Die With Me Read Free Page B

portable machines with speakers?’
    She nodded slowly, as if he had said something important. ‘We’ve got one in the kitchen at home. I’ll bring it in this evening with some CDs. Trev really loves Celine Dion, for some weird reason. Maybe the sound of her voice will wake him up, even if mine won’t.’
    Tartaglia grimaced. ‘God, I’d forgotten he has such crap taste in music. If I were you, I’d try and find something he really hates, like Eminem or 50 Cent. He’s such an ornery bastard, you should play it really loud right next to him and see what happens. That’ll do the trick, if anything will.’
    She gave him a wistful smile. ‘I can just imagine him shouting at me to turn it off. That would be good, wouldn’t it?’
    She looked up into his eyes for reassurance. Although her face had brightened momentarily, tears were still not far away. In spite of the make-up and sophisticated clothes, she looked like a young girl. She hesitated, head slightly to one side as if there was something else she wanted to say. But after a second she just touched his arm and walked past him, her impossibly high heels squeaking on the linoleum.
    Opening the door, she glanced back at him. ‘Maybe see you tomorrow. If there’s any change before then, I’ll let you know.’
    As the door closed behind her, Tartaglia’s mobile rang. In spite of the hundreds of notices plastered around the hospital, he had forgotten to switch it off. He flipped it open and heard the smooth tones of Detective Superintendent Clive Cornish, at the other end.
    ‘Are you with Trevor?’
    ‘Yes, but I’m about to leave.’
    ‘Any progress?’
    ‘None, I’m afraid,’ Tartaglia said, turning away and whispering into the mouthpiece, as if Clarke might somehow be able to hear him. ‘But at least he’s still alive.’
    Cornish gave a heavy sigh. Clarke was well liked and respected by everybody, even Cornish, a man not normally known for warmth or feelings of compassion towards anyone. ‘That’s something, I suppose. Anyway, I need you over in Ealing right away, at a church called St Sebastian’s. It’s on South Street, just off the main drag. I’ve told Donovan to meet you there. There’s been a suspicious death. With Trevor out of action for the foreseeable future, you’re now the acting SIO.’
    St Sebastian’s was set back a little above the road in a leafy residential area, a high wall with iron railings forming the boundary. Bathed in bright winter sunshine, the church was plain, with simple, graceful lines and tall stone pillars flanking the entrance. Georgian, Tartaglia thought, from the little he knew of architecture. It seemed at odds with the endless criss-cross streets of ornate Edwardian redbrick terraced houses that surrounded it, as if it had been taken from somewhere else and plonked down in the middle of Ealing by mistake.
    DS Sam Donovan stood huddled by the main gate, hands jammed in her coat pockets, eyes watering and nose red from the cold.
    ‘You took your time,’ she said, shivering. ‘It’s bloody freezing out here and I’ll probably catch my death now.’
    Tiny and slim, with brutally short, spiky brown hair that framed an otherwise pretty, regular-featured face, she was wearing a purple coat, baggy trousers and Doc Martens, her chin tucked into the thick folds of a long, woolly, lime green scarf, wrapped several times around her neck.
    ‘Sorry. The traffic was bad. I’ve been over at St Mary’s, seeing Trevor.’
    ‘How is he?’ she asked, ducking under the crime scene tape and leading the way up the steps to the churchyard.
    ‘Unfortunately, no change. But I’ll fill you in later.’ They started to walk together slowly up the long path that curved towards the church door. ‘Cornish said we’ve got an unexplained death.’
    She nodded, taking a crumpled paper tissue from her pocket and blowing her nose loudly, as if she was trying to make a point. ‘I’ve had a full briefing with DI Duffey from the