Death Message Read Online Free Page A

the papers. We got some in black, but the silver one's wicked . . .'
    The phone was not much bigger than a credit card. Thorne stared down at the tiny keys, thinking that his fat, stubby fingers would be punching three of them at a time whenever he tried to press a button. 'I think I need something chunkier,' he said. 'Something that's actually going to make a noise if it falls out of my pocket.'
    The salesman, whose name-tag identified him as Parv, was a moon-faced Asian kid with spiky hair. He rubbed at a pot belly through a polo shirt that was a couple of sizes too small for him and embroidered with the shop's logo. 'OK, what about a G3? These are bigger because of the keyboards, right? You can do all your email, browse the Internet, whatever.' The kid started to nod knowingly when he thought he saw something approaching genuine interest in his customer's face. 'Oh yeah, high-speed access. Plus you got your live video streaming, your one-to-one video calling, whatever.'
    'I don't know anyone else who's got one,' Thorne said.
    'So?'
    'So who am I going to have a one-to-one video call with?'
    Parv considered it. 'OK, this is a pretty basic phone,' he said, reaching for another handset and passing it over. 'Nothing flashy. You got your WAP, your Bluetooth, a voice recorder, a 1.3-megapixel camera - or a 1.5 with a better zoom on the flip-top model - and a built-in MP3 player.'
    'Sounds good,' Thorne said. 'Does it send and receive calls?'
    Parv stroked his belly again, and did his best to smile, though his eyes made it clear he thought he was dealing with a customer who might produce an automatic weapon from his jacket, or maybe get his cock out at any moment.
    'It's just to have as a spare, really.' Thorne was looking around, helpless. 'I don't need any of the flashy shit.'
    'Sorry.' The kid took back the handset and began scanning the shop for another customer. 'Everything comes with . . . some shit.'
    It sounded to Thorne like the second fantastic motto he'd heard so far that day. Maybe he should get off the force and start a company selling greetings cards with realistic messages.
    'Let me know if you need any more help,' Parv said, sounding almost like he meant it.
    Thorne couldn't help but feel guilty at being the black hole into which the kid had poured his considerable knowledge and enthusiasm. Quickly assuring him that he would buy something, but had just a few more questions, Thorne took a step back towards the display of G3 handsets and asked if it was possible to play online poker by phone.
    It was four-fifteen, over an hour past the end of his shift and already starting to get dark. The clocks had gone back the week before and, as always, there had been the usual complaints from those trumpeting the trauma of seasonal affective disorder. Thorne was less than sympathetic. Glancing up from his desk, he decided that the darkness certainly improved the view from his window. Besides, who needed SAD, when ten minutes on the phone with a tiny-cocked jobsworth could depress even the happiest of souls so effectively?
    It had taken Thorne a little over an hour to set up and register his new phone; now all that remained was to divert calls to his newly issued prepay number. Unfortunately, the mobile from which he needed to activate the divert had already been couriered to a properly equipped laboratory so that the photograph could be examined in detail. Thorne had put a call through to Newlands Park, the technical facilities base in Sidcup that handled image manipulation, audio/visual enhancement and other such tasks beyond the wit of those who could barely programme a VCR.
    'It's easy enough,' Thorne had said. 'I've got the manual in front of me and I could talk you through it in ten seconds. I just don't want to miss any calls, you know . . .'
    'Really, you don't need to talk me through it.' The technician had been unable, or hadn't bothered trying, to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. His name was Dawson, and Thorne