Part 21 (1/2)

'Would anyone like some toast? That's lovely bread you've got there, Brodie. Did you make that yourself?'

'Shut up, Jack!' we both shouted in unison.

'Here,' said Joe, finally putting things in their place and pointing at Jack. 'n.o.body has told me yet why he's here.' He froze a smile on his face as he reached over for the mug of tea Jack was offering him. 'I don't think you're here to be the tea laddie, are you?'

Jack was quick with his explanation.

'Brodie needed an alibi so I provided one.'

'Good. Good,' Joe nodded. He waited a few seconds before adding, 'Mind you, ”alibi”? That's a new word for it.'

I tried to stare him out, make him say more. I won sort of.

'I can see with my eyes what's going on it's not an alibi and it's not a f.u.c.king ciabatta-making compet.i.tion either.'

'So, what is going on, Joe?' I asked.

'Well, it's obvious, isn't it?'

Jack was holding his breath whilst looking for an escape route. His eyes kept skimming over to the kitchen window it was obvious he was thinking of jumping and that broken legs were the least of his worries.

'What are you on about? Spit it out, man.' I goaded Jack more than Glasgow Joe as Jack shook his head to me behind Joe's back. For better or worse I ignored him.

Joe looked to the nodding dog behind him.

'I don't mean to insult you, Jack ... after all, a man's got to make a living. I just don't exactly approve of you fleecing Brodie.'

'Any article I write, I'll run past Brodie,' Jack quickly explained. Quickly, but not very convincingly. There was no way Jack would give up his editorial rights, unless he thought they were a fair exchange for his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

The three of us stared at each other in turn like characters out of some bad Spaghetti Western. By the time a few tons of tumbleweed had blown past, it was clear that nothing more was going to be said, and that no one was really willing to give in. It reminded me of being back at school, with the main difference being that Joe had protected me in those days. I didn't think I could rely on him to do that now.

I turned my back on both of them and made my way to my bedroom. I wiggled my a.r.s.e a bit for good measure and a.s.sumed that they would either start fighting or leave.

The silence that hit the flat as I cosied myself under the duvet suggested there were no more bodies to be counted that night. The very thought brought the corpse of Donna Diamond to my mind, just in time for the nightmares to begin.

Chapter Thirty.

The sounds of Elvis drifted towards me, mingling with the smell of death.

The music of the King let me know that Patch was at home and probably about to start work.

Professor Patterson didn't turn around when I entered the morgue. This gave me a chance to study my mentor. He wore a s.h.i.+rt reminiscent of Elvis' Hawaiian period, short-sleeved with large swathes of yellow and green. Pictures of palm trees and dusky maidens in gra.s.s skirts were in abundance.

It was hardly an appropriate dress code for the Head of Forensic Pathology at the University of Edinburgh. Patch Patterson had been born with hard Scottish religion bred into him for generations, which was why he kept his harmless vice a secret. A secret that he could only give free rein to in the bowels of the hospital, where he was pretty sure no one alive would visit without warning.

'Want a cup of coffee?'

It was always his first question; unlike Moses, Patch was addicted to caffeine. Without turning round or waiting for an answer he simply walked off into his side office and switched on the kettle. The music blared on, and I followed Patch. His office was untidy and loose papers hung out of files laid in piles on the floor. His st.u.r.dy, handmade brown brogues were hidden under the desk; in his domain Patch did exactly as he wanted, and so, naturally, he wore blue suede brothel creepers. Remarkably, given what he worked amongst each day, they were unsoiled. On the wall there was a 1975 calendar, kept for the magnificent picture of Elvis looking sweaty in a white boiler suit studded with rhinestones, singing live in Las Vegas.

I was handed a steaming cup of instant coffee.

'Sorry. The espresso machine is on the blink, this is all I have until the d.a.m.ned thing is repaired.' Patch looked apologetic. We both shared a love of good coffee and took a rather childish pride in the quality of our palates. Unconsciously, as we spoke, his hand went up and he started to stroke the port-wine-stain birthmark that covered half his face and gave him his nickname.

'I have some rather nice homemade madeleines in my tin, Brodie, if you're interested. Some say they are to die for.'

Patch's attempts at joking always came with warning signs I accepted that a slight smirk would get me some nice biscuits in return, so I indulged him as usual. The truth was, I hated autopsies and always had. He was incredibly blase about it all, which seemed a good idea for a pathologist really, but as soon as I came into this room, I started sweating and my hands would shake a bit too. I even felt a little sick but hoped that the biccies would help in that department.

'I thought you were on a diet? Whatever happened to your new mantra a moment on the lips, forever in the aorta?' I asked him.

'That was last month so far this month I've only been dissecting skinny people, and I realise once more that no matter what vice I cut out I'm still going to die.'

His comment made me realise how few times I had seen him recently. 'I'm sorry I haven't been round, Patch. I've been otherwise engaged.'

'I know. I saw you on TV did you get my text?'

I nodded. Patch had sent his love and offered his services. There was no need for him to do this explicitly because I always knew he was there for me no matter what. I grew up a fatherless child, an outsider, whereas Patch was a great father without a child. We were both interlopers in Edinburgh legal circles and we stuck to each other like old pieces of chewing gum on a shoe.

'I've been expecting you, Brodie.'

'I said I was sorry.'

'Don't be so stupid I've been expecting you because of this.'

He held up a business card.

It was so filthy that I didn't initially recognise it as mine. Patch held it at some distance from his face; he was careful to use tweezers.

'It's from your left pocket obviously you were or wanted to be close to Donna Diamond.'

'She was my client a recently acquired one,' I told him.

'It was a short-lived relations.h.i.+p, my dear.'

'What's that orange stuff on it?' I asked.

'Foam. Builder's insulating foam. If you have a gap between the wall and a window you spray some of this stuff and it expands to fill the hole. d.a.m.ned useful it is too. Dries hard like concrete.'

He walked, so I followed. Patch didn't explain himself to anyone. You either understood him or you didn't. The clock on the wall ticked loudly; Patch was always reminding me: time flies. Outside, the world went on as normal. I could hear the laughter of porters joking with one another. In the morgue it was a parallel universe.

'I left her out,' said Patch, pointing to the shape at the side of us. 'I knew that you would call round and I thought it would save time.'

I nodded my thanks.

'I was out at Calton Hill last night,' he continued. 'Did the autopsy first thing. DI Bancho insisted. I take it you know him?'