LITMIR.BIZ

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back arched, pregnant bulges sticking out, hands rubbing at the base of her spine. Eyes closed, teeth gritted. ‘Ungh. . . You know, when I had Sean I held off going on maternity leave until the last possible moment. Won’t be making that mistake again.’

      Behind her, the Anatomical Pathology Technician was slotting the victim’s ribcage back into place, whistling the theme tune to Dr Who as she worked.

      Logan dropped his facemask and gloves in the bin. Then unzipped his SOC suit. ‘Cause of death? ’

      ‘I need a sit down first.’ She waddled towards the door. ‘And maybe a nice cup of camomile tea.’

      Logan followed her through into the pathologists’ office – a small room with two desks facing opposite walls. One was covered with stacks of paperwork, the other completely clear, except for a power-lead and an empty in-tray.

      Isobel groaned her way into the seat and puffed out her cheeks. Stuck her legs out and rotated the feet at the ankles. First one way, and then the other. ‘Are you sure you don’t want an analgesic? ’

      He shrugged one shoulder. ‘The only benefit of a punch on the nose – can’t smell the post mortem. And I had some paracetamol before we started.’

      ‘You always were such a martyr.’ She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a blister pack of pills. ‘Take two. No alcohol for six hours.’

      Logan popped a couple of tablets out onto his palm, then knocked them back dry. Like a pro.

      Isobel nodded. ‘Damage above the fire line was extensive, the dermis and epidermis are virtually gone. But it looks as if whoever killed him shaved him first. No hair on the head, groin, armpits, or chest, and they didn’t do a particularly smooth job of it either.’

      She dumped the pills back in her desk. ‘In addition to the shaving and burning tyre, your victim was stabbed three times, left-hand side. Twice between the fourth and fifth rib, once between the fifth and sixth. The first two punctured the lung; the third went straight into the left ventricle, rupturing the heart.’ She levered her right shoe off with the toe of the left. Let it clunk to the threadbare carpet tiles. ‘Oh, that’s better. . .’

      An off-white kettle sat on top of a filing cabinet. Logan stuck it on to boil. ‘So the burning didn’t kill him? ’

      ‘The ribcage was full of blood, so the knife wound was definitely ante-mortem. Mind you, given the state of his liver, he would probably have been dead within eighteen months. Your victim was a very heavy drinker: his stomach had nothing but alcohol in it. Something else – the hyoid bone was cracked.’

      ‘Stabbed, burned, and strangled? ’

      ‘No. Strangulation is a binary state, you’re either strangled, or you’re alive. Your victim aspirated smoke into his lungs, so he was still breathing when the tyre was set alight.’ She levered off her other shoe. ‘So it’s more like: burned, strangled, then stabbed.’

      ‘Hmmm. . .’

      The kettle rumbled and rattled, then clicked and went quiet again. Logan popped a camomile teabag in a bone-china mug. It was decorated with a kid’s drawing – a skeleton lying on a table, while a stick-figure woman in a green dress stood over it with a big bloody knife. The words ‘MUMMY AT WORK’ picked out in wobbly lowercase. He poured boiled water into the mug, filling the room with the smell of dead flowers, then handed it over. ‘It’d have to be strangled, burned, then stabbed. No one’s going to be daft enough to strangle someone who’s on fire, are they? ’

      ‘Unless the hyoid bone was damaged by heat, rather than compression. It’s an incredibly delicate structure, we’re lucky it survived at all.’ Isobel blew steam from the surface of her tea before taking a sip. ‘I hear you’re having problems identifying the body? ’

      ‘Still waiting on DNA. Bloody SPSA reorganization means everything takes three times as long.’ He spooned some instant coffee granules into a second mug.

      ‘A forensic anthropologist could work up a facial reconstruction from the remains. That would help, wouldn’t it? ’

      Logan pulled a face. ‘Steel’s already got a wasp in her pants about the CID budget. We’re not to authorize anything without her say-so. And I’m guessing forensic anthropologists don’t come cheap.’

      ‘About the same as a decent childminder.’ A scowl. ‘Or a thieving au pair.’

      ‘What do I look like, made of money? ’ DCI Steel’s voice echoed around the office. ‘DNA’s still our best bet – you don’t get bumped off like that in a mob hit and not be dirty.’

      ‘But a forensic anthropologist—’

      ‘No. N.O. spells: “shut up and stop bugging me about forensic anthropologists.”’ She slumped back in her office chair. ‘Take the sodding hint.’

      ‘But Isobel—’

      ‘I don’t care if the Ice Queen wants raspberry ripple ice cream with brown sauce and gherkins, we’re waiting for the DNA.’ Steel scrubbed at her face with her hands. ‘He’ll be in the system.’

      Ah well, can’t say he hadn’t tried.

      ‘What about Reuben? ’

      She narrowed her eyes. ‘What about him? ’

      For God’s sake. ‘Have they picked him up yet? ’

      ‘Do you really think I’ve no’ got more important things to worry about than who punched you on the bloody nose? You probably deserved it.’ She held up a hand, thumb and forefinger squeezed tightly together. ‘Hell, I’m this far away from doing it myself!’

      ‘Thanks. Thanks for the support. Really appreciate it.’ Logan marched out of her office and slammed the door behind him. ‘Cow.’

      ‘I heard that!’

      Of course she did. Ears like a bloody vampire bat. He stuck two fingers up at the wood.

      The corridor funnelled the noise from the main CID room, open-plan muttering and barely controlled chaos. Greasy coils of garlic, salami, and cheese tentacled through the air carrying with them the ghosts of pizzas past. His stomach gurgled.

      Somewhere, deep within his head, someone was doing a Steve McQueen impersonation from the Great Escape, hurling that bloody baseball against the walls of the cooler. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

      He turned his back on the siren scent and slouched through to his own office instead. A lanky figure with sticky-up blond hair was draped all over the visitor’s chair, feet up on Logan’s desk. Eyes closed, head back, mouth hanging open, making little grunting noises.

      Logan opened one of the filing cabinet drawers, then slammed it shut.

      ‘Gaaah!’ DS Rennie jerked upright in his seat, eyes like nervous pingpong balls, jittering feet sending a pile of forms scattering to the carpet. ‘I’m awake, I’m awake.’

      ‘What are you still doing here? ’ The old office chair creaked as Logan settled into it. ‘You were snoring.’

      Rennie stretched: arms up to the ceiling, legs hovering an inch over the tabletop. ‘You’ve been ages. . .’

      ‘Post mortem.’ What the hell happened to his desk? The whole thing was covered in other people’s paperwork. Why did every lazy sod in CID think this was the perfect place to dump their crap? ‘Now get your bloody feet off my desk.’

      ‘Sorry, Guv.’ Rennie screwed the palm of one hand into his eye socket, yawned again, shuddered, then sagged in the chair like someone had stolen all of his bones. ‘Went through all the witness statements and CCTV footage from the jewellery heist: three males, all in their late teens – early twenties. Local accents. Initial getaway car from the scene was a VW Golf.’ He hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his armpits. ‘Cold in here.’

      Logan

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