The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(39)

‘You know your cars, Detective Sergeant Ritchie.’ McLean inched carefully out of the car park and into the street beyond.

‘Aye, well. It was either that or football if I wanted to be taken seriously in the job. Never really saw the point of football.’ Ritchie leaned back into her seat, ran a finger lightly over the dashboard. ‘And it’s Kirsty, by the way.’

McLean jabbed the brakes rather harder than he’d intended, juddering the car to a halt and throwing them both forward, eliciting an angry beep of the horn from a following car.

‘Sorry. What?’

‘Kirsty. My name. Or you can call me Ritchie. I don’t mind. “Detective Sergeant” just seems so formal, don’t you think?’

McLean didn’t respond. It was only a name, after all. Shouldn’t be a problem. Just why did she have to pronounce it that way?





27





Angus Cadwallader was already prepped and eager to start when McLean showed DS Ritchie into the autopsy theatre. They were both drenched from the short walk from the car to the mortuary, the cold December rain soaking through the thin fabric of McLean’s new coat. His old one would have been a bit more robust, of course. But his old one was just ashes now.

‘You’re late, Tony,’ the pathologist said. ‘That’s getting to be a bit of a habit.’

‘We had to find somewhere to park.’ McLean wiped at his face with a handkerchief.

‘Raining again, is it?’ Cadwallader ran his eyes over the two of them, lingering perhaps a little longer than was polite over DS Ritchie before breaking into a broad, welcoming smile and adding, ‘Since the rude detective inspector isn’t going to introduce us, please allow me. Angus Cadwallader, city pathologist.’

‘Um, Detective Sergeant Ritchie,’ she said, slightly uncertainly.

‘Detective Sergeant?’ Cadwallader looked at McLean. ‘Have you been keeping secrets from me, Tony?’

‘That depends, Angus. DS Ritchie only started work here this morning. Before that she was up in Aberdeen.’

‘Aberdeen,’ Cadwallader echoed. ‘Well, I’m afraid my humble mortuary isn’t a patch on your facilities up there, but I’ll try to live up to your high standards. Shall we begin?’

The dead woman’s body lay on the cold stainless-steel examination table like some narcissistic sunbather, basking under the harsh rays of the overhead lamp. Dried and cleaned after her time in the river, she looked younger than McLean had first assumed, and tragically pretty. Her body was well-toned, despite its death pallor and yellowing-grey bruises. In life she would have been both fit and attractive.

‘I’d estimate age at very early twenties.’ Cadwallader began his detailed exploration of the victim’s body. McLean had watched his friend work far more times than he would care to admit. Mostly he’d been alone, left to the gruesome task by a superior officer. Occasionally he’d been accompanied by Grumpy Bob or another colleague. But now, with DS Ritchie standing beside him, he felt oddly self-conscious. Perhaps it was because the dead woman was young, naked, and, well, a woman, but this time the post-mortem examination felt like more of a violation than normal.

He glanced across at Ritchie, who was studying the procedure with an intense glare. Apart from that obvious concentration, her expression was impossible to read. Rocking back onto his heels, McLean folded his arms over his chest and settled down for an uncomfortable show.

Too long later and Tracy was busy sewing their Jane Doe back together. McLean and Ritchie followed Cadwallader as he walked towards the little office off the main examination theatre, peeling off his scrubs and dumping them into a laundry bin on the way.

‘Cause of death is definitely the wound to the throat,’ he said. ‘Happened somewhere between twenty-four hours and two days before we found her. I’d estimate she’d been in the water not more than six hours and she was washed with some kind of soap before that. She’s got bruising around her ankles and wrists consistent with being tied up for at least a few days. And she’s had sexual intercourse. Unwillingly, judging by the bruising and tearing. About a day before she died. Her stomach’s empty, too, so she hadn’t eaten anything in at least two days before her death. Possibly more.’

‘What about toxicology? Anything useful there?’

‘We’re still waiting on results of the last body. I’m guessing we’re not going to have much more luck with this one. She’s been starved, and then bled almost dry. We’ve got very little to work with.’

‘No chance it’s not the same person who killed Audrey Carpenter?’ McLean knew the answer, but he still asked anyway.

Cadwallader shook his head. ‘There’s always a chance, Tony. But it’s vanishingly small.’

By the time they reached the station, McLean had almost convinced himself.

‘It can’t be Anderson,’ he said. ‘Anderson’s dead.’

‘What about Dalgliesh?’

McLean stopped walking so abruptly that DS Ritchie kept on for a couple of paces before she noticed.

‘You think it could be her? But why?’

‘No, I didn’t mean her murdering the girl. What I meant was, what about her book? Does that give out as much detail as our killer seems to know about? If not, then we’ve got an angle to work on.’