Fallen Gods

Eleven

Essentially, mortuaries are the same in every town, every city, every First World country. Bob Skinner had been in a few, including, recently, one in the USA, where he had identified the bodies of Sarah's parents; he knew that if there was a qualitative difference, it sprang from the thoughtfulness of the staff, in the way they prepared what the viewer was going to see, and in the way they prepared him to see it.

The mortuary at Perth Royal Infirmary was one of the better ones. There was a private viewing room, and the senior attendant took pains to explain to Skinner that the body was still subject to post-mortem examination, and therefore it had not been possible to prepare it cosmetically for inspection.

"What I see is what I get," the big policeman said, tersely. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

The attendant hesitated. "Well…" he began.

Skinner put aside his loathing of the aftermath of death, and smiled, making a conscious effort to respond to what he knew was kindly meant.

"It's all right, I understand. And I appreciate it. It's okay; I'm ready. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, I realise that

I've been expecting a moment like this for years." Behind him, Andy Martin frowned, but said nothing. "So just wheel him in and let me have a look."

"Certainly." The attendant nodded and left the room through big double doors, rubber-trimmed to cut down the noise of their crashing together.

A minute or so later the doors swung open, seemingly of their own volition at first, but pushed by the attendant as he backed through them, pulling a trolley, with a younger assistant on the other end.

Until that moment, Bob Skinner had not been aware of the whirring of the fan, but he noticed it at the same moment that he smelled what was under the white sheet, and he was grateful for it.

"Will I turn back the sheet now, sir?" the attendant asked.

"No, I'll do it," Skinner replied. "But I'd appreciate it if you all left me alone for a minute or two."

"Whatever you wish." The man pointed to a button on the wall. "Just push that bell when you're finished. You don't need to wait for us."

"Fine."

The two staff members left by the double doors, while Martin withdrew through the door at the other end of what was in effect a corridor.

Left alone, Skinner took a deep breath and composed himself, gathering together thoughts and memories that he had buried for years. Finally, he took a deep breath and drew back the sheet that covered the bulky shape on the trolley.

He had been expecting to see what he did, and he had known who the dead man was from the moment Andy had shown him the photograph, yet it still made him wince, and give a small gasp. The body had been stripped, and washed clean of mud; he pulled the sheet back to the waist and looked down at it from the side. The skin was pale and flaccid. The hair on its head was still thick, and grey, although it too had been carefully washed, and the dampness made it look darker, he guessed, than it had been in life. The arms were folded across the belly and he could see, on the left wrist, the mark that Martin had mentioned, the one that had aroused his suspicions. He leaned down and peered at it closely, then smiled, faintly.

He walked round to the other side of the trolley and looked at the broken skin on the side of the head. "Where are you when I need you,

Doctor Sarah?" he whispered. "What would you be telling me now?" He laughed. "Not to touch him for a start, but what would you be looking for?"

He pulled the sheet back completely and examined the body carefully.

There were several bruises on the arms, legs and chest. He had learned enough about pathology from his wife to know what, normally, that would mean. He checked for lividity patches, but found none. Finally, he took another long look at the dead man's face. It had changed, in the many years since last he had seen it, but not beyond recognition, not even in death.

"So long," he whispered, and covered the body once more. Then he turned, pushed the button on the wall and walked out of the viewing room, to rejoin his friend.

"Well?" Andy asked.

"There are no signs of blood settlement," Skinner replied; he kept moving, leading the way out of the mortuary wing and into the hospital itself. "He wasn't left lying anywhere for any significant time after death. That probably means that he died just before he was put in the water, or was hit over the head, chucked in and left to drown. You'll need to wait for the pathologist to tell you that.

"Did you look at the other wrist, when you found him?"

"No."

Skinner shook his head and made a tut ting sound. "You'd kick a DC for missing the obvious, Mr. Martin," he said. "There was no mark on the right wrist; the one on the left goes all the way round. So?"

His friend looked at him, sheepishly. "Wristwatch," he murmured. "The man was wearing a watch with a leather strap. Immersion in water made the body swell, until eventually, it burst."

