The Grave Tattoo. Val McDermid

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      River tried to control her desire to shout at the man. She was gradually coming to realise that the bureaucracy of television made university administrators look like amateurs. She stabbed her pen savagely into the paper. ‘But this won’t wait. I need to begin work on the cadaver as soon as possible. I’m not asking for a fortune. I already emailed you a rough breakdown of costs.’ He tried to interrupt but she bulldozed on regardless. ‘Look, this is cheap telly, Phil. Cheap as chips. All you need is a camera crew. You shadow my investigation into the body. Your team is present at all the initial work. Trust me, the ambience is fantastic. I’ve made arrangements with the local funeral parlour to do most of the work on the body there–it’s one of those wonderful old Victorian-style facilities, all mahogany and tiled walls, very Conan Doyle, very atmospheric, and a great contrast with all the modern stuff. You can film in the labs where the technical stuff gets done, no problem. You can film at the site where the body was buried. You get my expertise and top expertise from the other disciplines that we’ll be bringing to bear on this cadaver, all at bargain basement prices. Come on, Phil. You know your viewers love this kind of thing. Reality TV meets the History Channel. Bog bodies don’t turn up that often. And this one’s got some really unusual features–those tattoos are remarkable. I’m convinced we’re going to get some really fascinating stuff as we go along. This isn’t some drunken local who fell into a bog. This is something special. I think we could be talking the South Seas. Just think how much more interesting–and how much cheaper–it will be to shadow the course of a real forensic investigation rather than relying on reconstruction all the time.’ She squeezed as much reasonable persuasion into her voice as she could manage.

      ‘Dr Wilde, I agree that what you’re proposing would make gripping viewing. But there’s no way to short-circuit the commissioning process.’

      River snorted. ‘What about those instant documentaries that get whipped out of the hat whenever there’s some major disaster or political scandal? You find a way of circumventing protocol then.’

      Phil Toner sighed. ‘A body in a bog in the Lakes isn’t a matter of major national significance. Now, if you’d like to come in some time next week…’

      ‘Not good enough. Look, Phil, why don’t you go out on a limb and make the damn thing anyway? What’s the worst outcome? You end up with a riveting regional series that’s cost you next to nothing. And if it turns out as good as we both know it should, you can present the network with a great coup that cost peanuts. Come on, you know it makes sense.’ She sensed the hesitation on the other end of the line. ‘Phil, did I mention I’m bloody gorgeous? And that the camera loves me?’ she added, a bubble of laughter in her voice.

      She was rewarded with a low rumble of mirth. ‘Not to mention that you’ve come up with a great title. Let me think about it,’ he finally said. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

      ‘When?’ River knew she had a reputation for bloody-mindedness; she preferred to think of it as tenacity.

      ‘Close of business today. I’ll have an answer for you.’

      ‘Thanks, Phil. I’ll look forward to your call.’ River put down the phone and punched the air. ‘Yes!’ She jumped to her feet and hurried out of the glorified cupboard the University of Northern England, in a rare display of wit, described as her office. Ten seconds later she was back through the door, grabbing a folder from her desk and almost running out again.

      She found her head of department peering dubiously at a human jawbone. Donald Percival was a man given to doubt. He distrusted certainty unless it was backed up with impeccable scientific data. His small mouth was permanently pursed in disapproval and River would have been prepared to swear that every time she entered his presence, his knitted brows grew ever more tortured. When she bounced into the lab, his shoulders seemed to hunch protectively around his artefact and he made her wait impatiently for a full minute before he turned his watery blue gaze on her. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Wilde,’ he said.

      ‘Marvellous news, Professor,’ River said. ‘It looks as if I’ve got Northern TV on board to make a documentary of the investigation into the Fellhead cadaver. That means we’ll be able to go well beyond the basic work you’ve already granted me funding for.’

      Percival frowned. ‘Television? Is that a good idea? Do we want the cameras looking over our shoulder as we work?’

      River brushed the objection aside with a sweep of her hand. ‘They won’t get in the way.’

      ‘Is it sending the right message about this department to the wider world?’

      ‘I think it’s showing the wider world that we do this well. Which in turn means more outside projects coming to us, bringing money into the department,’ River said, shrewdly going for the Achilles heel of all contemporary academics. ‘More money means better equipment and more students,’ she added, never one to shrink from over-egging the pudding. ‘And as far as this project goes, it means we can afford full-body CAT scanning, stable isotope analysis, cemental annulation. The full bells and whistles. And we can get the palaeo-botanists and archaeological sciences people on board without them taking fright over their budgets. Just think of the benefit to the students of such cross-discipline teaching. Great practice for working in the field.’

      Percival looked peevishly at the jawbone, turning it over in his gloved hands. ‘You’re here to teach and research, Dr Wilde, not to use this department as a springboard for personal aggrandisement.’

      It was a low blow, but it told River that Percival couldn’t come up with a decent professional objection to her proposal. She grinned. ‘I’m not pitching to become the next telly don,’ she said. ‘What I care about is the work. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to serve the work best.’

      Percival gave a weary sigh. ‘I know that, Dr Wilde. That is why I chose to employ you here. Very well. You may proceed with this. But make no firm agreement with these people until I have seen the terms and conditions of the arrangement.’

      ‘Thank you, Professor,’ River said, resisting the urge to punch the air again. ‘You won’t regret it.’

      He sighed again. ‘Let’s hope not. Now, before you rush off to make-up, perhaps you could cast your eyes over this.’ He held out the jawbone to her in what she recognised as a gesture of reconciliation. ‘I find myself somewhat puzzled by the nature of the wear on these molars.’

      * * *

      Her own work beyond her, Jane Gresham was attempting to bring her mind to bear on the undergraduate seminar she was supposed to be conducting the following week on the role of the pathetic fallacy in Romantic poetry. So devoid of inspiration had she been that she’d resorted to dredging the bound volumes of the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association for anything that might remotely help shape her session. She was engrossed in a particularly dull article about Coleridge’s early work when Dan’s head appeared over the top of her library carrel.

      ‘Thought I’d find you here,’ he said, sounding faintly smug.

      ‘It’s hardly rocket science,’ Jane said repressively. ‘Considering I always sit in the same carrel.’

      He came round the side of the partition and pulled a face when he saw what she was doing. ‘My God. If PMLA comes, can despair be far behind?’

      Jane pushed the book away. ‘It’s already here.’

      ‘So let me take you away from all of this and buy you a coffee.’

      ‘I shouldn’t, СКАЧАТЬ