Orchestrated Death Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective
out into the hall and closed the door. Fix him a drink, indeed! He looked round, wondering what to do next. No comfort,
he thought. He really hadn’t anything to do. He was so unused to having time on his hands that he felt hobbled by it. He decided
to go upstairs and see Kate, whohadn’t been awake when he left that morning, and whom he hardly ever saw at night because she usually went to bed before he
got home. The door of her room was closed, and through it he heard the muted tones of what must surely be the same radio programme.
‘Hullo Mike. This is Sharon from Tooting. I jussliketersay, I lissnayour programme all the time, iss reelly grite …’
Or perhaps there was only ever one, an endless loop of tape run by a computer from a basement somewhere behind Ludgate Circus.
He stopped on the dim landing, and suddenly the dead girl was there with him, ambushing him from the back of his mind: the
childlike fall of her hair and the curve of her cheek, the innocence of her nakedness. He put his fingers to his temples and
pressed and drew his breath long and hard. He felt on the brink of some unknown crisis; he felt suddenly out of control.
Kate must have heard something – she called out ‘Is that you Daddy?’ from inside her room. Slider let out his breath shudderingly,
drew another more normal. He reached for the door handle.
‘Hullo, my sweetheart,’ he said cheerfully, going in.
CHAPTER 3
Drowsy Syrups
It was an old-fashioned morgue, cold and high-ceilinged, with marble floors that echoed hollowly when you walked across them,
and a sink in the corner with a tap that dripped. There was a strong smell of disinfectant and formalin, which did not quite
mask a different smell underneath – warmer, sweetish and dirty.
Cameron, fresh from the path unit at one of the newer hospitals, contrasted this chilly old tomb with the low-ceilinged, strip-lighted,
air-conditioned, rubber-tile-floored place he had just left. He felt a vague fondness, all the same, for the old morgues like
this which were fast disappearing. Not only had he done his training in such places, but the architecture reminded him cosily
of his primary school in Edinburgh. All the same, he decided to leave his waistcoat on.
His dapper form enveloped in protective apron and gloves, he bent forward over the pale cadaver on the herringbone-gullied
table, his breath just faintly visible on the cold air as, whistling, he made the first sweeping incision from the point of
the chin to the top of the pubic bone.
‘Right then, here we go,’ he said, reaching under the table with his foot for the pedal which turned on the audio recorder.
Out of sheer force of habit he reached up and tapped the microphone with a knuckle to see if it was working, and it clunked
hollowly. The assistant watched him phlegmatically. He had tested the machinery himself as a matter of course, as he always
did, as Cameron knew healways did; but Cameron had no faith in machines. He had done his training in the days of handwritten notes, and even then
he had known fountain pens to go wrong.
Now, like a cheerful gardener pruning roses, Cameron snipped through the cartilages which joined the ribs, freed them from
the breastbone, separated the breastbone from the collarbones, and then with the economical force of long practice, opened
out the two sides of the chest like cabinet doors. Inside, neatly disposed in their ordained order, were the internal organs,
displayed like an anatomical drawing in a medical textbook before his enquiring eyes.
Slider was not present. Cameron had phoned him earlier to say that he would not be posting the girl until six-thirty, in case
he wanted to come, but Slider had refused. Cameron thought his old friend sounded distinctly odd. He hoped old Bill wasn’t
going to crack up. Many a good man had gone that way: Cameron had seen it in the army as well as in the force, time and time
again, and it was always the
he thought. He really hadn’t anything to do. He was so unused to having time on his hands that he felt hobbled by it. He decided
to go upstairs and see Kate, whohadn’t been awake when he left that morning, and whom he hardly ever saw at night because she usually went to bed before he
got home. The door of her room was closed, and through it he heard the muted tones of what must surely be the same radio programme.
‘Hullo Mike. This is Sharon from Tooting. I jussliketersay, I lissnayour programme all the time, iss reelly grite …’
Or perhaps there was only ever one, an endless loop of tape run by a computer from a basement somewhere behind Ludgate Circus.
He stopped on the dim landing, and suddenly the dead girl was there with him, ambushing him from the back of his mind: the
childlike fall of her hair and the curve of her cheek, the innocence of her nakedness. He put his fingers to his temples and
pressed and drew his breath long and hard. He felt on the brink of some unknown crisis; he felt suddenly out of control.
Kate must have heard something – she called out ‘Is that you Daddy?’ from inside her room. Slider let out his breath shudderingly,
drew another more normal. He reached for the door handle.
‘Hullo, my sweetheart,’ he said cheerfully, going in.
CHAPTER 3
Drowsy Syrups
It was an old-fashioned morgue, cold and high-ceilinged, with marble floors that echoed hollowly when you walked across them,
and a sink in the corner with a tap that dripped. There was a strong smell of disinfectant and formalin, which did not quite
mask a different smell underneath – warmer, sweetish and dirty.
Cameron, fresh from the path unit at one of the newer hospitals, contrasted this chilly old tomb with the low-ceilinged, strip-lighted,
air-conditioned, rubber-tile-floored place he had just left. He felt a vague fondness, all the same, for the old morgues like
this which were fast disappearing. Not only had he done his training in such places, but the architecture reminded him cosily
of his primary school in Edinburgh. All the same, he decided to leave his waistcoat on.
His dapper form enveloped in protective apron and gloves, he bent forward over the pale cadaver on the herringbone-gullied
table, his breath just faintly visible on the cold air as, whistling, he made the first sweeping incision from the point of
the chin to the top of the pubic bone.
‘Right then, here we go,’ he said, reaching under the table with his foot for the pedal which turned on the audio recorder.
Out of sheer force of habit he reached up and tapped the microphone with a knuckle to see if it was working, and it clunked
hollowly. The assistant watched him phlegmatically. He had tested the machinery himself as a matter of course, as he always
did, as Cameron knew healways did; but Cameron had no faith in machines. He had done his training in the days of handwritten notes, and even then
he had known fountain pens to go wrong.
Now, like a cheerful gardener pruning roses, Cameron snipped through the cartilages which joined the ribs, freed them from
the breastbone, separated the breastbone from the collarbones, and then with the economical force of long practice, opened
out the two sides of the chest like cabinet doors. Inside, neatly disposed in their ordained order, were the internal organs,
displayed like an anatomical drawing in a medical textbook before his enquiring eyes.
Slider was not present. Cameron had phoned him earlier to say that he would not be posting the girl until six-thirty, in case
he wanted to come, but Slider had refused. Cameron thought his old friend sounded distinctly odd. He hoped old Bill wasn’t
going to crack up. Many a good man had gone that way: Cameron had seen it in the army as well as in the force, time and time
again, and it was always the
Similar Books
The Memory of Lemon
Judith Fertig
Hippie House
Katherine Holubitsky
Thanks for the Memories
Cecelia Ahern
Over The Sea
Sherwood Smith
Stuff Hipsters Hate
Brenna Ehrlich, Andrea Bartz
Five Smooth Stones
Ann Fairbairn
Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel
Megan Mitcham
Memory's Door (A Well Spring Novel)
James L. Rubart
Becoming Death
Melissa Brown
