Donnie Salkeld or his sidekick, the cerebrally intense and humourless Dr Andrew Lachlan or Slack Andy, as the senior pathologist liked to refer to him, had prepared the body but were nowhere to be seen. Stella the Fella took the opportunity to walk DI Tyler through the process, and was being a little too tactile, as she guided her around the headless corpse. With its rib cage already removed and chest cavity exposed, Stella explained the process by which her boss would set about determining the cause of death.
The inner bay plastic door suddenly swung open. Donnie Salkeld strode into the room holding Eugene’s evidence bag aloft like a victorious gladiator entering an arena, closely followed by Andy Lachlan, who looked anything but amused. Broad shouldered, thick set and short necked he gave the appearance his frame was frozen in a permanent shrug. The lobes of his cauliflower ears almost rested on his massive trapezium muscles. A pair of intense pale-blue eyes flanked a buckled nose beamed at them from beneath eyebrows constructed almost entirely out of scar tissue – the trademark battle scars of a former tight-head prop, one who had not only met, but relished the challenge of ferocious rolling mauls and brutally contested scrum-downs on countless occasions.
“Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk and big assemblance of a man! Give me the heid,” he proclaimed, before passing the bag to Stella with the well-practised skill of an acting stand-off at the ruck. Stella received it in similar fashion and touched it down on a workbench. Dr Lachlan shook his head and marched to his station. Donnie Salkeld shared a knowing look with Dunbar as he stopped alongside the cadaver. He braced his powerful arms against the stainless steel dissecting bench and fixed upon Dunbar.
‘The erstwhile Eugene Grant assures me that what I have is the body, and now the heid of one Wilson Farish. Do you concur, Detective Chief Inspector Dunbar?’
‘It is.’
‘And who identified the deceased to you?’
‘We have a written witness statement from the undertaker Graeme McAleavey, who received the body into his care after a fire at the deceased’s home address.’
‘Was the body intact at that time?’
‘It was. The head was removed post mortem, at the undertaker’s premises, by person or persons unknown.’
‘Then he should take better care o’ his charges.’
Tyler found Salkeld’s accent difficult to place. It bore the crisp educated tones of a middle-class Englishman, punctuated by local vernacular, with the rasping echo of a true Scot permeating every word he spoke. Which was he trying to be? An Englishman Scots would embrace? Or a broad Scot non-Caledonians could understand? She was undecided.
‘There! Formalities dispensed with,’ he said, before turning towards Stella. ‘See if there’s a brain in that napper would you, old chap? And should we strike lucky, Andy would you be so good as to?’ Lachlan, peeved by his prompting responded with a blank stare. ‘Sorry, doctor, but of course you will.’ Donnie Salkeld turned to greet the two detectives with a broad grin. ‘And who do we have here?’
‘DI Briony Tyler meet, Professor Donald Salkeld and, Doctor Andrew Lachlan. Stella you already know.’
Lachlan barely nodded a greeting as Salkeld’s eyes flashed. ‘Mine – and Stella’s pleasure too, if I’m not mistaken.’ Across the room Stella spun around and glared at him. Salkeld hesitated as he took Tyler’s hand. ‘Whoops, dinnae upset the hired help, they might doon tools.’ He kissed the back of Tyler’s hand while at the same time casting a quizzical glance in Dunbar’s direction. ‘Inspector, ye say?’ He backed off to look her over. ‘Surely not! Far too bonny for the polis; a movie starlet shadowing you, Alec, so as to gain insight for a forthcoming TV or film role, that! I could believe.’
‘Be assured, professor,’ she replied, but being the new face amongst familiar ones, decided not to rise to his blatant teasing.
‘Donnie, please. Ach! An’ I’ve upset you, Lassie.’
‘I’m fine – Donnie! I’m a police officer and quite used to much worse.’
‘Still, please forgive my clumsy chauvinism. I’m the only boy from a brood o’ army brats, all the spawn of a Highlander drill pig, permanently set at maximum volume – machismo incarnate was RSM Ivan Salkeld. I knew only military schooling, the camaraderie of the rugby field, squaddies and NCOs throughout my formative years.’
‘I’m a military brat too,’ Tyler interjected, a subtle hint that his excuse was not going to wash with her. Dunbar eyed her curiously. He did not know that.
