Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

the turtleneck pulled up over her nose and mouth, like a makeshift facemask. ‘Britain’s too small – remains get found too quickly. What you want is somewhere like America, or Australia, dump your victim out there and it’ll stay hidden for years.’

      She placed the head down on a white plastic tray. It rocked a couple of times, then lay there, screaming up at the ceiling with its cracked yellow teeth.

      Logan adjusted his mask. ‘How long’s this going to take? ’

      On the other side of the room, the duty doctor sat in one of the chairs dragged through from the staff room. Dr Ramsey: a short man in a baggy suit, with a threadbare goatee beard, chubby cheeks, a mini-quiff at the front and a bald patch at the back; Ramsey had his feet up on an empty brain bucket, and his head buried in a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner. ‘MAN BURNED TO DEATH IN SICK “NECKLACING” MURDER’ in big black letters above a photo of the Joyriders’ Graveyard out by Thainstone Mart. ‘Well, you could always move.’

      ‘Don’t get me wrong: I’ve thought about it a couple of times, but I’d miss Scotland too much. All that sunshine and warm weather just isn’t natural. Mind you, must be nice not to have to fight for every single job.’

      ‘Dr Graham: how long? ’

      The forensic anthropologist glanced up at him. ‘Well, I’ve got to remove the residual skin, clean the skull, work out the correct tissue depth, add the markers, model the musculature, then the skin, hair. . . Like I said, it’s a fair bit of work, but obviously I’ll go as fast as I—’

      A loud bang came from outside, in the corridor: the mortuary door slamming against the wall. Then a voice: ‘WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS SHE? ’

      April wrapped her gloved hands around the head. Bared her teeth. ‘Dempsey.’

      BOOM and the cutting-room doors flew open. A man stood on the threshold, his round face flushed and trembling. Two streaks of grey ran back across his head from the temples, as if he’d been a badger in a former life. It went with the yellowy-tweed suit. He jabbed a sausage finger at April. ‘You unprofessional bitch!’

      Rennie stumbled in after him. ‘If you don’t calm down, sir, I’m going to have to—’

      He spun around. ‘Don’t let her fool you: this is my job, not hers. She’s got no business being here.’

      April cradled the head against her chest, pressing the scorched flesh into the off-orange fabric. ‘That’s not fair, Jack, I got here first.’

      ‘I have an agreement!’ He threw his chest out, shoulders back. ‘And it’s Doctor Dempsey to you, Graham.’ He dug into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘See? The local pathologist called in my services, not yours. Now put down my remains and go peddle your clumsy excuse for forensic anthropology somewhere else.’

      Still holding the head with one arm, she grabbed the clipboard from the cutting table. ‘I’ve got a release, do you have a release? No, you don’t.’

      ‘Don’t you “I’ve got a release” me: you only got that under false pretences. This is my job and you bloody well know it!’

      Rennie took the sheet of paper from Dempsey’s hand and peered at it for a moment. Then looked up at Logan. ‘It’s from Pukey Pete. Blah, blah, blah, Dr Peter Forsyth cordially invites you to assist with the identification of an unknown male found last night suffering from severe burns to the head, neck, and chest. . .’

      ‘See? I told you: this is my job.’ He beamed, teeth bared, eyes narrowed to piggy little slits. ‘Now sling your hook, Graham.’

      April brought her chin up. ‘I was asked to come by Dr McAllister.’

      ‘Well I was asked first.’

      Raised voices echoed down the corridor, the noise amplified by all the cold hard surfaces in the cutting room. Rennie peered through the gap between the doors. ‘They’re still going at it.’

      ‘Pffff. . .’ Logan hissed out a breath, then leaned back against the corridor wall. ‘Any news? ’

      Blank look. Then a blink. ‘Oh, right: Reuben. No. They’ve tried his house, Wee Hamish’s place, the garage in Mastrick, all the bookies he runs, the docks. . .’ Shrug. ‘He’s gone all ninja on us.’

      Sod. He let his head rest against the gritty wallpaper. At least the ants were fading away. ‘Fancy a cup of tea? ’

      ‘You sure we should just leave them alone? What if they start smashing things up? ’

      ‘Why do you think I locked the remains back in the fridge? Anyway, if they break anything, Isobel will hunt them down and kill them.’ Logan pushed the door to the pathologists’ office open. ‘Get the kettle on, and. . .’

      Dr Forsyth was hunched over his desk, cheeks glistening with tears as he packed files and personal effects into a large cardboard box. Out of his rumpled SOC suit, he was still . . . rumpled. A small man with a neatly trimmed beard and a pair of thick glasses in NHS-black frames. He flinched. Stared at Logan for a breath, then went back to clearing out his desk.

      Rennie grabbed the kettle from the top of the filing cabinet and gave it a shoogle. It barely sloshed. ‘Afternoon, Doc. Fancy a brew? ’

      ‘I’m. . . I handed in my resignation.’

      ‘Ah. Right.’ Rennie backed out into the corridor again, pointing towards the cutting room. ‘I’ll fill the kettle, get it on, and we can all . . . have a nice cuppa.’

      Logan waited until the door closed behind him. ‘Are you OK? ’

      A sniff. ‘No. That’s the point.’ He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘I can’t do this any more. All the pain and the suffering and the relatives and the press and the courts and the bloody press. . .’

      A smile. ‘You said “press” twice.’

      ‘Did you know they doorstepped me for that Rubislaw Den murder? Right outside my house. I was taking Natasha to playgroup. . .’ He dumped a box file in on top of some pilfered Post-it notes. ‘I’ve tried so hard to keep what I do separate, and they do something like that? ’ He wiped his hand across his cheeks, then dried it on the leg of his trousers. ‘And the smell. I wash and I wash and I wash and it never comes off. . .’

      Logan nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

      A knock came from the office door. Dr Ramsey was blinking at them from the corridor. ‘Turns out some shoplifter’s fallen down the stairs in the custody block.’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the bulk of FHQ. ‘If Tweedledee and Tweedledum ever stop shouting at each other, let me know.’

      ‘Thanks, Doc.’

      ‘Anthropologists. . .’ Ramsey rolled his eyes, then sloped off, shoes scuffing on the floor.

      Dr Forsyth hurled another manila folder into the box, following it up with one more for every word: ‘Just – can’t – take it – any more.’ He picked the box up, cradling it in his arms as if it were a severed head. ‘And all the time they’re telling us to cut costs, as if what we do is. . .’ He trembled, flecks of spittle frothing in the corners of his mouth. ‘Like we’re sitting about drinking coffee from golden mugs and eating bloody chocolates.’ A shrug. ‘Sorry. It’s just. . .’

      He lowered his head and shuffled from the room. As he opened the door, the raised voices came through again:

      ‘Oh, don’t give me that, Graham, you’ve always been jealous of my success!’

      ‘I’m not arguing with you about this, Dempsey. I was here first.’

      Dr Forsyth looked back over his shoulder. ‘Please. . .’ A frown. ‘Tell Isobel I stuck it for as long as I could.’

      ‘It’s my bloody job! Now pack up and bugger off!’

      ‘My