The Killing of Bobbi Lomax Read Online Free PDF Page B

tainted.’
    His boy-self had heard other arguments. Knew what ‘tainted’ meant. Grandpa had three wives, not just one, and all at the same time. He had heard them shout words like ‘wrong’, ‘disapprove’, ‘embarrassment’, ‘my position’ and a load more. He knew there was a name for it, having several wives, but couldn’t remember it. Something beginning with Polly, like the girl’s name. He looked up at his mother. ‘I hate Father. He makes you sad.’ He smiled at her. Hoped she might smile back. But instead, she started yelling at him.
    ‘Clark! Oh no, what on earth have you done!?’ His mother’s face filled with anguish and she grabbed his hand, pulled it towards her. He could see blood running from it. He watched as she turned his hand over, prised it open. Several shards of the glass had pierced the skin deep and blood oozed from each cut. And then he heard another voice. Another woman. And she was shouting also.
    ‘Clark! Clark! Wake up. Clark!’
    Edie was staring right into his face, her eyes wide, urging.
    ‘Clark, you’re bleeding. Wake up.’
    He saw there was blood on his trousers, on the couch.
    He looked down as she opened his bloody palm. The small glass had shattered and broken in pieces. Leftover juice ran into the cuts. He couldn’t feel anything. He’d felt more before from paper cuts. Movement on the TV caught his eye, a commercial for painkiller. Pain-free in minutes seemed to be the mantra. Pain-free. He remembered the psychedelic movement on the screen, the lulling repetition of the sounds around him. He looked back down at his hand. A nasty cut. But it was pain-free. Relaxation. Repetition. Suggestion and control. Just like Dr Mesmer. Clark jumped up from the couch.
    ‘Where are you going? Let me dress that for you.’ Edie was standing up now, moving behind him, the pieces of broken glass in her palm.
    ‘Not now, Edie.’
    ‘But . . .’
    ‘I’ll do it myself, downstairs.’
    He could hear her say something, but in a moment he was at the end of the corridor, unlocking the door and down the stairs to his basement workshop. But not before he’d firmly closed the door behind him. And bolted it from the inside.

7
November 1st 1983
    Residence of Peter Gudsen (Deceased)
    By the time their car rolled up outside the Gudsen home the double shot of Advil was relaxing Marty’s stiff neck. He’d slept the night in his desk chair and let Al crash on the makeshift bed made of vinyl-covered cushions Marty had salvaged from a ’50s sofa which had been headed for the dumpster outside his building. Marty had used it as a bed for months in his apartment, right after the divorce. That had been the sum of his forays into furniture acquisition. He spent most of his time at the station and when he wasn’t there he was over at Murphy’s Sports Bar, a block down from the station and the only place serving booze for a good three miles, except the Hilton and that was too pricey. Murphy’s had comfortable bar stools, a reasonable selection of low-alcohol beer, a TV and home-cooked food. What more could a divorced man ask for, Marty always said, except for the company of a wild woman and stronger beer.
    Outside the Gudsen home there was nowhere to park. The family and friends’ cars were lined up along the street and in a cluster outside the overflowing drive. Marty hated being near the bereaved, couldn’t bear to hear their questions of why, see their tears, their shaking hands and heaving hearts. It made him remember and he didn’t want to have to remember.
    ‘What do you want me to ask?’ Al said, half turned towards him, left hand still on the wheel.
    ‘The usual. But right now, she’s a possible suspect, so let’s see how she reacts when you suggest there might be another woman in her husband’s life.’
    ‘You think it’s a case of find the lady?’
    Marty smiled. ‘It’s a good possibility.’
    ‘You’re not going with Big Tex’s theory?’
    ‘I want to hear all the