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By Root 166 0

(as usual) on Michael arriving while the dogs were teased by Dad for the ‘doggie antlers’ they were wearing. We then all attended the local pub on my parents’ estate. Just as we started to get into the Christmas spirit the pub called time and we returned to the dogs, who had taken up residence in the kitchen at Mum and Dad’s house thanks to the smell of the turkey and beef coming out of the oven. Then, as on every other Christmas Day, we amused ourselves with games, these days DVD interactive ones which have taken over from the old board games. But, as ever, the playing cards and dominoes came out at some point. Dad won every one, as per tradition, but not without strong competition from Michael and Luke. We were then interrupted by the one and only Mrs Williams presenting a fantastic traditional Christmas dinner.

This devoured, the table was cleared, then there were more DVD games for a while, before moving on to music at about six o’clock as other family and friends began to arrive. It usually turns out that at least fifteen people pass through my parents’ door on Christmas Day alone. Mum always makes sure that she has enough food for a cold buffet to feed everyone. It was going just as it should do and, I suppose, going too well.

My mobile rang. When I looked at the screen, I saw that it was Maddie and I knew at once that here was trouble. ‘Yes, Maddie?’

She sounded devastated. ‘I am so sorry to be bothering you, Michelle . . .’

My heart, hovering somewhere about the level of my knees, dropped to the soles of my shoes. ‘What is it, Maddie?’

‘There’s a forensic. A young lad’s been knifed in Whaddon and he’s high risk.’

THIRTY-NINE

I had to get a taxi to take me to the hospital because Luke was a little too far gone to drive and I couldn’t blame him; I have to admit to being slightly frayed at the edges myself as I sat in the back of the taxi and cursed my luck. It was costing megabucks, but I hoped that Ed would swing it for the Trust to pay. I felt mighty low, what with being dragged away from the celebrations and sitting in the back of a smelly taxi, probably on a dried sick stain; the driver was none too chatty either; seemed to think he was doing me a favour. I thought, Should have turned my phone off, but I knew that I would never have done that to Maddie.

She was in a right state when I arrived. The forensic pathologist, Nick Jones from Cardiff, had already arrived and wanted to get going double quick, and poor Maddie had gone into a bit of a meltdown. She had only done two forensics before but never a high risk one (for which two people are needed anyway). I took charge at once, finding it surprisingly natural. I put on scrubs and told her that I would act as the technician while she would be the runner. She didn’t argue and immediately looked relieved.

When I entered the dissection room, I began to understand why she had been so nervous, because for this particular forensic the whole shebang was there – enough police officers to control a riot, SOCOs, two Coroner’s officers and, I was astonished to discover, the Coroner himself. That was unheard of and I began to suspect that this was no ordinary deceased person.

Nor was it, because it was the grandson of General Armitage, who had had a long and distinguished war record. Bill explained to me in a whisper that the grandson, suffering from schizophrenia, had gone off the rails big time and fallen among drug-dealers, living in a squat and no longer taking his medicine. He had contracted hepatitis from dirty needles and been in very poor health for some time. He had apparently got into a knife fight with one of the other members of the squat and been stabbed several times in the abdomen.

There wasn’t much conversation and certainly not much Christmas cheer about the place. Bill’s face when he muttered, ‘Merry Christmas,’ could hardly be described as enthusiastic. As I looked around the room, I could see, too, that I was not the only one who had been called away from the party spirit.

As it happened, it turned out to be a typical forensic post-mortem.