Too much to hope for. ‘Right, confiscate the drugs, the laptop, and any phones you can find.’

She clicked the top back on the Xbox. ‘Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky? ’

There was always a first time.

Chapter 32

32

The mortuary was quiet: no shrieking bone-saw, no music playing in the cutting room, no roar of the extractor fans whisking away the stench of death. Just the sound of Mrs Chung breathing – jagged, gasping, as if she was about to pass out – clutching onto her husband’s arm like a life raft. Adrift in a sea of fear and pain.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? ’

She nodded, setting a couple of tears free to sparkle against her cheeks in the dimmed lighting.

‘Because you don’t have to. Remember the photos I showed you: he’s been very badly—’

‘No.’ The words came out strangled and choked: ‘I need to see my baby. . .’

‘OK.’ Deep breath.

He gave the nod and Rennie pressed the button. The curtains slid open, revealing Anthony Chung’s remains.

They’d done the best they could – covered up everything below his chin with white ruffled fabric – but there was nothing they could do about his face.

Anthony’s mother paled. Her whole body shuddered. Then her eyes bugged and she slapped both hands over her mouth, turned and scrambled out of the room. Rennie hurried after her.

‘He’s. . .’ Raymond Chung swallowed, staring down at the ruined features. ‘What did they do to his eyes? ’

‘It’s just the decomposition. Remember, we went over this in the family room? It’s natural: they’re one of the first things to go.’

‘Right. . . Decomposition. . .’ He blinked a couple of times, sweat glistening on his forehead.

‘Mr Chung? ’

He licked his lips, then his Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he was forcing something down. ‘There’s something sticking out. On his neck.’ Raymond Chung’s finger traced a circle on the glass. ‘There. The tattoo? ’

It was barely visible through the blackened discolouration of the skin, but three jagged spikes poked out from the edge of the sheet drawn up under the body’s chin.

Raymond Chung bit his lip. ‘Can you. . . Can you ask them to lower the sheet? ’

Logan pressed the button on the intercom. ‘Can we get the sheet lowered a bit on the left? ’

On the other side of the viewing window, Miss Dalrymple stepped from the shadows, dressed in a clean set of surgical scrubs, and gently pulled the fabric down exposing the ghost of a tribal tattoo, broken up by tiny cuts.

Raymond Chung closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the glass. ‘It’s him. It’s Anthony.’

‘Are you sure, because there’s no tattoo on the photos we’ve—’