Read Online Well-Schooled in Murder by Elizabeth George - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth George
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at the foot of a filthy staircase in a half-burnt tenement was hardly likely to inspire him to dwell very long on man’s inhumanity to man. Especially when part of him—the sententious Puritan within—believed that the pimp had got what he’d long deserved. When he first squatted by the body, saw the garrote round the neck, and felt unmoved by the sight, he even managed to convince himself that he’d arrived at that fine objectivity he had sought so long.
Objectivity had disintegrated fast enough tonight, however. Canerone knew why. The child looked remarkably like his own son. There had even been a ghastly moment when he thought it was Gerald, when his mind swept through a swift series of impossible events beginning with Gerald’s decision that he could no longer live with his mother and her new husband in Bristol and ending with his death. The pieces fit together so neatly in Canerone’s imagination. His son would telephone the flat and, getting no answer, would run off to seek his father in Slough. He would be picked up on the roadside, held prisoner somewhere, and tortured to give someone a few minutes’ sadistic pleasure. When the torture was over—or perhaps before—he would die alone, afraid, abandoned. Naturally, once Canerone had got a good, clear look at the corpse, he could see that it wasn’t Gerald at all. But for a moment the terrifying possibility that it could be his son vanquished the indifference with which he believed he had to do his job. Now he was faced with the aftermath of that moment in which he had left himself unguarded.
He saw his son rarely, telling himself that an occasional weekend was all that he could reasonably manage away from work. But that was a lie and he faced it now, with the scenes-of-crime men gone and the police surgeon escorting the corpse to the hospital and a solitary female probationary constable at a nearby desk, waiting for the word from him that she could pack up and go for the night. The truth was that he saw his son rarely because he could no longer endure seeing him at all. Seeing him even in the most nonthreatening environment, he had to admit what he had lost, and admitting this, he came face to face with the emptiness that dominated his life now that his family had left him.
He’d seen many police marriages dissolve through the years, but he had never once thought that his own might fall victim to the irregular hours, the load of work, and the sleepless nights intrinsic to a detective’s life. When he first noticed his wife’s unhappiness, he chose not to confront it, telling himself that she was a difficult woman, that if he was patient, it would all blow over, that she had it damned good being married to him at all, and with a temper like hers, who else would ever put up with her? Several men, it turned out, and one who married her, taking her to Bristol, taking Gerald as well.
Canerone poured himself a cup of coffee. It looked too strong. He knew he would be up half the night if he drank it. He took a swift gulp, grimacing at the bitter flavour. His mind and his heart were filled to capacity with this little boy in the graveyard. The child’s wrists and ankles had been tightly bound; his body had been burned; he had been discarded like rubbish. He was so like Gerald.
Canerone felt shaken. He couldn’t even have said what ought to be done first to bring about justice in the death of this boy. Such professional torpidity told him that he ought to give the case over to another DI. But he didn’t see how he could. He didn’t have the manpower.
The telephone rang. From his position near the doorway, he listened to his police constable’s side of the conversation.
“Yes, a little boy…. No, there’s no indication where he’s come from. It looks like a body dump at the moment…. It doesn’t appear to be exposure, sir. He’d been tied up, you see…. No, we’ve absolutely no idea at the moment who—” She hesitated, listening, her shapely
Objectivity had disintegrated fast enough tonight, however. Canerone knew why. The child looked remarkably like his own son. There had even been a ghastly moment when he thought it was Gerald, when his mind swept through a swift series of impossible events beginning with Gerald’s decision that he could no longer live with his mother and her new husband in Bristol and ending with his death. The pieces fit together so neatly in Canerone’s imagination. His son would telephone the flat and, getting no answer, would run off to seek his father in Slough. He would be picked up on the roadside, held prisoner somewhere, and tortured to give someone a few minutes’ sadistic pleasure. When the torture was over—or perhaps before—he would die alone, afraid, abandoned. Naturally, once Canerone had got a good, clear look at the corpse, he could see that it wasn’t Gerald at all. But for a moment the terrifying possibility that it could be his son vanquished the indifference with which he believed he had to do his job. Now he was faced with the aftermath of that moment in which he had left himself unguarded.
He saw his son rarely, telling himself that an occasional weekend was all that he could reasonably manage away from work. But that was a lie and he faced it now, with the scenes-of-crime men gone and the police surgeon escorting the corpse to the hospital and a solitary female probationary constable at a nearby desk, waiting for the word from him that she could pack up and go for the night. The truth was that he saw his son rarely because he could no longer endure seeing him at all. Seeing him even in the most nonthreatening environment, he had to admit what he had lost, and admitting this, he came face to face with the emptiness that dominated his life now that his family had left him.
He’d seen many police marriages dissolve through the years, but he had never once thought that his own might fall victim to the irregular hours, the load of work, and the sleepless nights intrinsic to a detective’s life. When he first noticed his wife’s unhappiness, he chose not to confront it, telling himself that she was a difficult woman, that if he was patient, it would all blow over, that she had it damned good being married to him at all, and with a temper like hers, who else would ever put up with her? Several men, it turned out, and one who married her, taking her to Bristol, taking Gerald as well.
Canerone poured himself a cup of coffee. It looked too strong. He knew he would be up half the night if he drank it. He took a swift gulp, grimacing at the bitter flavour. His mind and his heart were filled to capacity with this little boy in the graveyard. The child’s wrists and ankles had been tightly bound; his body had been burned; he had been discarded like rubbish. He was so like Gerald.
Canerone felt shaken. He couldn’t even have said what ought to be done first to bring about justice in the death of this boy. Such professional torpidity told him that he ought to give the case over to another DI. But he didn’t see how he could. He didn’t have the manpower.
The telephone rang. From his position near the doorway, he listened to his police constable’s side of the conversation.
“Yes, a little boy…. No, there’s no indication where he’s come from. It looks like a body dump at the moment…. It doesn’t appear to be exposure, sir. He’d been tied up, you see…. No, we’ve absolutely no idea at the moment who—” She hesitated, listening, her shapely
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