Lazybones Read Online Free PDF

cupboards. Mary Remfry, midfifties, tugging a cardigan tightly over her nightdress, watched, but did not really take in what Holland was doing. Her mind was concentrated on talking at him.
    â€œDougie loved women and women loved him right back. That’s gospel, that is.”
    Holland was considerate going through the room. Hewould have been whether Mrs. Remfry had been watching or not, but he made the extra effort to be respectful as he sorted through drawers full of vests and pants and thrust a gloved hand into pillowcases and duvet covers. In the short time since his release, Remfry had obviously not acquired much in the way of new clothing or possessions, but there seemed to be a good deal still here from the time before he went to prison. There was plenty from before he ever left school…
    â€œHe never missed out where birds was concerned,” Remfry’s mother said. “Even after he came out, they was still sniffing round. Calling him up. You listening to me?”
    Holland half turned, half nodded, and, as if on cue, pulled out a decent-size stash of porn magazines from beneath the single bed.
    â€œSee?” Mary Remfry pointed at the magazines. “You won’t find any men in them. ” She sounded as proud as if Holland were dusting off a degree certificate or a Nobel Prize nomination. As it was, he squatted by the bed, flicking through the pile of yellowing Razzle s, Escort s, and Fiesta s, feeling his face flush, turning away from the proud mother in the doorway. The magazines all dated from the mid to late eighties, well before Dougie began his days at Her Majesty’s pleasure, banged up with six hundred and fifty other men.
    Holland pushed the dirty mags to one side, reached back under the bed, and pulled out a brown plastic bag, folded over on itself several times. He let the bag drop open and a bundle of envelopes, bound with a thick elastic band, fell on to the carpet.
    As soon as he saw the address, neatly typed on the topmost envelope, Holland felt a tingle of excitement. Just a small one. What he was looking at would probably mean nothing, but it was almost certainly more significant than fifteen-year-old socks and ancient stroke mags.
    â€œAndy…!”
    Mary Remfry wrapped her cardigan a little tighter around herself and took a step into the room. “What have you got there?”
    Holland could hear Stone’s feet on the stairs. He slipped off the elastic band, reached inside the first envelope, and pulled out the letter.
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    â€œSo we can definitely rule out autoerotic asphyxiation, then?” DCI Russell Brigstocke, a little embarrassed, looked around the table at Thorne, at Phil Hendricks, at DI Yvonne Kitson.
    â€œWell, I’m not sure we can rule anything out,” Thorne said. “But I think the ‘auto’ bit implies that you do it yourself.”
    â€œYou know what I mean, smart-arse…”
    â€œNothing erotic went on in that room,” Hendricks said.
    Brigstocke nodded. “No chance it was an extreme sex game that went wrong?” Thorne smirked. Brigstocke caught the look. “What?” Thorne said nothing. “Look, I’m just asking the questions…”
    â€œAsking the questions that Jesmond told you to ask,” Thorne said. He made no secret of his opinion that their detective chief superintendent had sprung fully formed from some course that turned out politically astute, organizationally capable drones. Acceptable faces with a neat line in facile questions, a good grasp of economic realities, and, as it happened, an aversion to anybody called Thorne.
    â€œThey’re questions that need answering,” Brigstocke said. “Could it have been some sort of sex game?”
    Thorne found it hard to believe that the likes of Trevor Jesmond had ever done the things that he, Brigstocke, or any other copper did, day in and day out. It was unimaginable that he had ever broken up a fistfight at