Sonata of the Dead Read Online Free Page A

I’d tried any number of them without success, both with my surname and Peart, her mother’s. But that didn’t mean her old friends didn’t populate them. I made a note to ransack my brain for names, or contact the schools she’d attended.
    I tried to push her from my mind, just for a while, but it was easier said than done. She was like Long John Silver infecting the dreams of Jim Hawkins, albeit in a much less frightening way. And then I thought about Martin Gower and how his parents would be plagued with thoughts of their son, and which version of events I’d rather have. I poured another shot to help blot out the vision of Gower’s face, like so many rough leaves of bacon on a slicer. Whoever had done for him was committed. He wanted to make a statement. And this was not his first. Or if it was, it would not be his last.
    Mawker’s voice drifted through my thoughts. It had been punched around and exhausted by this murder. You could hear it in the empty threats. I’d accepted the caution without argument and told him I was sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. Sarah, and all that. He came round, a little, but only because he thought he might be able to benefit from my knowledge.
    ‘You know what I know,’ I told him.
    ‘What about this Accelerants thing?’ he asked. ‘Any ideas?’
    ‘What did Joan and Tom say?’
    ‘Not a lot. They didn’t have much to do with their son. He was out a lot. Busy, busy, busy. Click-click. Kick-kick, karate chop. Press passes and arpeggios. He was about to move. Shared flat in Crowthorne Road. Him and two other guys.’
    ‘Names?’
    ‘What have you done for me lately?’
    ‘Well I was thinking the Accelerants might be a band. Maybe he’s moving in with the bass player and drummer.’
    ‘Owning a guitar does not turn you into Bob Dylan.’
    ‘Well, he was musical when I knew him,’ I said. ‘At school, I mean. I dropped him off once after guitar practice.’
    ‘He might not have kept it up. I ditched the cornet after six weeks.’
    ‘Says the man who is so fond of blowing his own trumpet.’
    ‘Funny, Joel. You’re such a funny fellow. My ribs are on fire whenever you’re around.’
    ‘Anyway, you might want to follow that up. Local music venues. Pubs, clubs. See if they’ve done any gigs. Any more photographs I might be interested in? In those boxes of his?’
    ‘Not as yet,’ Mawker said. ‘I’ll let you know. Mainly wanky black-and-white stuff. Wet landscapes. Black crows on rotting fence posts. Woe-is-me junk.’
    ‘So are you going to let me in on these Crowthorne Road posers or what?’
    ‘No, I’m not. You’ve been formally cautioned. Stick your wanger through the letterbox one more time and I’ll chop it off. If anything relating to Sarah crops up, I’ll let you know.’
    ‘I’d rather there was some
looking for
instead of
cropping up
.’
    ‘Yeah, well, this is a murder inquiry, not a search for a woman who is apparently alive and well, an adult holding a grudge against her dickhead father. Butt out, Joel. You’re a very lucky boy. Tom Gower wanted to press charges. He could take legal action against you. And he’d win.’
    I bit my lip wishing I could bite his lip, drank the vodka and put down the glass and the phone. I’d got a decent buzz on, fast. I needed it. I opened the glassine bag. Versions of her slid out on to the table. My daughter. My baby. Very pink. Very shiny. Sarah Grace Sorrell. Born 6 September 1999. In one of the photographs – presumably before Gower (or
she
, for fuck’s sake) suggested she become fully naked – she wore a pale green T-shirt and black knickers. Her hair was swept back off her face and tied into pigtails. Her fingernails were blood red.
    In the nude photograph she had a tattoo, some cursive text I couldn’t make out, inked under her left breast. A navel piercing. Her right ear was punched through with half a dozen steel loops. No props. No clues in the backdrop: a featureless brick wall. There was