Read Online Where the Bodies are Buried by Christopher Brookmyre, Brookmyre - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Brookmyre, Brookmyre
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more subtle changes, such as which folders were open on a desk, which newspapers were in the bin; maybe even right down
to the water-level indicator on the kettle. Rather like when she had first returned to her flat on Victoria Road after having
temporarily gone back to live with Mum, in the office that morning she had been confronted by a sense of absolute stasis,
of nothing having changed.
Despite taking her on ostensibly to allay his workaholism, she knew that Jim still usually put in a few hours over most weekends.
A quick look around showed her that the bin hadn’t been emptied and the most recent newspaper in it was Wednesday’s.
She looked at the files and paperwork on his desk while she waited for his computer to boot up. Jim logged everything by date
and time, in keeping with decades of police work. Nothing had been added since Thursday. It was possible he hadn’t been back
here since taking off and leaving her to complete the Croft follow in the West End.
She ran a file search by date on the PC. No files had been accessed more recently than Thursday morning. The cold, unambiguous
certainty of the digital figures seemed to lock in her sense of dread.
Time passed slowly, every minute stretched out like an unceasingly extending corridor in a dream. The hollow feeling of restless
worryrefused to fade, nor did she have any means of distracting herself from her concerns. Without Jim to tell her what to do,
there was nothing to occupy her, no autonomous tasks to get on with while she waited for the phone to ring or the sound of
his feet on the stairs.
Her loneliness was exacerbated by the burden of being the only person who suspected that something might be wrong, but she
knew she ought not to phone Jim’s family in case she worried them unnecessarily. Perhaps there was a simple explanation she
had overlooked, some message that maybe hadn’t been passed on.
Her resolve on that score held out until about lunchtime, after a call from Harry Deacon at Galt Linklater. Jim hadn’t dropped
in at eleven as arranged to discuss the details of a new subcontract they had for him. That was as concrete as the evidence
from the PC. Galt Linklater was Jim’s biggest source of work, and no late-breaking lead, no silent surveillance or any other
professional circumstance would cause him to blank a meeting there without getting in touch to say why.
She called her cousin Angela, Jim’s eldest, whom Jasmine had always deemed most likely to have a nose in Jim’s business. She
posed the query neutrally, disguising her concern, playing up her own scatterbrained disorganisation as the most likely reason
she didn’t know where Jim was.
Angela reported that she hadn’t spoken to her dad since the preceding weekend. She didn’t seem concerned, but then her dad
not being around when he was supposed to be was a circumstance Angela had grown up with.
Putting down the handset and being once again confronted with interminable silence, Jasmine decided she could no longer tolerate
this state of limbo. She had to do something, take some form of action, to dispel this feeling of being helpless.
She got in her car and drove across to Hyndland. In the early-afternoon traffic it took about twenty minutes to reach Jim’s
address, the time of day also contributing to her unaccustomed ease of finding a space to park.
As she turned off the engine and glanced across at the door to Jim’s close, she felt sick. She could see so vividly what might
be about to unfold. She would walk up there to the second floor and ring the bell, then, when there was no answer, she would
peer through the letter box. That was when she would see him, maybe just an arm or a leg,motionless, dead on the carpet. She didn’t think she could take that. She had seen Mum slip away by small increments, fading
from normal life to exist only among drips and monitors. Mum was still warm the last time Jasmine touched her. She still
to the water-level indicator on the kettle. Rather like when she had first returned to her flat on Victoria Road after having
temporarily gone back to live with Mum, in the office that morning she had been confronted by a sense of absolute stasis,
of nothing having changed.
Despite taking her on ostensibly to allay his workaholism, she knew that Jim still usually put in a few hours over most weekends.
A quick look around showed her that the bin hadn’t been emptied and the most recent newspaper in it was Wednesday’s.
She looked at the files and paperwork on his desk while she waited for his computer to boot up. Jim logged everything by date
and time, in keeping with decades of police work. Nothing had been added since Thursday. It was possible he hadn’t been back
here since taking off and leaving her to complete the Croft follow in the West End.
She ran a file search by date on the PC. No files had been accessed more recently than Thursday morning. The cold, unambiguous
certainty of the digital figures seemed to lock in her sense of dread.
Time passed slowly, every minute stretched out like an unceasingly extending corridor in a dream. The hollow feeling of restless
worryrefused to fade, nor did she have any means of distracting herself from her concerns. Without Jim to tell her what to do,
there was nothing to occupy her, no autonomous tasks to get on with while she waited for the phone to ring or the sound of
his feet on the stairs.
Her loneliness was exacerbated by the burden of being the only person who suspected that something might be wrong, but she
knew she ought not to phone Jim’s family in case she worried them unnecessarily. Perhaps there was a simple explanation she
had overlooked, some message that maybe hadn’t been passed on.
Her resolve on that score held out until about lunchtime, after a call from Harry Deacon at Galt Linklater. Jim hadn’t dropped
in at eleven as arranged to discuss the details of a new subcontract they had for him. That was as concrete as the evidence
from the PC. Galt Linklater was Jim’s biggest source of work, and no late-breaking lead, no silent surveillance or any other
professional circumstance would cause him to blank a meeting there without getting in touch to say why.
She called her cousin Angela, Jim’s eldest, whom Jasmine had always deemed most likely to have a nose in Jim’s business. She
posed the query neutrally, disguising her concern, playing up her own scatterbrained disorganisation as the most likely reason
she didn’t know where Jim was.
Angela reported that she hadn’t spoken to her dad since the preceding weekend. She didn’t seem concerned, but then her dad
not being around when he was supposed to be was a circumstance Angela had grown up with.
Putting down the handset and being once again confronted with interminable silence, Jasmine decided she could no longer tolerate
this state of limbo. She had to do something, take some form of action, to dispel this feeling of being helpless.
She got in her car and drove across to Hyndland. In the early-afternoon traffic it took about twenty minutes to reach Jim’s
address, the time of day also contributing to her unaccustomed ease of finding a space to park.
As she turned off the engine and glanced across at the door to Jim’s close, she felt sick. She could see so vividly what might
be about to unfold. She would walk up there to the second floor and ring the bell, then, when there was no answer, she would
peer through the letter box. That was when she would see him, maybe just an arm or a leg,motionless, dead on the carpet. She didn’t think she could take that. She had seen Mum slip away by small increments, fading
from normal life to exist only among drips and monitors. Mum was still warm the last time Jasmine touched her. She still
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