Ryan murder.’
‘What have you found?’
With a feeling of relief, Reilly went on to explain her most recent findings to the one person on the force, it seemed, who was prepared to listen.
6
Late that same evening, his head heavy and his joints groaning like a 100-year-old shipwreck, Chris drove home to his apartment.
He turned the key and stepped in the door, immediately feeling better. The small, two-bed place on the quays took a sizeable chunk out of his monthly salary but it was worth it just for the views down over the Grand Canal and was a welcome haven for his tired body, and his equally weary mind.
He dumped his keys and jacket in the hallway and headed for the living room. The view outside, city lights reflecting on dark water, instantly relaxed him. He stood still for several minutes, allowing the magic of the location to work its charm on him.
Although he was loath to admit it, the combination of recent events was beginning to take its toll. As well as the Ryan shooting, he and Kennedy were also working on the headless torso incident and both investigations were going nowhere. Despite Reilly Steel’s current belief that there was something unusual about the evidence in the Ryan case, it didn’t give them anything solid, or anything that helped move them forward.
‘I’m sorry, Reilly, I don’t see how this helps,’ he’d said when she’d phoned the incident room earlier.
‘Well, surely it tells you that there’s more to this thing than meets the eye,’ she argued. ‘Evidence common to two supposedly unrelated crime scenes – you guys should at least investigate the possibility of a third party.’
But he’d checked with the Ryans as to whether they or Clare had pets (they didn’t – she was asthmatic) and also if there was any link with the Redmonds. And as Kennedy pointed out, it was difficult to give the Freud thing too much in the way of serious consideration given that the girl had been a psychology student.
To top it all off, they still had no clue as to who Clare’s dead companion might be, and the lack of a solid lead was frustrating, disheartening and unbelievably bloody draining.
Hunger finally getting the better of him, he headed to the kitchen to see what he could rustle up for dinner. He was no gourmet cook, but enjoyed experimenting when he got the time.
He opened the fridge and stared at the empty expanse of white – damnit, he’d been too busy this week to even make it to the supermarket. A half carton of milk and two overripe tomatoes did not sound like the ingredients for any meal Chris could think of.
He checked the freezer in the vain hope that there might be an old lasagne stashed in the back somewhere but no such luck. To hell with it, he’d just order in. There was a great Chinese place down the road that he reckoned he alone had been keeping in business for the past three years.
When he’d ordered his usual and was waiting for the obligatory thirty minutes delivery turnaround, he switched on the television and tried to put work out of his head, at least for the moment. Anything but the news; the media were still banging on about the lack of progress on the Ryan case, and it wasn’t as if Chris needed a reminder. A tedious game show was the best he could find, but at least it was something totally mindless, something to take his mind off it all.
But by not focusing on work, Chris couldn’t help thinking about his own situation. That spasm the other day at the station and the continuous throbbing in his joints meant that what had a few weeks ago been a barely noticeable ache, was now developing into something much more serious.
He ran through the options in his head, the things he knew of. It couldn’t be arthritis, could it? It might explain the aching joints, but would it explain the dead-on-his-feet tiredness?
Of course, the job was tough physically and getting tougher every year, but according to his most recent medical, he was lean, fit and in
‘What have you found?’
With a feeling of relief, Reilly went on to explain her most recent findings to the one person on the force, it seemed, who was prepared to listen.
6
Late that same evening, his head heavy and his joints groaning like a 100-year-old shipwreck, Chris drove home to his apartment.
He turned the key and stepped in the door, immediately feeling better. The small, two-bed place on the quays took a sizeable chunk out of his monthly salary but it was worth it just for the views down over the Grand Canal and was a welcome haven for his tired body, and his equally weary mind.
He dumped his keys and jacket in the hallway and headed for the living room. The view outside, city lights reflecting on dark water, instantly relaxed him. He stood still for several minutes, allowing the magic of the location to work its charm on him.
Although he was loath to admit it, the combination of recent events was beginning to take its toll. As well as the Ryan shooting, he and Kennedy were also working on the headless torso incident and both investigations were going nowhere. Despite Reilly Steel’s current belief that there was something unusual about the evidence in the Ryan case, it didn’t give them anything solid, or anything that helped move them forward.
‘I’m sorry, Reilly, I don’t see how this helps,’ he’d said when she’d phoned the incident room earlier.
‘Well, surely it tells you that there’s more to this thing than meets the eye,’ she argued. ‘Evidence common to two supposedly unrelated crime scenes – you guys should at least investigate the possibility of a third party.’
But he’d checked with the Ryans as to whether they or Clare had pets (they didn’t – she was asthmatic) and also if there was any link with the Redmonds. And as Kennedy pointed out, it was difficult to give the Freud thing too much in the way of serious consideration given that the girl had been a psychology student.
To top it all off, they still had no clue as to who Clare’s dead companion might be, and the lack of a solid lead was frustrating, disheartening and unbelievably bloody draining.
Hunger finally getting the better of him, he headed to the kitchen to see what he could rustle up for dinner. He was no gourmet cook, but enjoyed experimenting when he got the time.
He opened the fridge and stared at the empty expanse of white – damnit, he’d been too busy this week to even make it to the supermarket. A half carton of milk and two overripe tomatoes did not sound like the ingredients for any meal Chris could think of.
He checked the freezer in the vain hope that there might be an old lasagne stashed in the back somewhere but no such luck. To hell with it, he’d just order in. There was a great Chinese place down the road that he reckoned he alone had been keeping in business for the past three years.
When he’d ordered his usual and was waiting for the obligatory thirty minutes delivery turnaround, he switched on the television and tried to put work out of his head, at least for the moment. Anything but the news; the media were still banging on about the lack of progress on the Ryan case, and it wasn’t as if Chris needed a reminder. A tedious game show was the best he could find, but at least it was something totally mindless, something to take his mind off it all.
But by not focusing on work, Chris couldn’t help thinking about his own situation. That spasm the other day at the station and the continuous throbbing in his joints meant that what had a few weeks ago been a barely noticeable ache, was now developing into something much more serious.
He ran through the options in his head, the things he knew of. It couldn’t be arthritis, could it? It might explain the aching joints, but would it explain the dead-on-his-feet tiredness?
Of course, the job was tough physically and getting tougher every year, but according to his most recent medical, he was lean, fit and in
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