Down Among the Dead Men_ A Year in the Life of a Mortuary Technician - Michelle Williams [78]
From my trip in the day before, I knew that we’d be up against it, and wasn’t surprised when, by ten o’clock on the Wednesday, the Coroner’s office had already faxed through five E60s, with a promise of more on the way. Clive sighed. ‘I hope you girls have had three Weetabix this morning.’
It was Peter Gillard who was to be our pathologist. When he popped down to see what was going on, he had a worried look on his face, and his mood took a nosedive when he was told the bad news. ‘Oh . . .’
‘How many are you going to do, doc?’
‘Well . . .’ Normally, Peter Gillard didn’t do more than three and even that meant he had to go and lie down in a darkened office afterwards.
Clive was remorseless, though. ‘Got five in already, and they haven’t finished yet.’
‘I’ve got quite a lot to do upstairs . . .’
Clive had done a fair amount of poaching in his life, and was an expert stalker. ‘The Coroner’s quite keen we should do as many as possible, doc . . .’
And Peter Gillard, bless him, ended up doing six.
FORTY-ONE
We knew nothing about the arrival of Dr Zaitoun until Ed walked into the mortuary with him one Monday morning in late January. Clive, Maddie and I were having coffee waiting for Peter Gillard to make his customary mumbling wander around the mortuary prior to commencing post-mortems – we had a hanger and two sudden deaths (or ‘drop-dead Freds’, as Clive called them) for him – when Dr Zaitoun made his first appearance, and I have to admit it took me aback (he probably noticed the astounded look on my face). He was short and slight, with a thin moustache and small eyes; his hands and feet were tiny, so that he seemed almost to be dancing as he walked. He was charming, though. He rushed to shake us all by the hand, showing a false respect to Clive and a broad smile to both Maddie and me. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said as he pumped our hands.
Ed explained, ‘Dr Zaitoun’s our new locum. He’ll be working with us for the next few months.’
Clive asked him, ‘Do PMs, do you?’ Clive always asked this, as more and more pathologists were choosing not to work in the post-mortem room.
Dr Zaitoun smiled and I could see at least two gold teeth. ‘Oh, yes. I have done forensic work back in Iraq.’
Clive nodded but looked less than impressed and Ed said, ‘He’ll be on the rota from next Monday.’
He then went on to show Dr Zaitoun around the mortuary with Clive in attendance. Afterwards, when we were alone again in the office, Maddie and I said, ‘Well? What do you think, Clive? Is he going to give us a hard time?’
Clive was all supreme confidence. ‘The guy’s a twat, girls; we won’t have any problems with him, I’ll see to that.’
The following Monday there was just one PM and it fell to me to be the first to see Dr Abdul Zaitoun at work. Clive had mandatory training – being taught about fire extinguishers and then told never to use them, and how to sit upright by a woman who looked like a sack of potatoes – but he told me before he left to keep a close eye on Dr Zaitoun because, as he said, ‘I’ve got a nose for people like him, Michelle. He’ll give you the run-around if you let him. Mark my words.’
I have to admit that the initial signs were not good. When he appeared at about half past nine, his first question when he saw the still-clothed body was, ‘Haven’t you started?’
‘You haven’t identified the body,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘You have, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Well then. I trust you. You get on and take out the organs, and I’ll be back in twenty minutes.’ With which he disappeared out of the mortuary,