A Taste for Death Read Online Free Page A
Author: P. D. James
rapidly but methodically to clear his desk, then checked his murder bag. He had told Mas-singham four minutes, and he would be there. Already he had moved, as if by a conscious act of will, into a worm in which time was precisely measured, details obsessively noticed, the senses preternaturally alert to sounds, smell, sight, the flick of an eyelid, the timbre of a voice. He had been called from this office to so many bodies, in such different settings, such different states of dissolution, old, young, pathetic, horrifying, having in common only the one fact, that they were violently dead and by another's hand. But this body was different. For the first time in his career, he had known and liked the victim. He told him-self that it was pointless to speculate what difference, if any, this would make to the investigation. Already he knew that the difference was there.
The Commissioner had said:
'His throat is cut, possibly by his own hand. But there's a second body, a tramp. This case is likely to be messy in more ways than one.'
His reaction to the news had been partly predictable and partly complex and more disturbing. There had been the natural initial shock of disbelief at hearing of the unexpected death of any person even casually known. He would have felt no less if he'd been told that Berowne was dead of a coronary or killed in a car smash. But this had .been followed by a sense of personal outrage, an emptiness 'and then a surge of melancholy, not strong enough to be called grief but keener than mere regret, which had sur-prised him by its intensity. But it hadn't been strong enough to make him say:
'I can't take this case. I'm too involved, too commit-ted.'
Waiting briefly for the lift he told himself that he was no more involved than he would be in any other case. Berowne was dead. It was his business to find out how and
17
why. Commitment was to the job, to the living, not to the dead.
He had hardly passed through the swing doors when Massingham drove up the ramp with the Rover. Getting in beside him Dalgliesh asked:
'Fingerprints and photography, they're on their way?' 'Yes, sir.' 'And the lab?'
'They're sending a senior biologist. She'll meet us there.'
'Did you manage to get Doctor Kynaston?'
'No, sir, only the housekeeper. He's been in New Eng-land visiting his daughter. He always goes there in the autumn. He was due back at Heathrow on BA flight 214 arriving at seven twenty-five. It's landed, but he's probably stuck on the Westway.'
'Keep on trying his home until he arrives.'
'Doc Greeley is available, sir. Kynaston will be jet-lagged.'
'I want Kynaston, jet-lagged or not.'
Massingham said:
'Only the best for this cadaver.'
Something in his voice, a tinge of amusement, even contempt, irritated Dalgliesh. He thought, my God, am I getting over-sensitive about this death even before I've seen the body? He fastened his seat belt without speaking and the Rover slid gently into Broadway, the road he had crossed less than a fortnight earlier on his way to see Sir Paul Berowne.
Gazing straight ahead, only half-aware of a world outside the claustrophobic comfort of the car, of Mas� singham's hands stroking the wheel, the almost soundless changing of the gears, the pattern of traffic lights, he deliber-ately let his mind slip free of the present and of all the conjecture about what lay ahead, and remembered, by an exercise of mental recall, as if something important depended on his getting it right, every moment of that last meeting with the dead man.
18
It was Thursday 5 September and he was about to leave his office to drive to Bramshill Police College to begin a series of lectures to the Senior Command Course when the call came through from the private office. Berowne's pri-vate secretary spoke after the manner of his kind. Sir Paul would be grateful if Commander Dalgliesh could spare a few minutes to see him. It would be convenient if he could come at once. Sir Paul would be leaving his office to
The Commissioner had said:
'His throat is cut, possibly by his own hand. But there's a second body, a tramp. This case is likely to be messy in more ways than one.'
His reaction to the news had been partly predictable and partly complex and more disturbing. There had been the natural initial shock of disbelief at hearing of the unexpected death of any person even casually known. He would have felt no less if he'd been told that Berowne was dead of a coronary or killed in a car smash. But this had .been followed by a sense of personal outrage, an emptiness 'and then a surge of melancholy, not strong enough to be called grief but keener than mere regret, which had sur-prised him by its intensity. But it hadn't been strong enough to make him say:
'I can't take this case. I'm too involved, too commit-ted.'
Waiting briefly for the lift he told himself that he was no more involved than he would be in any other case. Berowne was dead. It was his business to find out how and
17
why. Commitment was to the job, to the living, not to the dead.
He had hardly passed through the swing doors when Massingham drove up the ramp with the Rover. Getting in beside him Dalgliesh asked:
'Fingerprints and photography, they're on their way?' 'Yes, sir.' 'And the lab?'
'They're sending a senior biologist. She'll meet us there.'
'Did you manage to get Doctor Kynaston?'
'No, sir, only the housekeeper. He's been in New Eng-land visiting his daughter. He always goes there in the autumn. He was due back at Heathrow on BA flight 214 arriving at seven twenty-five. It's landed, but he's probably stuck on the Westway.'
'Keep on trying his home until he arrives.'
'Doc Greeley is available, sir. Kynaston will be jet-lagged.'
'I want Kynaston, jet-lagged or not.'
Massingham said:
'Only the best for this cadaver.'
Something in his voice, a tinge of amusement, even contempt, irritated Dalgliesh. He thought, my God, am I getting over-sensitive about this death even before I've seen the body? He fastened his seat belt without speaking and the Rover slid gently into Broadway, the road he had crossed less than a fortnight earlier on his way to see Sir Paul Berowne.
Gazing straight ahead, only half-aware of a world outside the claustrophobic comfort of the car, of Mas� singham's hands stroking the wheel, the almost soundless changing of the gears, the pattern of traffic lights, he deliber-ately let his mind slip free of the present and of all the conjecture about what lay ahead, and remembered, by an exercise of mental recall, as if something important depended on his getting it right, every moment of that last meeting with the dead man.
18
It was Thursday 5 September and he was about to leave his office to drive to Bramshill Police College to begin a series of lectures to the Senior Command Course when the call came through from the private office. Berowne's pri-vate secretary spoke after the manner of his kind. Sir Paul would be grateful if Commander Dalgliesh could spare a few minutes to see him. It would be convenient if he could come at once. Sir Paul would be leaving his office to
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