‘Ah, I thought I felt a connection beyond the mutuality of our conjoined professions. Sadly, university and surgical school brought little by way of refinement,’ adding from behind a bladed palm, ‘unlike my colleague, Doctor Lachlan here. The very epitome of sober academic reserve.’
Lachlan half turned and scowled before directing his attention to what Stella was doing.
‘For when I was not wielding a scalpel in the dissecting room, I spent my time immersed in rugby’s subculture of alcohol, and other questionable behaviour, of a generally sexist nature,’ the ebullient pathologist continued. ‘You know the kind of thing. Songs and salacious banter – immature boys’ own ribaldry and nonsense. Ask your boss. We clashed on the field and competed in the bar afterwards on countless occasions. Is that not so, Alec?’
‘Too many,’ Dunbar replied. ‘And as I recall it, you seemed bent on bringing my playing career to a premature end.’
‘Ach! As far as I’m aware the union code was and remains a contact sport. Or would you wee Jed-bugger turf-surfers have it different?’ he asked, before turning back to Tyler. ‘They’d go to ground as soon as they saw a serious tackle heading their way.’
Salkeld grinned wickedly at Dunbar, who knew better than to be drawn by him on the subject. At times Alec Dunbar wished his friend could resist the urge to show off and just deal with what he had on the mortuary slab. But Donnie Salkeld had always been that way; holding forth in the bar after a hard fought game, entertaining everyone within earshot, and Dunbar had always been able to forgive him his eccentricities on account of the genius he laid claim to not being in any way an idle boast.
‘I offer this by way of explanation, in mitigation so to speak, Inspector Tyler, and beg your pardon of this humble oaf in medical vestments.’
‘Not easy,’ Lachlan muttered.
‘Humble?’ Dunbar repeated, over Dr Lachlan.
‘Forgiven,’ Tyler replied, rolling her eyes at her boss.
Salkeld ignored Dunbar and his dour colleague. ‘As you see my innate coarseness and vulgarity saw only one possible career path open to me, having wrested my hard-won first from the reluctant hand of academia.’
‘The stage,’ Stella muttered.
‘Town crier,’ Lachlan added.
‘Pathology!’ he announced, pointedly ignoring them. ‘Aye, this solo science, this lonely discipline reduces the risk of me offending nurses or relatives with my jibes and innuendo.’ Salkeld eyed the headless corpse and shrugged. ‘And I cannot offend my patients. But I shall surely answer to them beyond the Pearly Gates. Indeed, it also accounts for why Dr Lachlan also finds himself specialising in all things post mortem. You will note his singular lack of communicative ability; nae bedside manner – barely possessed o’ a graveside manner.’ Salkeld glanced in Lachlan’s direction. Lachlan remained steadfastly po-faced.
‘What of Stella – old chap?’ Tyler asked, pointedly.
He turned and looked at their lab technician who stopped what she was doing, folded her arms and leaned against the bench, meeting his troubled expression with a raised eyebrow and a thin-lipped smirk.
‘Ahh, yes, but that’s mere badinage. Stella is my –’ he stopped to think. ‘Hermaphrodite-in-arms and accustomed to my boorish ways as I am hers – his – either! You decide.’ Stella flashed an even sterner glare his way and again went ignored. ‘Our sensitivities dulled in this quietus theatre where we strive to eke reason from death, and thus give meaning to a life extinguished.’
‘You don’t half talk
shite, Donnie,’ Dunbar grumbled.
‘Hear, hear,’ Lachlan said without turning.
‘Really?’ Salkeld feigned hurt. ‘Unaided by alcohol, and working a very tough audience, I might add. As adlibs go, I thought it was rather good.’
‘And I think you’ll find, Professor, it’s – “give me the spirit”, not, “give me the head”.’ Tyler corrected.
Salkeld snapped around and smiled. ‘Ah-hah! A student of the Great English Bard te boot. I really like this one, Alec, intelligent and hot! He cringed. ‘See – I cannae help myself. But you’re right. However, spirit didn’t fit the moment. And the play?’ he asked.
‘Henry the Fourth, errm, Part Two?’
‘One has to have a detailed knowledge of his works to recognise one of the master’s more obscure lines.’
‘Lucky guess,’ she offered unconvincingly. Salkeld eyed her suspiciously. ‘We did a bit at school,’ she conceded. ‘And I’m an occasional theatre-goer – but I particularly enjoyed The Hollow Crown series on the telly. I bought the boxed set and have watched them over and over. Some of it must have stuck.’
