When the Music's Over Read Online Free PDF Page B

flexed muscle, not that piss you drink. All she has to do is flick the lever.”
    â€œShe can flick my lever any time. Why do you think I’m offering to buy you another one? Out of the goodness of my heart?”
    Banks rolled his eyes. “I’d better not,” he said. “Not if I’ve got to get this crusade off the ground and talk to Linda Palmer this afternoon. Can you tell me anything about her, other than that she’s a poet and claims to be a victim of Caxton’s?”
    â€œI’ve never met her,” said Burgess, “but from what I understand, she’s got her head screwed on right. I’ve talked to plenty of others who’ve been in her position. Memories are unreliable, you’re right about that, very vague sometimes. Like chasing shadows of shadows. You just have to keep at it. Gently, mind. They’re sensitive souls, these victims of historical abuse. Especially poets. Some of the girls buried it right away. Really deep. They were just kids, after all. Some went through years of analysis and therapy without really knowing why—why they couldn’t hold down a job, why they couldn’t handle a relationship, why they couldn’t bring up their kids properly. Some of them just turned to drugs and booze to help them forget. Some evencommitted suicide. But Linda Palmer isn’t like that, from what I understand. She’s different. She’s got her shit together.”
    Banks finished his drink and stood up. “OK,” he said. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
    Burgess gave a mock salute. “My pleasure.”
    As Banks walked away, he turned and saw Burgess disappear inside the pub with his empty glass and a spring in his step.

2
    T HE CSI VAN ARRIVED ABOUT AN HOUR AFTER ROGER Stanford had cycled off into the distance. Annie and Gerry remained by their car, under the shade of the trees, as the various specialists got to work. The uniformed officers donned latex gloves and overshoes to join in the roadside search. It was going on half past eleven, and by all the signs, Annie thought, the day was going to be a scorcher. The morning mist had already burned off. She wished she were at home in the garden on a sun lounger working on her tan with a thick Ken Follett novel lying open on her stomach and a long cool drink within reach.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Gerry asked.
    â€œHard to say yet,” answered Annie. “Give the boffins an hour or so and they might come up with some ideas. We don’t even know who she is or how she got here. Nobody local’s been reported missing.”
    â€œEarly days yet,” said Gerry. “She can hardly have walked here.”
    â€œTrue enough. Let’s go talk to Doc Burns. He’s been with the body long enough. He should have something to say by now.”
    They walked a few yards along the road, noting the officers and CSIs probing the ditch and long grass for any clues as to what might have happened. There was a chance that the girl’s clothes and bag were nearby. A purse or mobile could help them with the identification. Others had climbed over the drystone wall and were searching foranything that might have been thrown there. Peter Darby, the police photographer, was busy with his trusty Pentax, which he wouldn’t give up despite offers of a state-of-the-art digital SLR. He took digital photographs, too, of course, with a pocket Cyber-shot, as did many of the CSIs and investigating officers these days, but the Pentax shots were the “official” ones, the pictures that got tacked to the whiteboard during briefing sessions and progress meetings.
    Dr. Burns was scribbling in his notebook when Annie and Gerry arrived by the corpse. “You two,” he said.
    Annie smiled. “DCI—I mean Detective Superintendent Banks is on another case. High profile, probably. He’s too good for the likes of us anymore.”
    Dr. Burns smiled back. “I doubt