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Authors: Brooke Magnanti
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supervisor here?’
‘I’m Dr Hitchin.’ Harriet’s plummy voice revealed her irritation at being mistaken for the help. ‘I’m the pathologist.’
Morag paused a moment. She should be able to recognise the UK’s forensic pathologists cold; there were only about thirty of them. ‘Harriet, I remember now,’ she snapped her fingers. ‘You were the Home Office path on the Bulgarian nanny trial in Leeds, yes?’ An infant had died in the care of a nanny, with the prosecution arguing hard that it was the result of shaken baby syndrome, not cot death. Harriet’s testimony had been key to getting the conviction, though that was overturned on appeal after her record-keeping scandal emerged. ‘Sorry for not recognising you sooner,’ Morag said.
Harriet stood aside and let Morag enter. ‘Thank you. I do what I can in service of the law,’ she said.
‘So what brings the Shadow Home Secretary here?’ Iain shouted through the open door of the post-mortem suite. ‘We’ve already gone and voted for your precious Union, there’s no one to impress now.’
‘Sorry, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you over the . . . I guess you call that music?’ She raised her eyebrows at Harriet.
‘Cannibal Coffin,’ Iain said. ‘Best zombie-themed band coming out of Scandinavia these days.’
Morag deployed her static smile. Christ, what a plonker. ‘Lovely,’ she said. She and Harriet walked to the threshold of the PM suite. ‘I was passing through, on my way back to London tonight. National preparedness for mass disasters is coming up in committees and I thought that it would be good to have a chat with a manager here, to see how we’re prepared in the Highlands. In case there’s anything the facility needs from the Home Office to get up to scratch.’
Her eyes wandered over the walls, illuminated with flickering fluorescent lights. Outside the mortuary was nondescript, hardly discernible from the many ramshackle farm buildings on the edge of Cameron Bridge. Inside it looked like a horror set. Forget contingency plans and emergency preparedness. What the place needed was a wrecker’s ball.
‘Iain, turn the music off or I will,’ Harriet growled. He grumbled an oath in response but the racket stopped, severing Cannibal Coffin mid-wail.
‘Thank you so much,’ Morag said. ‘Do you think the facility would need any particular improvements to deal with a localised or regional crisis?’
‘What sort of improvements?’ Iain loped over to them. Morag’s sharp eyes took him in one look, from the rounded shoulders and heavy fists of a pub brawler to the cynical and pinched face of a disappointed Yes voter. Her fingers started to drum lightly against her thigh. This was a variety of man she knew well. The kind who had joined the SNP in their droves after the referendum with promises to vote her out, but with any luck had forgotten to turn up on polling day. All mouth and no kilt, as her father would say.
‘I think upgrading the facility is an excellent idea,’ Harriet Hitchin said. ‘We can never be too prepared for what might befall us.’ She paused. ‘If you need someone to head up a survey of the mass disaster capacity in Scotland . . .’ she babbled hopefully.
Morag could hear the edge of longing in Harriet’s voice, the hope for escape from this backwater, this go-nowhere post. Useful. She filed that titbit away on her mental Rolodex. She craned her head and tried to peek round the corner. ‘Could I perhaps see the rest of the building, or are you in the middle of something? I mean apart from the death metal?’
‘There’s a PM on,’ Harriet said. ‘Post-mortem, I mean, not the Prime Minister, ha ha.’ Morag smiled weakly. ‘You’re welcome to come through but it’s a ripe one.’ She pointed to a neatly folded lab coat. ‘Put this on over your clothes and grab a pair of wellies.’ She looked at Morag’s shiny red heels. ‘You’re a braver woman than me: I wouldn’t chance the
‘I’m Dr Hitchin.’ Harriet’s plummy voice revealed her irritation at being mistaken for the help. ‘I’m the pathologist.’
Morag paused a moment. She should be able to recognise the UK’s forensic pathologists cold; there were only about thirty of them. ‘Harriet, I remember now,’ she snapped her fingers. ‘You were the Home Office path on the Bulgarian nanny trial in Leeds, yes?’ An infant had died in the care of a nanny, with the prosecution arguing hard that it was the result of shaken baby syndrome, not cot death. Harriet’s testimony had been key to getting the conviction, though that was overturned on appeal after her record-keeping scandal emerged. ‘Sorry for not recognising you sooner,’ Morag said.
Harriet stood aside and let Morag enter. ‘Thank you. I do what I can in service of the law,’ she said.
‘So what brings the Shadow Home Secretary here?’ Iain shouted through the open door of the post-mortem suite. ‘We’ve already gone and voted for your precious Union, there’s no one to impress now.’
‘Sorry, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you over the . . . I guess you call that music?’ She raised her eyebrows at Harriet.
‘Cannibal Coffin,’ Iain said. ‘Best zombie-themed band coming out of Scandinavia these days.’
Morag deployed her static smile. Christ, what a plonker. ‘Lovely,’ she said. She and Harriet walked to the threshold of the PM suite. ‘I was passing through, on my way back to London tonight. National preparedness for mass disasters is coming up in committees and I thought that it would be good to have a chat with a manager here, to see how we’re prepared in the Highlands. In case there’s anything the facility needs from the Home Office to get up to scratch.’
Her eyes wandered over the walls, illuminated with flickering fluorescent lights. Outside the mortuary was nondescript, hardly discernible from the many ramshackle farm buildings on the edge of Cameron Bridge. Inside it looked like a horror set. Forget contingency plans and emergency preparedness. What the place needed was a wrecker’s ball.
‘Iain, turn the music off or I will,’ Harriet growled. He grumbled an oath in response but the racket stopped, severing Cannibal Coffin mid-wail.
‘Thank you so much,’ Morag said. ‘Do you think the facility would need any particular improvements to deal with a localised or regional crisis?’
‘What sort of improvements?’ Iain loped over to them. Morag’s sharp eyes took him in one look, from the rounded shoulders and heavy fists of a pub brawler to the cynical and pinched face of a disappointed Yes voter. Her fingers started to drum lightly against her thigh. This was a variety of man she knew well. The kind who had joined the SNP in their droves after the referendum with promises to vote her out, but with any luck had forgotten to turn up on polling day. All mouth and no kilt, as her father would say.
‘I think upgrading the facility is an excellent idea,’ Harriet Hitchin said. ‘We can never be too prepared for what might befall us.’ She paused. ‘If you need someone to head up a survey of the mass disaster capacity in Scotland . . .’ she babbled hopefully.
Morag could hear the edge of longing in Harriet’s voice, the hope for escape from this backwater, this go-nowhere post. Useful. She filed that titbit away on her mental Rolodex. She craned her head and tried to peek round the corner. ‘Could I perhaps see the rest of the building, or are you in the middle of something? I mean apart from the death metal?’
‘There’s a PM on,’ Harriet said. ‘Post-mortem, I mean, not the Prime Minister, ha ha.’ Morag smiled weakly. ‘You’re welcome to come through but it’s a ripe one.’ She pointed to a neatly folded lab coat. ‘Put this on over your clothes and grab a pair of wellies.’ She looked at Morag’s shiny red heels. ‘You’re a braver woman than me: I wouldn’t chance the
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