Blood Tears Read Online Free
Author: Michael J. Malone
4
The body is safely in its bag by the time I arrive. Briefly sanitized, before the next part of the detection process can begin. There’s enough blood in the vicinity to hint that the deceased did not die of natural causes. We are in a small ex-local authority house. The attention lavished on this house and its neighbours hint at a pleasant, quiet place to live. A place where the inhabitants take pride in their ability to own their own home and make the best use of the excess funds they manage to borrow from their bank. I walk past the constable on point duty and through the front door.
Jim Peters is here and talking to the boss. And he looks as if he’s slept like the proverbial log. Bastard doesn’t even have the decency to suffer a hangover.
‘Right, Jim. What have we got so far?’ I give him a brief smile of acknowledgement. He looks at his watch before answering; a non-verbal comment on my apparent tardiness. I don’t say anything; I match his stare until his eyes drop from mine and I log it away for future reference. Don’t you just love office politics?
‘Elderly male, sir. Caucasian. Name of Patrick Connelly. Victim appears to have sustained multiple wounds. Wrists and feet pierced with sharp object. Stab wound on the right side of deceased’s chest. Ligature marks on his neck…’
‘And strange scratch marks around his forehead.’ I speak without realizing.
‘How the fuck did you know that?’
‘It’s the stigmata. You mentioned the wrists, feet and wound on the side. The next item on the list was the wounds on the forehead.’
‘Looks like we’ve a religious nutter on our hands,’ says the boss. ‘Let’s find this guy before he goes for a full crucifixion.’
A moan sounds from behind us. I turn and see a head of white hair just before I hear feet drum up the stairs.
I leave the room and follow the woman I expect to be the deceased’s wife. The stairs end at what appears to be the bathroom, judging by the tasteful sign on the door. Then a passage stretches along to my left, with another two doors off it. Loud sobbing allows me to open the correct door.
‘Sorry, sir.’ A young WPC is sitting on the edge of the bed, one arm around a small woman.
‘Mrs Connelly, I’m sorry you had to hear that.’ I glare at the WPC. She shouldn’t have let the woman come down the stairs.
‘It’s not Mrs, it’s Miss,’ comes from the small frame.
‘Miss Connelly is the deceased’s sister, sir,’ offers the WPC.
‘I can speak for myself, hen.’ She forces herself to sit up and visibly steels herself against any further displays of emotion.
‘Can we get you a cup of tea?’ I motion with my head for the constable to leave the tiny room. With three of us in it, I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.
‘If anybody else asks me that, I think I’ll scream.’ Her hair is pulled tight across her head and tied at the back. This has the effect of sharpening a nose that already looks as if it could be used to crochet. Her lips are almost non-existent, but what is there is painted bright red. Lipstick leaks from the straight line of her lips into the cracks radiating around her mouth, like rust. A bit early to be putting the war paint on, I think. She’s cradling a brown pipe in her hand. I don’t think it’s hers.
‘DI McBain. Mind if I sit down?’ I ask, aware that my size might intimidate her.
‘It’s a free country,’ is the sharp reply. So much for intimidation. I sit as far away from her on the bed as I can.
‘I won’t bite, you know.’ Tears are no longer in evidence. Miss Connelly has made a remarkable recovery.
‘How old was Patrick?’
‘Seventy-two. I was his big sister, by two years.’ She is staunchly in the camp of being proud of her age then.
‘Do you know of anyone who might want to kill your brother, Miss Connelly?’
‘Kill Paddy? I don’t know who would do such a thing. He might have been a miserable old bugger, but I didn’t think anyone would be
The body is safely in its bag by the time I arrive. Briefly sanitized, before the next part of the detection process can begin. There’s enough blood in the vicinity to hint that the deceased did not die of natural causes. We are in a small ex-local authority house. The attention lavished on this house and its neighbours hint at a pleasant, quiet place to live. A place where the inhabitants take pride in their ability to own their own home and make the best use of the excess funds they manage to borrow from their bank. I walk past the constable on point duty and through the front door.
Jim Peters is here and talking to the boss. And he looks as if he’s slept like the proverbial log. Bastard doesn’t even have the decency to suffer a hangover.
‘Right, Jim. What have we got so far?’ I give him a brief smile of acknowledgement. He looks at his watch before answering; a non-verbal comment on my apparent tardiness. I don’t say anything; I match his stare until his eyes drop from mine and I log it away for future reference. Don’t you just love office politics?
‘Elderly male, sir. Caucasian. Name of Patrick Connelly. Victim appears to have sustained multiple wounds. Wrists and feet pierced with sharp object. Stab wound on the right side of deceased’s chest. Ligature marks on his neck…’
‘And strange scratch marks around his forehead.’ I speak without realizing.
‘How the fuck did you know that?’
‘It’s the stigmata. You mentioned the wrists, feet and wound on the side. The next item on the list was the wounds on the forehead.’
‘Looks like we’ve a religious nutter on our hands,’ says the boss. ‘Let’s find this guy before he goes for a full crucifixion.’
A moan sounds from behind us. I turn and see a head of white hair just before I hear feet drum up the stairs.
I leave the room and follow the woman I expect to be the deceased’s wife. The stairs end at what appears to be the bathroom, judging by the tasteful sign on the door. Then a passage stretches along to my left, with another two doors off it. Loud sobbing allows me to open the correct door.
‘Sorry, sir.’ A young WPC is sitting on the edge of the bed, one arm around a small woman.
‘Mrs Connelly, I’m sorry you had to hear that.’ I glare at the WPC. She shouldn’t have let the woman come down the stairs.
‘It’s not Mrs, it’s Miss,’ comes from the small frame.
‘Miss Connelly is the deceased’s sister, sir,’ offers the WPC.
‘I can speak for myself, hen.’ She forces herself to sit up and visibly steels herself against any further displays of emotion.
‘Can we get you a cup of tea?’ I motion with my head for the constable to leave the tiny room. With three of us in it, I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.
‘If anybody else asks me that, I think I’ll scream.’ Her hair is pulled tight across her head and tied at the back. This has the effect of sharpening a nose that already looks as if it could be used to crochet. Her lips are almost non-existent, but what is there is painted bright red. Lipstick leaks from the straight line of her lips into the cracks radiating around her mouth, like rust. A bit early to be putting the war paint on, I think. She’s cradling a brown pipe in her hand. I don’t think it’s hers.
‘DI McBain. Mind if I sit down?’ I ask, aware that my size might intimidate her.
‘It’s a free country,’ is the sharp reply. So much for intimidation. I sit as far away from her on the bed as I can.
‘I won’t bite, you know.’ Tears are no longer in evidence. Miss Connelly has made a remarkable recovery.
‘How old was Patrick?’
‘Seventy-two. I was his big sister, by two years.’ She is staunchly in the camp of being proud of her age then.
‘Do you know of anyone who might want to kill your brother, Miss Connelly?’
‘Kill Paddy? I don’t know who would do such a thing. He might have been a miserable old bugger, but I didn’t think anyone would be