‘There’s a fair bit of work to be done. . .’ April headed for the nearest cutting table and dumped her demon handbag on it, popped open the clasp and went rummaging inside while Logan went off to find the Anatomical Pathology Technician.

‘You see, that’s the real trouble. . .’ April slipped the blade through the last strands of tendon and eased the head away from the body. She’d changed into an orangey-grey sweater, the turtleneck pulled up over her nose and mouth, like a makeshift facemask. ‘Britain’s too small – remains get found too quickly. What you want is somewhere like America, or Australia, dump your victim out there and it’ll stay hidden for years.’

She placed the head down on a white plastic tray. It rocked a couple of times, then lay there, screaming up at the ceiling with its cracked yellow teeth.

Logan adjusted his mask. ‘How long’s this going to take? ’

On the other side of the room, the duty doctor sat in one of the chairs dragged through from the staff room. Dr Ramsey: a short man in a baggy suit, with a threadbare goatee beard, chubby cheeks, a mini-quiff at the front and a bald patch at the back; Ramsey had his feet up on an empty brain bucket, and his head buried in a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner. ‘MAN BURNED TO DEATH IN SICK “NECKLACING” MURDER’ in big black letters above a photo of the Joyriders’ Graveyard out by Thainstone Mart. ‘Well, you could always move.’

‘Don’t get me wrong: I’ve thought about it a couple of times, but I’d miss Scotland too much. All that sunshine and warm weather just isn’t natural. Mind you, must be nice not to have to fight for every single job.’

‘Dr Graham: how long? ’

The forensic anthropologist glanced up at him. ‘Well, I’ve got to remove the residual skin, clean the skull, work out the correct tissue depth, add the markers, model the musculature, then the skin, hair. . . Like I said, it’s a fair bit of work, but obviously I’ll go as fast as I—’

A loud bang came from outside, in the corridor: the mortuary door slamming against the wall. Then a voice: ‘WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS SHE? ’

April wrapped her gloved hands around the head. Bared her teeth. ‘Dempsey.’

BOOM and the cutting-room doors flew open. A man stood on the threshold, his round face flushed and trembling. Two streaks of grey ran back across his head from the temples, as if he’d been a badger in a former life. It went with the yellowy-tweed suit. He jabbed a sausage finger at April. ‘You unprofessional bitch!’

Rennie stumbled in after him. ‘If you don’t calm down, sir, I’m going to have to—’

He spun around. ‘Don’t let her fool you: this is my job, not hers. She’s got no business being here.’