Dr Sullivan entered the small reception area of the mortuary. ‘Dr Sabatini, please accept my sincere condolences for your loss,’ he said, extending a hand to Carla. ‘I’m very sorry to put you through this, but we need a positive identification of the deceased. I hope you understand.’ Sullivan hesitated. ‘You need to prepare yourself. Your father has sustained some very serious injuries. Take as much time as you want. Just let me know when you are ready.’
Carla gave Sullivan a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘I’m ready.’
The pathologist led the way along a corridor through two sets of double doors and into one of the three post-mortem examination rooms at the rear of the building. Blake followed behind, his nostrils twitching at the smell of disinfectant in the air.
In the centre of the room stood an examination table. The profile of a body was clearly visible under the pale blue sheet draped over it. Sullivan gestured them to come closer. As Blake looked over to Carla, he could almost feel the unease sweep through her. After several seconds of numbed silence, Carla gave Blake a solemn nod.
‘You okay?’ asked Blake.
‘Let’s just get it done,’ she said, her words catching in her throat.
They watched Sullivan slowly fold back the sheet. The mortician had applied cosmetics to the face, but the brutality of Sabatini’s injuries could not be disguised. A mess of cuts and bruises patchworked the corpse’s face. Sabatini’s nose had been squashed to one side.
Carla looked bleakly at her father’s face. She glanced at Blake, and then dipped her head in acknowledgement. As Sullivan took two steps back from the body, Blake noticed the jet-black birthmark running up Sabatini’s right index finger. A strange uncomfortable feeling came over him.
‘I’m very sorry, we’re nearly done,’ said the pathologist as he adjusted his latex gloves. ‘But to complete the identification, I’d like you to look at a very distinctive tattoo that the deceased has on his arm.’
Sullivan repositioned the corpse’s left arm and backed off a few steps. Sabatini’s arm was white like a waxwork, apart from the distinctive tattoo on his forearm. The design was of a bizarre, aberrant creature: the head of a rooster, the torso of a man, and two writhing snakes for legs. Above the creature were seven stars tattooed in a particular configuration.
‘It’s the Abraxas,’ said Carla as she turned away.
‘What’s that?’ asked Sullivan.
Sabatini didn’t answer; a sickening wave of repulsion had just washed over her.