The Chemistry of Death Read Online Free PDF

personality than mine, with its old hunting oil, roll-top desk and leather-seated captain's chair. The bookshelves were filled with his old medical books and journals, as well as less obvious subjects for a village GP. There were texts by Kant and Nietzsche, and an entire shelf given over to psychology -- one of Henry's hobby-horses. My only contribution to the room was the computer monitor that hummed quietly on the desk, an innovation Henry had disgruntledly acquiesced to after months of persuasion.
    He never had recovered enough to return to work full-time. Like his wheelchair, my temporary contract had developed into something more permanent. It had been first extended, then changed into a partnership when it became apparent that he would no longer be able to run the practice solo. Even the old Land Rover Defender I now drove had once been his. It was a battered old automatic, bought after the car crash that had left him a paraplegic and killed his wife Diana. Buying it had been a statement of intent, when he still clung to the hope of being able to drive -- and walk -- again. But he never had. Or ever would, the doctors had assured him.
    'Idiots. Put someone in a white coat and they think they're God,' he'd scoffed.
    Eventually, though, even Henry had to accept that they were right. And so I'd inherited not just the Land Rover, but bit by bit most of the practice as well. We'd split the workload more or less equally to begin with, but increasingly more and more of it had been left to me. That didn't stop him remaining 'the proper doctor' in most people's eyes, but I'd given up minding long ago. I was still a newcomer as far as Manham was concerned, and probably always would be.
    Now, in the late-afternoon heat, I tried visiting a few medical websites, but my heart wasn't in it. I stood up and went to open the French windows. The fan on my desk whirred, noisily stirring the turgid air without cooling it. Even with the windows open, the difference was purely psychological. I stared out across the neatly tended garden. Like everything else it was parched; shrubs and grass almost visibly withering in the heat. The lake ran right up to the garden's border, with only a low embankment as protection from the inevitable winter flooding. Moored to a small jetty was Henry's old dinghy. It was little more than a glorified rowing boat, but Manham Water wasn't deep enough for anything else. It was hardly the Solent, and there were still areas that were too shallow or clogged with reeds to venture into, but both of us enjoyed going out on it even so.
    There was no chance of raising a sail today, though. The lake was so still there was no movement at all. From this angle there was only a scribble of distant reeds separating it from the sky. All was flatness and water, an emptiness that, depending on your mood, could be either restful or desolate.
    I didn't find it restful now.
    'Thought I heard you.'
    I turned as Henry wheeled himself into the room. 'Just sorting out a few things,' I said, pulling my thoughts back from where they'd wandered.
    'Like a bloody oven in here,' he muttered, stopping in front of the fan. Except for the non-use of his legs he looked the picture of health; creamy-white hair over a tanned face and keen dark eyes.
    'So what's this about the Yates boys finding a body? Janice was full of it when she brought my lunch.'
    Most Sundays Janice would deliver a covered plate with whatever she'd cooked for herself. Henry insisted he was capable of cooking Sunday lunch himself, but I noticed he rarely put up much of a struggle. Janice was a good cook, and I suspected her feelings for Henry went beyond those of housekeeper. Unmarried herself, I guessed her disapproval of his late wife stemmed mainly from jealousy, although she'd hinted more than once at some old scandal. I'd made it clear I didn't want to know. Even if Henry's marriage hadn't been the idyllic affair he now seemed to recall, I'd no interest in raking over the