Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

like a corpse.

      ‘Hate these bloody things, Charlotte,’ Hardin said, both his hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee as if the warmth from the liquid inside might take away some of the chill in the air. ‘So early in the morning too. Didn’t even have time for breakfast.’

      ‘Maybe that’s a good thing, sir,’ Savage said.

      ‘Nonsense. Line the stomach. The old-fashioned way. The only way.’

      No, Savage thought. The only real way was to avoid attending post-mortems at all. She’d never been to one which she could call ‘nice’. The experience always lay on a continuum from horrible to downright appalling. She was not looking forward to seeing the victim from the tunnel dissected, and the argument with Pete hadn’t improved the prospect.

      ‘Mind you,’ Hardin said. ‘I wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for that bloody woman. At least I’ll lose some weight from all this running around.’

      ‘People.’ Nesbit emerged from the main PM room. ‘We’re ready for you now.’

      Hardin huffed and then poured the remainder of his coffee into a nearby waste bin. ‘Ladies first,’ he said, gesturing to Savage.

      Savage followed Nesbit into the room, Hardin shuffling along behind her.

      Nesbit had once told her they were ‘blessed’ in having three post-mortem tables. ‘A conveyor belt of corpses,’ he’d said. Savage could see nothing good about it. At least today the only body in the room was that of the boy. He lay on the central table, the others nothing but gleaming stainless steel.

      At one end of the table a small block held the boy’s head. At the other the wellingtons now looked even more incongruous than they had in the tunnel. Aside from the footwear, he had on a pair of Y-fronts and nothing else, and in the glare from the overhead lights Savage could see the lividity in his buttocks and thighs where the blood had pooled by gravity. In addition, every inch of exposed skin glistened with the slick, oil-like substance Nesbit had noted in the tunnel. Several deep cuts criss-crossed the boy’s palms. The light also made a mockery of their mistakes of the previous night. Even allowing for the poor mugshot, there was no way this boy could be confused with Jason Hobb.

      ‘Do you have a name for him yet?’ Nesbit said as he came over to the body. ‘Or is he still John Doe masquerading as Jason?’

      ‘Moot bloody point,’ Hardin said. He looked across at Savage. ‘The confusion caused us a lot of problems.’

      ‘Quite.’ Nesbit turned to Savage, bent his head and looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘And since I know the two people involved, I think I can say that misidentification was understandable, given the circumstances. Now then, shall we?’

      The pathologist reached up and turned on the overhead microphone and began to make some initial observations. He noted the boy’s height and weight and made a guess as to his age.

      ‘Somewhere around eleven or twelve years old, I should think. Similar to Jason.’

      ‘Which raises a question,’ Hardin said. ‘We’ve no other missing children of this age, as far as I know. Not here or nationally.’