The Blackhouse by Peter May Read Free Book Online

Gunn said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the inside line on the pathologist. I didn’t even know he was on the island. Shows you how much they’re keeping me in the loop.”
    â€œThat’s okay.” Fin brushed the apology aside. “Actually, I know Angus pretty well. He’s a good guy. And at least he’ll be on our side.” They backed out into the street. “Why do you think Smith’s not attending the PM himself?”
    â€œMaybe he’s squeamish.”
    â€œI don’t know. A man who uses that much aftershave can’t be too sensitive.”
    â€œAye, right enough. Most corpses smell better than he does.”
    They slipped out of Kenneth Street on to Bayhead, heading north out of town. Fin looked from the passenger window at the children’s playpark, the tennis courts, the bowling green, the sports ground beyond, and the golf course on the hill behind it. On the other side of the street, tiny shops were crammed together beneath the dormer windows of flats above. It almost felt as if he had never been away. He said, “Friday, Saturday nights in the eighties, the kids used to cruise up and down here in their old bangers.”
    â€œThey still do. Regular as clockwork, every weekend. Whole processions of them.”
    Fin reflected on what a sad existence it was for these kids. Little or nothing to do, strangled by a society still in the grips of a joyless religion. An economy on the slide, unemployment high. Alcoholism rife, a suicide rate well above the national average. The motivation to leave was as compelling now as it had been eighteen years ago.

    The Western Isles Hospital was new since Fin’s day, replacing the old cottage hospital on the hill below the war memorial. It was a fully equipped, modern facility, better than many of those serving urban populations on the mainland. They turned in off Macaulay Road, and Fin saw the low, two-storey structure built in shallow angles around a sprawling car park. Gunn drove to the foot of the hill and turned right into a small, private parking area.
    Professor Angus Wilson was waiting in the mortuary room. His goggles were pushed up over his shower cap, his mask pulled down below his chin, pushing out a thick beard of fusewire copper shot through with silver. He wore a plastic apron over green surgical pyjamas covered by a long-sleeved cotton gown. On the stainless steel table in front of him he had laid out plastic sleeve covers to protect his forearms, a pair of cotton gloves, a pair of latex gloves, and the characteristic steel-mesh glove he wore on his non-cutting hand to guard against an accidental slip of the blade. He was impatient to begin.
    â€œAbout bloody time!” A twinkle in his green eyes betrayed the outward appearance he liked to give of bad-tempered eccentricity. It was an image he cultivated as an excuse for the rudeness that was almost expected of him now. “How the hell are you?” He held out a hand to shake Fin’s. “Same killer, is it?”
    â€œThat’s what you’re here to tell us.”
    â€œGodforsaken bloody place! You’d think if there was anywhere in the world you could get fresh fish this would be it. I ordered plaice in the hotel last night. Aye, and it was fresh all right. Fresh out the fucking freezer and into the deep-fat fryer. Christ, I can get that in my own house!” He looked at Gunn and leaned over the table to pull the folder from under his arm. “Is that the report and the photographs?”
    â€œAye.” Gunn held out his hand. “DS George Gunn.” But the professor had already turned away to look at the report and lay out the photographs. Gunn withdrew his hand self-consciously.
    â€œYou’ll find head covers, shoe covers, goggles, masks, and gowns in the pathologist’s room across the hall.”
    â€œYou want us to put them on?” Gunn said. Perhaps, Fin thought, he hadn’t been at a