The doctor moved around the table, speaking as she went. ‘No visible signs of injury on the torso. Slight bruising on the forehead above the left eye, consistent with a fall. The deceased was found lying on his kitchen floor.’

With the hand not holding the recorder, she picked up Merv’s right hand and unfurled the fingers. Finding it hard to do, she put down the recorder and looked at Merv’s fingernails, knuckles and palms. She did the same with his arms. Picked up the recorder again. ‘No sign of any defensive wounds on the hands or arms.’ She systematically made her way around Merv’s body and found no outer signs of what may have caused his demise.

After the external examination, it was time for the bit I always hated: the Y incision. I steeled myself to watch nonetheless. Removal of the internal organs for examination, weighing and measuring. All appeared typical for a man of his age and habits, according to Doc Caldicott’s narrative into the recorder. Then the head: the incision, the peeling back of Merv’s face. Beside me, Wozza swallowed in a gulp. Clearly not his favourite part either. Maybe the pastries I’d bought him earlier weren’t such a good idea.

The saw. The removal of the brain.

‘Oh jeez,’ Wozza murmured, looking away from the body and over to a bright calendar on the opposite wall. September’s picture was a puppy. Much more appealing than the insides of Merv.

‘Small haematoma here consistent with the fall.’ She pointed to something on the brain. Wozza and I looked at it politely, then looked away. ‘Not necessarily a bump that would kill him, though.’

When she had finished, Doc Caldicott turned to us. Beside her on the bench were a number of specimen bottles she’d collected as she went along. ‘All looks pretty normal to me. Some signs of early heart and liver disease, but nothing out of the ordinary considering age and general health. No sign of obvious injury. Nothing to suggest what the cause of death might be. Let’s hope the lab finds something. I’ve ordered a tox screen too.’ She peeled off her bloodied rubber gloves and tossed them into a waste bin.

‘Thanks, Doc,’ said Wozza.

A thought occurred to me. ‘Doc, did you do the post-mortem examinations for the Millards? Young couple. Ten years back. Apparent murder-suicide?’

Doc Caldicott frowned up the memory. ‘Oh, I remember that case,’ she said. ‘The little girl was left in the house.’

I nodded. ‘So you did the examinations?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. It was the strangest thing. Normally post-mortems fall to me in Deception Bay. But the police officer in charge at the time insisted old George Gilbert did them.’

‘Wonky George?’ asked Wozza, wonder in his voice.

‘And that was one of his more flattering nicknames,’ said the doctor. ‘The sergeant insisted on George.’