Free Life For a Life by T F Muir

haven’t checked.’
    ‘Where’s that honesty you’re always talking to me about?’
    ‘Well, how’s this for honesty? Next time you’re at a postmortem, I want you to show some professional respect for—’
    ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘You’re protecting her. You fancy her.’
    ‘I don’t fancy her, for crying out loud. I would be saying exactly the same if it was Quasimodo performing the post-mortems.’
    ‘Quasimodo? Now there’s a thought.’
    ‘We’re supposed to be professionals. Not some, some, some . . . Ah,
fuck
.’
    Jessie waited until they were across the Tay Road Bridge and on the A92 before she said, ‘I’ve been giving the tattoos some thought. I don’t think they’ve been done by hand.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘I don’t know. They just don’t seem right to me, somehow. I thought they looked too regular, too identical to be done by hand. It’s more like they’ve been stamped on.’
    ‘You mean so they can be rubbed off?’
    ‘No. They’re proper tattoos, but done by a machine. Not a machine but more like a stamping thingie. You know, you lift the arm, smack the stamper on to the skin, and hey presto, there’s your tattoo.’
    Gilchrist gave the idea some thought. Did it matter if the tattoos were hand done or not? He could not see that it made any difference but he would give Cooper a call regardless, on her office phone, which might also send the message that he did not think it wise to visit her home. On the other hand, he could keep a low profile until after Sunday—
    ‘Earth to Gilchrist?’
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking.’
    ‘Does it hurt?’
    He pulled out to overtake a group of cars and had to swerve back in as a farm tractor with a wooden trailer loaded with turnips exited a field gate on the opposite side of the road.
    ‘Steady on,’ Jessie said. ‘Do you have any idea how much a new pair of knickers costs these days? And why do they always call them a pair of knickers? Can I buy a pair of knickers, please? And they give you one. I don’t get it.’
    Gilchrist waited until a clear stretch opened up, then overtook the tractor. When he hit eighty, he said, ‘So what difference would it make if the tattoo was stamped on by a machine thingie versus being hand done?’
    She shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know.’
    ‘Why suggest it then?’
    ‘Aren’t we supposed to brainstorm? You know, stick our heads together and come up with something out of left field.’ She chuckled. ‘And that’s another one. What does that mean anyway? Left field.’
    ‘It’s a baseball term.’
    ‘I know that, but what does it mean?’
    ‘Left field is some place on the baseball park where the ball does not normally go.’
    ‘OK, Babe.’
    ‘Babe?’
    ‘Babe Ruth? The baseball player? Where’s your general knowledge?’
    Neither of them spoke for a couple of miles, until Jessie said, ‘Your face goes kind of red when you’re angry. Not red red, but more of a kind of deeper tan red. Did you know that?’
    ‘No. But I’m glad you’ve pointed it out.’ They arrived at an intersection, and for the first time since leaving Dundee Jessie took an interest in where they were heading.
    ‘Haven’t you taken a wrong turn?’ she asked him.
    ‘Thought we’d take a look at some videos.’
    They arrived at Strathclyde Police HQ in Pitt Street, Glasgow, just after midday. DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small greeted Gilchrist with a firm handshake that defied the man’s size. He nodded at Jessie. ‘Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’
    ‘Likewise.’
    ‘This way. Got Tam to set it up. Quality’s not great but it’s not quality the bastard was trying to achieve.’ Dainty pushed through a door, held it open for Gilchrist and Jessie to step through, and said, ‘It’s not for the faint-hearted.’
    ‘It never is,’ said Gilchrist.
    ‘No, Andy. This is grim. I mean it.’ And something in the tone of Dainty’s voice warned him to expect the worst.
    But in truth, no