripe old age; it was good to be reminded that even in Coldstream such a thing was possible.

I returned the sheet to its original position and headed for the lockers, shivering slightly. I’d only just started to feel warm again and now I was walking around in what was essentially a giant fridge. At least it would encourage me to complete my investigations quickly.

The first locker was empty. The second one contained a middle-aged female druid who didn’t look much older than me, so I closed the door quickly. There was another troll inside the third locker, although this poor guy was far younger than the larger one on the gurney.

‘Sorry,’ I whispered to his slack face and drooping moustache. ‘I know it’s not fair this has happened to you.’

I was reaching for the fourth locker when the door opened and a thin man walked in.

His blue facial tattoos identified him as a druid and his white coat told me he was supposed to be there even though he looked far too young to be a trained pathologist. Perhaps he was an assistant, or perhaps I was now of an age where everyone looked young. Both were equally possible.

I stopped and waited for him to notice me. When he did, his reaction was more resigned than surprised. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. He sounded neither challenging nor outraged, which concerned me even more than the receptionist’s stern facade had done.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I opted for the truth.

‘My name is Kit McCafferty.’ Usually I wouldn’t have volunteered any more information than what was requested, but I sensed that a more detailed explanation might help.

‘I’m here because of the John Doe who was brought in earlier today.

He died in the River Tweed close to where I live.

I have the feeling that nobody will take the time to find out who he really is if I don’t.

Nobody deserves to die like that. I want to find his identity and let his family know what happened to him. ’

The young druid gazed at me for so long that I started to feel uncomfortable. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear him. ‘Kit would have sufficed.’

So much for all that extra detail.

His face had softened and his expression suggested that, despite his words, he wanted to ask me more. ‘You were at the Tweed today? You saw him die?’

‘No, I didn’t witness it. By the time I arrived he was already dead, but I still feel involved somehow. I still want to help.’ I shrugged to indicate that I knew my reaction was inexplicable – but it was the right thing to do.

The druid sighed then moved past me to the desk, opened a drawer and took out two brown manila files.

He examined the first one for a moment before holding it out to me.

‘Here. We’re, um, backed up and short-staffed.

His post-mortem won’t be conducted until later in the week but these notes were made when his body was brought in. ’

I didn’t move and he waved the folder. ‘Do you want it or not?’

I scurried forward and took it. ‘You won’t kick me out?’ I asked. ‘Call the MET and have me arrested?’

‘The MET have better things to do with their time. You’re not here to steal or desecrate any bodies.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘You’re here because you’re trying to do a good thing. I can get behind that.’

It wasn’t what I’d been expecting but I’d take it.

I looked at him more closely and checked his name badge.

‘Thank you, Dr…’ I stared at the small, printed letters then at his face: his Caucasian face.

‘…Singh,’ I finished. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that was his name, though it seemed unlikely.

The row of framed certificates along the corridor wall flashed back into my head.

The white druid in front of me didn’t look like a Doctor Varchan Singh.

He looked at me and I looked at him until eventually he shrugged.

‘Of course there might be another reason why I’m not raising the alarm,’ he admitted.

He tried to smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

His body was tense now, and I half-expected him to push me aside and run.

I was right; I wasn’t the only person who didn’t belong in this mortuary.

I didn’t believe in coincidences; what were the chances that two people would sneak into the same mortuary for different reasons?

He had to be there for the same body as I was.

I needed to keep him talking, to find out what was going on.

‘The coat?’ I asked admiringly, hoping I could appeal to his ego.

‘It was hanging behind the staffroom door.’ He grimaced. ‘I sneaked in through the window and grabbed it. How did you get in here?’

‘I bribed the receptionist. A hundred quid.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘It was cheaper to sneak in through the back.’

I was clearly off my game. In my defence, I’d had a trying day and it was my first time at this mortuary. I’d expected the perimeter security to be tighter – and I certainly hadn’t expected to come across another interloper.

