factory left.’ She backed away from the window. ‘When will they do the autopsy?’
‘Post mortem. Not “autopsy”.’
She started to sing: a little girly voice, not much more than a whisper.
‘I say morgue, you say mor-tu-ary.
You say post mortem, I say au-topsy …’
She backed away from the window and followed the black line to where it disappeared under the dented metal doors of a lift. A sign next to it was marked, ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY, NO PATIENTS OR VISITORS’.
‘Tomorrow morning. Professor Twining always starts at nine, on the dot.’
Dr McDonald prodded at the wadding on her head again. ‘You know there’s probably enough mercury left in the soil around here to keep driving people loopy right into the next millennium?’
‘Look on the bright side,’ I turned and walked back towards the exit, ‘at least you and I will never be out of a job.’
‘Thanks.’ Dr McDonald clunked the car door closed, then turned and limped across the gravel driveway to a house that had to be worth millions. Like everything else on Fletcher Road it was a big Victorian home, complete with turrets, set in a large garden and shut off from the outside world behind eight-foot-high walls.
Strings of white lights glowed in the naked branches of ancient oak trees – this wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where you put up neon reindeer and inflatable Santas.
I popped open the Renault’s hatchback and hauled out her luggage – two bright-red suitcases, one huge, one medium-sized. Their wheels dragged and growled through the damp gravel, resisting all the way.
A woman was standing under the portico, mid-to-late-forties, bathed in the light from a pair of carriage lanterns. Her bobbed blonde hair was jelled into spikes on one side, but not on the other; a diamond stud glinted in her nose; ripped blue jeans and a leather waistcoat – no shirt. As if she was auditioning for a heavy metal video. She’d gone the whole hog and got tattoos to go with the outfit – some sort of floral thing poking out over one shoulder; swallow on one foot, anchor on the other.
She flicked the ash off her cigarette and sipped clear liquid from a crystal tumbler full of ice. Didn’t sound local, more like something off The Archers: ‘All right, Alice love?’ She opened her arms and gave Dr McDonald a hug, then stepped back and frowned. ‘Here, what have you done to your head? Is it sore? Looks sore. You come inside and get yourself a drink. Got a nice bottle o’ Belvedere in the freezer and some tonic.’
An elderly Jack Russell wheezed out through the open front door, and Dr McDonald beamed. ‘Where’s Uncle Phil?’
‘Taking Ellie and Colin to see that boy band, Mr Bones, in Glasgow. Still … no accounting for taste I suppose.’ She took another puff, stared at me through a cloud of smoke for a moment, then back to Dr McDonald: ‘He the knobber smacked you one? Want me to set the dogs on him?’
‘Don’t be silly. Jessie would have his throat out.’ She smiled down at the geriatric terrier. ‘Wouldn’t you, Jessie?’
The dog didn’t really sit, it was more like its back end collapsed – puff, pant, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.
Dr McDonald swept a hand out towards me, as if she was introducing a magic trick. ‘Aunty Jan, this is Detective Constable Ash Henderson. Aunty Jan’s a vet.’
Aunty Jan sniffed. ‘You her bit of rough then? Kinda old for our Alice, aren’t you?’
Cheeky cow.
‘Dr McDonald’s assisting us on a case.’
‘Hmm …’ Another stare, this one accompanied by a swig of whatever was in the glass. Then she stuck out her hand. ‘Janice Russell. We’re getting a Chinese for tea; bet you’re partial to a bit of chicken chow mein, big lad like you.’
And pass up the chance to get the hell away from Dr McFruitLoop?
I pulled on a pained smile. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got a ton of paperwork to catch up on.’
And more importantly: an appointment with a lap-dancing bar.
Whatever song was pounding through the place faded out and there was silence.
A mirror stretched the length of the bar – behind the optics and bottles of whisky. I watched the reflection of a chunky blonde scoop up her cowgirl costume and bra, then wobble off the stage in too-high heels, biting her bottom lip, cheeks streaked with mascara tears. An Aberdeen accent crackled out of the speakers. ‘That wis Tina. Big round of applause fir Tina! Come on, big round of applause …’ Nothing. ‘Next we’ve got a real treat for you: Naughty Nikita the Polish Princess!’
The music cranked up again.
That was the trouble with early evening slots at the Silver Lady: the handful of after-work-let’s-go-to-a-titty-bar-isn’t-that-cool-and-or-ironic? brigade weren’t worth putting on the best talent for. So management put on newbies like Tina – out of her clothes and out of her depth, trying to prove she had what it takes to keep the punters aroused and drinking.
A lanky bloke in a black waistcoat and bow tie sidled up behind the bar, wiping the wooden surface with a cloth. He smiled. ‘Another?’ Enough gel in his hair to keep him looking like a prick, even in a force ten gale.
‘Thanks, Steve.’
He was back a minute later with a fresh glass of sparkling mineral water. The ice cubes clinked as I raised it to my lips.
Steve leaned on the bar. ‘Hear your brother got him a spanking from three of Big Johnny Simpson’s boys last night.’
I put it down again. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Seriously: chattin’ up Big Johnny’s sister? Like that was ever gonnae end well.’
But then Parker never was the brightest.
Steve glanced up and down the bar. Inched closer, voice barely audible over the thumping music. ‘I heard you waded in and battered the crap out them. All three of them.’ He licked his lips. ‘It true you’re gettin’ back in the game?’ Steve threw a couple of messy punches in the air. ‘Man, I’d love to see that – Ash Henderson, Comeback King of the Bare-Knuckle Ring! How legendary would that be?’
I took a sip. ‘Someone’s been pulling your leg.’
‘Oh …’ His face fell, and so did his shoulders. Then he snapped on a grin as a chubby man in a wrinkled grey suit with matching comb-over lurched up to the bar. ‘Same again, sir?’
A booming laugh. ‘She’s after champagne, Steveyboy. Mak’ it a bottle, eh? And none of your foreign pish – French. And twa glasses.’
‘Coming right up, sir.’
Mr Champagne shuffled his feet, shoogling his bum in
