Page 7

Chapter

Six

D r Singh closed the staffroom door to ensure we couldn’t be overheard. He didn’t offer me a chair, which spoke volumes. ‘So,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’

The avuncular twinkle in his eyes had gone.

The pathologist wasn’t a gullible pushover after all; he’d simply wanted to ensure that Cindy was safely out of the way in case I posed a threat, despite my harmless cat-lady facade.

He went up a notch in my estimation – several notches, in fact.

He obviously didn’t judge people on their appearances and he cared about his colleague’s well-being.

I’d obliged the identity thief with the truth so the least I could do was provide the real Dr Singh with the same thing. I met his sharp brown eyes, indicating as best as I could that I was prepared to be honest.

‘My name is Kit McCafferty. I’m here because a body was brought in earlier today.

A man died in the River Tweed but nobody knows who he was or what happened to him.

I believe that if I don’t try to find out, he’ll end up in an unmarked grave and his family – whoever they are – will never know the truth.

I have some…’ I searched for the right word, ‘…skills, and I thought I could put them to good use.’

Dr Singh’s expression didn’t alter. ‘By helping a corpse?’

‘He might be a corpse but that doesn’t mean he’s not important,’ I countered. ‘The dead deserve respect. It’s possible he could have been rescued. Unfortunately he was not.’

‘You feel guilty, then, that he’s died?’

Perhaps I did, but not for the reasons that Dr Singh assumed. I doubted there was any therapist anywhere in the world who could sort out my tangled thoughts and feelings about the dead. ‘Maybe,’ I hedged.

‘What about the druid? The one who stole my lab coat?’

At least that question was easier to answer. ‘Initially I thought he worked here. I don’t know who he is or why he broke in.’

Dr Singh raised an eyebrow. ‘You broke in, too.’

I pulled a face. ‘Not really – I simply persuaded Cindy to let me in. I didn’t sneak in through a window.’

‘You persuaded Cindy?’

‘There might have been a financial inducement,’ I conceded.

Irritation flashed across his face. ‘No wonder she was so keen to get rid of you. How do I know you’re not some kind of grubby necromancer?’

From his tone, the mortuary had experienced troubles with their kind before now.

I knew of only three necromancers in Coldstream, and they were all cold bastards who were in it for the money.

It didn’t surprise me that they might have finagled their way into a place like this, or that Dr Singh despised them.

I held up my hands. ‘Check my fingernails.’

He flicked a glance at them then looked at my face. ‘You know that necromancy stains your fingers black?’

‘When you look into the abyss it looks back into you,’ I said quietly. ‘Nothing comes without a price.’ The price which necromancy demanded was high indeed, probably far higher than Dr Singh realised.

His mouth tightened and he sat down. ‘You know more about it than most.’

‘As I said, I have skills.’

‘Do you have any idea, Ms McCafferty, how many John and Jane Does we get in here each year?’ He sounded weary, which suggested his attitude was softening.

It might have been a rhetorical question but I answered it anyway. ‘Around twenty, I imagine.’ Before I’d retired, I would have been responsible for at least three or four of them in any twelve-month period.

‘More like fifty,’ he said, surprising me. ‘People in Coldstream fall through the gaps all the time. Why are you so interested in this one?’

‘Because I was by the river when he died.’ I drew in a breath.

‘I saved one person who fell in but I didn’t know about this one until it was too late.

The person I saved is well known and people cared what was happening to him, even people who didn’t know him personally.

Nobody cared about this man. I want to redress that balance. ’

Dr Singh considered my words for several seconds then he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can to help you.’

The pathologist took me into a different room lined with filing cabinets. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the nearest one. It made a lot more sense that sensitive information about bodies was locked away rather than lying about where anyone could access it.

As he rifled through the cabinet, Cindy reappeared. She was carrying only one mug of tea and looked unimpressed that I was still there. ‘Your tea, Dr Singh,’ she said overly loudly.

‘Thank you, Cindy,’ he told her. ‘You can leave it on the desk.’

She harrumphed and did as he asked. I considered reminding her that I’d asked for a cup of tea as well but decided not to push my luck; I didn’t want to find myself drinking spittle. I smiled at her instead, but Cindy only tutted and left the room. I shrugged; I’d tried.

