Free The Turning Tide by Brooke Magnanti

pavements here in a pair of shoes like that.’
    ‘Years of practice,’ Morag said. That, and a stubborn refusal to let visiting Cameron Bridge mean she should take a day off from looking professional. No one seemed to take any pride in their appearances any more, not in her opinion. The number of people trudging up and down the high street in rigger boots and joggers was appalling. Only slightly better were the outdoor gear brigade in top-to-toe North Face all year round. Fleeces and walking trousers were for the hill, not the office.
    Harriet walked back over the low divider on the floor. Morag shucked her red shoes in the corridor and slipped into a pair of rubber boots. She tiptoed over the barrier but hung back slightly as the smell hit her. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned, but this was beyond foul. Almost sweet, like shit and cake. ‘You know what, I’ll watch from here,’ she said, putting a hand over her nose and mouth.
    Iain grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her towards the handwash station. ‘Don’t be daft, lass, you’re here, might as well muck in. Scrub up.’ He threw a pair of gloves at Morag and she reluctantly washed her hands and followed him to the examination table.
    ‘Is it anyone special?’ Morag asked, crinkling her nose as they stood round the body. She longed for a handkerchief, some perfume, anything.
    ‘Body from up in Raasay, by Skye,’ Harriet said. ‘A couple of kayakers found it washed up on a beach.’
    ‘I think I read about that in the paper this morning,’ Morag said. ‘Rum business. What a terrible tragedy.’
    ‘All in a day’s work,’ Iain said. A few tissue samples had been put aside to send to the toxicology lab, but the rest was otherwise untouched.
    Morag looked at the body, then looked quickly away. It was too late. The image of the black and green torso, cut open and splayed like a carved Christmas turkey, was already burned on her retinas. The head lolled back, supported by a white plastic block, displaying the cut throat and lidless, horrible eyes.
    She tried not to gag, but words were slow to come. ‘I’m sure the fiscal and the police will have it solved soon,’ she eventually said. She looked round. ‘Are you on your own? No police to witness the procedure?’
    Iain looked at the clock on the wall and shook his head. ‘Ali MacLean was meant to be here for the PM, but I think he’ll have sneaked off for his tea by now.’ He clocked Morag’s look, the one that said she expected no better from the local constabulary. ‘He’s a good man, that MacLean, you know,’ Iain said. ‘His dad was mates wi’ yer husband’s dad, as I understand it.’
    ‘Mmm.’ Morag turned back to Dr Hitchin. Obviously, with a career like hers, what was most important to the constituents was who her father-in-law had been friends with. The Highlands never changed. ‘Any ideas on who the body might be? Such a terrible thing to have happened, and right on our own doorstep.’ Her eyes were starting to water now – how on earth did they stand the smell?
    ‘He’s a bit of a mystery man at the moment,’ Harriet said. ‘His hands are in poor shape for fingerprinting, no ID on the body or the bag. With luck it won’t stay that way. We’ll get an approximate age off the bones and his stature and compare those against missing persons. If there’s a match, we can get family DNA and confirm it. Or we might get lucky and get dental records, you never know.’
    ‘I guess any evidence you might use for catching the murderer is probably destroyed, too?’ Morag asked.
    ‘It depends,’ Iain said. ‘Why, is there something you want to tell us?’ He chuckled until Harriet shushed him.
    ‘We don’t know yet,’ Harriet said. ‘Since he was in the bag, there might be a chance of some evidence surviving under his fingernails. It’s a matter of the lab trying to extract genetic material and seeing what they come up with.’
    ‘Interesting,’ Morag said.