Read Online The Turning Tide by Brooke Magnanti - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brooke Magnanti
Ads: Link
bone,’ Iain said. ‘It didn’t look fractured at first, but it is.’
‘Which means what?’
‘Well,’ Iain crossed his arms over his aproned chest, seemingly unaware of the brown fluid dripping off his gloves over his front, ‘we often see them broken in strangulations. So, this could be a strangulation gone wrong.’
‘Could be. Or . . . ?’ Dougie gulped.
‘Or, it could have happened when whoever was getting rid of the body stuffed him into the bag. Tough to tell either way.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s a thin bone, and the fracture point is pretty high in post-mortems where violence is involved,’ he said. ‘Not being connected to anything makes it more vulnerable to breaking.’
Dougie had passed through the sweating stage to the stage where he was just clammy and shivering. Iain reckoned the lad had a minute on his feet, tops.
‘Doctor, are you after the head?’ Iain asked Harriet. He set up a side table with a face mask and the skull saw, but hadn’t peeled back the scalp yet.
‘No thanks,’ she said, looking up from where she was poring over the X-rays Iain had taken earlier. ‘It’s brain soup in there. We have a cause of death, no point going further.’
Ian grunted his assent and unfurled a black bit of plastic from a roll.
‘What’s that?’ Dougie asked.
‘Bin bags – ten for one of your fine Scottish pounds at the supermarket in Cameron Bridge,’ Iain said. ‘Best deal on the high street.’
‘No, I mean what’s it for?’ Dougie asked. His voice was as weak as a sick child’s.
‘This is for the organs when the examination’s finished,’ Iain said. He started scooping the organs from the washing up basin into the bag with his hands. In the periphery of his vision he saw the photographer pitching and rolling like a ship on the sea. ‘Normally they go back in the abdomen and we pop the ribs back on. Then it’s stitched up. But this one’s a wee bit far gone for an open casket, wouldn’t you say?’ He had hardly finished the sentence when Dougie’s limp body hit the floor.
‘Bloody hell, not another one,’ Harriet Hitchin said. ‘Iain, hold his feet up while I get the smelling salts.’ She strode across the room to the first aid kit by the sink. It rarely saw action apart from fainting photographers and students. Not much call for first aid in a mortuary, seeing as most of the visitors there were already dead. ‘And tell Alastair to stop bringing us the newbies.’
The sound of a phone made them both jump. ‘New security doorbell,’ Iain said and gestured to a phone and screen on the wall. ‘Bet it’s Alastair. Typical of him to turn up now that all the action is finished. Go on, buzz him in.’
‘It’s not Alastair.’ Harriet checked out the black-and-white monitor. ‘This is going to sound odd, but . . . it looks a bit like that MP,’ she said. ‘You know, Morag the Moaner?’
‘A real live politician?’ Iain whistled. ‘Must be my lucky day. Well, let her in then.’
: 5 :
Morag Munro smoothed her silver streaked bob behind her ears and checked to make sure no one was was coming up the road. She was recognisable to most of the population of Cameron Bridge and if anyone saw her at the mortuary it would surely be the talk of the pubs for days. Luckily the building was halfway up a glen and off the tourist drag. Cameron Bridge was even deader up this end than usual.
No pun intended.
She rang again. If no one answered soon she would have to go, or else risk missing the second sleeper service. She had sent Arjun down to London on an earlier train. ‘I have some paperwork to finish up,’ she said, assuring him she would be back at Westminster and raring to go before nine a.m. tomorrow.
The door finally cracked open. ‘Good afternoon!’ she said, and gave her best neighbourhood-canvassing smile. Morag offered her hand to the scarecrow-haired woman in wellies and a green plastic apron who opened the door. ‘Is your
‘Which means what?’
‘Well,’ Iain crossed his arms over his aproned chest, seemingly unaware of the brown fluid dripping off his gloves over his front, ‘we often see them broken in strangulations. So, this could be a strangulation gone wrong.’
‘Could be. Or . . . ?’ Dougie gulped.
‘Or, it could have happened when whoever was getting rid of the body stuffed him into the bag. Tough to tell either way.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s a thin bone, and the fracture point is pretty high in post-mortems where violence is involved,’ he said. ‘Not being connected to anything makes it more vulnerable to breaking.’
Dougie had passed through the sweating stage to the stage where he was just clammy and shivering. Iain reckoned the lad had a minute on his feet, tops.
‘Doctor, are you after the head?’ Iain asked Harriet. He set up a side table with a face mask and the skull saw, but hadn’t peeled back the scalp yet.
‘No thanks,’ she said, looking up from where she was poring over the X-rays Iain had taken earlier. ‘It’s brain soup in there. We have a cause of death, no point going further.’
Ian grunted his assent and unfurled a black bit of plastic from a roll.
‘What’s that?’ Dougie asked.
‘Bin bags – ten for one of your fine Scottish pounds at the supermarket in Cameron Bridge,’ Iain said. ‘Best deal on the high street.’
‘No, I mean what’s it for?’ Dougie asked. His voice was as weak as a sick child’s.
‘This is for the organs when the examination’s finished,’ Iain said. He started scooping the organs from the washing up basin into the bag with his hands. In the periphery of his vision he saw the photographer pitching and rolling like a ship on the sea. ‘Normally they go back in the abdomen and we pop the ribs back on. Then it’s stitched up. But this one’s a wee bit far gone for an open casket, wouldn’t you say?’ He had hardly finished the sentence when Dougie’s limp body hit the floor.
‘Bloody hell, not another one,’ Harriet Hitchin said. ‘Iain, hold his feet up while I get the smelling salts.’ She strode across the room to the first aid kit by the sink. It rarely saw action apart from fainting photographers and students. Not much call for first aid in a mortuary, seeing as most of the visitors there were already dead. ‘And tell Alastair to stop bringing us the newbies.’
The sound of a phone made them both jump. ‘New security doorbell,’ Iain said and gestured to a phone and screen on the wall. ‘Bet it’s Alastair. Typical of him to turn up now that all the action is finished. Go on, buzz him in.’
‘It’s not Alastair.’ Harriet checked out the black-and-white monitor. ‘This is going to sound odd, but . . . it looks a bit like that MP,’ she said. ‘You know, Morag the Moaner?’
‘A real live politician?’ Iain whistled. ‘Must be my lucky day. Well, let her in then.’
: 5 :
Morag Munro smoothed her silver streaked bob behind her ears and checked to make sure no one was was coming up the road. She was recognisable to most of the population of Cameron Bridge and if anyone saw her at the mortuary it would surely be the talk of the pubs for days. Luckily the building was halfway up a glen and off the tourist drag. Cameron Bridge was even deader up this end than usual.
No pun intended.
She rang again. If no one answered soon she would have to go, or else risk missing the second sleeper service. She had sent Arjun down to London on an earlier train. ‘I have some paperwork to finish up,’ she said, assuring him she would be back at Westminster and raring to go before nine a.m. tomorrow.
The door finally cracked open. ‘Good afternoon!’ she said, and gave her best neighbourhood-canvassing smile. Morag offered her hand to the scarecrow-haired woman in wellies and a green plastic apron who opened the door. ‘Is your
Similar Books
