Outside Looking In. Michael Wood

      ‘The scan works like an X-ray and you have radiographers for that. That’s what Claire is. All I do is interpret the results.’

      ‘It’s not noisy is it?’ Matilda whispered. ‘I remember going to an MRI with James and I could have done with earplugs.’

      ‘Everything is less noisy these days; with the exception of a Dyson vacuum cleaner.’

      A ghost image of Kevin’s body appeared on the screen and looked like an X-ray. Leaning forward, Matilda frowned at the bright white objects on the body, but didn’t ask any questions. She’d save that for later.

      Claire singled out the head and rescanned to get a better image. A full 3D picture of Kevin’s head filled the screen. She rotated it several times to get a good look at it from all angles; something that wouldn’t be possible in a traditional post-mortem without physically turning the body over.

      ‘The entry wound of the bullet was just below the left eye. You can see the bevelling of the bone as it enters. The exit wound,’ Claire said as she tilted the 3D image to view the back of the head, ‘is here. Just above the base of the skull. Those white specks are metal fragments from the bullet.’

      Matilda’s question was answered.

      ‘What about the second bullet?’

      Going back to the full body scan, Claire selected a second region of interest, the chest, and looked closer. The impact the bullet had on the body was shocking to see in glorious technicolour. The ribs and organs were easily identifiable but were in a condition Matilda had never seen before.

      ‘The bullet entered the chest just below the heart.’ Claire pointed to a bright white object the exact shape of a bullet, which was firmly lodged in Kevin Hardaker’s body. ‘It shattered the ribs, as you can see. The rib fragment has punctured his left lung, which is why it’s deflated. He suffered a pneumothorax.’

      ‘Is that what killed him?’

      ‘It depends which bullet came first. Either one was enough to kill him.’

      ‘What about the beating he received? Would that have led to his death?’

      ‘It’s not easy to pick up bruising on these scans but we can see where blood has settled. Look here,’ she said, pointing to the screen, ‘on the right side of his ribcage there are several fractures in the ribs. This doesn’t follow the trajectory of the bullet in his chest, so must have come from where he was kicked or beaten with something.’

      ‘So the killer was standing over Kevin while he was on the ground, and shot him?’

      ‘It wasn’t at point-blank range,’ Adele said. ‘There were no burns on the skin.’

      ‘My point is the beating came first. He’s given a kicking, fractured ribs, bruising, the works. Then, when he’s down, the killer fires into his chest and face, finishing him off.’

      ‘That’s about the shape and size of it, yes,’ Claire said.

      Matilda gave the nod to Adele and they left the room. The scanner room was hot and Matilda had a sheen of sweat on her face. Neither of them said a word until they were in Adele’s office.

      ‘Bloody hell, how do you stand it in there?’ She picked up some tissues from Adele’s desk and wiped her face.

      ‘It does get a tad warm. Are you OK? You look flushed.’

      ‘I’m fine. Poor bloke. He wasn’t shown an ounce of mercy was he?’

      ‘Not in the slightest. I don’t envy your job at all. Whoever did it sounds like a nasty piece of work. What do you think of our new equipment?’

      ‘It’s very impressive. It’s a bit ghoulish watching a floating head rotate a full three-sixty but I can’t believe how clear everything is. You can actually see the path the bullet takes in the body. Frightening, but fascinating.’

      ‘I’m pleased you think so.’

      ‘So you won’t have to cut him open now?’

      ‘No. Well, not for a post-mortem. We’ll need to get the bullet out of him, obviously, so your forensic people can find out what kind of gun was used. We’ll get a report and I’ll read it and the coroner will read it but I think it’s pretty self-explanatory how he died. There should be no need to go in with a scalpel.’

      ‘It’s a bit more dignified isn’t it?’

      ‘Absolutely. It’s not nice for the family knowing their loved ones are naked on a slab having their insides removed.’

      ‘It depends if you like them or not,’ Matilda laughed. ‘Is anyone working on developing a scan that will reveal the name of the killer?’

      ‘I think for that you’ll need a doctor more qualified than I am. Preferably one with a sonic screwdriver.’

       EIGHT

      Martin Craven approached the front desk of the police station like a member of the walking dead. His eyes were circled red and bloodshot, his hair a tangled mess, and his face was grey and sallow. His suit, one he had worn for work the previous day, was creased and stained.

      ‘I want to report my wife missing,’ he said in a voice affected by lack of sleep and too much caffeine.

      The uniformed sergeant behind the desk didn’t even blink. He had seen it all over the years; people came to the counter with all kinds of stories ranging from the bland to the bizarre. A missing person was banal in comparison.

      ‘When did you last see your wife, sir?’

      He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Holding on to the counter for balance he spoke slowly with determination. ‘She left for work yesterday morning. She was due home about eight o’clock last night, but never arrived. Her mobile was going straight to voicemail. By ten o’clock I started phoning around her friends but they hadn’t heard from her. This morning I called her work but she hasn’t turned up. They said she was there until five o’clock yesterday and left as normal. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened at work either. She’s disappeared. I need you to find her.’

      DC Joseph Glass hoped training as a Family Liaison Officer would impress the bosses when it came to promotion time. He had been on several health and safety and first aid courses and was even a fire officer at South Yorkshire HQ. What he hadn’t expected was how unbelievably boring being an FLO was.

      He had spent most of the night wondering what to say to a tearful and desperate Alice Hardaker.

      ‘Should I wake the kids and tell them or wait until morning?’

      ‘Only you can answer that, Alice. I’ll provide you with whatever support I can though.’

      ‘How sure are you that it’s really Kevin?’

      ‘As sure as we can be at the moment.’

      ‘Do you think he suffered?’

      ‘I honestly don’t know, Alice.’

      This went on until the small hours of the morning until, physically and mentally drained, she had fallen asleep sitting up on the sofa. He had taken the eighth undrunk cup of tea from her hands and placed a throw over her to keep her warm. He returned to the armchair and waited. He managed an hour’s sleep at about three o’clock but woke with a start; his subconscious telling him he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He made another cup of tea, something he was becoming an expert in, and waited for Alice to wake up.

      At four o’clock, knowing his sister would have come off the late shift at the Children’s Hospital, he gave her a call.’

      ‘Morning, you’ll never guess what’s happened,’ he spoke quietly into his phone from the kitchen so as not to wake