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By Root 195 0

taken. At eight thirty I was finally given the go ahead to start reconstruction on the body. This, though, posed its own problems. I would have nothing to hold the wadding in place in the skull; the skull cap will usually sit nicely back in its former place after the brain has been removed, and gives the impression of no interference whatsoever, but this was going to be like the hardest jigsaw puzzle in the world to piece back together. It almost seemed a pointless exercise too, as within the next couple of days she would have a second examination for the defence, when all my work would be undone. In between, though, there was bound to be a formal identification, and my job was to make her as presentable as possible for that. I managed it with a bit of handiwork, but the next problem was going to be the small open laceration on her head. In any case where there is need for a defence, the wounds must never be stitched up. This will destroy evidence. It continued to slowly bleed; I would just have to wait for it to dry out.

My audience finally left around nine thirty, with Dr Jones going half an hour later. He thanked me for my time, and hoped I would be able to get away soon. After he left, it suddenly hit me that I was totally on my own in the mortuary, because Clive (having overseen me for most of the night) had gone too. Although day in and day out we can deal with the saddest stories, the most horrible sights, and are surrounded by death, none of this could prepare me for being in the mortuary at ten at night on my own. I have to admit it felt very uncomfortable and I had the radio on very loud while I was cleaning up.

Occasions like this remind me what an unusual job I have, and also make me understand other people’s reactions when I tell them about it. Believe me, in a mortuary at that time of night, on my own, knowing full well that there were at least twenty corpses lying in the fridge no more than ten feet away from me, was not exactly where I wanted to be, even though I was getting paid for it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The weather had been wonderfully warm and, although the days were now beginning to shorten, I had the feeling that there was still a lot of summer left to be enjoyed, when the E60 on Mr Martin Walker was faxed through by Bill Baxford. It had been a quiet few days, which was something of a relief because Graham was on leave; not that he’d gone anywhere, because he never did. Graham’s life revolved around killing things – either by shooting them or by hooking them in the mouth – and, when not doing that, decorating his house. Clive used to say that Graham had repainted his living room so often, he’d taken a couple of feet off the living space.

Without a word, Clive handed it over to me, his face giving nothing away. When I read what had happened, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Open-mouthed, I looked up at Clive who shrugged and said, ‘Agriculture’s a dangerous business.’

I looked again at the request. ‘Even so,’ I said.

Gloucestershire is mostly countryside and a lot of that countryside is farmed but criss-crossed with footpaths and bridle paths. From the information that Bill had supplied, it seemed that Mr Walker had a dog – Bill didn’t mention what kind of dog it was – and he used to walk it, as he should, every morning and every afternoon. He varied the route, though, and yesterday, because it was a sunny day, he had walked along a footpath near Tewkesbury, across a corn field. He had had a few pints with his lunch and, it being hot, he had decided to stop for a rest and let the dog off the lead. Accordingly, he had fallen asleep.

And then they had started to harvest the corn.

It might have been all right – after all, a combine harvester makes a lot of noise – except that Mr Walker was profoundly deaf, and so he had slept on in peace . . .

When Mr Walker entered the mortuary, I was out buying sandwiches for lunch. By the time I got back, Clive had received him and opened the body bag and I didn’t feel like having my sliced ham and cheese on granary any more.

‘Bet that hurt,’ was Clive