‘I came on shift half an hour ago,’ Dr Singh explained.

‘So it was one of my colleagues who took the body in this morning. They’ll have done little more than a cursory examination.

If a post-mortem is to be held, it will be later on in the week – maybe next week, depending on what we have in.

’ He paused. ‘Unless there are extenuating circumstances, which mean that any forensic investigation into the cause of death needs to be completed more quickly.’

I imagined those extenuating circumstances would be if there was a distraught family member hovering in the background, or if the MET or a similar organisation requested the post-mortem be fast-tracked. For obvious reasons, that wouldn’t happen in this case.

‘Here we go.’ He pulled out a folder triumphantly. ‘It must have been Dr Biswick who took possession of the body. Her filing is haphazard.’ He flipped it open to read the contents.

I started forward to peer over his shoulder, but he held up a finger and shook his head; apparently there were limits as to how much trust Dr Singh was willing to place in me. Fair enough. I wouldn’t trust me either.

‘Male witch, judging from the initial examination,’ he said. ‘Approximately late twenties. Reported cause of death is drowning, though Dr Biswick seems to think that’s not actually the case. ’

Drowning was difficult to prove or disprove because evidence of foul play was often washed away – and in the Tweed you were likely to be killed by the river beasties long before you actually drowned.

Any pathologist worth their salt would take their time before making a definitive diagnosis.

However, that didn’t imply that my John Doe had been murdered; he could have fallen into the river like Quentin Hightower, but that wouldn’t be confirmed until a full post-mortem was carried out.

I still didn’t know whether John Doe had gone into the Tweed before, after or at the same time as Hightower, although I was sure that the timing had been close.

‘Hmmm.’ Dr Singh’s frown deepened. ‘There was some old netting wrapped around one of his legs. It seems to have been tangled up with both his body and some items on the river bed.’ That would explain why he’d not been dragged away by the river currents to the same spot as Hightower.

‘But the netting wouldn’t account for the wounds on his torso,’ Dr Singh went on.

‘It was the Tweed,’ I said softly. ‘The section by the market is where lots of the river monsters congregate. I saw the bite marks before the Redcaps took him away.’

Dr Singh’s frown didn’t clear. ‘Hmmm,’ he said again. He snapped the folder shut and marched out of the room. Because I’d not been told otherwise, I followed him.

We returned to the room with the refrigerated body lockers. He took the clipboard from the wall and flipped through the pages of paper. ‘You have to sign your name,’ he said.

I smiled disarmingly. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘It’s procedure.’

‘I bribed your receptionist to get in here,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we need to worry too much about your procedure.’

Dr Singh stood his ground. ‘Sign it,’ he said. ‘Please. ’

I didn’t want any official record of my visit, but complaining wouldn’t endear me to the pathologist and I needed him on my side.

As I scanned the sheet, I realised it was the form for John Doe; there was a different page for each body.

It appeared that even the dead couldn’t escape mindless bureaucracy.

Pursing my lips, I scrawled my name, making sure that my writing was virtually illegible.

‘Thank you,’ Dr Singh said and returned the clipboard to its place. He glanced at the troll who was still shrouded on the gurney, then at the lockers, then at me. ‘Have you seen a dead body up close before, Ms McCafferty?’

There was only one answer to that. ‘Yes.’ Dozens upon dozens. And I had been responsible for most of them.

‘Because, if you’re going to faint or vomit or do anything that will cause problems…’

‘I’ll be fine, Dr Singh.’ I smiled faintly. ‘I promise.’

Apparently he believed me. ‘Very well.’ He pulled on a pair of gloves then opened the fourth locker along; annoyingly, it was the one I’d been about to open before I’d been interrupted.

The pathologist slid out the long tray until John Doe’s body was fully displayed.

His eyes were still wide open but his clothing had been removed and I could see the marks where the netting had snagged his legs.

I grimaced at the red welts on his pale, dead skin although Dr Singh barely looked at them.

His focus was on the wounds closer to John Doe’s head, around his neckline, his torso and on his cheek.

