Shouldn’t you be trying to identify your dead body? ‘
Chief Superintendent McIntyre stood with her hands on her hips. Head thrust slightly forward and legs apart as she shouted, she looked like a fishwife berating her drunken husband. McLean had barely managed to stand up from the uncomfortable plastic chair in the hospital waiting room before she had started to tear him off a strip.
‘The PM wasn’t til half four.’ He glanced at his watch, shifted uncomfortably, wanting to take a step back, knowing that if he did so she would just move closer again until he was pinned against the far wall. ‘Guess I’m going to miss it now.’
‘Oh?’ McIntyre’s eyebrows arched. ‘Why’s that? It’s not as if you’re doing any good here.’
‘Well ... I ...’ McLean stopped talking. There was nothing he could usefully do from a hospital waiting room but assuage his guilt at almost getting one of his junior officers killed.
‘How’s Robertson, anyway?’ The chief superintendent leaned back, her angry expression softening.
‘He’s in surgery right now. They reckon he’s fractured his pelvis and broken his back. His spinal cord’s not severed though; they’re hoping he’ll be able to walk again.’
‘Thank Christ for small mercies. What the hell happened?’ McIntyre sat down, the bollocking over at least for now. McLean took the chair next to her.
‘He fell through the floor. Well, it collapsed underneath him. The fire investigator said the concrete had probably all blown away from the underside with the heat. It’s so bloody stupid. McGregor told us they’d built the place on top of an old close, but the plans didn’t say anything about a cellar. I guess they must have just forgotten all about it. Poor bloody Peter. He’s only just started. This’ll kill his career; even if he does make a full recovery it’s going to take months. Years even.’
‘He’ll be all right, Tony.’ McIntyre put her hand on McLean’s, a brief, comforting contact. ‘We look after our own.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s not as if we can spare the manpower, is it?’
‘No.’ McIntyre looked thoughtful for a moment, a half smile coming to her face as she thought of something. ‘We’ll just have to see about promoting someone to CID on a temporary basis. Same as happened to you, if I remember right. That turned out more or less OK, I suppose.’
‘Inspector McLean?’ A woman, too young surely to be a doctor, stood before them wearing a long white coat, a stethoscope and a weary expression.
‘Any news?’ McLean stood up.
‘They’ve just finished working on him. It’s ... well, it could have been a lot worse.’
‘He’ll be able to walk again?’
‘There’s hope. He’s got some inflammation around the break in his back. That’s putting pressure on the nerveright now, but it’s still intact. We won’t know for sure until he comes round, and we’re keeping him sedated for now.’
‘How long, before you know?’
‘Tomorrow. Maybe.’
‘Please, doctor, keep me informed.’ McIntyre stood up and handed over her card. The doctor looked at it, her eyes widening with surprise as she read. ‘There’s work and private numbers on there. Call any time. Day or night. As soon as you have any news.’ Then she turned on McLean. ‘And you can get over to the mortuary. We need an ID on this dead girl. And fast.’
‘Ah, Tony. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up. Did you not get my message?’
McLean let the door to the examination theatre swing closed behind him and tried not to breathe in the stench of death. Across the small room, Angus Cadwallader was up to his elbows in the dead young woman, aided as ever by his shadow, Tracy. She smiled at McLean as she held up a stainless-steel specimen tray ready to receive some no-longer-required internal organ. The scowling form of Dr Bairnsfather lurked a few feet behind the table, necessary witness to the proceedings.
‘I knew you’d
Chief Superintendent McIntyre stood with her hands on her hips. Head thrust slightly forward and legs apart as she shouted, she looked like a fishwife berating her drunken husband. McLean had barely managed to stand up from the uncomfortable plastic chair in the hospital waiting room before she had started to tear him off a strip.
‘The PM wasn’t til half four.’ He glanced at his watch, shifted uncomfortably, wanting to take a step back, knowing that if he did so she would just move closer again until he was pinned against the far wall. ‘Guess I’m going to miss it now.’
‘Oh?’ McIntyre’s eyebrows arched. ‘Why’s that? It’s not as if you’re doing any good here.’
‘Well ... I ...’ McLean stopped talking. There was nothing he could usefully do from a hospital waiting room but assuage his guilt at almost getting one of his junior officers killed.
‘How’s Robertson, anyway?’ The chief superintendent leaned back, her angry expression softening.
‘He’s in surgery right now. They reckon he’s fractured his pelvis and broken his back. His spinal cord’s not severed though; they’re hoping he’ll be able to walk again.’
‘Thank Christ for small mercies. What the hell happened?’ McIntyre sat down, the bollocking over at least for now. McLean took the chair next to her.
‘He fell through the floor. Well, it collapsed underneath him. The fire investigator said the concrete had probably all blown away from the underside with the heat. It’s so bloody stupid. McGregor told us they’d built the place on top of an old close, but the plans didn’t say anything about a cellar. I guess they must have just forgotten all about it. Poor bloody Peter. He’s only just started. This’ll kill his career; even if he does make a full recovery it’s going to take months. Years even.’
‘He’ll be all right, Tony.’ McIntyre put her hand on McLean’s, a brief, comforting contact. ‘We look after our own.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s not as if we can spare the manpower, is it?’
‘No.’ McIntyre looked thoughtful for a moment, a half smile coming to her face as she thought of something. ‘We’ll just have to see about promoting someone to CID on a temporary basis. Same as happened to you, if I remember right. That turned out more or less OK, I suppose.’
‘Inspector McLean?’ A woman, too young surely to be a doctor, stood before them wearing a long white coat, a stethoscope and a weary expression.
‘Any news?’ McLean stood up.
‘They’ve just finished working on him. It’s ... well, it could have been a lot worse.’
‘He’ll be able to walk again?’
‘There’s hope. He’s got some inflammation around the break in his back. That’s putting pressure on the nerveright now, but it’s still intact. We won’t know for sure until he comes round, and we’re keeping him sedated for now.’
‘How long, before you know?’
‘Tomorrow. Maybe.’
‘Please, doctor, keep me informed.’ McIntyre stood up and handed over her card. The doctor looked at it, her eyes widening with surprise as she read. ‘There’s work and private numbers on there. Call any time. Day or night. As soon as you have any news.’ Then she turned on McLean. ‘And you can get over to the mortuary. We need an ID on this dead girl. And fast.’
‘Ah, Tony. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up. Did you not get my message?’
McLean let the door to the examination theatre swing closed behind him and tried not to breathe in the stench of death. Across the small room, Angus Cadwallader was up to his elbows in the dead young woman, aided as ever by his shadow, Tracy. She smiled at McLean as she held up a stainless-steel specimen tray ready to receive some no-longer-required internal organ. The scowling form of Dr Bairnsfather lurked a few feet behind the table, necessary witness to the proceedings.
‘I knew you’d
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