Approximately fifteen stone.' Dr Isobel McAllister picked her way around the post mortem table, voice raised over the howl of the extractor fan. 'You know what,' said DI Steel, tugging at the crotch of her white SOC coveralls,'I'm sick of wearing these bloody things. Who the hell were they designed to fit? Quasimodo? It's bunching right up my--' Isobel glared. 'Can we please have quiet for once!' Then went back to her external examination. Valerie Leith was laid out on the shiny cutting table like a broken Barbie doll: forearms, biceps, head, torso, thighs, legs, all separate. Still covered in a thin grey-brown film of stinking gloop. 'Can you no' hurry up and wash the damn bits off?' 'If you will insist on dragging me in here in the evening to perform a post mortem, the least you can do is not interrupt while I'm doing it.' Steel puffed out her cheeks, readjusted the breathing mask over her face, and hauled at the crotch of her suit again.
