Halting State

towards the city centre with the power pack whining like an overloaded dentist’s drill (from back in your childhood, before dentists got their hands on the orbital death-rays they use nowadays for hunting down unfortunate plaques of bacteria and nuking them back into the pre-Cambrian).

Edinburgh’s city mortuary is a flat-roofed brutalist brick-and-concrete bunker occupying a hole between two of the tall stone buildings of the Cowgate, in the heart of the old town. Time runs differently in Edinburgh: The old town is old because it dates to the middle ages. (There are rumours of entire lost streets down here within the mediaeval city walls, barricaded, buried, and built-over after the plague carried away their denizens.) Lockhart approaches the mortuary directly, driving up the Mound and over and down through the Grassmarket, where they used to hang witches and heretics. Picturesque and gingerbread it might be, but this ain city has a dark history, and no mistake. You travel in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and when Elaine takes hold of your hand, her fingers are cold and tense.

Finally, Lockhart turns sharply uphill and then slides into the car-park. There’s a loading bay at the gloomy back for the ambulances and hearses, but the ordinary traffic gets the view of the pub opposite. Lockhart gets out and holds the door for you while you clamber into the daylight and blink as Elaine unpacks herself. “Where’s the inspector?” she asks, looking round.

“She said she’d be here.” Lockhart fumbles with his handset, which takes a moment to boot. “Go on inside.”

He’s still fumbling with the handset as you go through the mirrored doors and find yourself facing a woman who could pass for Elaine’s elder sister—the tougher, short-haired one carved from cold, grey northern marble. “Mr. Reed, Ms. Barnaby? I’m Inspector Kavanaugh. Sue Smith—Sergeant Smith—has been telling me about you.” She doesn’t look like a happy camper, and for an instant the mummy lobe starts yammering about guilt, urging you to confess to something, anything, everything—the eighth of slate in the stash tin that PC Lockhart failed to spot under the sofa cushions, or the time you swiped Paul Doulton’s Mars Bar in Secondary Two. You keep a lid on it: You seem to be getting better about not incriminating yourself the moment an officer of the law blinks at you. “I was hoping to make your acquaintance yesterday.”

“Really?” asks Elaine, with every appearance of being intensely interested. “We were in Glasgow in the morning, then in a meeting.”

“A meeting.” The way Kavanaugh pronounces the word makes it sound like a criminal conspiracy to conduct business in accordance with the rules of procedure: Or maybe it’s just her mouth wash disagreeing with her. (A quick tongue around your teeth convinces you that perhaps taking the time for a brush and shave wouldn’t have been a bad idea.) “Well, that’s as may be. Barry Michaels called me—at home, on a voice line, I might add—to tell me you were working for him. And he suggested you might be able to help me clear up a little problem.”

“A problem—” you begin to echo, as Elaine elbows you in the ribs.

“Of course we’d be happy to help,” she butts in smoothly: “Insofar as it’s compatible with our duties.” Ouch, you think. “What can we do for you?”

You’ve got a sinking feeling about this. “I’d like to ask you if you can formally identify a deceased gentleman.”

Elaine grabs your hand. You tense as she draws close. “What happened?”

“I can tell you more afterwards,” says Kavanaugh. She glances at the inner doorway. “Jimmy? I’ve got your witnesses.” The speakerphone crackles, and then there’s a buzz as the door unlatches.

You’ve seen mortuaries a hundred times on television, but that doesn’t do the place justice. For one thing they smell a bit like a hospital…only, not. And the quiet. It’s like the offices at the funeral home after Mum died. Sure, there are people going in and out of small rooms with tablets and bundles of paperwork, but there’s a marked shortage of levity in this place. If you could bottle whatever it is and sell it to schools, they’d give you a gong: It’s the concentrated essence of sobriety. And you’ve just been dragged into it without even a shave and a hang- over.

