Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas (short stories). Stuart MacBride

report. ‘Let me guess: suicide?’

      ‘Two of them. Antisocial bastards.’ She slipped the guy’s lower intestine into a clear plastic pouch, sealed it, then hurled it into the open body cavity. ‘Like we’ve got nothing better to do than piss about here dissecting them. Some of us had plans for tonight!’

      ‘Don’t sweat it. We’ll process the paperwork tonight and carve them tomorrow. Consider it a Christmas bonus.’

      Sandra stuffed the last of the bags into place, jammed the ribcage back on, then rolled the fatty skin back over the top, sewing it up with angry blanket stitches. She checked the clock on the wall: Six fifteen. She was already late, and two sets of paperwork were only going to make it worse.

      Elvis danced for her as she wrestled the body back onto its refrigerated shelf and slammed the stainless steel door shut. She grabbed her mobile and stomped off to the viewing room to call Kevin, away from the professor’s big hairy ears.

      The little room was practically empty: just her; a vase full of artificial lilies; and the table they stuck dead bodies on. The families would troop into the soundproofed room opposite, look through the curtained window at what was left of their loved one, cry a bit. . . Then someone would say, ‘sorry for your loss’ and the dearly departed would be wheeled away so Professor Muir could gut them like a fish. All very tasteful.

      ‘Kevin?’

      The telltale click-hisssssss of the answering machine picking up, then it went into its pre-recorded routine: Kevin singing a bit of Pink Floyd’s ‘Comfortably Numb’, only with different words. Asking her to leave a message. ‘Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. . .’

      ‘Kevin? Look I know I’m late, but I’ll make it up to you, OK? Ewan’s pulling a green shift, so I’m yours all night. Better make sure you’ve got some baby oil in, cause I’ve got a surprise for. . .’ A clunk on the line. ‘Kevin? Kevin, is that you?’ And then a metallic voice thanked her for calling, and hung up. ‘Shite.’

      Maybe he’d gone out? Flounced off in a huff because she was late? No, Kevin wouldn’t do that to her, not when she’d blown forty quid on a kinky French maid’s outfit from the Naughty Knicker Shop on Barnston Street at lunchtime. He’d definitely want to be around for that.

      She stuck the mobile back in her pocket, rearranged her underwear, looked up. And nearly wet herself. There was a man on the other side of the observation window, staring in at her. . .

      Christ sake: it was Ewan with his face pressed up against the glass, leering. She slammed her hand against the window, making him flinch back. ‘You scared the life out of me!’

      He was wearing a yellow high-viz jacket over the top of his police uniform, the peaked cap speckled with raindrops. Not bad looking in a thin, George Clooney kind of way. Well, George Clooney crossed with John Cleese. He grinned like an idiot, mouthing something dirty at her through the glass, even though he knew the room was soundproofed.

      She marched back into the cutting room.

      DI ‘Stinky’ McClain – a hairy wee man with a face like a used condom – stood with his back to the wall of refrigerated drawers, sharing a joke with Professor Muir. ‘So the receptionist pulls up her knickers and says, “It’s never done that before!”’ He laughed, jowls jiggling. ‘“It’s never done that before.” Get it?’ Then waved at a tall, old, grave-looking man from the local funeral directors. ‘Come on, Unwin, haven’t got all night.’

      Mr Unwin raised an eyebrow as he wheeled a stainless steel coffin in from the loading bay. ‘Patience is a virtue, Inspector. The dead will not be rushed.’ He activated the trolley’s brake with a shiny black shoe, then headed back out for the other body.

      This would be their double suicide then.

      Sandra followed the undertaker out into the hallway.

      Ewan was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. He grabbed her, planting a big wet kiss right on her mouth. ‘What you still doing here? Thought you’d be home with Emma by now.’

      Heat bloomed across Sandra’s cheeks. She pulled herself free. ‘Mum’s looking after her. And I’d be home by now if it wasn’t for you and your bloody suicides.’

      He shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, that’s Christmas for you. Listen, I was thinking. . .’ He grabbed her again, wrapping his hands around her buttocks. ‘If you’ve got nothing on for the next fifteen minutes, maybe we could find a nice quiet room and—’

      ‘No you bloody don’t! Randy sod.’ She backed away. ‘You and your gonads can. . .’

      Mr Unwin reappeared in the hallway, the wheels on his gurney squeaking as he pushed it through into the cutting room.

      ‘Look, I got to go, OK? Sooner we get started on this pair, the sooner I get home.’

      A playful smile sneaked its way onto his face. ‘Maybe when I get home. . .?’ Ever the optimist.

      ‘Fat chance! Some of us have to get up for work in the morning.’

      The smile vanished. ‘How’s Emma ever going to get a baby brother if we never do it? I could dress up: would that help? You know, be a fireman, or a doctor, or something?’

      Change the subject. ‘So, what we got – pair of oldies?’

      ‘Naw.’ He took her hand and led her back towards the dissecting room, where Professor Muir and Mr Unwin were hefting a dark-blue body-bag onto one of the mortuary’s examination tables. ‘Quite romantic really: man and woman, both early twenties, found holding hands on the bed. Painkillers, sleeping pills, and a big bottle of milk.’

      ‘What the hell’s romantic about that?’

      ‘Decided they just couldn’t live without each other. If one of them was going to die, they were both going to die.’

      ‘Oh yeah?’

      Professor Muir unzipped the bag, revealing a pretty blonde woman. Upturned nose, small overbite, and bright-red lips. Her face was plastered with make-up, hiding the bloodless yellow waxy pall of death. But from the neck down she was all corpse. And not a natural blonde either.

      ‘So which one was dying? Let me guess, she–’

      ‘It was him. We found a letter from the hospital: test results. Turns out his HIV just got upgraded to full-blown AIDS.’

      She scowled. ‘Great, just what we need – a pair of fucking biohazards. They take forever.’

      ‘Yeah, well, you just make sure you take care, OK?’ He patted her on the arse. ‘Don’t want nothing happening to my woman.’

      She didn’t bother answering that, just stomped across the room as Muir and the undertaker manhandled the other body-bag out of its stainless steel coffin. ‘Better watch out,’ she pointed at the bag, ‘this one’s got AIDS.’

      The professor swore, then pulled on a surgical mask and another pair of latex gloves. Scowled in DI ‘Stinky’ McClain’s direction. ‘No one bloody tells me anything.’ He hauled down the zip, zwwwwwwwwwwwwip . . . and there was Kevin.

      The floor wobbled beneath Sandra’s feet.

      It was Kevin. Kevin was dead. Kevin was lying on his back, on a cutting slab, staring up at the mortuary ceiling with a faraway look in his glassy eyes.

      She stumbled back a couple of steps. He had AIDS! Just two days ago they’d had unprotected sex in a ‘dangerous area’: the multi-storey car park behind Marks and Spencer. The bastard never even told her he was HIV positive!

      Oh fuck. . .

      ‘Sandra?’ Good old Ewan, at her side in a flash, playing the big, strong husband. ‘You OK?’

      She couldn’t take her eyes off Kevin’s dead face.

      The cheating, dirty, diseased, two-timing