Read Online The Yeare's Midnight by Ed O'Connor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ed O'Connor
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She was a strong girl, an athlete. Maybe our killer didn’t fancy his chances face to face. Is he physically weak? The killing blow would have hap pened very quickly. Maybe the act of killing doesn’t excite him. The eye. That’s why he killed her. That’s the key to all this.
Dexter pulled up at a traffic light. There was a scruffy-looking man with a silver nose-stud selling roses at the roadside: five for three pounds. Flowers. Flowers are important to him. Does he deliver flowers? Is that how he found Lucy Harring ton? She discounted the idea. It was too obvious, too easy to trace. The killer was too smart for that. And then there’s the poem. Written in blood on a white-tiled wall. Very melodram atic. A cliché, almost. The killer wants us to read the poem. Why? How can a poem written four hundred-odd years ago be important? Eyes, flowers and poetry: another interesting bloke, another messed-up limp-dick. A car hooted behind her. The lights had changed.
She came back again to the image of Lucy Harrington’s eye, gouged from its socket. She stopped and corrected herself. It hadn’t been gouged. What had Leach the pathologist said? The killer had tried to do it scientifically and had eventually resorted to brute force. There was method in the madness. He had researched his subject carefully. What instruments would you need to remove an eye? A scalpel to cut and forceps to pull the eyeball from the socket. What else? Leach didn’t think our man was a doctor so where did he get the instruments he needed? Was he from a medical family? A long shot but it was a possibility. Where do you buy medical instruments? Are there shops? Trade fairs, maybe? She made a mental note to check.
Dexter pulled up outside the station and hurried inside. The desk sergeant nodded curtly at her as she swiped her access card and hurried upstairs. Underwood’s office was on the third floor and she was glowing slightly by the time she arrived. Underwood was standing with his back to the door, staring out of the window. He had his coat on. His hair was a matted mess, Dexter noted despite herself.
‘You all right, sir?’ she asked.
Underwood turned and smiled faintly. His eyes were blackened at the edges and he looked exhausted. ‘I’m fine, Dex. Full of flu.’
‘There’s a lot of it about.’
‘There always is.’
Dexter prepared herself. ‘I’ve got some good news, sir.’ She pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. ‘The writing on the wall at Lucy Harrington’s house.’ She savoured her moment of triumph and watched Underwood’s face closely as she spoke. ‘It’s from a poem. My friend at the library photocopied it for me. The poem’s called “A Valediction” …’
‘“A Valediction: Of Weeping”’ Underwood cut her off. He picked up a note from his desk and read aloud, ‘Written around 1620 by John Donne.’ He looked up at her. Dexter tried to disguise her disappointment. She failed.
‘Pardon my asking, sir, but how the bloody hell did you find that out?’ Dexter was angry. Life only stole things from her when she started to get excited about them.
‘I’ll tell you in the car.’ He picked his keys off the desk and tossed them over to Dexter. ‘You’re driving.’
The car crawled out of New Bolden in heavy traffic and turned towards Cambridge. Underwood sat in the front passenger seat, increasingly aware of the sweat soaking his back. He felt empty: as if the only thing that defined him now was his illness and exhaustion. So this was how it felt when you eventually realized your life was meaningless. He had spent years preparing for the moment but it still stung him like a hornet. His mind wandered through the previous night’s events. He would call Harrison later about the licence plate. Dexter half-turned to him as they finally broke free of the traffic and settled at a comfortable seventy miles an hour.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, sir?’
‘I received a
Dexter pulled up at a traffic light. There was a scruffy-looking man with a silver nose-stud selling roses at the roadside: five for three pounds. Flowers. Flowers are important to him. Does he deliver flowers? Is that how he found Lucy Harring ton? She discounted the idea. It was too obvious, too easy to trace. The killer was too smart for that. And then there’s the poem. Written in blood on a white-tiled wall. Very melodram atic. A cliché, almost. The killer wants us to read the poem. Why? How can a poem written four hundred-odd years ago be important? Eyes, flowers and poetry: another interesting bloke, another messed-up limp-dick. A car hooted behind her. The lights had changed.
She came back again to the image of Lucy Harrington’s eye, gouged from its socket. She stopped and corrected herself. It hadn’t been gouged. What had Leach the pathologist said? The killer had tried to do it scientifically and had eventually resorted to brute force. There was method in the madness. He had researched his subject carefully. What instruments would you need to remove an eye? A scalpel to cut and forceps to pull the eyeball from the socket. What else? Leach didn’t think our man was a doctor so where did he get the instruments he needed? Was he from a medical family? A long shot but it was a possibility. Where do you buy medical instruments? Are there shops? Trade fairs, maybe? She made a mental note to check.
Dexter pulled up outside the station and hurried inside. The desk sergeant nodded curtly at her as she swiped her access card and hurried upstairs. Underwood’s office was on the third floor and she was glowing slightly by the time she arrived. Underwood was standing with his back to the door, staring out of the window. He had his coat on. His hair was a matted mess, Dexter noted despite herself.
‘You all right, sir?’ she asked.
Underwood turned and smiled faintly. His eyes were blackened at the edges and he looked exhausted. ‘I’m fine, Dex. Full of flu.’
‘There’s a lot of it about.’
‘There always is.’
Dexter prepared herself. ‘I’ve got some good news, sir.’ She pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. ‘The writing on the wall at Lucy Harrington’s house.’ She savoured her moment of triumph and watched Underwood’s face closely as she spoke. ‘It’s from a poem. My friend at the library photocopied it for me. The poem’s called “A Valediction” …’
‘“A Valediction: Of Weeping”’ Underwood cut her off. He picked up a note from his desk and read aloud, ‘Written around 1620 by John Donne.’ He looked up at her. Dexter tried to disguise her disappointment. She failed.
‘Pardon my asking, sir, but how the bloody hell did you find that out?’ Dexter was angry. Life only stole things from her when she started to get excited about them.
‘I’ll tell you in the car.’ He picked his keys off the desk and tossed them over to Dexter. ‘You’re driving.’
The car crawled out of New Bolden in heavy traffic and turned towards Cambridge. Underwood sat in the front passenger seat, increasingly aware of the sweat soaking his back. He felt empty: as if the only thing that defined him now was his illness and exhaustion. So this was how it felt when you eventually realized your life was meaningless. He had spent years preparing for the moment but it still stung him like a hornet. His mind wandered through the previous night’s events. He would call Harrison later about the licence plate. Dexter half-turned to him as they finally broke free of the traffic and settled at a comfortable seventy miles an hour.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, sir?’
‘I received a
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