should elicit some praise.
‘A courtesy only, I can assure you.’ Daley didn’t look in MacLeod’s direction. ‘If DC Fraser hadn’t been able to find you, I’d have authorised this myself.’
MacLeod’s face took on a look of extreme antagonism. He walked over to the communications unit and picked up what looked like a large mobile phone. After dialling a number and waiting for a few moments he started to speak. ‘Yes, Kinloch Sub-Division, authorisation Delta Mike 281165.’ There was a pause, and then the screen began to flicker into life. The logo was replaced by a view of the PR room in Glasgow mortuary. A table with small microphones sat in front of three chairs, backed by a brown screen that bore the name of the institution plus the City of Glasgow crest.
Daley saw Watson tense. He was clenching then unclenching his fists, which were resting on his knees, and he sat even further forward in his seat. He looked exhausted. Daley made a mental note to make sure that he sent the fisherman to his parents to try to get some rest once this, the first of many ordeals, was over.
A woman appeared on screen wearing a white coat with three pens arrayed along the top of her breast pocket. Daley recognised her, but did not know her name. She was a junior pathologist, and the inspector recalled Crichton referring to her in what could best be described as less than politically correct terms: in short, even at this hour, her good looks wereevident. He saw Fraser’s expression momentarily register this fact.
‘Good morning.’ She spoke in a low, formal manner. ‘Mr Watson, could you acknowledge that you are present and can see the screen at close quarters without any hindrance?’
The fisherman grunted a reply and then coughed nervously.
They were communicating through omnidirectional microphones that hung from the ceiling of the Kinloch video suite. ‘Could all serving officers present please state their names and designations for the record, starting with the senior investigating officer, then in descending order of rank.’
Daley and MacLeod both started to talk at the same time. MacLeod stopped, his face pinched with rancour.
‘James Daley, Detective Inspector, Senior Investigating Officer.’
MacLeod now took his chance. ‘I would like to make a point of order, please. You, whatever your name is . . .’ He didn’t give the pathologist a chance to reply. ‘I’m Sub-Divisional Commander here, and by rights my name should be submitted first.’
Everyone present looked in disbelief at the short man in the hooded top. MacLeod stood in the middle of the room in an impromptu aisle, formed by the small rank of chairs. The pathologist however remained unfazed. ‘Sorry, sir, the procedure in this matter is clear. The senior investigating officer takes precedence, even to those of a higher rank.’
‘Which you are not.’ Clearly furious with MacLeod, Daley spoke. ‘Please sit down, Inspector MacLeod. I’m sure Mr Watson is finding this hard enough as it is.’
MacLeod muttered something under his breath and retreated to the back of the room where he took a seat.
The remaining police officers gave their details, and the pathologist continued. ‘My name is Judy Kelly. I’m Assistant Pathologist in Greater Glasgow.’ She walked behind the desk and took a seat behind the microphones. ‘Mr Watson, when you are ready, I will begin to show a number of images of the deceased. Please feel free to ask me to stop at any time, if either you can make a positive identification, or you want a break.
‘I must warn you that the deceased has been exposed to saltwater for a period of time, which may make her features appear swollen or bloated, so please take this into account. Please say “yes” when you are ready to proceed.’ She looked directly into the camera, waiting for Watson’s reply.
‘Aye, go ahead.’ Watson’s voice was clear, but ready to break with emotion.
Instantly, an overhead view of a body
‘A courtesy only, I can assure you.’ Daley didn’t look in MacLeod’s direction. ‘If DC Fraser hadn’t been able to find you, I’d have authorised this myself.’
MacLeod’s face took on a look of extreme antagonism. He walked over to the communications unit and picked up what looked like a large mobile phone. After dialling a number and waiting for a few moments he started to speak. ‘Yes, Kinloch Sub-Division, authorisation Delta Mike 281165.’ There was a pause, and then the screen began to flicker into life. The logo was replaced by a view of the PR room in Glasgow mortuary. A table with small microphones sat in front of three chairs, backed by a brown screen that bore the name of the institution plus the City of Glasgow crest.
Daley saw Watson tense. He was clenching then unclenching his fists, which were resting on his knees, and he sat even further forward in his seat. He looked exhausted. Daley made a mental note to make sure that he sent the fisherman to his parents to try to get some rest once this, the first of many ordeals, was over.
A woman appeared on screen wearing a white coat with three pens arrayed along the top of her breast pocket. Daley recognised her, but did not know her name. She was a junior pathologist, and the inspector recalled Crichton referring to her in what could best be described as less than politically correct terms: in short, even at this hour, her good looks wereevident. He saw Fraser’s expression momentarily register this fact.
‘Good morning.’ She spoke in a low, formal manner. ‘Mr Watson, could you acknowledge that you are present and can see the screen at close quarters without any hindrance?’
The fisherman grunted a reply and then coughed nervously.
They were communicating through omnidirectional microphones that hung from the ceiling of the Kinloch video suite. ‘Could all serving officers present please state their names and designations for the record, starting with the senior investigating officer, then in descending order of rank.’
Daley and MacLeod both started to talk at the same time. MacLeod stopped, his face pinched with rancour.
‘James Daley, Detective Inspector, Senior Investigating Officer.’
MacLeod now took his chance. ‘I would like to make a point of order, please. You, whatever your name is . . .’ He didn’t give the pathologist a chance to reply. ‘I’m Sub-Divisional Commander here, and by rights my name should be submitted first.’
Everyone present looked in disbelief at the short man in the hooded top. MacLeod stood in the middle of the room in an impromptu aisle, formed by the small rank of chairs. The pathologist however remained unfazed. ‘Sorry, sir, the procedure in this matter is clear. The senior investigating officer takes precedence, even to those of a higher rank.’
‘Which you are not.’ Clearly furious with MacLeod, Daley spoke. ‘Please sit down, Inspector MacLeod. I’m sure Mr Watson is finding this hard enough as it is.’
MacLeod muttered something under his breath and retreated to the back of the room where he took a seat.
The remaining police officers gave their details, and the pathologist continued. ‘My name is Judy Kelly. I’m Assistant Pathologist in Greater Glasgow.’ She walked behind the desk and took a seat behind the microphones. ‘Mr Watson, when you are ready, I will begin to show a number of images of the deceased. Please feel free to ask me to stop at any time, if either you can make a positive identification, or you want a break.
‘I must warn you that the deceased has been exposed to saltwater for a period of time, which may make her features appear swollen or bloated, so please take this into account. Please say “yes” when you are ready to proceed.’ She looked directly into the camera, waiting for Watson’s reply.
‘Aye, go ahead.’ Watson’s voice was clear, but ready to break with emotion.
Instantly, an overhead view of a body
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