The Last Straw. Paul Gitsham
Читать онлайн.| Название | The Last Straw |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Paul Gitsham |
| Жанр | Приключения: прочее |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Приключения: прочее |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9781472094698 |
Friday
Chapter One
Saturday
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Monday
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wednesday
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thursday
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Friday
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Epilogue
Blood.
Everywhere. Across the walls, over the desk, even splattered on the glowing laptop computer. The human heart is a powerful, muscular pump and a cut artery bleeds out in seconds, spraying red, freshly oxygenated blood across the room like a fire hose.
Tom Spencer removes his gloved hands from the dead man’s throat and rubs them down the front of his lab coat, leaving bloody trails across his chest. Hands shaking, he picks up the blood-covered telephone and presses 9 for an outside line, followed by another three 9s.
“You are through to the emergency services. Which service do you require?”
Spencer’s voice is shaky, his breathing rapid. “Police. There’s been a murder.”
Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones slid to a halt with a faint squeak of tyres outside the main entrance to the University of Middle England’s Department for Biological Sciences. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since he’d received the call and he doubted he could have done it much faster with blue lights and sirens. He switched off the engine and the sat nav on the dashboard beeped then went silent.
Two weeks into this new posting and the freshly promoted DCI was still reliant on the little device to get him around his new patch: the small Hertfordshire market town of Middlesbury. By driving everywhere with the device in map mode and where possible leaving for appointments early to take the most circuitous route, he was slowly building up a mental map of the local area. Although it was costing him a fortune in petrol — he felt guilty about passing on that cost to the force — it was the best way he knew to learn his way around.
The call could have been better timed, he supposed. He’d just finished pouring a bottle of Chilean red and was in the process of toasting his mother-in-law’s upcoming birthday when his mobile had rung. The temperature in the freshly decorated lounge had dropped precipitously. Bernice had never been impressed that her eldest daughter, Susan, had married a police officer — feeling that she and her monosyllabic, hen-pecked husband, Dennis, had raised their children to aspire to greater things. Private education and all the accoutrements of a wealthy middle-class upbringing in the leafiest part of Warwickshire had led Bernice to expect her daughters to marry well. That being said, she grudgingly acknowledged that Warren was a nice enough man and at least he was a Catholic.
Mumbling his apologies, he’d slipped on a jacket and left the house as quickly as possible.
Now that he was here, the familiar singing in the blood had started, mixed with a tightness in his gut. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, whilst rummaging around for a breath mint. He’d only had a sip of the wine, and had abstained completely at the restaurant so that he could drive, but the last thing he wanted was for somebody to smell alcohol on his breath. Not on his first big case. A murder. This was what he’d joined the force for; even more importantly what he’d trained as a detective for. For the past fortnight, he’d overseen his small team as they dealt with the endless tide of robberies, burglaries and low-level violence that plagued any society — a job that he was proud to do and that he knew was important to the public. But a murder was different. A murder was what got you known. A murder could make your career. It could also ruin your career before it really started...
Clambering out of the car into the hot, breathless, summer night, he scanned the largely deserted car park. Adjacent to the entrance an ambulance was parked up next to two police cars. At the other end of the car park a silver BMW sports car sat alone