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concluded that she’d come from the fifth floor, the short way. The next question was all mine: was she pushed or did she jump? An ambulance took her to the hospital mortuary and fifteen minutes later myself and a uniformed PC were unlocking the door of Susan’s bedsit.
    He found the bundle, but from its shape we both had a good idea what might be in it. It was wrapped in newspaper and tightly bound with Sellotape, so it looked like something from an Egyptian tomb, except that they didn’t have the Guardian in those days. I found a pair of scissors in a drawer next to the sink and the PC placed the bundle on a chest of drawers under the window, where the light was best. I started snipping. I get all the dirty jobs.
    Inside, we found a tiny baby, wearing a blue romper suit with white and pink roses appliquéd to it. Blue fora boy. According to the dictionary infanticide is any killing of a child. In legal terms it means the killing of a baby while suffering from post-natal depression. Either way, it’s a bummer.
    I spent that Christmas Day morning in the post-mortem room of Heckley General Hospital. It’s in the basement, adjoining the mortuary, and feels like you are deep in some nuclear bomb-proof bunker. All stainless steel, dripping taps and cold light. I took a chair to the farthest corner and settled down, praying that the professor wouldn’t say: ‘This is interesting, Charlie. Come and have a look.’
    He didn’t. I listened to his litany and said my amens silently, in my head. Miss Crabtree’s injuries were massive, consistent with a fall from a high building, but death was probably instant, from the fractured skull. The shape of the fracture matched the flatness of the pavement. She was about twenty, and appeared to have been in good health. No operation scars other than a not fully healed episiotomy. The prof looked up at me after he’d droned that piece of information into the tape recorder and explained: ‘She’s given birth in the last three weeks.’
    He opened her up, examined her organs and took his samples, to go away for analysis. Eventually he stepped back, saying: ‘I think that’s all we need,’ and his assistant took over to do the tidying up.
    I said: ‘Does post-natal depression leave any signs, Professor?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector,’ he replied.
    He changed his gloves and overalls and I saw him sneak a look at the clock. It was eleven forty-five, and every kitchen in the country would be warming to the smell of roasting turkey. I wondered who did the carving at their house.
    ‘Right,’ he said, businesslike. ‘Let’s have the other one.’
    This was the one I wasn’t looking forward to. I swivelled the chair the wrong way round and sat with my chin on my folded arms, eyes focused on one perfect white tile on the far wall. The hard back of the plastic chair cut off the circulation to my hands and they became cramped, but it helped close my mind to an image that I didn’t want to admit.
    I worry about pathologists. More so about their assistants. I suppose they drift into their jobs, like most of us; but they could always drift out of them again, if they wanted, and they rarely do. Is an executioner just a serial killer who’s learnt how to avoid breaking the law? If so, what sort of a pervert does that make the pathologist?
    I’ve always suspected these two were a pair of callous bastards, so it was a surprise when the Professor said: ‘It’s Christmas Day, and I need a drink. Let’s have a snifter in the office, Charlie.’ He’d done his job and we were walking along the corridor, away from the lab, the clatter of the heels of his assistant’s shoes echoing off the antiseptic walls.
    The Professor only had two heavy tumblers, hidden at the back of a filing cabinet, so he found a disposable cup for himself. It was Johnny Walker. I only had the one, but between us we drank nearly half the bottle before we wished each other a sardonic Merry Christmas and went our