Blood Lines (23 page)

It was hardly an appropriate dress code for the Head of Forensic Pathology at the University of Edinburgh. Patch Patterson had been born with hard Scottish religion bred into him for generations, which was why he kept his harmless vice a secret. A secret that he could only give free rein to in the bowels of the hospital, where he was pretty sure no one alive would visit without warning.

‘Want a cup of coffee?’

It was always his first question; unlike Moses, Patch was addicted to caffeine. Without turning round or waiting for an answer he simply walked off into his side office and switched on the kettle. The music blared on, and I followed Patch. His office was untidy and loose papers hung out of files laid in piles on the floor. His sturdy, handmade brown brogues were hidden under the desk; in his domain Patch did exactly as he wanted, and so, naturally, he wore blue suede brothel creepers. Remarkably, given what he worked amongst each day, they were unsoiled. On the wall there was a 1975 calendar, kept for the magnificent picture of Elvis looking sweaty in a white boiler suit studded with rhinestones, singing live in Las Vegas.

I was handed a steaming cup of instant coffee.

‘Sorry. The espresso machine is on the blink, this is all I have until the damned thing is repaired.’ Patch looked apologetic. We both shared a love of good coffee and took a rather childish pride in the quality of our palates. Unconsciously, as we spoke, his hand went up and he started to stroke the port-wine-stain birthmark that covered half his face and gave him his nickname.

‘I have some rather nice homemade madeleines in my tin, Brodie, if you’re interested. Some say they are to die for.’

Patch’s attempts at joking always came with warning signs – I accepted that a slight smirk would get me some nice biscuits in return, so I indulged him as usual. The truth was, I hated autopsies and always had. He was incredibly blasé about it all, which seemed a good idea for a pathologist really, but as soon as I came into this room, I started sweating and my hands would shake a bit too. I even felt a little sick – but hoped that the biccies would help in that department.

‘I thought you were on a diet? Whatever happened to your new mantra – a moment on the lips, forever in the aorta?’ I asked him.

‘That was last month – so far this month I’ve only been dissecting skinny people, and I realise once more that no matter what vice I cut out I’m still going to die.’

His comment made me realise how few times I had seen him recently. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been round, Patch. I’ve been otherwise engaged.’

‘I know. I saw you on TV – did you get my text?’

I nodded. Patch had sent his love and offered his services. There was no need for him to do this explicitly because I always knew he was there for me no matter what. I grew up a fatherless child, an outsider, whereas Patch was a great father without a child. We were both interlopers in Edinburgh legal circles and we stuck to each other like old pieces of chewing gum on a shoe.

‘I’ve been expecting you, Brodie.’

‘I said I was sorry.’

‘Don’t be so stupid – I’ve been expecting you because of this.’

He held up a business card.

It was so filthy that I didn’t initially recognise it as mine. Patch held it at some distance from his face; he was careful to use tweezers.

‘It’s from your left pocket – obviously you were or wanted to be close to Donna Diamond.’

‘She was my client – a recently acquired one,’ I told him.

‘It was a short-lived relationship, my dear.’

‘What’s that orange stuff on it?’ I asked.

‘Foam. Builder’s insulating foam. If you have a gap between the wall and a window you spray some of this stuff and it expands to fill the hole. Damned useful it is too. Dries hard like concrete.’

He walked, so I followed. Patch didn’t explain himself to anyone. You either understood him or you didn’t. The clock on the wall ticked loudly; Patch was always reminding me: time flies. Outside, the world went on as normal. I could hear the laughter of porters joking with one another. In the morgue it was a parallel universe.

‘I left her out,’ said Patch, pointing to the shape at the side of us. ‘I knew that you would call round and I thought it would save time.’

I nodded my thanks.

‘I was out at Calton Hill last night,’ he continued. ‘Did the autopsy first thing. DI Bancho insisted. I take it you know him?’

All the while he walked around the gurney pulling off the sheet. I will admit to a certain morbid curiosity that was only overcome by my overriding squeamishness.

I started with the feet, then, as my sensitivity decreased, I got used to the sight of the naked corpse in front of me.

