Murmuring the Judges

67

‘Remember the “Thriller” video,’ asked Bob Skinner. As he threw a sidelong glance at Neil McIlhenney, a shaft of moonlight made his face shine, eerily silver in the night. ‘The Vincent Price section where the undead rise from their graves. .’

His executive assistant looked at him and laughed, dismissively. ‘Try again, if you think you’re scaring me, Boss. You’ve never seen my Olive first thing in the morning.’

‘Anything you say, sergeant,’ the DCC countered, ‘may be noted down and reported back to Mrs McIlhenney.’

He looked round at the man on his other side. ‘Ignore him, Pat,’ he said. ‘I have met the lady. Not at that time of day admittedly, but she’s lovely. . the very salt of the earth.’

‘Aye,’ McIlhenney mused. ‘I’ve often thought yon bloke Lot was a lucky bastard.’ He leaned forward, looking round Skinner at Sheriff Patrick Boone, from the Haddington Court.

‘Do you have to be present as a witness at all exhumations, sir?’ he asked.

‘No, not at all. I volunteered for this one though. When I was at the Bar I appeared before Orlach often enough to want to be sure that the old swine really is dead.’

The DCC grinned. His eyes having grown accustomed to the light, he glanced at his watch. It showed one minute to midnight. He led the Sheriff and McIlhenney across the grass of the graveyard towards a group of five men in overalls and rubber boots, who were standing almost in the shadow of the square tower of the old Aberlady church. Away to their left, the moonlight shone pure silver on the calm waters of the bay, a scene in stark contrast to the monsoon weather of the night before.

‘We’re ready to start now, lads,’ said Skinner. ‘Before that I’d like to thank you for volunteering for this unpleasant job, and to impress on you again that it must not be mentioned or discussed, not even at home.’ He nodded towards the oldest of the five. ‘You’ll work under the direction of Mr Glaister here, who is the Council’s burial ground superintendent. Do exactly as he tells you.’

He glanced at the Sheriff once more. ‘Okay, let’s begin. Mr Glaister, if you please.’

The older man stepped forward and pointed to four white pegs set in the ground, joined by string to form a rectangle eight feet long by four feet wide. ‘I’ve pegged out the area that we’re going to dig around, and I’ve cut the top layer of turf. I’ve only ever been at one other exhumation, like, when I worked up in Edinburgh, but the one thing I learned then was that it’s a bloody sight easier tae put a coffin in the ground than it is tae get it oot! We’ll need to allow width and length to get straps under the thing, for lifting. Unless it’s solid wood, and no’ chipboard, the handles on the side are just for show.’

‘How deep will we have to go?’ asked one of the police volunteers.

‘Not as deep as you think, possibly. Only aboot four feet six, maybe five feet allowing for settlement. In this lair, the wife’s buried below the husband, and we’ve got to be careful no’ tae disturb her, so ah’ll stop yis every so often, so’s tae check the depth.’

He looked at the four diggers. ‘Everybody a’right, now?’ The police volunteers nodded. ‘In that case, gentlemen, take up your shovels!’