Read Online Why We Die by Mick Herron - Free Book Online Page B

surprising, perhaps, that his subconscious had had to resort to subterfuge to preserve such shards. Saturday would have been his and Emma’s tenth anniversary. The hotel was where they’d spent their wedding weekend.
    . . . Katrina Blake, then. What was she doing in his dreams? And where had her bruise come from: oh, right, the cupboard door. Tim tried to retrieve exactly what she’d said about that, but all he could recall was that it had been a long detailed answer to a question he hadn’t asked. A prepared story; one he’d failed to respond to adequately.
    I think some of us are just accident prone , she’d said.
    And had gone on to talk about her husband.
    No huge leap in logic was required. It needed a leap in emotional understanding, that was all: a jump back in time to a point where this had been a language he’d been versed in; one he’d spoken at home – the ability to understand what was meant when a subject was talked around, not over. The ability to read between lines, and interpret silences. So say it was true, say it was so – say her husband beat her up. Why, then, would she talk to a strange man in a hotel dining room? Tim wished his recall extended beyond that bruise, that dress; the vague recollection of a voice deeper than expected.
    Do you come here often? Had she really said that?
    Tim thought he’d remember if she had looked at him with those forgotten-coloured eyes and said, ‘Help me. Please. My husband beats me up.’
    And what business was it of his anyway?
    But that was a question for another time. Meanwhile, there was the other fragment that had pushed its way to the surface of his mind; the one he’d found there when he’d woken – Had she come far?
    Totnes. Do you know it?
    He didn’t. He did. He’d never been there. He knew where it was.
    Voices from the staff room told him the shift was changing. It must be the lunch hour. For the first time in a while, Tim Whitby felt the stirrings of appetite; something that reached beyond the body’s automatic response to time passing. For the first time in a while, he had a plan which stretched beyond the first drink of the day.
    He would go to Totnes. He would find Katrina Blake.
    He would do this tomorrow.
    Meanwhile, he’d have lunch.

Chapter Three
    i
    Men are good at watching and waiting. Zoës, less so. With men, it was doubtless something primitive; a lonely instinct programmed for the forest, where the ability to remain motionless and alert meant the difference between feast and fast. With Zoë, it was straightforward biology: she wasn’t designed for taking a leak in a bottle. So she’d done the next best thing, and lied.
    ‘It’s for the council. They’re actioning antisocial driving.’ Actioning was a good local government word, like prioritize or backhander . ‘I’m taking notes of illegal turns, double parking. Horn-blowing.’
    ‘People emptying ashtrays on the kerbs?’
    ‘I’m prioritizing that.’
    ‘Filthy business. Well, if you’re out there all day, you’ll need to use the facilities, won’t you?’
    This was in the Cancer Relief shop opposite Sweeney’s, and the woman was so sweet – all pink wool and white hair; a charming stereotype – Zoë might have felt bad if it hadn’t felt so good. She refused a cup of tea for obvious reasons, and returned to the car, reminding herself to jot down numberplates if any of the cited infractions occurred. Pink wool, white hair – the old duck might be Miss Marple, and come checking.
    The car in question was from her local garage; lent by Jeff, who’d tended her Sunny through most of its recent illnesses, and who had accepted its demise with equanimity. ‘I’d have given it six months, max.’
    ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
    ‘Yeah, well. You weren’t planning on putting it out to stud, were you?’
    ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I hadn’t organized a Viking funeral either.’
    He’d showed her some used cars, and they talked money without finding common