Free Final Cut by Lin Anderson

help identify the time elapsed since the last meal. The body in the skip had been damaged by fire, but the food in his stomach was as it had been at the moment of death.
    Sissons had sent through the stomach contents, retrieved at the post-mortem. They made an interesting study. Rhona was used to examining the remains of various Glasgow eating habits; McDonald’s and Burger King, pizza and chips, kebabs and curries.
    These were more interesting.
    Beetroot soup with dumplings was not a Glasgow speciality. Assuming the victim didn’t have a mother at home preparing his favourite meal, he must have eaten at a restaurant that served this type of food.
    It didn’t take long to find a possibility. There were several restaurants that had borscht on their menu, but only one that claimed to be authentically Russian, so Rhona decided to try them first.
    The phone rang a couple of times before it was picked up. Rhona could hear violin music and chatter in the background. Lunchtime at the restaurant sounded popular. The voice that answered was female with an accent, possibly Polish. When Rhona asked to speak to the manager, the girl called out a name that sounded like ‘Misha’ and a man came on the line.
    Rhona explained who she was and why she was calling. His voice was deep and slightly accented. ‘Beetroot soup with dumplings. A speciality of ours.’ He laughed. ‘By all means come and try some.’
    Mikhail Grigorovitch was younger than Rhona had envisaged on the phone. She’d always imagined Russian men as elderly, stocky and Cossack-hatted, watching tanks roll past, as in newsreels taken at the height of the cold war. Mikhail was the exact opposite.
    He offered her a warm handshake and urged her to call him Misha.
    ‘You will eat, of course?’
    ‘I really came to take a sample.’
    ‘It’s important to taste what you sample.’
    Misha called over a small, dark-haired waitress with eyes darkly rimmed like Amy Winehouse’s.
    ‘Borscht for the lady.’
    He waved Rhona to an old church pew with the number 207 carved on the back. As she waited for her soup to arrive, she took in the rest of her surroundings. The place was simply furnished but stylish, the accent on colour and all things Russian. On a nearby wall was a painting of hens in a wintry birch wood, a setting sun bathing the scene in an orange-red glow.
    The soup arrived, accompanied by Misha, who slipped into the seat opposite. Rhona liked beetroot, at least the pickled variety. She wasn’t so sure about beetroot soup with fat little dumplings floating in it.
    Misha gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Try.’
    She took a spoonful. It was surprisingly good.
    He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
    ‘Delicious.’
    ‘And the dumplings?’
    She broke open a dumpling. It tasted light and savoury. ‘I like them.’
    Misha sat back, satisfied by her response.
    ‘Finish,’ he encouraged, ‘then we talk.’
    On the last spoonful, Rhona made an excuse and escaped to the toilet. The interior was decorated with the music of famous Russian composers. She chose the cubicle papered with the work of Rachmaninoff. Then she washed her hands and checked her mouth for beetroot stains, slightly disconcerted that it seemed important to look good.
    Misha was awaiting her return. He eyed her appreciatively.
    ‘You should finish with a shot of vodka. I recommend Stolichnaya.’
    ‘A bit early in the day for me.’
    ‘You’re driving?’ He looked disappointed.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then what is the harm?’
    The vodka bottle arrived, accompanied by two shot glasses.
    ‘You like whisky?’
    Rhona nodded.
    ‘This is smoother. No burning of the throat.’
    He filled both glasses and lifted one, encouraging Rhona to do the same.
    ‘ Na zdorovie! ’
    Rhona watched him swallow, then followed. Misha was right. It was smooth.
    ‘Good?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Another?’
    ‘Definitely not.’
    Misha shrugged, accepting defeat.
    ‘So, you are a forensic scientist, like in CSI ?’ His brown eyes