. .’ Professor McConnachie said, speaking into his hand-held Dictaphone, bending over the naked corpse and adding, ‘age – late fifties, early sixties, something like that. Long, frizzy grey hair, shoulder length . . . detritus in the hair consisting of leaves and twigs.’ He stopped for a moment, pressed the record button on his Dictaphone once more and then looked beadily at the machine. ‘Forget to press the right button, Prof?’ the mortuary technician asked. ‘No, but there’s no red light going on, Brian,’ he said, gazing at the small man and holding the machine out towards him. ‘Bust, is it then?’ Brian asked unconcernedly, in his Liverpudlian accent, making no attempt to take the Dictaphone from the outstretched hand. ‘No,’ Professor McConnachie said patiently. ‘Not bust, Brian. It has no battery left. No juice. Could you get me another one, please?’ ‘’Fraid not, Prof.
