important right now. As long as you get results, I’ll tolerate you on my team. OK?’
So much for building bridges. McLean nodded again, not trusting his mouth to speak only the words Duguid should hear, rather than the ones he was thinking.
‘Good. Now get down to the mortuary and see what your ghoul of a friend Cadwallader’s come up with.’
Dr Sharp looked up from her desk as McLean walked in. She smiled at him then went back to the game of solitaire on her computer. ‘He’s not back yet. You’ll have to wait,’ she said to the screen.
McLean didn’t mind, really. Watching dead bodies being cut up wasn’t much fun at the best of times, but the building had air conditioning that worked.
‘Did you get back any results on the dead girl yet, Tracy?’ he asked.
Sighing, she clicked off the screen and turned to an overflowing in-tray. ‘Let’s see ...’ She leafed through the mess, pulled out a single sheet of paper. ‘Here we are. Hmm. More than fifty years ago.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Well, no. She was killed less than three hundred years ago, but because it was more than fifty years ago we can’t pin it down any closer, I’m afraid. Not with carbon dating, anyway.’
‘How’s that work then?’
‘Thank the Americans. They started doing nuclear testing in the forties, but the really big stuff happened in the fifties. Filled the atmosphere with unnatural isotopes. We’re full of them, you and me. Anyone alive after about 1955’s full of them too. And once they die, the isotopes begin to decay. We can use that to tell how long ago death occurred, but only back to the mid-fifties. Your poor wee girl died before then.’
‘I see,’ McLean lied. ‘What about the preservation? What was used to do that?’
Tracy shuffled in the tray until she came up with another sheaf of papers.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing we can detect. As far as the tests go, she simply dried up.’
‘It can happen, Tony. Especially if all the blood and bodily fluids have already been removed.’ McLean looked around to see Cadwallader walking into the room. He held a small brown paper bag out to his assistant. ‘Avocado and bacon. They didn’t have any pastrami left.’
Tracy grabbed the bag, delving into it and pulling out a long brown baguette. The sight of it made McLean’s stomach gurgle. He realised he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Then he remembered what he was here for, and decided food was probably not the best idea.
‘Are you here for any particular reason, or did you just drop by to chat up my assistant?’ Cadwallader pulled off his jacket and hung it on the door, changed into a clean set of green scrubs.
‘Barnaby Smythe. I understand you’re examining him this afternoon.’
‘I thought he was Dagwood’s case.’
‘Smythe had a lot of powerful friends. I reckon McIntyre would pull every officer on the force in if she thought it would get the case solved more quickly. Pressure from above.’
‘There must be if she’s put you and old misery-guts together again. Oh well, let’s see if his remains yield up any clues.’
The body awaited them in the post-mortem room, laid out on a stainless-steel table and covered with a shiny white rubber sheet. McLean stood as far back as he could whilst Cadwallader set about Barnaby Smythe, finishingthe job that the killer had begun. The pathologist was meticulous in his work, examining the pale, firm flesh and inspecting the gaping wound.
‘Subject is in exceptionally good health for his age. Muscle tone suggests he took regular exercise. No signs of bruising or rope marks, suggesting he wasn’t tied whilst he was being cut open. This is consistent with the scene in which he was found. Hands are free of cuts and abrasions; he didn’t struggle or try to fend off his attacker.’
He moved towards Smythe’s head and neck, prising back the neat scar that ran around from ear to ear. ‘Throat has been cut with a sharp knife, probably not a
So much for building bridges. McLean nodded again, not trusting his mouth to speak only the words Duguid should hear, rather than the ones he was thinking.
‘Good. Now get down to the mortuary and see what your ghoul of a friend Cadwallader’s come up with.’
Dr Sharp looked up from her desk as McLean walked in. She smiled at him then went back to the game of solitaire on her computer. ‘He’s not back yet. You’ll have to wait,’ she said to the screen.
McLean didn’t mind, really. Watching dead bodies being cut up wasn’t much fun at the best of times, but the building had air conditioning that worked.
‘Did you get back any results on the dead girl yet, Tracy?’ he asked.
Sighing, she clicked off the screen and turned to an overflowing in-tray. ‘Let’s see ...’ She leafed through the mess, pulled out a single sheet of paper. ‘Here we are. Hmm. More than fifty years ago.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Well, no. She was killed less than three hundred years ago, but because it was more than fifty years ago we can’t pin it down any closer, I’m afraid. Not with carbon dating, anyway.’
‘How’s that work then?’
‘Thank the Americans. They started doing nuclear testing in the forties, but the really big stuff happened in the fifties. Filled the atmosphere with unnatural isotopes. We’re full of them, you and me. Anyone alive after about 1955’s full of them too. And once they die, the isotopes begin to decay. We can use that to tell how long ago death occurred, but only back to the mid-fifties. Your poor wee girl died before then.’
‘I see,’ McLean lied. ‘What about the preservation? What was used to do that?’
Tracy shuffled in the tray until she came up with another sheaf of papers.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing we can detect. As far as the tests go, she simply dried up.’
‘It can happen, Tony. Especially if all the blood and bodily fluids have already been removed.’ McLean looked around to see Cadwallader walking into the room. He held a small brown paper bag out to his assistant. ‘Avocado and bacon. They didn’t have any pastrami left.’
Tracy grabbed the bag, delving into it and pulling out a long brown baguette. The sight of it made McLean’s stomach gurgle. He realised he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Then he remembered what he was here for, and decided food was probably not the best idea.
‘Are you here for any particular reason, or did you just drop by to chat up my assistant?’ Cadwallader pulled off his jacket and hung it on the door, changed into a clean set of green scrubs.
‘Barnaby Smythe. I understand you’re examining him this afternoon.’
‘I thought he was Dagwood’s case.’
‘Smythe had a lot of powerful friends. I reckon McIntyre would pull every officer on the force in if she thought it would get the case solved more quickly. Pressure from above.’
‘There must be if she’s put you and old misery-guts together again. Oh well, let’s see if his remains yield up any clues.’
The body awaited them in the post-mortem room, laid out on a stainless-steel table and covered with a shiny white rubber sheet. McLean stood as far back as he could whilst Cadwallader set about Barnaby Smythe, finishingthe job that the killer had begun. The pathologist was meticulous in his work, examining the pale, firm flesh and inspecting the gaping wound.
‘Subject is in exceptionally good health for his age. Muscle tone suggests he took regular exercise. No signs of bruising or rope marks, suggesting he wasn’t tied whilst he was being cut open. This is consistent with the scene in which he was found. Hands are free of cuts and abrasions; he didn’t struggle or try to fend off his attacker.’
He moved towards Smythe’s head and neck, prising back the neat scar that ran around from ear to ear. ‘Throat has been cut with a sharp knife, probably not a
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