Read Online The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) by William Brodrick - Free Book Online
Authors: William Brodrick
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remorse.” The Detective Inspector nods and when you’ve gone he says to his team, “We’d better have a word with the doctor.” Which they do and, as you’d expect, the doctor says, “She died of cancer. I should know.” And so they all head back to Martlesham for some instant coffee. Six months later, the police are still looking for Peter’s body and maybe a note for Timothy. But it’s Jennifer’s story all over again. There’s no murder to investigate. The file lies on a different kind of desk. Missing persons. Downgraded in importance. Everyone gets on with their lives … except for a rogue cop with scruples. But X has thought of him, too. And he’s not overly concerned. Because after some soul searching the doubter joins his colleagues in the canteen. Why? He sees the light: there’s no one to catch. Jenny’s killer went and topped himself.’
With that snappy conclusion, Mitch reached for his drink, took a mouthful and waited.
‘Completely fascinating,’ applauded Anselm, dutifully, marvelling – genuinely – at the breadth of Mitch’s imagination. ‘I’d never have been able to come out with that lot in a million years. But – no offence – we’re engaged in a serious investigation and I think we’d better stick to the notes on the page.’
‘I just played it as I saw it.’
‘Absolutely,’ affirmed Anselm. ‘But we’ve got to be practical. Frankly, it’s not that kind of case.’
The jazzman didn’t reply. He wasn’t offended. Improvising was a hit and miss activity. You put yourself on the line and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. Instead he suggested lunch. He was always hungry after a performance. Even a bad one.
The sausages were excellent (enthused Anselm). Home-cured pork, prime cuts. At Larkwood there was a consensus that the bulging chipolatas served on feast days contained eyelids, earlobes and nasal hair collected from makeshift abattoirs throughout East-Central Europe. A ghastly image of the production process came suddenly to Anselm’s mind and, transfixed, he dropped out of the conversation, leaving Mitch to ruminate over the death of Jennifer Henderson. When Anselm came around, the jazzman was still chewing over the same theme: why murder a paralysed woman with terminal cancer? What was in it for the killer? What was in it for the doctor? All they had to do was wait. Her death was already guaranteed.
‘What motive could they possible share?’ wondered Mitch.
His tone was disingenuous, as though he had a good idea, but Anselm didn’t favour him with the invitation to speculate. He said: ‘I appreciate that’s the question investigators always pose but in my experience people do very strange things for even stranger reasons. Best leave motive till last. For now let’s stick to the facts. Plain, boring facts.’
‘But no one’s going to give us any. You said so yourself. They’ve closed ranks.’
Anselm had already considered the matter. Perhaps it was his monastic training, but notwithstanding the acclaim set forth in the
Sunday Times
, he didn’t especially rate his own importance, let alone his abilities. If Anselm was the last resort – he’d concluded – there must have been a first one.
‘The writer of the letter believes that Jennifer Henderson was murdered. I’m inclined to think that they are not alone. My guess is that someone did, in fact, go to the police. I refuse to believe that Jennifer Henderson died without anyone raising the alarm … even timidly. So that’s where we begin … where the timid left off.’
10
Anselm had first met Detective Superintendent Olivia Manning at the outset of her career, an opera buff who couldn’t understand Anselm’s obsession for jazz. They exchanged CDs in the hope of finding common ground. The venture failed and, in time, they stopped meeting for coffee or lunch. Things that might have happened didn’t happen. But not just because of their differing tastes in music. Fate or
With that snappy conclusion, Mitch reached for his drink, took a mouthful and waited.
‘Completely fascinating,’ applauded Anselm, dutifully, marvelling – genuinely – at the breadth of Mitch’s imagination. ‘I’d never have been able to come out with that lot in a million years. But – no offence – we’re engaged in a serious investigation and I think we’d better stick to the notes on the page.’
‘I just played it as I saw it.’
‘Absolutely,’ affirmed Anselm. ‘But we’ve got to be practical. Frankly, it’s not that kind of case.’
The jazzman didn’t reply. He wasn’t offended. Improvising was a hit and miss activity. You put yourself on the line and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. Instead he suggested lunch. He was always hungry after a performance. Even a bad one.
The sausages were excellent (enthused Anselm). Home-cured pork, prime cuts. At Larkwood there was a consensus that the bulging chipolatas served on feast days contained eyelids, earlobes and nasal hair collected from makeshift abattoirs throughout East-Central Europe. A ghastly image of the production process came suddenly to Anselm’s mind and, transfixed, he dropped out of the conversation, leaving Mitch to ruminate over the death of Jennifer Henderson. When Anselm came around, the jazzman was still chewing over the same theme: why murder a paralysed woman with terminal cancer? What was in it for the killer? What was in it for the doctor? All they had to do was wait. Her death was already guaranteed.
‘What motive could they possible share?’ wondered Mitch.
His tone was disingenuous, as though he had a good idea, but Anselm didn’t favour him with the invitation to speculate. He said: ‘I appreciate that’s the question investigators always pose but in my experience people do very strange things for even stranger reasons. Best leave motive till last. For now let’s stick to the facts. Plain, boring facts.’
‘But no one’s going to give us any. You said so yourself. They’ve closed ranks.’
Anselm had already considered the matter. Perhaps it was his monastic training, but notwithstanding the acclaim set forth in the
Sunday Times
, he didn’t especially rate his own importance, let alone his abilities. If Anselm was the last resort – he’d concluded – there must have been a first one.
‘The writer of the letter believes that Jennifer Henderson was murdered. I’m inclined to think that they are not alone. My guess is that someone did, in fact, go to the police. I refuse to believe that Jennifer Henderson died without anyone raising the alarm … even timidly. So that’s where we begin … where the timid left off.’
10
Anselm had first met Detective Superintendent Olivia Manning at the outset of her career, an opera buff who couldn’t understand Anselm’s obsession for jazz. They exchanged CDs in the hope of finding common ground. The venture failed and, in time, they stopped meeting for coffee or lunch. Things that might have happened didn’t happen. But not just because of their differing tastes in music. Fate or
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