the pathologist, now!’
‘No, it’s like … Look.’ He sidled around to the boot of the car and popped the hatchback lid. Swung it up with a gloved hand. ‘See?’
Callum leaned forward and frowned.
There, nestled in amongst the dustsheets and a bucket full of plasterboard fragments was a human body. It lay on its side, arms folded so the hands were pressed against its chest, knees hard up against the hands, feet hard up against the bottom. Head bent forward sharply, so the face was almost completely hidden by the knees. Skin shrunken and wrinkled, the colour of ancient leather.
He groaned. ‘Not another one.’
Franklin bared her teeth. ‘Is this supposed to be a joke, Constable?’ She poked Callum in the shoulder with a rock-hard finger. ‘A bit of a laugh at the new girl’s expense?’ Gearing up for a good bellow. ‘WELL, IS IT?’
And there it was again, that smell. Much stronger here than it had been back at the tip, where it had to fight with the stench of a hundred million rotting bin-bags. The rich, warm, but slightly bitter tang of wood smoke, so strong you could taste it at the back of your throat.
‘Constable! Constable MacGregor, I’m talking to—’
‘Will you shut up a minute?’ He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Reached in and prodded the body. Solid, as if it’d been carved from a chunk of oak, then dipped in the peatiest whisky in the world.
When he straightened up, Franklin’s eyes were wide, her whole person trembling as if she was about to pop.
Before she could get started, he dragged out his Airwave handset and called Control. ‘Aye, Brucie? I need a check on a Kia Picanto.’ He rattled off the registration number and colour, then clunked the boot shut in the intervening silence.
Franklin squared her puffed-up shoulders. ‘Now you listen to me, Sunshine, I will not be spoken to like that! How dare—’
‘Okeydokey.’ A thick Dundonian accent crackled out of the Airwave’s speaker. ‘Yer car’s registered to a Glen Carmichael, eighteen Walsh Crescent, Blackwall Hill. Twenty-four years old. Ooh, looks like he lives with his mum. You wanting the postcode?’
‘Has he got prior?’
‘Couple counts of housebreaking-and-robbery when he was twelve. Suspended sentence. And an ex-girlfriend got herself a restraining order when he was fourteen. Sounds like a lovely wee lad.’
‘OK, thanks, Brucie.’ Callum put his Airwave away. Grinned at Franklin. ‘We turned up a mummy at the tip this morning, just like this one. Probably nicked from a museum. The Kia’s owner has form for breaking into places he shouldn’t and helping himself to things that aren’t his. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘I see.’ She shot her cuffs again. ‘Well, don’t just stand there – let’s go pick him up.’
‘Shhh, you’re doing great.’
Is he? Then why does he feel so terrible? Why does he just want to lie down and die?
The water around him is cold, but that’s not why he’s shivering.
A sponge dips into the dark brown liquid, then runs gently across his chest, clearing away the thin white rime of salt. Dissolving the crystals back into the brine.
The wall whispers over the sound of trickling water. ‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
Then the sponge dips into the water again, presses against his forehead sending rivulets running down his lined face.
‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
‘Are you thirsty?’ The voice is kind, worried. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
He tries to shake his head, but can only tremble. No. No more of the foul water.
‘I know it’s bitter, but it’s good for you. Full of herbs and minerals. Here …’
‘You’ll be a god. You’ll be a god. You’ll be a god.’
A metal cup presses against his cracked lips, and he hasn’t got the strength to keep his jaw clenched shut. Sour liquid fills his mouth, catches the back of his throat. And he coughs, splutters the water out, feels it dripping from his chin onto his chest.
‘They’ll worship you.’
His body rocks back and forward, sending out little waves across the bath.
Why can’t he cry?
Only it’s not really a bath, is it? It’s a large metal trough, big enough for three people, let alone one living skeleton. All the joints are rusty, dark brown as if the thing is bleeding, rivets standing out like nipples on its cold metal skin.
Why can’t he just die?
‘You’ll be a god, and they’ll worship you.’
‘Shhh …’ A warm hand on his forehead. A gentle touch and a soft word. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’
Walsh Crescent curled in on itself like a snail shell. Mostly bungalows, but every now and then a second storey sprouted from a converted attic. Box hedges, gravel driveways, nameplates on the garden walls. Pretensions of grandeur. One even had a pair of three-foot-high lions perched either side of the drive, their whitewashed surfaces cracked and showing the concrete below.
No view to speak of, but a nice enough street.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Franklin scowled out at the suburban enclave.
Callum pulled up outside number 18. Killed the engine. Sat there with his wrists draped over the steering wheel. ‘Look, I know arresting idiots for stealing mummies from museums probably isn’t what you signed up for, but this is all they let us do.’
She didn’t move.
‘And trust me, this is a lot more interesting than what we’re usually lumbered with. At least there’s genuine dead bodies involved. Even if they are a thousand years old.’
Franklin let out a low sigh, then unclipped her seatbelt. ‘I’m here because I punched a superintendent in the car park.’
‘In the car park?’ Callum smiled. ‘There’s a euphemism I’ve never heard before. Sounds painful.’
‘He deserved it. Next thing you know: no more Edinburgh for you, pack your bags, you’ve been posted to Oldcastle.’ Sounding about as pleased as someone who’s just discovered their routine check-up has turned into emergency root-canal surgery.
‘Welcome
