Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

china mug rattling against its saucer: the mortuary’s outer door had just slammed shut. Then came the sound of footsteps, echoing down the corridor outside.

      ‘Got to go – someone’s coming.’

      ‘Don’t be such a wimp; you’re a DI now, take your medicine like a man.’

      ‘Acting DI, and no thanks.’ He hung up and jumped down from the desk. The footsteps were getting closer. As long as they kept on going, through to the cutting room, he’d be fine. Just have to sneak out once they were in there.

      Crap. . . The footsteps stopped right outside the pathologists’ office.

      Logan spun around on the spot. Had to be somewhere to hide in here. Behind the filing cabinet? Not enough space. Under one of the desks? . . . Yeah, and how would he explain that when they caught him? Looking for a contact lens?

      Might be worth a go.

      He pulled out the nearest chair—

      The door swung open and he froze, halfway into a crouch.

      ‘Guv? ’

      Logan looked up, and there was Rennie, frowning down at him.

      ‘You OK, Guv? Only you look like you’re about to curl one out on the floor there.’

      Heat bloomed in Logan’s cheeks. ‘I was just—’

      ‘Should probably pull your trousers and pants down first though,’ a grin broke across Rennie’s face, ‘going to be hell of a mess otherwise.’

      Logan stood. ‘Did you want something, Sergeant? ’

      ‘See, if I was going to take a dump in someone’s office, I’d do it in their desk drawer. Or in the filing cabinet, under “J” for jobbie, that way it’s all organized and—’

      ‘Rennie!’

      ‘Oh, right. Yeah.’ He stood to one side and swept his arm out in a grandiose gesture, as if he was a magician introducing his glamorous assistant. ‘Got a Dr Graham here to see La Monarch De Iceberg.’

      A woman stepped past Rennie, into the room. Short, big smile, tiny diamond earrings twinkling between strands of long blonde hair. Big brown boots, blue jeans, and a pink twinset. Petite and girly. She stuck out a thin hand for Logan to shake. It was like an industrial car crusher. ‘I hear you need a forensic anthropologist? ’

      Already?

      Logan took his hand back while it still worked. ‘You’re keen: we only put the call out an hour ago.’

      She flashed him a smile that made little crow’s feet around her eyes. ‘Are you kidding? Jobs like this are hen’s teeth: had to get here before any other bugger did. Forensic anthropology’s a cut-throat business.’

      ‘Dr Graham—’

      ‘April, please.’ She shook her head. ‘I blame the telly – they show all these glamorous actors running about the place, solving murders, then everyone and their dog thinks, “Hey, why don’t I train to be one of them bone people?” Seriously, you can’t throw a brick these days without braining two dozen unemployed forensic anthropologists.’

      ‘That’s very—’

      ‘You know,’ she frowned up at him, ‘you should’ve put some ice on that, it would’ve brought the swelling down. Might be too late now, but it’s probably still worth a go. Trust me: if there’s one thing I know, it’s being punched in the face.’

      Logan’s fingers stroked the side of his swollen nose. ‘OK. . .’

      ‘Are the remains ready? ’ She got a step closer. ‘I’d really like to get cracking as soon as I can.’

      He backed away, until the desktop dug into the back of his legs. Retreat no longer an option. ‘They’re through the house. . .’

      ‘Good stuff.’ She spun around, as if she was mounted on castors. ‘Right, lead the way, and we—’ Her pillow-sized handbag swung out as she turned, caught Isobel’s china mug and sent it flying.

      It hit the carpet tiles with a delicate ping, then shattered into a dozen glinting fragments.

      April stared down at it, mouth hanging open. She cleared her throat, clutched at the demon handbag, kneaded at the tan leather. ‘Oh God. . . It was an accident.’ She shuffled sideways, into the filing cabinet. ‘It . . . I’ll pay for it. I didn’t mean to break it.’

      Rennie hunkered down and picked a shard up between thumb and forefinger, dropping it into his palm. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just—’

      ‘No, you don’t understand, it. . . They’re just waiting for me to screw something up, so they can barge in and take over.’

      Logan leaned back against the desk. ‘They? ’

      ‘The other forensic anthropologists. I told you it was cut-throat, didn’t I? I’m good at my job, and it was an accident, and—’

      ‘It’s OK. We didn’t see anything, did we, Sergeant? ’

      Rennie dropped another sliver into his palm, then shook his head. ‘Mug? What mug? Was missing when we got here, someone probably nicked it. Bunch of thieving bastards round here.’

      April smiled at them, eyes shining. ‘Thanks.’

      Rennie picked up the last of the shards. ‘Don’t thank us – we didn’t do, or see, anything.’ He went to tip the remains into the wastepaper basket.

      Logan hit him. ‘Don’t be thick – she’s going to look there, isn’t she? Wrap it in toilet paper and dump it in the gents’ bin. Then go see if anyone’s caught Reuben yet.’

      A wink. ‘Got you.’ And he was off, cradling the shattered mug like a baby bird.

      Logan ushered April out into the corridor. ‘So, what, you just happened to be in the area? ’

      She followed him through the double doors into the cutting room. ‘It was on the news this morning. So I jumped in the car and called your pathologist – met her at the Forensic Society conference at RGU two years ago. In this job, it pays to network.’

      The doors whumped closed behind them, letting the air wrap them in its chilly arms. Not quite cold enough to make their breath plume, but close.

      Overhead strip-lights glinted back from the stainless-steel work surfaces, cutting tables, and wall of refrigerated drawers. White tiles clicked beneath Logan’s shoes as he marched over and read the labels slipped into the little holders on the doors. ‘UNKNOWN VICTIM: MURDER ~ 003613’ was second from the bottom on the left. He clacked up the handle and hauled the drawer out.

      April looked down at the white plastic body-bag. ‘Are forensics finished with trace evidence? ’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Everything’s done? ’

      ‘Just said that, didn’t I? ’

      ‘Good. In that case. . .’ She snapped on a pair blue nitrile gloves, took hold of the body-bag’s zip and pulled it down.

      The scent of raw meat and scorched barbecue oozed out into the cold room.

      ‘Hmm. . . I know it sounds daft, but it’s so nice to get a fresh one. Normally, the smell of them. . .’ She peered down at what was left of the head, up on her tiptoes, then down again, then left and right, as if she was expecting it to do something. Not touching anything. ‘I need a practising medical professional with five years’ experience, and you’ll have to sign a release.’

      ‘Isn’t my body.’ He looked at the mortuary doors. ‘If Dalrymple’s about, she can do it.’

      ‘There’s a fair bit of work to be done. . .’ April headed for the nearest cutting table and dumped her demon handbag