He’d partitioned the slab into a grid of three-inch squares, piling the waste concrete from each section into separate evidence bags, the whole exercise meticulously documented on video and digital cameras.
After half an hour Haffenden seemed a lot more confident, following the lines of the shoulders and head, chipping around the ends of the hair. The more he exposed, the worse the smell got.
The archaeologist put his chisels down. ‘I’ve got the head free.’
Logan followed Isobel over to the slab.
Polmont’s head lay back at an awkward angle, the whole thing oddly shaped – slightly flattened. The side that had been embedded in concrete was puckered and blackened, flecks of grey still stuck to the cracked skin, a trickle of yellow-green liquid seeping from his nose.
‘Ack…’ Logan cupped a hand over his facemask, the fabric damp with absorbed condensation. ‘Thought he was supposed to be preserved by the cold.’
Isobel leaned forward and gently cupped Polmont’s distorted cheek, turning the head until it was staring straight at them. The nose had been broken, one ear torn, the open mouth a solid grey mass – not excavated yet – but it was definitely Steve Polmont.
She felt her way around the back of the head. ‘Some concretes are exothermic – they generate heat as they set. A mass the size and thickness of the foundations probably stayed warm for days. He’s basically been cooked on one side and deep-chilled on the other…His head’s been deformed by the weight of the concrete. I won’t know if the damage to the skull was post or ante mortem until I open him up.’
Isobel ran a gloved finger down the body’s twisted neck. Just above the clavicle there was a circle of black puncture wounds. ‘Bite mark.’
Isobel frowned at the exposed arm, the dark brown discolouration on the sleeve. Then unbuttoned the cuff and rolled the fabric back to expose another bite.
‘Of course, I’ve had to lose some of the hair.’ The archaeologist pointed at the strands still embedded in the wall of the block. ‘And the outer clothing’s going to be a challenge.’ He shrugged at Logan. ‘The concrete’s seeped through the weave of the material, then set solid. Should make the actual body easier to remove though, like getting a moth out of a cocoon.’
Haffenden picked up his little chisel again. ‘You know, this isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. It’s really kind of fascinating when you think about it.’
Good to know someone was enjoying themselves.
Half an hour later they were gathered around the body again. Haffenden had moved on to the torso, excavating the left shoulder and upper arm.
‘Problem came when I hit the first one, took a bit of doing to get them chiselled out without damaging any.’ He pointed at the shoulder, where ten or twelve metal spikes protruded from Polmont’s jacket, the fabric stained dark brown.
Isobel held one of the X-rays up for comparison. ‘Excellent job.’ She leaned in, touching the end of one spine with her gloved finger. ‘Definitely nails.’ She laid a ruler along the arm and waited for the photographer to finish, before slicing the sleeve open with a scalpel, then did the same with the jumper and checked shirt underneath. The arm had that familiar mouldy cooked look, but where the nails went in the skin was darker.
She prodded at the base of one metal spike. ‘Signs of bruising…these were inserted before death. And do you see where some have obviously been removed?’ Pointing at a blackened hole in Polmont’s arm.
Logan nodded. ‘He was tortured.’
Isobel called for a set of pliers and eased one of the nails free, then held it up like a tiny Excalibur. ‘Four-inch wire nail, probably from a nail gun. Going by the diameter it’s probably the same thing that made the holes in the palm.’
Behind them, someone said, ‘Maybe he was crucified?’
Logan froze. Sodding hell – Steel.
He turned and there she was, standing less than a foot away, staring at him over her mask. A large figure in an SOC suit pushed through the flaps of the makeshift mortuary, limping slightly. That would be Danby. The big Geordie took up position at the head of the slab.
Steel grabbed Logan’s arm. ‘Sergeant McRae, can I have a wee word? Outside?’
‘I thought you were on holiday?’
Outside, the cash-and-carry car park was almost deserted, just the little cluster of IB vehicles, Logan’s manky brown Fiat, a pool car, and a fat man loading crates of tins into a mobile burger van – shoulders hunched against the sleet.
Steel ripped her mask off. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, was it too much to hope you bunch of dicks could get along without me for two sodding weeks?’ Her face had an unnatural orange-brown tint to it, like she’d been smearing Marmite into her skin.
‘I didn’t—’
‘WAS IT?’ The inspector turned her back and marched over to a row of oversized shopping trolleys and kicked one. ‘Susan’s spitting fucking nails. Crying. Shouting. Making my life a bloody misery because we’re
Logan took a step back. ‘Then why—’
‘But where am I? Here: in fucking Aber-fucking-deen because
‘But—’
‘Couldn’t cover for that prick Harvey from Fraserburgh CID for another sodding hour, could you? We were in the airport: forty minutes more and we’d’ve been on the fucking plane!’ Steel dug a bundle of paper from her pocket and
