The Burning Read Online Free PDF

the right term for a machine with a giant metal claw – crushed the brick wall at the front of the plot under its
caterpillar tracks and came to a halt in front of the burned-out house. DI Ryan had accompanied the undertaker’s van to the mortuary to book the remains, but several of his colleagues had
stayed behind to enjoy the fun. Jenny stood a short way off on the common, feeling a strange obligation to witness the demolition as a mark of respect. The big diesel engine issued a low,
threatening rumble as the machine’s single arm rose in several jerky movements then unfolded to its full length. The three steel talons grasped the top of the wall and squeezed, taking a
huge, jagged bite out of the brickwork. Several of the watching officers gave a muted cheer.
    Jenny’s attention began to drift as the machine worked its way down the wall and she found herself wondering about the people behind the drawn curtains in the other houses around the
common. Every village she knew had a soul, an atmosphere all of its own, that told you something about its inhabitants. The houses of Blackstone Ley were spaced out, each home, even the smallest,
its own fortress surrounded by its individual parcel of land. It was the kind of place city people might come to live thinking they would have privacy, only to realize there were ten pairs of eyes
watching each time you stepped out of the door. It was a place where the truth about one’s neighbours would be hard to untangle from the myth; where reputations, good or bad, would never be
shaken off.
    ‘I suppose it’s for the best.’
    Jenny turned to see a woman dressed in a battered wax jacket. A springer spaniel was running in excited circles off to her left, its nose close to the ground as it chased a rabbit scent. As she
approached, Jenny saw that beneath her coat she was wearing a priest’s collar which sat somewhat incongruously with the rest of her appearance. She was probably the same age as Jenny, but she
exuded a natural vitality that made her elegant features look far younger.
    ‘Are you with the police?’ the woman inquired.
    ‘No. I’m the coroner. Jenny Cooper.’
    ‘Ah.’ She offered her hand. ‘Helen Medway.’ Her gloved fingers were warm to the touch. ‘I’m the vicar here. For three parishes, actually, but this is the one
where I happen to live.’ She pointed across the common to a black-and-white half-timbered cottage next door to the church. ‘Any news on Robbie?’
    ‘Not that I’ve heard. Did you know the family?’
    ‘Yes, though more as neighbours than parishioners.’ Helen glanced over at the machine, which had made short work of the house and was now most of the way through the last remaining
wall. ‘I’ve heard it was the father – he left a message.’
    ‘That’s what the police tell me.’
    Helen nodded and fell silent for a moment. Jenny sensed she was puzzled by something.
    ‘I expect they’ve asked you for a statement, living so close by?’ Jenny said.
    ‘I told them what I could, which wasn’t much. Pardon me for asking, but isn’t it quite soon for a coroner to be involved? Isn’t this a police investigation?’
    ‘It is at the moment,’ Jenny answered guardedly.
    ‘Sorry. I always ask too many questions. Force of habit. I used to be a probation officer.’
    ‘Bristol?’
    ‘No, Gloucester. I was made redundant when they shut the prison. I’ve only been doing this a year so haven’t quite learned to be properly vicarly, or whatever the word
is.’
    She gave an apologetic smile and Jenny found herself warming to her.
    ‘Between you and me, I get the impression the police don’t think there’s anything to investigate,’ Jenny said. ‘The culprit’s dead. All that’s left for
them to do is to find out what Morgan did with his son.’
    ‘He was a proper countryman. Knew every corner, ditch and hedge. I expect they’ll have a job.’
    ‘I think they know that.’
    Helen Medway bit on her bottom lip and