Salkeld nodded approvingly, then leant over the corpse, ‘don’t watch much TV.’
‘I’ll lend you them sometime.’
‘Generous too, oh but I were ten years younger, my dear.’
‘Ten?’ Dunbar repeated.
Salkeld ignored him as he prodded and poked around a little in the chest cavity before turning to his attention to the neck. “Though this be madness; yet there is method in it.” He eyed Tyler slyly. She shrugged. ‘Hamlet – and that one did fit the circumstance. Cleaved off with a fairly sharp heavy-bladed knife, the head stolen and mounted on a spit, I hear. You’re in pursuit of a seriously sick puppy my friends.’ He turned to Stella. ‘The head a moment, if you would, old chap.’ Stella stopped what she was doing, turned and joined him. ‘Andy, if you’re ready?’ Lachlan took position at the table.
‘Hold it to the neck, would you?’ Stella complied. Salkeld demonstrated with the aid of a large surgical knife. Without touching flesh he mimicked the method and path of the incision the perpetrator had made. ‘Using a large blade of at least this size, they raised the head in one hand and sliced across the back of the neck right to left, severing the tendons and soft tissue quite cleanly. Bit of a hack job between the vertebrae, from front and back you see, evidenced by the cut marks in the bone and disk. Then the offender rested the head flat again before cutting left to right across the throat.’ He moved around to the other side of the table. ‘Notice how, on the opposing side, the two cuts did not meet. So a small incision was made upwards to slice through the remaining tissue holding them together.’ Again he showed how it was done with his own blade. ‘In fact a similar method of decapitation to that used in the removal of the second head the archaeologists discovered. Crude and executed in a hurry obviously, but an efficient enough decapitation – for an amateur.’
‘Ummm, well, as much as I’m enjoying the demo and crack, Donnie, and love to watch a maestro at work, we’ve got a suspect on his way in, so!’
Salkeld handed the head back to Stella and looked genuinely surprised. ‘Already? I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be, just do your thing and impress me. Did he fall was he pushed? Accident or with intent?’
The burly pathologist looked over at Stella, as she peeled the scalp down over the face to access the skull with her saw. ‘He didnae take his own heid off, Alec.’
‘That much I know, and we also know it was removed post mortem. How and why did he die? Did he have help or did he not need it? This is the stuff I’m counting on you for, before charges are brought. I’m particularly interested in the use of accelerants.’
‘That will take a little time,’ Salkeld answered, already focussed on the task.
‘Take as much as you need – and as little as possible.’
‘Nice to meet you, Inspector, do call again,’ Salkeld said, as he dragged his overhead microphone down and switched it on.
‘Aye,’ Stella called out, from across the room.
‘You too,’ Tyler replied, following after her boss.
Salkeld spoke into the microphone, ‘Male caucasian, allegedly seventy-one years of age. Third degree burns to his right arm, neck – which has been severed post mortem. I’ll return to that topic later and –’ The door closed. His audience had left.
***
It was mid-afternoon when they emerged into the deep shadows of Cowgate, where the sun made only fleeting visits. The gloom gave the impression night was already upon them.
‘Scottish or English?’
‘Like he said, an army brat,’ Dunbar answered. ‘His dad served with the Black Watch if memory serves. They lived all over Europe and Hong Kong for a while. He speaks pretty passable Cantonese; a good mon to have with you at a Chinese restaurant and good crack anytime.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Provided you don’t try and keep pace with him. In all my years, I’ve only ever seen one person drink him under the table – and that was Stella.’
‘I can imagine that too.’
‘He’s a proud Scot, born of Scots, but raised and educated wherever his dad got posted, hence the mongrel accent. He studied medicine at Cambridge and Edinburgh, played rugby for both and also for Edinburgh Northern, in the amateur era. The best tight-head prop never to have represented his country – in my opinion. You’ll get used to him. Behind the banter and bonhomie Donnie’s a brilliant forensic pathologist.’ They stopped beside his car and Tyler leaned on the roof.
‘Man or woman?’
‘Stella!? Ahh, well, the jury’s out, and none of us have ever dared ask.’
‘Don’t think I want to find out either.’
