Bloodline-9 Read Online Free PDF

and cards on birthdays and at Christmas.
    Thorne listened to the pair of them rattling on - Hol and tel ing Hendricks how big his daughter was getting, stil only pushing four, and Hendricks saying what a fantastic age that was, while he moved the scissors and skul -key to within easy reach - and it niggled him. He was stil trying to remember the date of the girl’s birthday when Hendricks began removing Emily Walker’s clothing.

    Middle of September?
    While Hendricks worked, he related his findings into the microphone hanging above his head. Hol and made notes. This précis would be al the investigation had to go on until the ful report arrived, but often it would be more than enough for the likes of Tom Thorne, until and if the likes of Phil Hendricks were given their chance to go through the details in court.
    The science and the Latin . . .
    ‘Major laceration to back of head, but no fracture to the skul or sign of significant brain injury.’
    When Thorne was not being cal ed upon to concentrate, when it was just about observing medical procedures he’d seen far too many times before, he did his best to zone out. To block out the noise. He’d long since got used to the smel - meaty and sickly sweet - but the sounds always unnerved him.
    ‘Damage to thyroid and cricoid cartilages . . . Major petechial haemorrhaging . . . Bloody froth caked around victim’s mouth.’
    So, Thorne sang in his head. Hank Wil iams, Johnny Cash, Wil ie Nelson, whatever came to him. Just a chorus or two to take the edge off the bone-saw’s whine and the solid snap of the rib-cutters. The gurgle in the windpipe and the sucking as the heart and lungs were removed from the chest as one single, dripping unit.
    Ray Price today: ‘My Shoes Keep Walking Back to You’.
    ‘No indication of pregnancy . . . No signs of recent termination . . . Death due to manual asphyxia.’
    There’s people worse off than I am.
    Towards the end, with organs weighed and fluids col ected, Thorne asked about time of death. When it came to finding a prime suspect, it often turned out to be the most important factor.
    ‘Late afternoon,’ Hendricks said. ‘Best I can do.’
    ‘Before five?’ Hol and asked.
    ‘Between three and four probably, but I’m not swearing to it right now.’
    ‘That fits.’ Hol and scribbled something down. ‘Husband claims to have arrived home a little after five o’clock.’
    ‘He out of the picture, then?’
    ‘ Nobody’s out of the picture,’ Thorne said.
    ‘OK.’
    Thorne saw the expression on Hendricks’ face, and on Hol and’s as he looked up from his notebook. ‘Sorry . . .’
    He’d been looking at the stainless-steel dishes that now contained Emily Walker’s major organs and thinking that she’d final y shifted those few extra pounds she’d been so worried about. His eyes had come to rest on her feet, bloated and pale; on the red nail varnish and the star above her ankle. When he’d spoken, he’d snapped without meaning to, the words sounding snide and spiky.
    Hol and looked at Hendricks, stage-whispered conspiratorial y: ‘Wrong side of the bed.’
    Thorne could feel himself growing edgier by the minute. He told himself to calm down, but it didn’t work, and walking out with Hol and ten minutes later, he found it hard to control his breathing and the flush of it in his face. Sometimes, he felt fired-up coming out of a post-mortem, confused or just depressed more often than not, but he could not remember the last time he’d felt quite so bloody angry.
    He had been turning his phone back on before he was out of the post-mortem room and by the time he emerged through the mortuary’s main entrance on to Avondale Road, he could see that he had three missed cal s from Louise. He told Hol and he’d catch him up.
    It was the voice she used when she’d been crying. ‘They’ve stil not done it.’
    ‘Christ, you’re kidding!’
    ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
    He turned away, looking across the