The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Keith McCarthy
Annette had become an insoluble complex of feelings, reliances and interdependencies …
No!
His arm whipped out and the comb was flung across the room, clattering against the wardrobe. A futile gesture for a futile life.
Who was he fooling? There were no interdependencies in their marriage, only dependency. He on Annette. Annette, the daughter of a High Court judge and a well-thought of young barrister in her own right; Annette who earned three times his salary even without the money from Grandpa's trust fund; Annette who owned most of their belongings and subsidized the rest of his life.
He stood still, listening to his breathing, trying to dispel the feeling of panic that arose when he thought of how much he needed her. His life would be destroyed if she chose to end matters, not just because of what she had given to him, but because of what she had not.
"Mark? I think they're here." The voice was faint for it was a large house. He heard the excited shouts of the children as their grandparents came to the door.
"Hooray," he whispered.
*
Siobhan was out at her creative writing class when Turner got home. The emptiness of his house was a relief to him; he didn't feel confident that he would hide his worry and he did not need the understandable inquisitiveness of a newly acquired wife.
His smile at the thought was rueful.
He moved from the wood-panelled hall into the sitting room where his cherished collection of malt whiskies was arrayed on the sideboard. He picked one, poured a large volume into a heavy, cut-glass tumbler and topped it up with water from a jug. Only after swallowing half of it did he sit down and let out a long, long sigh.
Millicent was dead.
But how? How had she died?
He had heard rumours during the day, rumours that she had been burned, possibly even murdered.
God, how he hoped they were true.
He took another long swallow, emptying the glass. At once he was up and repeating the prescription. What, he wondered, if it weren't true? What if it were what he dreaded?
On the table beside him was a wedding photo, still new enough to be more than a relic of history; Siobhan's beauty was still painful to him, still precious, his astonishment that she should have chosen him — running to fat and to seed with equal speed — still great.
His smile was far sadder than tears would have been.
He was recently enough married to find pain in the fact that he could not confide in her. He knew that he should have told her about Millie, knew also that he had never been going to. Millie had just been a fling, an infatuation, an episode in his past; Siobhan and he had never talked about previous lovers and that was what Millie was. It would only have made trouble to go into details, so that to Siobhan she was merely part of his team, no different to any of the others.
Now she was different, though.
A sudden shaft of panic spasmed his gut.
This had to be coincidence!
He had been assured that they were clear. They were all in the clear. No spread . That was what they had said. He had even seen the results of the tests, because he hadn't entirely trusted them, and they had been negative, just as they had said.
But again the fear recurred, voiced as a question — What if Millicent's death were related to the accident ?
He had to find out the results of the post-mortem examination. It would be done tomorrow, he assumed. He knew Professor Bowman — godawful woman that she was — and he was confident that she would let him know. If it was as he feared, he would contact PEP and raise some hell.
In the meantime, he would repeat the tests himself. He was certainly in a perfect position to do this, and he had all the equipment he required. So why not? He finished the whisky again. Yes, that's what he would do. Find out what Millicent died from, repeat the tests on himself, then, depending on what he then knew, act accordingly.
If PEP had lied to him, they would be sorry. Very sorry indeed.
*
It was much
No!
His arm whipped out and the comb was flung across the room, clattering against the wardrobe. A futile gesture for a futile life.
Who was he fooling? There were no interdependencies in their marriage, only dependency. He on Annette. Annette, the daughter of a High Court judge and a well-thought of young barrister in her own right; Annette who earned three times his salary even without the money from Grandpa's trust fund; Annette who owned most of their belongings and subsidized the rest of his life.
He stood still, listening to his breathing, trying to dispel the feeling of panic that arose when he thought of how much he needed her. His life would be destroyed if she chose to end matters, not just because of what she had given to him, but because of what she had not.
"Mark? I think they're here." The voice was faint for it was a large house. He heard the excited shouts of the children as their grandparents came to the door.
"Hooray," he whispered.
*
Siobhan was out at her creative writing class when Turner got home. The emptiness of his house was a relief to him; he didn't feel confident that he would hide his worry and he did not need the understandable inquisitiveness of a newly acquired wife.
His smile at the thought was rueful.
He moved from the wood-panelled hall into the sitting room where his cherished collection of malt whiskies was arrayed on the sideboard. He picked one, poured a large volume into a heavy, cut-glass tumbler and topped it up with water from a jug. Only after swallowing half of it did he sit down and let out a long, long sigh.
Millicent was dead.
But how? How had she died?
He had heard rumours during the day, rumours that she had been burned, possibly even murdered.
God, how he hoped they were true.
He took another long swallow, emptying the glass. At once he was up and repeating the prescription. What, he wondered, if it weren't true? What if it were what he dreaded?
On the table beside him was a wedding photo, still new enough to be more than a relic of history; Siobhan's beauty was still painful to him, still precious, his astonishment that she should have chosen him — running to fat and to seed with equal speed — still great.
His smile was far sadder than tears would have been.
He was recently enough married to find pain in the fact that he could not confide in her. He knew that he should have told her about Millie, knew also that he had never been going to. Millie had just been a fling, an infatuation, an episode in his past; Siobhan and he had never talked about previous lovers and that was what Millie was. It would only have made trouble to go into details, so that to Siobhan she was merely part of his team, no different to any of the others.
Now she was different, though.
A sudden shaft of panic spasmed his gut.
This had to be coincidence!
He had been assured that they were clear. They were all in the clear. No spread . That was what they had said. He had even seen the results of the tests, because he hadn't entirely trusted them, and they had been negative, just as they had said.
But again the fear recurred, voiced as a question — What if Millicent's death were related to the accident ?
He had to find out the results of the post-mortem examination. It would be done tomorrow, he assumed. He knew Professor Bowman — godawful woman that she was — and he was confident that she would let him know. If it was as he feared, he would contact PEP and raise some hell.
In the meantime, he would repeat the tests himself. He was certainly in a perfect position to do this, and he had all the equipment he required. So why not? He finished the whisky again. Yes, that's what he would do. Find out what Millicent died from, repeat the tests on himself, then, depending on what he then knew, act accordingly.
If PEP had lied to him, they would be sorry. Very sorry indeed.
*
It was much
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