Miss Dalrymple had her feet up on the coffee table, a Pot Noodle in one hand and a fork in the other. A gossip magazine was spread out on her lap, ‘NICHOLE FYFE: MY SECRET TEENAGE SUICIDE SHAME’. Which explained the scars on her wrist.

Dalrymple shovelled a dangly forkful of noodles into her mouth. The words came out muffled as she chewed: ‘Not here.’

‘Who’s not? ’

‘Dr MacAllister. She’s interviewing candidates to replace our dearly departed Dr Forsyth. He’s not having a leaving do, so there’s no whip-round.’

‘I’m after Dr Graham.’

‘Ah yes, the bone lady.’ Dalrymple popped the fork into the plastic container, then made spidery gestures with her free hand, as if the fingers were sniffing the air for something. ‘She’s managed to break three beakers, two mugs, and knock over a brain bucket since this morning. How anyone so congenitally clumsy can survive day-to-day life is beyond me.’

‘Is she here or not? ’

The fingers formed a knot, then spread out to point towards the cutting room. ‘If she ever offers you a lift, I’d seriously recommend running in the opposite direction.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ The grey terrazzo floor was damp, as if it had been mopped not long ago and hadn’t dried yet. Logan left bleach and detergent footprints all the way down the corridor to the cutting-room doors. Then pushed inside.

The sound of gentle snoring came from the corner. Someone had dragged four chairs through from the staff room, lining them up against the stainless-steel working surface with the backs facing out into the room. Whoever it was lay on their side, cocooned by the two sides, an open newspaper draped across their head and shoulders. Like a tramp on a park bench, but in a mortuary cutting room. The only thing missing was an empty bottle of supermarket vodka.

Dr Graham was almost exactly where Logan had left her – hunched over the necklacing victim’s skull. There wasn’t a lot of the resin cast still visible, instead bands of dark-red clay speckled with tissue depth markers made it look like something out of Hellraiser. Dire Straits burbled out of the mortuary stereo.

Logan switched it off. ‘How we getting on? ’

She looked up, smiled. Then held a finger to her lips. ‘Shh. . .’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Dr Ramsey just got off to sleep. Rough night.’

‘Under supervision again? ’

She nodded her head towards the third cutting table, where a partial skeleton was laid out on a blue plastic sheet. ‘Not that I’m complaining. It’s difficult enough to get one job, but to have a second fall right in my lap: how lucky is that? ’