Maggie

They stood, side by side, not speaking, Maggie barely breathing.

‘When you’re ready.’ Detective Inspector Allan Chisolm indicated the floor-length curtains.

Maggie watched, her stare unwavering, as the DI drew the curtains apart. Through the glass of the viewing window, she could see the body. It lay on a metal gurney. Maggie had expected a marble slab. A plinth, perhaps. Something more solid, anyhow. She looked down at the uncovered face of the body that lay there. Nothing could have prepared her for that face. It was black and blue all over, mottled here and there with blotches of yellow. The thick, dark hair she loved was combed in a parting she didn’t recognise, the sharp blue eyes blinkered by ink-stained lids. The facial expression was bland. Not tortured in its death throes, as she’d expected, but flattened somehow, all its humanity stripped out.

She stood there for some minutes, rigid, her breath gradually misting the glass. Then, ‘George!’

Maggie splayed her fingers across the window, let her head fall forward until she could feel her forehead come into contact with the glass. She longed to drum her fists upon its unyielding surface, butt it with her head until it shattered, battle her way through the opening until she could be with him once more. If only she could come up close. Hold his hand in hers. Please, God. Just one last time.

‘Mrs Laird, can you confirm this is your husband?’

She turned. ‘Yes.’

Silently, the man standing alongside acknowledged her response.

‘Can you give me a moment?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m not permitted…’

She fixed him with a furious glare.

Maggie Laird had been to Queen Street many times, but never to the morgue. That morning, she’d expected Bob Duffy to receive her. The DS was, after all, the one who’d responded to the shout. But this guy Chisolm was a complete stranger. She’d heard he’d been drafted in. New broom and all that. Maggie seethed. A day like today and they couldn’t even send a kent face.

‘Is Alec Gourlay about?’

The inspector raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘He said he’d have a word once…’

The DI nodded. ‘I’ll ring through.’ He retreated down the room.

Maggie slid onto the nearest chair. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, trying to blank out the images that were fighting for space in her head. She’d heard George describe in graphic detail the layout of the mortuary: the stark little viewing room. Beyond that, the investigation room. The post-mortem room with its grey walls, its impermeable flooring, the two stainless-steel cutting tables in the centre. She shuddered as she pictured her husband laid out naked in the dissection room.

She sat, mouth agape, lungs working overtime in the airless space. Maggie spread her knees, then let her head drop between them, clasped clammy hands at the nape of her neck. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before she raised her head. The small space was sparsely furnished. Two charcoal upholstered chairs. Against the far wall, a teak-effect trolley was laid with an embroidered tray-cloth. On it sat a box of paper tissues and a bunch of artificial pink roses in a bulb vase. Somebody had made a bit of an effort.

She heard muffled footsteps approach. Was aware of the door opening quietly, then closing again.

A familiar voice. ‘Give us some time, will you?’

Then Chisolm. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’

Maggie felt a light touch at her elbow.

The pathologist bent over her. ‘Are you all right?’

She raised her head. ‘Alec,’ she summoned a feeble grin. ‘I can’t honestly say I’m pleased to see you.’

He was a small man, not more than five foot seven or eight. And wiry, with sharp cheekbones, a hooked nose and dark, darting eyes. Like a little bird, Maggie thought, that first time they were introduced. Alec dressed, always, in the same outfit: ancient, baggy sports jacket with patches on the elbows, Tattersall check shirt and threadbare cords. More like an out-of-work academic than a surgeon. His light brown hair was thinning at the temples, his haircuts erratic and never good. But looks belied, for he had a rigorous mind and a fearsome reputation for working to exacting standards. Maggie had been intimidated when they met first but, over time, she had warmed to him. For, behind the brusque manner, she had come to realise that Alec Gourlay was a thoughtful and sensitive man.

Now she was grateful for his presence.

‘I’m sorry,’ he took hold of her hand. ‘I’d have come earlier, only…’

Brusquely, she cut in. ‘Why is George here?’

‘The death was sudden, and the attending GP wasn’t too keen to sign it off.’

‘Will there have to be a post-mortem?’

Gourlay let go of her hand. ‘Depends. But seeing as George was already on heart medication, I’ll probably get away with a visual examination.’

‘Who decides?’

‘I do.’

‘A favour, then, Alec – a few minutes alone with him.’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘Why not?’

‘The mortuary operates under Council jurisdiction.’

‘Still, you must carry some clout.’

He regarded her warily. ‘I suppose.’

‘Then please?’

‘No, Maggie.’

‘Please?’

‘I can’t.’

She clutched at his sleeve. ‘For me?’

‘Not even for you.’

‘For George, then?’

Gourlay brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘That’s a cheap one.’

‘I know.’ She turned away.

There was a long silence, then, ‘Let me see what I can do.’

x

Maggie leaned against the door frame. She blinked hard. Squared her shoulders. Moved forward. By the side of the trolley, she stopped.

She reached out. With the flat of her hand, she gently smoothed his chilled brow. With one forefinger, she traced the outlines of that strong face: nose, cheeks, jaw. She pressed trembling fingertips to chapped lips. Cupped small palms over bruised eyelids.

For a few moments she stood, immobile, striving to summon in her mind the warmth, the vigour, the musky man scent of the George she had known. Then she clambered onto the metal gurney and covered with the length of her body her husband’s corpse.