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So, so funny.

TWENTY-SIX

One early afternoon after lunch, which was a soggy sandwich from the canteen, the doorbell had rung and, after the usual banter between Clive and the undertaker, what lay in front of us was a very smartly dressed elderly lady. Unfortunately she was soaked in blood, from what I assumed was a massive head wound that had caused her face, neck, including a velvet and pearl choker, and the shoulder part of her blouse and cardigan to be soaked in the red stuff. It had started to dry out and stick to her skin, suggesting that she had been waiting a while to be brought to us.

Pete, the funeral director who had been to remove her from her home, informed us that it was a crime scene in a small village in the Cotswolds, and there was a lot of police activity going on including yards of yellow tape and armies of white forensic suits; it was being treated as a murder investigation. Clive let out a big sigh on receiving this information.

‘You know what this means, Michelle?’ I did know. I had been doing the job long enough to appreciate that I would not be seeing my front door until late that evening, probably very late. It was not my first forensic PM, but it would be my first proper one, all the bells and whistles.

In these circumstances, we check that the body has been properly identified to us and no more. The body is placed in the fridge and we await instruction from the Coroner. To tamper with the body and risk upsetting any vital evidence is a big no-no. Clive had drummed this into me within my first week of training. As he called them, ‘some vital rules of the mortuary’.

No more than five minutes after Clive returned to the office, the phone had rung and he was informed that the forensic pathologist was just about to leave the scene and would be with us within the hour. It was at times like these that Clive would have a little inward panic. ‘Set up the PM room for a forensic, Michelle,’ he hollered from the office, and I had to walk around the PM room like a lost sheep wondering what I needed to do. The dissection bench was fully set up with tools for the pathologist, the eviscerating trays had clean tools and new sharp knives, so apart from making sure enough needles and syringes were available, a few pens and some paper for notes, pots for various body fluids or stomach contents, there was not much else I could do, although I was not about to make that obvious to Clive. The body of the elderly lady was already placed on the dissection table, still in the body bag, and I made sure that there were buckets full of hot water and disinfectant mops at the ready; after that I waited.

In the background, Clive was running around like a headless chicken making sure we had enough tea and coffee and milk for all the people that would be arriving, clearing his desk as this would be required by the pathologist (something he resented) and quickly phoning his wife to let her know he would not be home till later, just telling her briefly that he had ‘a forensic’.

Dr David Jones arrived at the mortuary in good spirits, considering the task ahead, and while Clive fussed about making hot drinks, I was secretly in the background feeling very nervous. I had not worked with Dr Jones before, and therefore did not know his expectations. Clive introduced me to him, and what stood in front of me was a short stocky balding man about thirty-five to forty years of age. Nothing quite like you would expect, well, what I would expect anyway. He was certainly a world away from Ranulph Twigworth. He was very friendly and shook my hand firmly, telling me not to worry and that he didn’t bite.

Within half an hour, the mortuary was full of police including scenes of crime officers (SOCOs), detectives and constables. Police radios where lying about everywhere, and for that afternoon I had a pretty good idea of all the criminal activity going on in the town I call home.

While Dr Jones sat in the office discussing things with the detective in charge of the case, Clive and I were talking to Malcolm. Malcolm