The Chemistry of Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

is a crime scene yet anyway. We've got a woman who may or may not be missing, that's all. There's nothing to link her to the body that's been found.'
    'What about the dog?'
    'Could have been killed by another animal.'
    'From what I could see the wound in its throat looks like a cut, not a tear. It was made by a sharp edge.'
    Again he gave me that appraising look, and I kicked myself for saying too much. I was a doctor now. Nothing else. 'I'll see what the forensic boys say,' he told me. 'But even if it was, she could have killed it herself.'
    'You don't really think that.'
    He seemed about to retort, then thought better of it. 'No. No, I don't. But I'm not going to jump to conclusions, either.'
    The house door opened. The sergeant emerged, giving a shake of his head. 'Nothing. But the lights had been left on in the hallway and lounge.'
    Mackenzie nodded, as if that were what he'd expected. He turned to me. 'We'll not keep you any longer, Dr Hunter. Someone'll be around to get your statement. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about this to anyone.'
    'Of course not.' I tried not to feel annoyed that he'd even asked. He was turning away, speaking with the sergeant. I started to go, then hesitated.
    'Just one thing,' I said. He glanced at me, irritably. 'That mole on your neck. It's probably nothing, but it might not hurt to get it checked out.'
    I left them staring after me as I went back to the car.
     
     
    I drove back to the village feeling numbed. The road cut past Manham Water, the shallow lake or 'broad' that each year lost a little more of itself to the encroaching reedbeds. Its surface was mirror still, fragmented only by a flight of geese that descended onto it. Neither the lake nor the choked creeks and dykes that cut through the marshes to it were navigable, and with no river close to the village Manham was bypassed by the boat and tourist traffic that descended on the rest of the Broads during summer. Although only a few miles separated it from its neighbours, it seemed to belong to a different part of Norfolk, older and less hospitable. Surrounded by woodland, bog-like fens and poorly drained marshland, it was a literal as well as figurative backwater. Apart from the occasional birdwatcher the village was left to itself, sinking further into its isolation like an antisocial old man.
    Perversely, this evening Manham looked almost cheery in the sunshine. The flowerbeds in the church and village green were like punches of colour, so bright they hurt. They were one of Manham's few sources of pride, scrupulously maintained by old George Mason and his grandson Tom, the two gardeners I'd met when I'd first arrived. On the edge of the green, even the Martyr's Stone had been garlanded with flowers by the local schoolchildren. It was an annual event, decorating the old millstone where in the sixteenth century a woman had supposedly been stoned to death by her neighbours. The story went that she'd cured an infant of some palsy, only to be accused of witchcraft. Henry joked that only Manham could martyr someone for doing a good turn, and claimed there was a lesson there for both of us.
    I didn't feel like going home, so I headed for the surgery. I often went there, even when I didn't have to. At times my cottage could feel lonely, whereas at the big house there was always at least the illusion of work, if nothing else. I let myself into the back door that led into the self-contained clinic. An old conservatory, dense and humid with plants that Janice lovingly tended, served as a reception and waiting room. Part of the ground floor had been converted into Henry's private living quarters. But that was at the other end of the house, which was more than big enough to accommodate all of us. I'd taken over his old consulting room, and as I closed the door behind me the scent of old wood and beeswax was calming. Even though I'd been using it almost every day since I'd arrived it was still more a distillation of Henry's