The first thing that hit me was that Donna Diamond had bloody ugly feet. They were immaculately waxed and obviously she had professional pedicures, but no amount of hot-pink nail polish could hide those bunions. Her big toe was small, much smaller than the next toe, which had a pale white band where a toe-ring had been. Donna liked her accessories, as I would find out when I got brave enough to look at her nipples.

‘Bancho. He seems to think you’re responsible for this.’ Patch swept his hands expansively over the cadaver. ‘Which was why I thought it was imperative that he didn’t get his hands on
this
.’ Patch waved my soiled business card in the air.

‘We both know you could be in trouble for that,’ I pointed out.

‘Well, you’d better not tell him then, had you, Brodie?’

‘Where was it, Patch?’

‘We’ll get to that in a moment. First, let me tell you how I procured the item and managed to hide it from DI Bancho.’ Patch looked very pleased with himself as he began to recount his tale.

‘He was vomiting – and you know how I feel about spewers; present company excepted.’

‘You made him sick, didn’t you?’

‘I may have given the boy a helping hand.’

‘Well, go easy on me, Patch – I’m feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth. I was having tea and shortbread with Donna not so long ago.’

Patch ignored my request and went on.

‘I had the Inverness hospital email me the medical records of Alex Cattanach – it’s a bloody shame.’

His words gave me quite a start. Patch rarely swore at any level.

‘It’s a bit unfortunate for you too – I mean what’s going on – I always thought your name would be up in lights, Brodie, but not this way.’

I had managed to move my eyes upwards. Donna’s hair had lost its lustre and lay around her head like a pillow of straw. Patch must have read my mind. ‘Hair extensions to cover her male pattern baldness – it must have taken Donna hours to get herself ready to face the world.’

Without her make-up and her animated expressions, the time that she had spent under the surgeon’s knife looked like a waste of effort and money.

‘The knife marks on her face, Patch,’ I asked. ‘Do you think it was the same person? The pattern looks the same to me, but it’s difficult to tell because Alex’s scars were swollen and infected when I saw her.’

‘I’ve only seen scanned photographs, Brodie, so until I see Alex in the flesh, so to speak, I can’t be sure … but something doesn’t smell right.’

‘Perhaps the attacker is just stepping up the violence? I don’t think he intended Alex to survive.’

‘The smile that is cut into Miss Cattanach’s skin seemed to be important to her assailant and yet it’s missing here. The cheeks are untouched. We need to ask ourselves why. What was there about Alex Cattanach that necessitated a smile to be carved onto her? What message are we being given that the same violence wasn’t inflicted on Donna Diamond?’ He poked at Donna’s face with a gloved finger as he pondered aloud.

‘Alex was attacked on a hill in the Highlands and buried alive,’ I reminded him. ‘There are similarities – are you saying the differences are more important? Is that where we’ll find the vital clues?’

Patch looked at me before continuing. ‘This victim was killed elsewhere and deposited on Calton Hill. The grave was shallow. The assailant intended the body to be found. The location of the victim is a busy spot known for carnal trysts. They knew it would not lie undiscovered for more than a few hours.

‘The spirals on the face of Alex Cattanach were cut in a clockwise direction. The marks on Donna Diamond, on the other hand, were made in an anti-clockwise movement, indicating a right-hander made one set and a left-handed person made the other.’

‘Couldn’t the knife marks have been made by the same person – if that person was ambidextrous?’ I asked.

‘Is that what you’re hoping for, Brodie? Is that what you’re wishing for? Well, if wishes came true we’d all have had ponies when we were wee. You’re best to know what you’re facing, lass, then you can fight it – self-delusion is no weapon to take into this scrap.’

‘The marks on the body – they don’t look life-threatening. What did Donna die of?’

‘I can’t say for sure until the toxicology reports come in – but she was poisoned. I suspect we’ll find that temazepam was used.’

‘Jellies?’

‘Correct – large quantity, readily available on prescription as a sleeping tablet.’

I was strong enough to keep my eyes moving on the body, attentive enough to notice the small butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. I winced as I looked at her large silicone breasts, pert and standing to attention even in death. Twinkling in the areolae were silver rings with diamond chips. One thing was certain: Donna put a great deal more effort into being a woman than I did.