‘The last time we had a body pulled from the Tweed, it was virtually unrecognisable,’ he said. ‘This is quite extraordinary. In comparison, this man is in pristine condition.’

‘There were lots of witches present who used spells to keep the monsters at bay while they tried to rescue the other man,’ I said.

‘They did a good job. There are only a few bite marks that seem to come from those creatures.’ He pointed them out. ‘Here. And here. But this wound,’ he motioned towards a smaller and neater mark, ‘is not from any river beast.’

It was only a few inches wide, on the edge of John Doe’s ribs. It hadn’t been visible when he’d still been clothed in his wet shirt, but it was clear enough now.

‘A straight-edged sword did this,’ I breathed. I shook my head. ‘The blade was thin but it must be very long because it’s been angled upwards. Some sort of rapier, perhaps.’

I stepped to the side to get a better view.

‘It could well have reached far enough through his ribcage to pierce his heart. There aren’t many places in Coldstream where you can get something like that.

They’re not for self-defence – they’re purely for murder.

’ I continued gazing at the wound then realised abruptly that Dr Singh was staring at me. I coughed and stepped back.

‘Who are you really, Ms McCafferty?’ he asked. He tilted his head. ‘Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.’

He returned the body to the locker and closed the door.

‘I think we both know that John Doe didn’t accidentally fall into the river and drown.

He was murdered. His killer probably imagined that the river creatures would make short work of his body but hadn’t reckoned on a bunch of witches casting spells to hold the hungry monsters back.

I think John Doe’s post-mortem has just been brought forward. ’

‘Today?’

‘Hopefully.’ He looked at the shrouded troll. ‘Tomorrow morning at the latest.’

‘What about his personal effects?’ I asked.

Dr Singh hesitated. The confirmation that John Doe had been murdered rather than killed in a freak accident meant that my presence and my questions should be treated with greater caution.

‘They’ll be locked away in the room opposite,’ he said quietly.

‘I have no objection to showing them to you, but this is now a murder investigation. I have to consider the chain of evidence and inform the MET and the witches’ council, who might want to take over the matter. ’

The witches’ council would care if this was Quentin Hightower’s body, but I wasn’t convinced they’d care about John Doe even if he was a witch. I nodded anyway; perhaps we’d get lucky and somebody with more resources and ability than me would take up his cause. I certainly hoped so.

‘Will you be here tomorrow morning?’ I asked. ‘I can come back when you’ve found out who is looking into his murder. If the MET or the witches’ council are investigating, then John Doe doesn’t need me.’

Dr Singh nodded sombrely.

‘Meanwhile,’ I continued, ‘perhaps I can try to find out more about the druid who broke in and stole your lab coat. Quid pro quo.’ I wanted to find out who he was because he was linked somehow to my John Doe.

He had to be. Find the druid and there was a very good chance I’d learn John Doe’s identity.

The pathologist looked sceptical. ‘You really don’t know who he is?’

‘No.’ I met his eyes. ‘I haven’t lied to you, Dr Singh. Not once.’

His dubious expression didn’t clear, though he inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’

‘Save that gratitude until I’ve learned more. And maybe keep your windows shut from now on.’

‘And discourage Cindy from taking bribes,’ he muttered.

I thought again about her clothes and her grumpy attitude.

Despite that pretty scarf and bracelet, Cindy was struggling to make ends meet.

‘Public-facing roles are more stressful than people realise,’ I said.

‘Raise her salary and she won’t do it again.

’ Probably. Only Cindy herself could guarantee that for sure.

Dr Singh looked more surprised than horrified. ‘Reward her for taking a bribe?’

‘Don’t think of it that way.’ I smiled. ‘Think of it as making sure she’s paid a decent living wage.

It’s obvious she admires you, Dr Singh. She likes you and she respects you – and she rushed in the second it sounded like there was trouble.

Cindy risked herself without knowing what might happen if she got involved.

That means her problem isn’t with her job, per se, but with her salary.

’ I shrugged. ‘And then you can sack her if there’s a next time. ’

There was goodwill and second chances – and there was being taken a fool. Sometimes there was a fine line between the two.