The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) Read Online Free
Author: Keith McCarthy
what she had seen seeped like black oil. She kept her head low and tried to concentrate on how physically awful she felt.
"We're really stretched at the station. Still, plenty of overtime for those of us who are still on our feet."
The policewoman's face, its plainness not helped by a lack of make-up, betrayed a moment's concern at the lack of reaction. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked and from somewhere Susan found the strength to nod.
"It must have been a terrible shock for you," she continued. "Finding her like that."
Susan was feeling sick. Her stomach felt as if it were distended to bursting point by thick, creamy mucus and her eyes were sore; her throat felt corroded and her head was pulsing to a pain-filled beat. She forced her eyelids to rasp down over her eyes and tried not to see the picture of Millie dead on the floor.
"Have you got a GP we can contact?"
She didn't actually hear the question and so didn't answer. Instead she said suddenly, "She was terrified of dying."
The policewoman thought, Aren't we all ? but said only, "Was she?"
"Cancer. She was terrified of dying from cancer."
"Oh, yes, so am I." If Susan were just saying things to stop thinking, her companion was just saying them because she had never started. There was a pause and then Susan said, "She was caught up in some sort of fire once. She only just escaped with her life."
And then she realized what she had just said. Into her head came the sight of Millicent's excoriated face, looking exactly as if it had been blasted with a blowtorch, melted, and then congealed into tuberose distortions. It would not shift. She began to cry. The policewoman put her arm around her shoulders as her head went down. Her whole body began to shake with her sobs that gradually changed into a hacking cough interspersed with sore wheezing.
"What happened to her?" she asked at last and it was a terrified, agony-filled plea to God. "Her face was … horrible."
"I don't know, love."
"I thought at first that she was burned, but what were those things on her face?"
They were nearly back at Susan's flat.
The policewoman hadn't seen the body and felt rather glad about it. "The post-mortem will tell us."
The driver stopped the car and turned to Susan. "There we are."
Susan was helped by the policewoman through the hall to her front door. "Do you want me to stay?"
Susan shook her head. She was feeling faint, as if her leg muscles were dissolving. She just wanted to go to bed.
"Is there anyone who can look after you?"
But again this was met with refusal. She just wanted to be left alone. As she was going out of the flat, though, Susan asked suddenly, "She wasn't murdered, was she?" Somehow the thought that another human being could have done that …
"Oh, no. We're perfectly satisfied it was natural causes." This confidence was surprising and somewhat inaccurate, but Susan wasn't to know that. Having closed the door, Susan noticed the day's post. Most of them looked like bills and the effort of bending to pick them up made her feel on the point of vomiting. She had to shut her eyes and lean against the doorframe, putting the post on the table to her right and at once forgetting about it. Then, almost blindly, she made her way back to her bed.
Thus it was that she missed the flashing of her answerphone telling her that someone had called whilst she was out.
*
Hartmann was home by seven. This was too early despite the fact that he had been travelling for ninety minutes, that he had crawled along miles of dual carriageway, that he had been cut up three times by Neanderthals with large and over-expensive cars, that he hated work and he hated driving, and that he was desperate to relieve himself.
Eight, nine, ten would have been too early.
"Mark? Is that you?"
The fatuous question floated down from the landing as he shut the front door.
No .
He took off his coat and hung it in the hall wardrobe as Annette descended the stairs. She was wearing smart
"We're really stretched at the station. Still, plenty of overtime for those of us who are still on our feet."
The policewoman's face, its plainness not helped by a lack of make-up, betrayed a moment's concern at the lack of reaction. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked and from somewhere Susan found the strength to nod.
"It must have been a terrible shock for you," she continued. "Finding her like that."
Susan was feeling sick. Her stomach felt as if it were distended to bursting point by thick, creamy mucus and her eyes were sore; her throat felt corroded and her head was pulsing to a pain-filled beat. She forced her eyelids to rasp down over her eyes and tried not to see the picture of Millie dead on the floor.
"Have you got a GP we can contact?"
She didn't actually hear the question and so didn't answer. Instead she said suddenly, "She was terrified of dying."
The policewoman thought, Aren't we all ? but said only, "Was she?"
"Cancer. She was terrified of dying from cancer."
"Oh, yes, so am I." If Susan were just saying things to stop thinking, her companion was just saying them because she had never started. There was a pause and then Susan said, "She was caught up in some sort of fire once. She only just escaped with her life."
And then she realized what she had just said. Into her head came the sight of Millicent's excoriated face, looking exactly as if it had been blasted with a blowtorch, melted, and then congealed into tuberose distortions. It would not shift. She began to cry. The policewoman put her arm around her shoulders as her head went down. Her whole body began to shake with her sobs that gradually changed into a hacking cough interspersed with sore wheezing.
"What happened to her?" she asked at last and it was a terrified, agony-filled plea to God. "Her face was … horrible."
"I don't know, love."
"I thought at first that she was burned, but what were those things on her face?"
They were nearly back at Susan's flat.
The policewoman hadn't seen the body and felt rather glad about it. "The post-mortem will tell us."
The driver stopped the car and turned to Susan. "There we are."
Susan was helped by the policewoman through the hall to her front door. "Do you want me to stay?"
Susan shook her head. She was feeling faint, as if her leg muscles were dissolving. She just wanted to go to bed.
"Is there anyone who can look after you?"
But again this was met with refusal. She just wanted to be left alone. As she was going out of the flat, though, Susan asked suddenly, "She wasn't murdered, was she?" Somehow the thought that another human being could have done that …
"Oh, no. We're perfectly satisfied it was natural causes." This confidence was surprising and somewhat inaccurate, but Susan wasn't to know that. Having closed the door, Susan noticed the day's post. Most of them looked like bills and the effort of bending to pick them up made her feel on the point of vomiting. She had to shut her eyes and lean against the doorframe, putting the post on the table to her right and at once forgetting about it. Then, almost blindly, she made her way back to her bed.
Thus it was that she missed the flashing of her answerphone telling her that someone had called whilst she was out.
*
Hartmann was home by seven. This was too early despite the fact that he had been travelling for ninety minutes, that he had crawled along miles of dual carriageway, that he had been cut up three times by Neanderthals with large and over-expensive cars, that he hated work and he hated driving, and that he was desperate to relieve himself.
Eight, nine, ten would have been too early.
"Mark? Is that you?"
The fatuous question floated down from the landing as he shut the front door.
No .
He took off his coat and hung it in the hall wardrobe as Annette descended the stairs. She was wearing smart
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