Elaine trots along after the long-legged inspector, dragging you along in her wake. Her lips are a thin blue slash beneath the old-fashioned fluorescents. “In here,” says the inspector, holding an office door open. For a moment you worry—but it’s just an office, with a desk and a half-bald man in a white coat but no stethoscope. “Dr. Hughes? These are my witnesses. You might want to go easy, they haven’t had much warning.”

Hughes raises an eyebrow. “That makes three of us,” he comments. A deep breath: “Well, I assume you know where you are?” You force yourself to nod. “Good. Well, I’m the duty pathologist today, and I gather the inspector here would like you to confirm a positive identification. Have either of you ever done this before?” You shake your head. Elaine’s grip on your hand tightens as Hughes gives the inspector a sharp look. “They’re not next of kin, are they?”

Your heart flops around madly, missing a beat. Who can it be? Your hands are sweating. You’ve been here before, hung-over in the presence of the law to witness something you don’t want to admit—

“Adult male.” Kavanaugh shakes her head, then glances at you. “Is something the matter, Mr. Reed?”

“No—I mean, not this: I don’t think so.” You take a deep breath. The mummy lobe kicks up a cacophonous din, demanding that you unload everything you know on the inspector right now, but you manage to beat it into submission: “I have a weak stomach.” Which is an exaggeration, but not by much.

“Alright.” That’s Dr. Hughes. He glances at Inspector Kavanaugh. “In that case I’ll take Ms…”

“Ms. Barnaby and Mr. Reed.”

“Yes. Ms. Barnaby? If you’re comfortable with this, in a moment I shall show you into the, ah, viewing room. Mr. Reed, if you’d like to wait here. After you’ve had enough time, I’ll bring you back here and take Mr. Reed in while the inspector records your statement.”

“Is it”—Elaine’s voice is uncharacteristically weak—“I mean, is this necessary?”

Dr. Hughes glances at the inspector. Kavanaugh clears her throat. “I’m afraid it is, under the circumstances.” She gives you a significant look. “I believe you know enough about image filtering to explain why to me.”

The bottom drops out of your stomach again, just after you thought you’d gotten a grip on yourself. Elaine’s hand slips away, lubricated by the sweat of your palm. “I’m ready,” she says.

They disappear through a disappointingly ordinary-looking inner-office door, and Kavanaugh focusses on you. “Yes?” she asks.

“Did Michaels.” You swallow. “Did he tell you about my niece?”

“About who?” In the bright office light you can see her pupils dilate.

“He says his people are looking for her,” the mummy lobe pushes out. Then you add, consciously: “And I don’t trust him.”

“Christ, I don’t blame you for that.” She looks concerned. “What’s the story?”

You explain the background, weird calls, and the photographs, and the police reports—and that last call. It’s not true that the inspector has a Botox-frozen face: It goes through quite a few expressions in just thirty seconds, running through a spectrum of surprise and outrage. But then she cuts you off with a brief gesture. “Later.” She glances at the door. “If you can identify the person in there, I’d be very grateful. But I—” The door opens and she swallows whatever she was about to come out with. Framed in the opening is a whey-faced Elaine, looking between you and the inspector as if she’s certain one of you killed Colonel Mustard in the Drawing Room with the Candlestick.

It’s your turn. Dr. Hughes beckons. “Just follow me,” he says, not unkindly. There’s a short corridor, then another door, and—a window running along one wall? “Take your time,” he says. “When you’ve seen enough, or if you feel at all unwell, we’ll go outside.” Which is all very easy to say, but you do feel unwell: It’s giving you a horrible sense of deja vu, and not in a good way.

A light comes on in the room on the other side of the window. It’s small and bare, with tiled walls, and a trolley with a draped form.

You blink, trying to bring it into focus. He looks like he’s deeply asleep, what you can see of him: head and shoulders only. And something is very wrong indeed, you realize immediately. Your mouth is dry. You work your jaw, trying to get your salivary glands to lubricate your tongue. “I saw him yesterday,” you say, and you’re pretty sure you’re telling the truth. “That’s enough.”

“Thank you.” This time you see Hughes flip the switch. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks, solicitously. “The toilets are just round here—”