I eyed the druid; I had absolutely no idea what would happen next.

Would he try to attack me? He’d get a shock if he did.

Finally I dropped my gaze to the manila file I was holding.

Maybe he would relax if he thought I wasn’t watching his every move.

I was skilled enough at holding a target in my peripheral vision not to need to gaze directly at them.

I scanned the contents. It wasn’t a preliminary post-mortem report but an order for coffee supplies. Smart: whoever this guy was, he could certainly improvise. ‘Impressive,’ I said. ‘Although you’d have been scuppered if I’d read this as soon as you gave it to me.’

He managed an awkward half-smile, but he didn’t move or speak. When the silence had stretched longer than was comfortable I decided on a direct approach. ‘I told you my reasons for coming here. Why are you here?’

I don’t know what he’d have told me because at that moment footsteps echoed down the corridor. A figure appeared in the doorway and peered at us. Uh-oh. ‘What’s going on here? Who are you two?’ He frowned at the druid. ‘Is that my lab coat?’

Apparently the time for talking was over. The young druid leapt forward in full flight mode and slammed into the real Dr Singh. The pathologist staggered backwards, then the druid was away, sprinting down the corridor and doubtless out of the window by which he’d come in.

I made an effort to go after him but with a downed pathologist in my path and the considerable age gap between us, I knew it was probably a wasted effort.

By the time I’d followed his trail through the mortuary and darted to the window, the druid had vanished.

There were any number of directions in which he could have run.

I hissed through my teeth. Then, because these days I was a good citizen, I returned to Dr Singh.

The grouchy receptionist had heard the commotion and was helping him to his feet. As soon as she saw me, her gaze hardened. She clearly thought that I had attacked him. ‘I’ve called the MET on you!’ she said angrily.

I doubted that she had because there hadn’t been enough time to make a phone call. Besides, she wouldn’t want to explain to the small organisation that dealt with most of the minor crime in Coldstream how I’d managed to stroll in through the mortuary’s front door.

‘Relax, Cindy,’ Dr Singh grunted. He pushed back his hair and blinked at me.

Cindy ? I couldn’t have invented a less suitable name for the woman if I’d tried. She was an Evelyn or a Priscilla, a snippy Wilhelmina at best. She certainly wasn’t a Cindy.

Dr Singh continued. ‘She’s not the one who knocked me over – and I’m fine. Truly.’

Like the mysterious young man who’d temporarily stolen his identity, the pathologist was a druid, but that was the only similarity. This version of Dr Singh was from a different age group, ethnicity and, by the sound of his cultured accent and the look of his expensive clothes, income bracket.

‘I don’t believe he wanted to hurt you,’ I said, wondering why I was defending the escaped druid. ‘I think he was just trying to get away.’

Dr Singh nodded. ‘He certainly didn’t hang around.’ He offered me a rueful smile. ‘The people I deal with aren’t usually so energetic. The dead tend to be far more obliging.’

Cindy sniffed. ‘Why don’t you sit in the staffroom, doctor?’ she suggested fawningly. ‘I’ll make you a cup of sweet tea to help you get over the shock. While I do that, this woman can leave.’

I grinned. Poor Cindy was desperate for me to go before Dr Singh started asking why she’d let me in. Unfortunately for her, I wasn’t going anywhere. ‘Actually,’ I said quickly, ‘I need to ask Dr Singh a few questions first. It might help us find out who that man was and why he was here.’

Cindy opened her mouth to protest but thankfully Dr Singh got in first. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit down next door.’ He smiled at Cindy. ‘But you can still put the kettle on.’

I tried hard not to smirk. ‘No sugar in my tea, thanks, Cindy,’ I said. ‘A small splash of milk is fine.’

She started to scowl but Dr Singh was already leading me to the staffroom. This was better than I could have hoped for. If I hadn’t been so well-behaved, I’d have punched the air with delight.