‘I’ve been saving the best till last.’ Patch looked like a cat who had stolen the cream.

‘Don’t you always? I’ve already told you that my stomach can’t take too much today. After Duncan Bancho left you last night he came knocking on my door, so I’ve had approximately two minutes’ sleep.’ It was necessary to lay it on with a trowel when you were dealing with Patch, anything less and you got nowhere.

The business card and the tweezers had made a reappearance whilst I was trying to get sympathy.

‘Have you guessed where I found this yet, Brodie?’

‘No – and I don’t think I want to.’ I recognised his most evil smile.

‘About Donna Diamond’s person … the vaginal cavity to be precise; and it wasn’t the only surprise I found there.’

He paused for dramatic effect.

‘Your card was found inside the vagina of a dead transsexual. And it was held in place by the builder’s foam you asked about. Indeed, there was sufficient foam to block the opening completely.’

I would never look at my cards in the same way again. I’d definitely have to change the design.

‘Pay attention and snap out of it, Brodie. Someone is setting you up. They want you to be the fall guy. If I hadn’t hidden this evidence you’d be on remand in Cornton Vale by now. What do you intend to do about it?’

‘Well, Patch,’ I replied. ‘What options do you think I’ve got? One half-murdered lesbian accountant writing my name in her own shit and blood on the walls of a mental hospital. A dead transsexual with my personal business card shoved up her fanny to the high end of nowhere. A bent copper out for my head on a plate, and a psycho Goth blinding his so-called followers for daring to question him or me.’

Patch’s eyes never flickered as my own heart pounded.

‘I suppose entering a popularity contest isn’t an option just now, my dear,’ he said. ‘But if I were you, I’d stop the dramatics and start planning, or the only way you’ll be getting into a court is as a client, and the only way into my morgue will be as a specimen. I’m not keen on either option, so, please, for my sake – get yourself sorted and realise that you do have some friends left.’

Chapter Thirty-One

‘If I don’t get something to eat soon, you’ll be representing me on a manslaughter charge, Brodie.’

The farmers’ market was taking place in the car park opposite the office in Castle Terrace, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep Lavender indoors. The vendors had travelled from all over Scotland and were plying their wares like medieval shopkeepers under the shadow of Edinburgh Castle. Competition was fierce and marketing tactics came from the sharp end. Fish merchants from Arbroath were smoking their own haddock in whisky-soaked woodchips. They were all calling to Lavender, according to her, and I didn’t know how long she could resist it.

‘Stop thinking of your stomach for once, Lavender,’ I entreated her. ‘That reminds me, though – did Eddie like your coq au vin?’

She snorted before replying. ‘Those bloody books say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but Eddie just doesn’t have that big an appetite.’

I raised one eyebrow, a feat I had mastered at the age of ten, even though I had to spend a whole summer holiday in front of the mirror to do it.

Lavender went on – I’d touched on her favourite subject now. ‘He’s not that interested in food.’ Her eyes went misty as she added, ‘which is how he manages to maintain his lithe footballer’s physique.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said, not wanting to spend any time thinking about Drunk Eddie’s body.

‘Don’t you want details, Brodie? Are you not interested in my life? How about a blow-for-blow account, as it were?’ she teased.

‘No – intriguing as I’m sure your sex life is, Lav, I’d rather save my own arse than hear about Eddie’s.’

‘Spoil-sport.’

The office was quiet on a Saturday morning, the atmosphere relaxed, and Lavender and I tended to get through a lot of work. For once, the phones were silent and it wasn’t a sign that business was going down the tubes. There were no courts sitting on a Saturday, and criminals tended to be lying in their beds sleeping off a drink-and drug-fuelled fugue. They needed their beauty sleep before they hit Princes Street in the afternoon for a bit of shoplifting.

I wandered over to one of the two whiteboards that hung in my office. The one on the left was known as the prison visiting board. It did what it said on the label: all our clients who were in custody were on that board, along with the date that someone from the firm had last seen them.

‘Laura McGuigan, Lavender? If she was at Cornton Vale, why didn’t she pop in to see Tanya Hayder? Her rehab at Fearns is only down the road.’