Whisky From Small Glasses Read Online Free Page B

pocketed a black pipe into a short white coat pocket with the other: Chief Forensic Pathologist Andrew Crichton.
    ‘Still at the pipe, Andy? I dread to think what shape your lungs are in.’ Daley walked towards Crichton and slapped him on the back. ‘How are you keeping? Surely you must be past retirement age.’ He smiled affectionately at the older man.
    ‘One of the advantages of a professional career, Inspector Daley, is that one doesn’t have to retire in one’s forties and get a job delivering newspapers or doing odd jobs in order to make ends meet.’ Crichton was referring to the fact that most junior uniformed police officers retired after thirty years of service. Many would find themselves in rather menial employment, either from boredom or the pressing need to supplement an inadequate pension. In the CID, and from the rank of inspector and above, the situation was different: the higher grades regularly stayed well beyond thirty years in ‘The Job’. However, the forces were slowly encouraging ordinary cops to stay on as well, realising that there was truly no substitute for experience.
    ‘Aye, listen tae it.’ Scott adopted an expression of mock outrage. ‘It’ll be nae bother fir you tae get a wee part-time job. That butcher in Kilmacolm’s always needin’ help, an’ think, no reports tae write or fuck a’.’
    ‘I’m so glad those elocution lessons have finally paid off, Brian. Your ready turn of phrase never ceases to amaze me.’ Crichton surveyed the DS with a critical eye. ‘All that drink is having a devastating effect on your looks too. Good grief, man, you look like you’ve aged ten years in the last two.’
    ‘Cheeky bastard.’ Scott chuckled. ‘Anyhow, me an’ the boss haven’t a’ day for this. He’s gettin’ sent tae the wilds tomorrow.’
    ‘Well, gents, as you can no doubt discern with the use of your legendary detection skills and from the fragrant aroma of tobacco, I have been having a smoke. Really, nothing is sacred these days. My old professor never had a cigar out of his mouth when he performed a post mortem. Now, if youlight up within ten feet of the building, you’re liable to go down for ten years.’
    ‘Aye, an’ you’ve aye been a stickler for the rulebook, Andy.’
    Laughter filled the corridor as they headed for the pathology theatre. Two technicians were working on a body lying on a metal autopsy table. The room itself was dimly lit, however a large bank of lights suspended in a metal frame above the table illuminated the scene with ice-white precision.
    ‘Be so good as to put these on.’ An assistant had arrived bearing green aprons, masks and rubber overshoes. Crichton removed his white coat, then headed over to a large metal sink where he rolled up his shirt sleeves and soaped his hands and forearms, operating the taps with his elbows when he was finished. This done, he shrugged on his green rubber overall with a great deal more ease than the two police officers, both of whom had required the help of an assistant.
    Now fully kitted out, the trio proceeded to the autopsy table where Daley recognised the blackened, bloated features of the deceased he had first seen on the emails in Donald’s office. The body cavity had been exposed; both sides of her ribcage and flesh were pinned back with large stainless-steel clamps. As usual Daley had to suppress an automatic gag reflex. Scott, meanwhile, took in the scene intently, eyes visible over his mask, which was moving in a less than flattering manner as he continued to chew an ever-present piece of gum.
    ‘Aye, you’ve made a good start, Andy.’ Scott’s eyes flicked from the eviscerated corpse to the pathologist.
    ‘When I heard who was in charge of this investigation, I thought I’d get the sawing over with before you got here.’Daley could only imagine the broad grin hidden by the older man’s mask. ‘Right, progress so far . . . As you can see, we’ve managed a pretty comprehensive