The old mortuary in the basement of West Garside Hospital was not a welcoming place. It was cold and damp, smelling of carbolic soap, formaldehyde, blocked drains, rat droppings, old blood and internal organs. The tiled floor was cracked and pitted, slippery and uneven and the tiled walls were speckled with incipient black mould that crept back no matter how often it was wiped away with bleach or industrial cleaner.
Yarrow, accompanied by Marcus Harding, was there to witness the autopsies on Peter Cushman and Rosie Palmer.
Harding shivered in the sudden chill, ‘I hate these places. I know that it’s necessary, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it, does it?’
‘I know, but here we are, as required by procedure. Not that’s there is much doubt how both these unfortunates died. But we need th
