The Unburied Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

enough time keeping all those buried memories in their place.
    Crawled in, massively hung over, just after eight this morning, to find the place had gone berserk. A major murder three days before Christmas. All hands on deck, with Bloonsbury in charge of the sinking ship. Very brave. He's back at the station now, co-ordinating all the crap that has to go on. Taylor's been roped in as well, not too happy about having to answer to the call of drunken Jonah, but that's the police for you.
    They didn't do much last night, but the shit's flying this morning. House to house all the way up this street, and back out along the main road. They'll branch out soon, see what they can get from the surrounding streets.
    At the moment they're estimating the time of death between ten and eleven-thirty. Most of this lot were in their beds by then, or watching TV. The drudgery of normal life. The body was found by some bloke about to take the dog for a walk. Didn't recognise her, such was the disfigurement of her face, but we've since learned that he knows her. We'll ask the right questions. You never know what these idiots will do, but instinct says it wasn't him. The guy's in shock. He'll probably need therapy – it's the modern way. If he can find someone to sue, he'll do that as well. These days you can't solve anything in life without employing a psychotherapist and a solicitor and a life coach. The supermarkets'll be offering those services soon, wait and see.
    Herrod's up the other end of the street, house to house. In a better frame of mind this morning. He enjoys murder. Thinks it justifies his existence. Sometimes you'd think he'd commit murder, just to give us all something to investigate.
    Bathurst is out there somewhere too. Saw her briefly this morning and she was decent enough not to give me a 'made a dick of yourself last night, didn't you?' smile. Very professional, although she just looked miserable. Regrets turning me down, I expect.
    PC Edwards approaches, closed notebook in hand, looking like a man who stripped naked in front of his peers last night, and is regretting every minute of it. He was another one to make an attempt at Bathurst, I believe, and was no more successful than I.
    'Didn't get much sleep, eh, Constable?'
    He shakes his head. Daft bastard.
    'Nice y-fronts, by the way. Think you'll ever get them back?'
    He shifts uncomfortably. Itching to tell me where to go, I suspect. Can't, of course. He goes for the quick change of subject, which is all he can do.
    'There's a woman over here you might like to speak to, sir. Knew the deceased.'
    Fair enough. Can't spend too much time laughing at prepubescent constables when there's murder to be investigated. I nod my head and follow him to a terraced house, not far from the close where the body was discovered. Perhaps the street won't be such a barren desert of non-information after all. Don't feel up to interrogation, and hope that the woman wasn't a close friend of the victim who'll spend the interview blubbing. That's how it is nowadays. Everybody cries. We have the blessed Diana to thank for making it respectable. Or, at least, those who murdered her.
    Walk into the front room. Ground floor house, where the sun never shines. Maybe in late afternoon. A drab little room, a few desultory Christmas decorations, and a drab young woman sitting in the middle of it, looking as if she's upset because she's run out of Frosties. A cup of tea held between the hands, TV on with the sound off.
    I sit down opposite her and she notices me for the first time. Constable Edwards stands by the door. Hope I don't look as bad as he does.
    'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say.
    She nods, drinks a noisy sip from her tea, looks at the silent television.
    'Mrs Eileen Sprott,' volunteers Edwards from the door.
    Hold my hand up to him. Constables should be seen and not heard. See him nod and retreat further behind that rough exterior. Other things to think about, such as how to explain to his