Rush hour was ill-named. Short of slapping his magnetic light to the roof, crawl hour seemed more appropriate, especially since the tramway project, chronically overdue and way-over-budget had started, stopped, started again, and continued to stutter towards completion. Would it improve the city’s transport and ease the peak time traffic jams? Alec Dunbar, not until they finish what they started and extend the tracks to Leith.
***
The office was abuzz by the time they got back. DS Conroy leapt from his chair on seeing them and dashed across the room.
‘One in custody, Boss, and the dog-handler’s also recovered a bloodstained knapsack. It had a heavy bladed knife, boning knife and rubber gloves inside it.’ They walked into Dunbar’s office, Conroy reciting from memory as they went. ‘I told them to get it all to Eugene ASAP.’
‘Good! Poacher?’
‘Doesnae know nothin’ about no bag,’ Conroy answered, mimicking the suspect. ‘That’s all he’s said so far. Apart from, get me a lawyer. The dog handler said he was fairly hostile when stopped and – but for the dog – thinks the guy was up for having a go.’
‘So who is he?’ Dunbar asked, slipping out of his overcoat.
‘Darren Carswell, born twenty-two, ten, seventy-nine. Lives at Spinney Burn, with his partner and four wee ones. Only one of them is his, he says. I’ve checked the electoral roll. The address he gave is in the name o’ his partner, Stacey Bernadette Brogan.’
Dunbar hung his coat up on the stand and wandered around his desk. The DS and Tyler held station on the other side.
‘Bits of previous; poachin’, theft, arson,’ Conroy continued, reading from a print-out.
Dunbar eyed Tyler at that last revelation.
‘A few minor public order arrests – drunkenness an’ scrappin’ mainly.’ Conroy added, without looking up. ‘Assault, times two a few years back.’ Conroy wafted the rap-sheet and shrugged. ‘Fancies himself as a bit of a tough guy, by the sound o’ it.’
Falk joined them. ‘That borin’ bastard Archie English’s in interview room one, sir. Got him a cup o’ tea and pack o’ shortbread fingers outta the vending machine. A quid!’ he gasped. ‘A feckin’ quid! They’re sixty-five pence at the Co-op.’
‘Daylight robb
ery,’ Conroy sympathised.
‘Put it on exes,’ Dunbar muttered sarcastically.
‘Yeah?’
‘No!’ he snapped back.
‘Might’ve known. Sweet Jesus! Does he ever shut up about his feckin’ ancestors?’
‘Rarely,’ Tyler replied.
‘I gie’ him a bundle o’ blank statement forms to rip up an’ drop outta’ the window every few yards on the way up.’
‘Why?’ Tyler asked. The other two knew better than to do so.
‘So he can find his way back hame. There’s nae feckin’ way I’m drivin’ the tedious twat back!’
Tyler let out a high pitched squeal of mirth that delighted them all.
‘You’re a sergeant, Falk – delegate,’ she advised, still beaming with amusement.
‘Aye, right enough, ma’am. Grease can do it.’
‘Grease?’ she repeated.
‘DC Reece, Greg Reece – Grease!
Tyler shook her head. What nickname she had earned by now, surely she had one.
‘Shit, I hope he’s our mon, sir. Havin’ that clown behind bars’ll be purgatory for the scum he does his time with.’
‘Right! To business, Falk and whoever, grill the poacher,’ Dunbar ordered. ‘The DI and –’
‘Contradiction in terms, boss. Grill o’ poach which is it?’ The Glaswegian cut in
‘Ha-bloody-ha, you know what I mean, ye Weegie smartarse. Oh, and square up his brief beforehand. If the nobheid was up to his old tricks send him home with an appearance at the local Sheriff’s court to think about.’
‘For poaching!?’
‘For anything – for cocking himself at the dog-handler. For wasting our bloody time! Whatever it takes to wake him the hell up, and stop the clown acting like a feckin’ country commando. So! Let’s get to it. We’ll take boring of Bentock, you poaching and pissing-me-off from Spinney Burn.’
***
Archie English had finished his cup of tea and eaten the whole packet of shortbread fingers. Not a crumb in sight. OCD determined that the crumbs were swept into the wrapper. It was then carefully folded, pressed and twisted at each end into a sweet wrapper to contain them. Its presence though, still troubled him, so he stared at the two-way mirror blankly to take his mind of it and was both pleased and relieved when Tyler and Dunbar entered the room. He immediately removed the wrapper from the table and handed it to Tyler. She had no idea why, but pocketed it anyway.
A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series) Page 18