"Exactly. If you go back and have another look in the old lady's basement…" he said, then stopped and moved on.

"As for the rest, there appear to be superficial marks to the face and hands, sustained after death, in the water, I'd say, and there's significant bruising all over the body. All the damage may have been done after death, but it's also possible that someone gave him a good going over with some sort of a club: a claw hammer maybe."

He strode on, briskly, until finally they emerged from the infirmary building into the late mid-summer evening, and stopped in the car park.

"That's all very useful, Bob," said Andy. "I'll pass it on to Rod Greatorix. If you've got any idea where the hammer was bought that would be good too."

Skinner grinned. "Command rank has changed you, pal; clearly you've taken the senior officers' sarcasm course."

"Maybe so, but I'm still waiting for the thing that no one else can tell me. Who is, or who was that back there?"

"In time," his friend replied. "I'm still digesting it, and I really don't want to go into it here. Now if you're going to keep your promise and introduce me to your new daughter, we'd better get going or Karen'll have put her down to sleep for the night." He opened the door of his

BMW and nodded towards Martin's car. "Lead on, I'll follow."

While Perth likes to think of itself as a city, even in Scottish terms it is no more than a medium-sized town. They arrived at the Martins' house on the hill in a little under ten minutes. Karen looked Skinner up and down as he stepped into the hall. The last of the detective sergeant's deference had gone from her; now she was every inch the deputy chief's wife. "You're supposed to be ill," she exclaimed; 'unfit for duty. You look like you're in training for the Olympics."

"I am, in a way," Bob replied, with a grin. "I go for my gold medal next week."

"I hope you make it."

"I will, don't you worry."

"Be sure you do. More people than you can imagine are missing you."

"Not for much longer. Come on, where's this wee lass of yours?"

She led him into the living room, where Danielle lay in the modern equivalent of a carry-cot. She was awake and restless, aware somewhere that her last feed of the day was due. "Hey, you little beauty," said

Skinner, 'may you have your mother's looks and your mother's brains, as someone once said." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small package, which he handed to Karen. "Teething ring and a dummy," he muttered. "Don't fall for that crap about dummies being bad for them. They're not, and they're great for parents; essential, we've found."

Then he reached into another pocket and produced an envelope. "That's for her too, from us." He passed it to Andy, then dropped into an armchair.

"What is it?" his friend asked.

"It's a bond, for three grand. It'll mature in eighteen years, when

Danielle's university age, and there should be enough there by then to keep her out of too much debt."

Bob! "Karen exclaimed.

"Shush. I've done as much and more for my kids and I'll do it for yours; it's all the more appropriate that I do now." He grinned. "Just don't have too many, that's all!"

"Thanks, Bob," Andy said, 'from all of us. But what did you mean by appropriate?"

Skinner sighed. "Sit down and I'll tell you."

"This sounds serious," Karen murmured, picking up the carry-basket. "So while you do, I'm going to feed the baby and put her down for the night. Then I'll feed us. Bob, are you staying?"

"If I'm invited. I've brought some kit."

"Good." She left the room, carrying her daughter.

"Well?" asked Andy, sitting in the spare armchair.

Skinner looked his friend in the eye, holding his gaze steady.

"Remember, when once I said to you that you were like the brother I never had?"

Martin nodded.

"Well, that wasn't quite true." He paused, opened his mouth to speak again, only to let out another deeper sigh. He sat there staring straight ahead for countless seconds. A CD had been playing in the background, unnoticed; now Eddi Reader's crystal voice, singing of perfection, seemed to fill the room. Finally, he blinked and went on.

"That man," he said. "That man you met in Miss Bonney's basement today: he was my brother too."

And then something happened: something that at first amazed Andy, then filled him with a sudden, scary panic; something that he had never seen before, nor ever imagined he would see.

Bob Skinner, his mighty, impregnable friend, buried his face in his hands and began to cry, his chest and shoulders heaving in great, wracking, uncontrollable sobs.