Read Online Death Delights by Gabrielle Lord - Free Book Online

interesting paper to the Forensic Society about several cases of what is termed ‘homosexual homicide’. The gist of it was that in some cases, a certain sort of homophobic man, homosexual himself but not aware of it, and drawn to flirt with other men in his unconscious way, acts outraged and disgusted when they respond to him. And on some occasions, the situation can turn homicidal. It’s still used as a defence on occasions, although as social attitudes about homosexuality relax, juries are less inclined to think that it’s legitimate for a man to be murdered for merely making a pass. However, it was possible that Gumley and Nesbitt had both fallen foul of someone like that. But there was nothing in the case notes of either man to indicate that the two sex offenders were homosexual, conscious or otherwise. ‘Surely a killer with that sort of profile would go to gay bars,’ I said, ‘and not just wander around late at night in dark and deserted places hoping that he’d bump into a flirting partner who also might just happen to be there.’
    But then I remembered some of the beats I’d sat off, and recalled that it was like a highway in those dark places, when honest citizens are tucked up in their beds. Bob and I sat looking at each other unseeingly, each focused on our own thoughts. Our discussion was mere conjecture, but after many years of working with Bob, I knew that it was conversations like these as much as the leads that might develop elsewhere that often shaped an investigation. And because of how things were with me, the awful business with Genevieve, the enigmatic tip-off about our missing daughter and the spite in the mailbox, it seemed essential that I keep myself as busy as possible. I didn’t want any spare moments, no spaces in my mind, no gaps in my time through which a little ghost from twenty-five years ago could slip.
    ‘I’m going to check Goulburn,’ I said. ‘See if there’s something in common there.’ I felt suddenly more alive. A big new job loomed before me. These two murders and the constant alertness about anything concerning Jacinta would fill my days and nights. And I would definitely take a sleeping pill tonight to crush REM sleep. I didn’t want any more dreams like last night’s.
    I remembered the tapes Chris Hayden had made for me. ‘There’s something I want you to listen to,’ I said to Bob. ‘I’ll need a cassette player.’ I pulled the tapes out of my pocket and Bob produced a small stereo radio and cassette player.
    ‘Tell me what you think of this,’ I said, shoving the first tape in and starting the player. Again, that strained, husky voice. ‘I want to talk to someone in charge of the investigation,’ the voice said, ‘dealing with those two .   .   . I want to talk to someone in charge about the fact that .   .   .’ I stopped it and just played that section several times. Bob leaned over, rewound and played it one more time himself.
    ‘It’s a very distinctive voice,’ he said.
    I nodded, feeling oddly irritated that her voice had touched him, too.Maybe it was all a reaction to the messiness of my life right at this minute, but for some reason, I found the voice of the unknown informer almost irresistible. So many women of my acquaintance have sharp-edged voices, honed over years of disappointment and resentment. To hear a voice like this caller’s, soft even under strain, went straight to what was left of my heart. The anonymity was exciting as well. I couldn’t help building a woman around that rich, trembling voice. Dark hair, thick, longish, pale skin, a medieval look. Dark red jacket. A black skirt, high heels. A cream silk blouse. Deep red lips. A full-bodied pinot noir woman. Somewhere, I’d seen a painting like her. A Renoir, I wondered. No, a Goya. In my mind’s eye, I mixed the colour on my palette, crimson lake, rose madder, a hint of vermillion and black.
    ‘What do you think about her voice?’ I asked, getting