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'Hello? Can anyone hear me? Hello? Please! I'm a police officer! Hello?' The new voice was female, muffled and scared, coming from the other side of the cell wall. Heather hoped she wasn't another screamer. She rolled over onto her side, turning her back on the noise. 'Kelley?' Silence. 'Kelley are you--' 'They'll be looking for me!' A hand reached through the bars, cool against her cheek. 'How are you feeling, Heather?' 'Bit woozy, not quite plugged in ...' 'I'm a fucking police officer! Understand?' 'Maybe it's the medicine? You took a lot of those pills yesterday.' 'HELLO?' 'So tired ...' 'YOU HEAR ME? THEY'LL COME AFTER YOU! I'M A POLICE OFFICER!' 'Maybe you shouldn't take them any more?' 'WHY WON'T ANYONE ANSWER ME?' Heather shuffled forwards, till she was lying beside the bars, resting her head on Kelley's hand. 'I don't want him to hurt you.' 'PLEASE!' The shouting had turned to sobbing. 'Please ...' Heather closed her eyes. 'Do you think she's going to keep shouting?' 'Shhh ... go to sleep.' 'I don't feel well ...' 'Sleep. It'll all be OK soon, you'll see. I promise. You just need to get some rest.' And Heather drifted off to a lullaby of frightened sobs.
Doc Fraser was in the process of peeling off his green surgical scrubs as Logan walked into the mortuary's sterile area. Ten to five and the post mortem was over - all the bits of body cleared away. Which made a nice change. 'How did it go?' The old pathologist shrugged, and tossed his waxy trousers into a plastic laundry hamper. Stripped down to his vest and Y-fronts - grey socks slipping down his ankles, a smattering of little red blisters visible on his pasty legs - he pointed at the row of refrigerated drawers. 'You want to look?' 'Not really.' But Logan opened the drawer anyway. It was an old man: long grey beard, drink-swollen nose, skin pale and covered in scabs. All in once piece, except for the ugly raw scar left by the Y-inscision.
