Sins of the Fathers Read Online Free Page A

of his intestines, thereby turning what had once been an ingenious biological machine into no more than a pile of bloody offal.
    â€˜It must have been very messy work to carry out,’ Dr Shastri said, clinically. ‘To tear through someone else’s stomach in this way, you need a fairly strong stomach yourself.’
    Yes, that was exactly what you would need, Woodend thought, as behind him, he heard the sound of Constable Beresford throwing up.

Three
    W oodend stood in the reception room outside the chief constable’s office, waiting for the green light (set into the door-frame) to flash and buzz, as a signal that he was now permitted to enter the inner sanctum.
    He was anticipating a long wait, since this was the style of the man he had been summoned to see. Henry Marlowe measured his own importance by the fact that he
could
keep his subordinates waiting, and Woodend had no doubt that even once he was inside the office itself, the chief constable would prolong the wait by pretending to study whatever documents – however irrelevant to the matter in hand – that he happened to have on his desk at that particular moment.
    The chief inspector looked out of the window. The fog which had plagued Whitebridge the previous day had almost completely lifted, and the late spring sun was making its first appearance in nearly a week. Birds were swooping and diving in the air over the police car park, and squirrels were busy scuttling around the bases of the nearby trees.
    Life was renewing itself everywhere, Woodend thought fancifully, though – thanks to a person or persons as yet unknown – Bradley Pine would most definitely not be taking part in that particular process.
    The green light buzzed.
    It was probably a technical fault, Woodend thought, glancing down at his watch and noting that he had been standing there for no more than a couple of minutes. Or perhaps it was human error – a case of Marlowe pressing the button accidentally. Whichever it was, the chief constable couldn’t be willing to see him already. But since the light undoubtedly
had
flashed – and his was not to reason why – he knocked on the door, then turned the handle and stepped inside.
    Marlowe looked up from his paperwork immediately – another first! – and said, ‘I’d like a progress report on the investigation into Bradley Pine’s murder, Chief Inspector.’
    Woodend scratched his ear. ‘There hasn’t
been
any progress to speak of,’ he admitted. ‘The patrol cars have been alerted to look out for Pine’s vehicle, but since the body wasn’t discovered until most people were gettin’ ready for bed, there wasn’t much more we could do.’
    This was the point at which the bollocking should come, Woodend thought. This was the point at which Marlowe should tell him that any halfway decent chief inspector would already have had the murderer under lock and key.
    But that didn’t happen. Instead, Marlowe said, ‘Being the first senior officer at the scene of the crime does not automatically give you the right to be put in charge of the investigation, you know.’
    â€˜I appreciate that, sir,’ Woodend replied.
    â€˜However, after having given the matter due consideration, I
have
decided to assign the case to you,’ Marlowe continued, ‘though naturally, taking into account both the prominence of the victim and the particularly gruesome manner of his death, there will be some conditions attached.’
    â€˜What sort of conditions?’ Woodend wondered.
    â€˜I want this murder cleared up as soon as possible.’
    â€˜Which means?’
    â€˜Within the week.’
    â€˜I can’t promise that,’ Woodend told the chief constable. ‘Conductin’ a murder investigation’s isn’t like runnin’ a bus company, where you know the route you goin’ to have to cover, an’ you can draw up some kind of