April cradled the head against her chest, pressing the scorched flesh into the off-orange fabric. ‘That’s not fair, Jack, I got here first.’

‘I have an agreement!’ He threw his chest out, shoulders back. ‘And it’s Doctor Dempsey to you, Graham.’ He dug into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘See? The local pathologist called in my services, not yours. Now put down my remains and go peddle your clumsy excuse for forensic anthropology somewhere else.’

Still holding the head with one arm, she grabbed the clipboard from the cutting table. ‘I’ve got a release, do you have a release? No, you don’t.’

‘Don’t you “I’ve got a release” me: you only got that under false pretences. This is my job and you bloody well know it!’

Rennie took the sheet of paper from Dempsey’s hand and peered at it for a moment. Then looked up at Logan. ‘It’s from Pukey Pete. Blah, blah, blah, Dr Peter Forsyth cordially invites you to assist with the identification of an unknown male found last night suffering from severe burns to the head, neck, and chest. . .’

‘See? I told you: this is my job.’ He beamed, teeth bared, eyes narrowed to piggy little slits. ‘Now sling your hook, Graham.’

April brought her chin up. ‘I was asked to come by Dr McAllister.’

‘Well I was asked first.’

Raised voices echoed down the corridor, the noise amplified by all the cold hard surfaces in the cutting room. Rennie peered through the gap between the doors. ‘They’re still going at it.’

‘Pffff. . .’ Logan hissed out a breath, then leaned back against the corridor wall. ‘Any news? ’

Blank look. Then a blink. ‘Oh, right: Reuben. No. They’ve tried his house, Wee Hamish’s place, the garage in Mastrick, all the bookies he runs, the docks. . .’ Shrug. ‘He’s gone all ninja on us.’

Sod. He let his head rest against the gritty wallpaper. At least the ants were fading away. ‘Fancy a cup of tea? ’

‘You sure we should just leave them alone? What if they start smashing things up? ’

‘Why do you think I locked the remains back in the fridge? Anyway, if they break anything, Isobel will hunt them down and kill them.’ Logan pushed the door to the pathologists’ office open. ‘Get the kettle on, and. . .’

Dr Forsyth was hunched over his desk, cheeks glistening with tears as he packed files and personal effects into a large cardboard box. Out of his rumpled SOC suit, he was still . . . rumpled. A small man with a neatly trimmed beard and a pair of thick glasses in NHS-black frames. He flinched. Stared at Logan for a breath, then went back to clearing out his desk.

Rennie grabbed the kettle from the top of the filing cabinet and gave it a shoogle. It barely sloshed. ‘Afternoon, Doc. Fancy a brew? ’

‘I’m. . . I handed in my resignation.’