Business of Dying Read Online Free PDF

nearly jumped out of the seat. What the fuck did he want? Surely the trap hadn't closed that quickly?
    'Dennis, it's Karl.' His voice sounded weary. 'I need you in now.' There was a short pause before he continued. 'I'm down at the canal just behind All Saints Street. It's eight twenty-five a.m. and we've got a body down here. If you get this message within the next two hours, make your way over. Otherwise just get down to the station. Cheers.'
    He hung up.
    As if I didn't have enough work on my plate without a murder to add to it. I was already investigating two rapes, an armed robbery, a missing housewife, a motiveless stabbing, and Christ knows how many muggings. All of which had occurred in the last month. In the last seven days I'd put in a grand total of fifty-nine hours' work on the job, as well as organizing last night's little foray, and I was exhausted. The problem these days was twofold: one, we didn't have anything like the manpower we used to have, or that our colleagues have abroad, because no one wants to be a copper any more; and two, we have far more crime, especially crimes of violence. I suppose the one is caused by the other, at least in part. There'ssomething about criminals these days too - and I'm not counting myself here: they tend to use violence a lot more casually. They take more pleasure in it too. Hurting or killing someone is no longer simply a by-product of committing a crime. To a lot of people it's part and parcel of the buzz they get out of it. At least when I'd put people down, I thought I was doing the world a favour. I might have made mistakes, but they were mistakes made in good faith.
    I continued smoking the cigarette until it was down to the butt, then I used it to light another one. When that one was halfway down, I knew I could hold back no longer. The thing is, I can never sit still when there's a new investigation starting, particularly a murder. I get a kick out of catching killers - maybe for the wrong reasons, I don't know, but it makes me feel good letting them know it's me who put them down, fucked up their whole lives.
    And, if nothing else, getting involved in this one would at least stop me mulling over matters I could do nothing about.
    So I stubbed out the cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray and headed down to Regent's Canal, the grimy scene of many a heinous crime.

4

    It was twenty to ten and raining when I arrived at the murder site. A uniformed officer stood at the entrance to the towpath talking to a guy in a trench-coat who looked like a journalist. It's amazing how quick these people sniff out a story; it's like they've got an extra sense that can detect a fresh kill from miles away. I pushed my way past the journo, who gave me a dirty look but thought better of saying anything, and nodded to the uniform. I recognized him from the station, although I couldn't put a name to him, and he evidently recognized me because he stepped aside and let me through.
    This part of the canal was fairly well looked after. The old warehouses had been knocked down to be replaced by office blocks that were built a few yards further back from the water's edge. A well-trimmed lawn had been laid down in the extra space with a couple of benches to add to the park-like feel.
    The painstaking, monotonous hunt for clues was already in full flow. There were about two dozen people widely scattered across the scene as they picked, probed and photographed every patch of earth. At the canal's edge stood four police divers, fully kitted up, ready to enter the treacle-like water. One of them was talking to DCI Knox, my boss's boss. He would be the senior investigating officer on a case like this, responsible for making sure that the investigation ran smoothly and nothing was missed. Almost certainly the key to a conviction lay in these few square yards.
    A tent had been erected at the entrance to a narrow gap between two of the buildings. This was where the body would be and where it would