Read Online Fever of the Bone by Val McDermid - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Val McDermid
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Police, Police Procedural, Police psychologists, Police - England, Hill; Tony; Doctor (Fictitious character), Jordan; Carol; Detective Chief Inspector (Fictitious character), Police Psychologists - England
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had. Did she say anything like that to you or your wife?’
Maidment looked bewildered. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Look, Jennifer isn’t some wild child. She leads a pretty sheltered life, to tell you the truth. She’s hardly ever given us a minute’s worry. I know you’ve heard all that before, parents trying to make out their kid was a little angel. I’m not saying that. I’m saying she’s stable. Young for her years, if anything. If she had a secret, it wouldn’t be the sort of thing you’re thinking about. Drugs, or sex, or whatever. It would have been a crush on some lad, or something silly like that. Not the sort of thing that gets you murdered.’ The word brought reality crashing back down on Maidment, crushing him all over again. The tears began to creep down his cheeks. Without a word, Shami reached for a box of tissues and pressed a couple into his hand.
There was nothing else useful to be learned here, Ambrose thought. Not today. Maybe never. He glanced across at Patterson, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Patterson said. ‘We’ll be on our way now. I want you to know that we’re throwing everything we’ve got at this. But we still need your help. Maybe you could ask your wife if Jennifer said anything about this ZZ. Or about secrets.’ He stood up. ‘If there’s anything you need, DC Patel here will sort you out. We’ll be in touch.’
Ambrose followed him from the house, wondering how long it would be before Paul Maidment could get through five minutes without thinking of his murdered daughter.
CHAPTER 7
Tony surveyed his living room, reflecting that it was a convenient proof of the second law of thermodynamics: entropy increases. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but piles seemed to accumulate whenever his back was turned. Books, papers, DVDs and CDs, console games and controllers and magazines. All of these were more or less comprehensible. But the other stuff - he had no idea how that had gravitated there. A cereal box. A Rubik’s cube. A small pile of red rubber bands. Six mugs. A T-shirt. A tote bag from a bookshop he was sure he’d never visited. A box of matches and two empty beer bottles he couldn’t remember buying.
For a brief moment, he thought about tidying up. But what would be the point of that? Most of the chaos didn’t belong anywhere specific in the house, so he would just be shifting the mess to another room. And all of them already had their own particular brand of disarray. His study, his bedroom, the spare room, the kitchen and the dining room were each the repository of a particular aspect of his turmoil. The bathroom wasn’t bad. But then, he never spent time there that wasn’t strictly functional. He’d never been one for reading on the toilet or working in the bath.
When he’d bought this house, he’d thought there was enough room to absorb his stuff without it spilling over into these uncontrollable little nests of miscellany. He’d had the whole house painted a sort of off-white bone colour and he’d even gone out and bought a job lot of framed black-and-white photographs of Bradfield’s cityscape that he found both soothing and interesting. For about two days the house had looked quite stylish. Now he wondered if there might perhaps be scope for a Parkinson’s Law of Thermodynamics: entropy expands to fill the space available.
He’d been so convinced that he had more than enough space that his first decision on moving in had been to convert the surprisingly light and spacious basement into a self-contained flat. He’d imagined letting it out to academics spending a sabbatical at Bradfield University, or junior doctors doing a six-month stint at Bradfield Cross Hospital. Nobody long-term, nobody who would impinge on his life.
Instead, he’d ended up with Carol Jordan as his tenant. It hadn’t been planned. She’d been living in London at the time, holed up in a cool and elegant
Maidment looked bewildered. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Look, Jennifer isn’t some wild child. She leads a pretty sheltered life, to tell you the truth. She’s hardly ever given us a minute’s worry. I know you’ve heard all that before, parents trying to make out their kid was a little angel. I’m not saying that. I’m saying she’s stable. Young for her years, if anything. If she had a secret, it wouldn’t be the sort of thing you’re thinking about. Drugs, or sex, or whatever. It would have been a crush on some lad, or something silly like that. Not the sort of thing that gets you murdered.’ The word brought reality crashing back down on Maidment, crushing him all over again. The tears began to creep down his cheeks. Without a word, Shami reached for a box of tissues and pressed a couple into his hand.
There was nothing else useful to be learned here, Ambrose thought. Not today. Maybe never. He glanced across at Patterson, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Patterson said. ‘We’ll be on our way now. I want you to know that we’re throwing everything we’ve got at this. But we still need your help. Maybe you could ask your wife if Jennifer said anything about this ZZ. Or about secrets.’ He stood up. ‘If there’s anything you need, DC Patel here will sort you out. We’ll be in touch.’
Ambrose followed him from the house, wondering how long it would be before Paul Maidment could get through five minutes without thinking of his murdered daughter.
CHAPTER 7
Tony surveyed his living room, reflecting that it was a convenient proof of the second law of thermodynamics: entropy increases. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but piles seemed to accumulate whenever his back was turned. Books, papers, DVDs and CDs, console games and controllers and magazines. All of these were more or less comprehensible. But the other stuff - he had no idea how that had gravitated there. A cereal box. A Rubik’s cube. A small pile of red rubber bands. Six mugs. A T-shirt. A tote bag from a bookshop he was sure he’d never visited. A box of matches and two empty beer bottles he couldn’t remember buying.
For a brief moment, he thought about tidying up. But what would be the point of that? Most of the chaos didn’t belong anywhere specific in the house, so he would just be shifting the mess to another room. And all of them already had their own particular brand of disarray. His study, his bedroom, the spare room, the kitchen and the dining room were each the repository of a particular aspect of his turmoil. The bathroom wasn’t bad. But then, he never spent time there that wasn’t strictly functional. He’d never been one for reading on the toilet or working in the bath.
When he’d bought this house, he’d thought there was enough room to absorb his stuff without it spilling over into these uncontrollable little nests of miscellany. He’d had the whole house painted a sort of off-white bone colour and he’d even gone out and bought a job lot of framed black-and-white photographs of Bradfield’s cityscape that he found both soothing and interesting. For about two days the house had looked quite stylish. Now he wondered if there might perhaps be scope for a Parkinson’s Law of Thermodynamics: entropy expands to fill the space available.
He’d been so convinced that he had more than enough space that his first decision on moving in had been to convert the surprisingly light and spacious basement into a self-contained flat. He’d imagined letting it out to academics spending a sabbatical at Bradfield University, or junior doctors doing a six-month stint at Bradfield Cross Hospital. Nobody long-term, nobody who would impinge on his life.
Instead, he’d ended up with Carol Jordan as his tenant. It hadn’t been planned. She’d been living in London at the time, holed up in a cool and elegant