The Mermaids Singing. Val McDermidЧитать онлайн книгу.
waved Carol to a pair of chairs in front of his desk, then sat down in the other one. ‘One thing I want to be clear about,’ Brandon said without preliminary. ‘You report to Superintendent Cross. He’s in charge of this operation. However, I want to see copies of your reports and Dr Hill’s, and I want to know any theories the pair of you come up with that you’re not ready to commit to paper. Think you can handle that balancing act?’
Carol’s eyebrows rose. ‘There’s only one way to find out, sir,’ she said.
Brandon’s lips twitched in a half smile. He’d always preferred honesty to bullshit. ‘OK. I want you to make sure you are given access to everybody’s files. Any problems with that, any sense that anyone’s trying to stall you and Dr Hill, and I want to know about it, no matter who’s responsible. I’ll talk to the squad myself in the morning, make sure nobody’s in any doubt about what the new rules of the game are. Anything you need from me?’
Another twelve hours in the day would be a start, Carol thought wearily. Loving a challenge was all very well. But this time, it looked like love was going to be an uphill struggle.
Tony closed his front door behind him. He dropped his briefcase where he stood and leaned against the wall. He’d got what he wanted. It was a battle of wits now, his insight against the killer’s stockade. Somewhere in the pattern of these crimes there lay a labyrinthine path straight to a murderer’s heart. Somehow, Tony had to tread that path, wary of misleading shadows, careful to avoid straying into treacherous undergrowth.
He shrugged away from the wall, feeling suddenly exhausted, and headed for the kitchen, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt on the way. A cold beer, and then he could go through his scanty collection of press clippings on the three previous murders. He had just opened the fridge to grab a can of Boddingtons when the phone rang. He slammed the door shut and snatched up the extension, juggling with the cold can. ‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Anthony,’ the voice said.
Tony swallowed hard. ‘This isn’t a good time,’ he said, cutting coldly across the husky contralto coming down the line. He dumped the can on the worktop and popped the ring pull with one hand.
‘Playing hard to get? Oh, well, that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? I thought I’d cured you of trying to avoid me. I thought we’d left all that behind us. Don’t say you’re going to regress and hang up on me again, that’s all I ask.’ The voice was teasing, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface.
‘I’m not playing hard to get,’ he said. ‘It really isn’t a good time.’ He could feel the slow burn of anger rising from the pit of his stomach.
‘That’s up to you. You’re the man. You’re the boss. Unless, of course, you want things different for a change. If you catch my drift.’ The voice was almost a sigh, teasing him with its elusive quality. ‘After all, this is strictly between you and me. Consenting adults, as they say.’
‘So don’t I have the right to say no, not right now? Or is it only women who have that right?’ he said, hearing the tension in his voice as the anger rose like bile in his throat.
‘God, Anthony, your voice gets so sexy when you’re angry,’ the voice purred.
Nonplussed, Tony held the phone away from his ear, staring at it as if it were an artefact from another planet. Sometimes he wondered if what came out of his mouth were the same words that arrived in his listeners’ ears. With a clinical detachment he couldn’t bring to his caller, he noted that his grip on the phone was so tight his fingers were white. After a moment, he put the receiver back to his ear. ‘Just listening to your voice makes me wet, Anthony,’ she was saying. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m wearing, what I’m doing right now?’ The voice was seductive, the breathing more audible than it had been at first.
‘Look, I’ve had a hard day, I’ve got a load of work to do and much as I enjoy our little games, I’m not in the mood tonight.’ Agitated, Tony looked desperately round his kitchen as if searching for the nearest exit.
‘You sound so tense, my darling. Let me soothe all that pressure away. Let’s play. Think of me as a relaxation technique. You know you’ll work better afterwards. You know I give you the best time you’ve ever had. With a stud like you and a sex queen like me, there’s nothing we can’t do. And for starters, I’m going to give you the dirtiest, sexiest, horniest phone call we’ve ever shared.’
Suddenly, his anger found a weakness in the dam and burst free. ‘Not tonight!’ Tony yelled, slamming the phone down so hard the can of beer jumped. Creamy froth swelled up through the triangular hole in the top. Tony stared at it in disgust. He picked up the can and threw it in the sink. The can clattered against the stainless steel, then rolled from side to side. Beer and foam spurted out in brown and cream gouts as Tony dropped into a crouch, head down, hands over his face. Tonight, faced with staring into the depths of someone else’s nightmares, he absolutely did not want the inevitable confrontation with his own deficiencies that the phone calls always brought in their wake. The phone rang again, but he remained motionless, eyes squeezed shut. When the answering machine picked up, the caller disconnected the line. ‘Bitch,’ he said viciously. ‘Bitch.’
FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.003
When my neighbours go out to work in the morning, they leave their German shepherd loose in the back yard. All day long, he lopes restlessly up and down the yard, quartering the poured concrete with the diligence of a prison officer who really loves the work. He’s heavy-set, black and brindle, with a shaggy coat. Whenever anyone enters the yards on either side of his, he barks, a long, deep-throated cacophony that lasts far longer than any intrusion. When the bin men come down the back alley to trundle our wheelie bins to their truck, the dog becomes hysterical, standing on his hind legs, forepaws scrabbling uselessly against the heavy wooden gate. I’ve watched him from the vantage point of my back-bedroom window. He’s nearly as tall as the gate itself. Perfect, really.
Next Monday morning, I bought a couple of pounds of steak and cut it into one-inch cubes, like all the best recipes say. Then I made a small incision in each cube and inserted one of the tranquillizers my doctor insists on prescribing for me. I never wanted them, and certainly never use them, but I’d had the feeling they might come in useful one day.
I came out of my back door and listened cheerfully to the dog’s salvo of barks. I could afford to be cheerful; it would be the last time I’d have to endure it. I plunged my hand into the bowl of moist meat, enjoying its cool, slippery feel. Then I tossed it over the wall in handfuls. I returned indoors, washed up and went upstairs to my vantage point by the computer. I chose the atmospheric world of Darkseed, calming my excitement with the gothic and macabre underworld I had come to know so well. In spite of my absorption in the game, though, I couldn’t help glancing out of the window every few minutes. After a while, he slumped to the ground, tongue lolling out of his mouth. I exited from my game and picked up my binoculars. He seemed to be breathing, but wasn’t moving.
I ran downstairs, picking up the holdall I’d prepared earlier, and got into the jeep. I reversed it down the alley till the tailgate was level with next-door’s yard gate. I turned off the engine. Silence. I couldn’t resist a certain smug satisfaction as I picked up my crowbar and jumped down. It took moments to force next-door’s gate. As it swung open, I could see the dog hadn’t stirred. I opened the holdall and crouched down beside him. I shoved his tongue back into his mouth and taped his muzzle shut with a roll of surgical tape. I bound his legs together, front and back, and dragged him to the jeep. He was heavy, but I keep myself in shape, and it wasn’t too hard to manhandle him into the back.
His breath was coming in soft snores when we got to the farmhouse, but there was no flicker of consciousness, even when I thumbed back his eyelids. I tipped him into the wheelbarrow I’d left out there, wheeled him through the cottage and emptied him down the flight of steps. I switched on the lights and hauled the dog on to the rack like a sack of potatoes, then turned to study my knives. I’d fitted a magnetic strip to the