The Blood of Crows by Caro Ramsay

with consensual homosexual activity, then a more recent incident of rape. Thickening suggests a long-term consensual activity but the bleeding suggest a violent and –’
    ‘Yeah, we can ask O’Hare about that.’ Anderson was thinking about the boy – not a user, from a good home. It was a hard one to accept.
    ‘You know, there’s been a big increase in stabbings and shootings in the last few months. What are you guys doing out there?’
    Anderson shrugged. ‘Trying to get one step ahead.’ He paused. ‘Did you say the samples had already been sent to Forensics?’
    ‘No, somebody came to collect them.’
    ‘Any idea who?’
    Redman looked at him blankly. ‘Sorry, I thought you’d sent her. Definitely police special services. She carried ID. Small girl, brown hair.’ He shrugged. ‘Eager, young.’
    ‘Wasn’t Matilda McQueen, was it?’
    Dr Redman flicked over a few sheets of paper on his clipboard. ‘Indeed, M. McQueen picked up the samples at seven thirty this morning. Took them over to that lab at the uni, I presume.’
    Anderson nodded, he was getting the pattern. ‘Will he make it? Bridge Boy?’
    ‘One of those cases where we do what we can – we support body systems, keep his airway clear, give him blood, sew up what we can and then stand back and wait. If it goes well, so will he. If not, we could lose him at any stage.’
    ‘If he says anything –’
    ‘We’re keeping him unconscious most of the time – we can control the pain that way – but when he drifts back to reality he repeats a word, as if he wants to tell us something.’ Redman looked at the form again. ‘It could be “brawny”, or “Trelawney” – something like that. Does that mean anything to you?’
    ‘No, nothing.’ Anderson scribbled the words down, hearing again the barely whispered ‘ Mamochka ’. Images of limbs being tied, ankles bound, jostled disturbingly in his mind.
    Redman was fanning himself with a file. ‘How bloody hot do you think it’s going to get today?’
    ‘Far too bloody hot. Thanks for your time, doc.’ Anderson handed Redman a card. ‘There’s my mobile. Buzz me if anybody phones, or comes to visit, or shows any interest in him at all. Just remember, they might not be family; whoever did this wanted to know something. Even if he told them, they still might be bloody annoyed he survived.’
    ‘Hang on, somebody did phone. They refused to say if they were family.’ Redman reached across and pulled a Post-it note from the monitor screen. ‘Yip, they hung up the minute they were asked who they were, which means we would have told them nothing.’
    ‘Did anybody try 1471?’
    ‘No, we’re a hospital, we don’t tend to do things like that. But the nurse made a note that it was at eight this morning. Somebody reading the early paper, hearing the breakfast news, maybe?’
    ‘Was the caller male?’
    ‘According to this note, yes.’
    Anderson closed his notebook and left, casting a glance at the victim’s room as he left. There was little recognizable as a human being, just tubes and sheets and machines and wires. Anderson glanced at the framework over the bed, the cables connected to it, crocodile clips holding them in place, and the holes on the wall that held the framework.
    He had a flicker of recognition, something else to think about.
    1.30 P.M.
    By the time Skelpie Fairbairn crawled out of his bed, it was half past one. He belched loudly, scratching his fat belly, and wandered into the toilet. He peed and spent a couple of minutes looking at his face in the mirror, assessing himself. He’d put on weight while he was inside – no longer the Skinny Jim he’d been when he was first arrested. Tomorrow he needed to start getting in shape for his appeal and try to bear some resemblance to a responsible citizen. Good shave, haircut, take a bit of weight off, get some colour into his sallow skin, he could almost look trustworthy. He could look like an innocent guy who would buy a wee