grinned. His lips began to move, and he patted his pockets, seeking something else to eat – a Snickers bar, a packet of sweets, there would be something there. Fry could see that he was thinking. His brain was occupied with a difficult challenge, and it wasn't the detection of a crime.
'Everybody has their cross to bear, sir,' he said.
Mrs Van Doon turned, distracted by the chatter. 'If you really want to know, this man's heart had long since stopped,' she said. 'No heart pumping means no blood. Your corpse was already quite dead when the snowplough hit him.'
The pathologist began packing her bag. Fry wanted to help her. In fact, she wanted to go with her, to get out of the atmosphere here and into a nice warm mortuary, among peaceful company that didn't crack stupid jokes or leave prawn crackers trampled into the carpet of her car. Mrs Van Doon looked tired. Like all of them, she was overworked at the moment.
Fry did one more stretch, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and felt her body tingle with the extra oxygen.
'I dunno about that,' said Murfin. 'I still like the vampire theory myself.'
'Excuse me,' said the pathologist. 'I think I'm finished here for now.'
Fry had to stand back out of the way to allow her past. She wanted to exchange a look, to share a little sympathy. But the woman's head was down, and she didn't look up. There were tired lines around her eyes and blue patches under them. Fry recalled that, according to the gossip at divisional headquarters, their old DCI, Stewart Tailby, once had a personal interest in Juliana Van Doon, but nothing had come of it. Tailby was soon to make the move to an admin job in Ripley. Now Mrs Van Doon looked as though she'd seen too many dead bodies.
'You see, I reckon I know that bloke who was driving the snowplough,' said Murfin. 'And I've never seen him out in the sunlight.'
The pathologist walked back to her car and began stripping off her suit. Fry picked up Mrs Van Doon's case and held on to it for a moment as the woman reached out to take it from her. Their eyes met, but neither of them spoke.
'What do you think, Doc? Should we take a blood sample from him?' called Murfin. 'I don't mean the dead man, I mean the undead one, so to speak. We might get a cross -match.'
Murfin barked with laughter. It was a very realistic bark, like the 'arf-arf' of a fat King Charles spaniel. It echoed off the banks of snow on either side and caused little avalanches on to the roadway. Mrs Van Doon took off her overshoes, piled her gear into the back of her car and drove off without another word, spraying a gallon of slush on to Murfin's fur boots as she accelerated away.
'Was it something I said?' asked Murfin.
'Oh no,' said Hitchens. 'You've been eating garlic for breakfast again.'
* * * *
Ben Cooper found the CID room icy cold and deserted. Obviously, the central heating radiators on this floor weren't working again. He could smell food. Tomato sauce and garlic. So Gavin Murfin hadn't been gone all that long. At any other time, Cooper would have opened a window to let in some fresh air, but his fingers were already starting to go so numb that he could barely hold a pen.
There were files piled on his desk, with yellow notes stuck all over them. It looked like a crop of daffodils had suddenly bloomed, despite the chilly air. He saw that one of the notes was much bigger than the others and was written in black marker pen of the kind used for exhibit labels. He didn't know what to do with it, or whether he should even touch it. For all he knew, it might be vital evidence in a forthcoming prosecution. All it said was: 'We've got our heater back, you bastards!'
Cooper rang down to the control room.
'DC Cooper here. Can you tell me what's going on?'
'DC Cooper? We've been trying to contact you since seven forty-two.'
'Well, I'm here now. What's going on?'
'You were supposed to be on duty at seven.'
'Yes, I know. You must have a record of the way I was left
'Everybody has their cross to bear, sir,' he said.
Mrs Van Doon turned, distracted by the chatter. 'If you really want to know, this man's heart had long since stopped,' she said. 'No heart pumping means no blood. Your corpse was already quite dead when the snowplough hit him.'
The pathologist began packing her bag. Fry wanted to help her. In fact, she wanted to go with her, to get out of the atmosphere here and into a nice warm mortuary, among peaceful company that didn't crack stupid jokes or leave prawn crackers trampled into the carpet of her car. Mrs Van Doon looked tired. Like all of them, she was overworked at the moment.
Fry did one more stretch, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and felt her body tingle with the extra oxygen.
'I dunno about that,' said Murfin. 'I still like the vampire theory myself.'
'Excuse me,' said the pathologist. 'I think I'm finished here for now.'
Fry had to stand back out of the way to allow her past. She wanted to exchange a look, to share a little sympathy. But the woman's head was down, and she didn't look up. There were tired lines around her eyes and blue patches under them. Fry recalled that, according to the gossip at divisional headquarters, their old DCI, Stewart Tailby, once had a personal interest in Juliana Van Doon, but nothing had come of it. Tailby was soon to make the move to an admin job in Ripley. Now Mrs Van Doon looked as though she'd seen too many dead bodies.
'You see, I reckon I know that bloke who was driving the snowplough,' said Murfin. 'And I've never seen him out in the sunlight.'
The pathologist walked back to her car and began stripping off her suit. Fry picked up Mrs Van Doon's case and held on to it for a moment as the woman reached out to take it from her. Their eyes met, but neither of them spoke.
'What do you think, Doc? Should we take a blood sample from him?' called Murfin. 'I don't mean the dead man, I mean the undead one, so to speak. We might get a cross -match.'
Murfin barked with laughter. It was a very realistic bark, like the 'arf-arf' of a fat King Charles spaniel. It echoed off the banks of snow on either side and caused little avalanches on to the roadway. Mrs Van Doon took off her overshoes, piled her gear into the back of her car and drove off without another word, spraying a gallon of slush on to Murfin's fur boots as she accelerated away.
'Was it something I said?' asked Murfin.
'Oh no,' said Hitchens. 'You've been eating garlic for breakfast again.'
* * * *
Ben Cooper found the CID room icy cold and deserted. Obviously, the central heating radiators on this floor weren't working again. He could smell food. Tomato sauce and garlic. So Gavin Murfin hadn't been gone all that long. At any other time, Cooper would have opened a window to let in some fresh air, but his fingers were already starting to go so numb that he could barely hold a pen.
There were files piled on his desk, with yellow notes stuck all over them. It looked like a crop of daffodils had suddenly bloomed, despite the chilly air. He saw that one of the notes was much bigger than the others and was written in black marker pen of the kind used for exhibit labels. He didn't know what to do with it, or whether he should even touch it. For all he knew, it might be vital evidence in a forthcoming prosecution. All it said was: 'We've got our heater back, you bastards!'
Cooper rang down to the control room.
'DC Cooper here. Can you tell me what's going on?'
'DC Cooper? We've been trying to contact you since seven forty-two.'
'Well, I'm here now. What's going on?'
'You were supposed to be on duty at seven.'
'Yes, I know. You must have a record of the way I was left
Similar Books
