‘No, you don’t understand, it. . . They’re just waiting for me to screw something up, so they can barge in and take over.’

Logan leaned back against the desk. ‘They? ’

‘The other forensic anthropologists. I told you it was cut-throat, didn’t I? I’m good at my job, and it was an accident, and—’

‘It’s OK. We didn’t see anything, did we, Sergeant? ’

Rennie dropped another sliver into his palm, then shook his head. ‘Mug? What mug? Was missing when we got here, someone probably nicked it. Bunch of thieving bastards round here.’

April smiled at them, eyes shining. ‘Thanks.’

Rennie picked up the last of the shards. ‘Don’t thank us – we didn’t do, or see, anything.’ He went to tip the remains into the wastepaper basket.

Logan hit him. ‘Don’t be thick – she’s going to look there, isn’t she? Wrap it in toilet paper and dump it in the gents’ bin. Then go see if anyone’s caught Reuben yet.’

A wink. ‘Got you.’ And he was off, cradling the shattered mug like a baby bird.

Logan ushered April out into the corridor. ‘So, what, you just happened to be in the area? ’

She followed him through the double doors into the cutting room. ‘It was on the news this morning. So I jumped in the car and called your pathologist – met her at the Forensic Society conference at RGU two years ago. In this job, it pays to network.’

The doors whumped closed behind them, letting the air wrap them in its chilly arms. Not quite cold enough to make their breath plume, but close.

Overhead strip-lights glinted back from the stainless-steel work surfaces, cutting tables, and wall of refrigerated drawers. White tiles clicked beneath Logan’s shoes as he marched over and read the labels slipped into the little holders on the doors. ‘UNKNOWN VICTIM: MURDER ~ 003613’ was second from the bottom on the left. He clacked up the handle and hauled the drawer out.

April looked down at the white plastic body-bag. ‘Are forensics finished with trace evidence? ’

‘Yes.’

‘Everything’s done? ’

‘Just said that, didn’t I? ’

‘Good. In that case. . .’ She snapped on a pair blue nitrile gloves, took hold of the body-bag’s zip and pulled it down.

The scent of raw meat and scorched barbecue oozed out into the cold room.

‘Hmm. . . I know it sounds daft, but it’s so nice to get a fresh one. Normally, the smell of them. . .’ She peered down at what was left of the head, up on her tiptoes, then down again, then left and right, as if she was expecting it to do something. Not touching anything. ‘I need a practising medical professional with five years’ experience, and you’ll have to sign a release.’

‘Isn’t my body.’ He looked at the mortuary doors. ‘If Dalrymple’s about, she can do it.’