A Thing of Blood Read Online Free Page B

metropolitan police. On entering the hall, he removed the impractical helmet to reveal a head of grey, greasy hair. If there hadn’t been a war on, I imagined he might have been retired by now.
    Not wishing to hear Brian’s story a second time, after giving my details to Sergeant Wilkinson — for that was his name — I decided to begin my career as a private investigator by wandering through the back lanes of Princes Hill. I hadn’t done this since I was a child. Then, I’d felt a frisson of fear as I’d come upon the exotic offspring of poverty, playing or fighting on the filthy bluestone cobbles that paved the alleys behind their even filthier dwellings. I learned quite early, just by breathing in, that poverty is malodorous. Despite the privilege and security of my upbringing, I was aware of the putrescent breath of the poor being collectively exhaled in grim cul de sacs all over Carlton, just a few streets to the east of our house.
    Now, the sinister air of these bluestone alleys was exaggerated by the possibility that I might come across Darlene’s crumpled corpse or, even more alarmingly, her violent abductor, very much alive and not happy about being discovered. If dark nights and back streets were the natural haunt of the private inquiry agent I began to think I might not be ideally suited to the profession. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but I wasn’t particularly fond of it when circumstances indicated that something nasty might be lurking under its cloak. I began to sing the ‘thingummybob’ song quietly to myself, imitating Arthur Aske’s nasally voice as he assured us that it was the girl who makes the thing, that holds the oil that oils the ring, that works the thingummybob that was going to win the war.
    I must have walked several miles. The only people I met were American servicemen, drunk, without being disorderly, on their way back to Camp Pell after a night in one of the sly-grog shops that provided liquor over and above the legal limit. Their presence was reassuring, despite the murderous Leonski having been one of their number.
    When I returned to the house, Mother was sitting in the kitchen with Brian, and Sergeant Wilkinson was slurping tea from one of the cups she reserved for tradesmen. The detritus of many of the good cups still lay, shattered, on the kitchen floor. She had, however, lavished upon the good sergeant a generous slice of the absent Darlene’s fruit cake. A stubborn crumb adhered to his rawly shaven jaw.
    ‘I couldn’t find her,’ I said.
    ‘That’s a good sign,’ said Sergeant Wilkinson.
    Brian lifted his head.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It means that whoever took her has still got her. If she’d been murdered the body would probably have been dumped.’
    I suppose Sergeant Wilkinson thought he was being a comfort, but the confluence of “murdered” with “body” and “dumped” was not likely to provoke anything other than alarm.
    ‘Thank you, Constable,’ Mother said, ostentatiously demoting him, and she indicated by rising that she thought it was time he left.
    ‘We won’t touch anything, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the detectives will want to check for prints and so forth when they arrive.’
    She looked at the smear of blood on the floor.
    ‘I suppose I shouldn’t clean that up yet.’
    ‘I’ll have to stay,’ said Sergeant Wilkinson. ‘This is a crime scene. I’ll have to wait for the detectives to do their stuff.’
    ‘Given that this is a crime scene,’ I said, ‘perhaps having tea and cake in the middle of it isn’t such a good idea.’
    Sergeant Wilkinson blushed and coughed. Mother rescued him.
    ‘Brian, you should try to get some sleep. You too, Will. I’m sure Constable Wilkinson will be quite comfortable down here for the next couple of hours.’
    ‘I can’t sleep,’ said Brian.
    ‘Darlene hath murdered sleep,’ I said without thinking. Brian shot me a glance that conveyed the energy of outrage, even through his