She looked so angry and flustered and full of life. He knew if he started laughing he probably wouldn’t be able to stop

There weren’t many places he could go when things got really tough. There was Phil, of course, except that Phil’s normal cure for any ills came on tap or in a bottle, and McLean really didn’t feel like getting drunk. Grumpy Bob could usually be relied on to keep him from getting too morose, but the old sergeant seemed to have taken an avuncular liking to Constable Kydd, and took the news of her death with uncharacteristic tears.

McIntyre had told him to take the rest of the day off, and told them all in that school-matron manner of hers that she didn’t want to see any of them for 24 hours.

She had enough stuff of her own to deal with, so he couldn’t really burden her with his own guilt.

In the past there had been his grandmother; even when she was lying comatose in a hospital bed she’d been a good listener, but now even she had gone and left him.

Which was why, less than an hour after hearing the news, and still slightly numb, McLean found himself in the mortuary. So much for a wide and vibrant social circle.

Guilt

“We have a phrase for it, Tony. It’s called survivor’s guilt.”

Angus Cadwallader was still wearing his scrubs from the last post mortem of the day.

“I know, Angus. I studied psychology at university. I got a First, remember.

“It’s just, knowing about all that doesn’t seem to help at all.

“She pushed me out of the way. She gave up her own life so that I could live. How can that possibly be fair?”

“Fairness is something we tell children exists to keep them in line.”

“Hmmm. Not sure that exactly helps.”

“I try my best.”

Cadwallader stripped off his long rubber gloves and dumped them in the sterile bin.

McLean looked over the mortuary, realising for the first time that there was no sign of any forensic examination going on.

“SOC didn’t spend long in here,” he said. “Normally they like to take days searching for tiny clues.”

“Well, I’m glad they didn’t. It was bad enough losing a day’s work. People don’t stop dying, you know.

“I’ve a back-log that’s going to take weeks to sort out thanks to your helpful thief.”

“Who’s that then?”

McLean nodded towards the covered body as Cadwallader guddled around in nearby drawers looking for something.

“That’s your suicide victim, actually. The Waverley Station woman. We still haven’t got a name for her, poor thing.

“We examined her this morning. Tracy’s still got to finish cleaning her up and then she’ll have to wait until she’s identified.

“Strange thing, though. You remember her hands and hair were covered in blood.

“Couldn’t see where it had all come from?” McLean nodded, although truth was, so much had happened since he’d been called to her suicide he’d forgotten all about it.

“Well that’s because it wasn’t hers.”

Fighting

Emma Baird almost walked into him as he was leaving the mortuary.

She was fighting with a large insulated box, the contents of which McLean was happy not to know, and had backed through the doorway just as he was opening it.

In any other circumstance, the site of her tumbling backwards into his arms would have been amusing. “Watch yourself there.”

“Bloody stupid . . . what on earth –” Emma struggled, turned, realised who it was.

“Oh God, Tony. Um, inspector. Sir.” McLean helped her to her feet, trying to stifle the chuckle that wanted to burst from his throat.

She looked so angry and flustered and full of life. He knew if he started laughing he probably wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Sorry, Em. I didn’t see you coming through the door. And Tony’s fine, really.

“Can’t be doing with this sir and inspector nonsense at the best of times.”

He didn’t need to say that these weren’t. “Yeah. I heard the news. I’m so sorry. She was a nice kid.”

A nice kid. Not much of an epitaph, really. And she was just a kid.

Not that long out of training college, keen to make detective as soon as possible. Bright, enthusiastic, friendly, dead.

“Are you on your way in, or out?”

Emma’s question filled the uncomfortable silence between them.

“What? Oh. Out.”

McLean looked at his watch. Long past knockingoff time, even if the chief superintendent hadn’t sent his team home already.

He nodded at the box. “What about yourself? Delivering or collecting?”

“This? Oh I was just dropping it off. Dr Sharp loaned us it last week when we were one short.

“It was on my way home so I said I’d drop it off.” “Here, let me give you a hand then.” McLean reached for the box.

“No, you”re OK.”

Emma hugged it to her side as if it were a cherished keepsake. “But I wouldn’t mind the company.”

It didn’t take long to hand over the box and get back to the door.

McLean didn’t even have to say anything; Emma was quite capable of talking for two.

“That you off for the evening then?” She asked as he held the door open for her.

Threats

“I should probably head back to the station really. There’s a stack of paperwork with my name on it and a duty sergeant who gets more creative with his threats every day.”

Even as he said it, the thought filled him with a weary resignation.

He’d creep in the back way to avoid being seen, sit there and work his way through the pile until either it was done or he was.

And even if he finished it, there would be another one to replace it soon enough.

Times like these, he wondered why he did the bloody job.

Might as well go work for Gavin Spenser and live in a big house with a swimming pool.

“Say it like that, I could even be tempted to do some paperwork myself. Find some just special.” “Well, if you’re offering . . .”

“Tell you what. Come and have a drink first. Then see how keen you are.”

More on Monday.