Lazybones Read Free

morning hot water when they found out what had happened in Room 6.
    Thorne took a pace toward the bed. Hendricks spoke without looking around.
    â€œBar the fact that he’s dead, I know nothing, so don’t even ask. All right?”
    â€œI’m fine. Thanks for asking, Phil, and how are you?”
    â€œRight, I see. Like you only came over here for a fucking chinwag…?”
    â€œYou are such a miserable sod. What’s wrong with exchanging a few pleasantries? Trying to make all this a bit easier?”
    Hendricks said nothing.
    Thorne leaned over to scratch at his ankle through the bodysuit. “Phil…”
    â€œI told you, I don’t know. Look for yourself. It seems pretty obvious how he died, but it’s not that simple. There’s…other stuff gone on.”
    â€œRight. Thanks…”
    Hendricks moved back a little and nodded toward one of the SOCOs, who moved quickly toward the bed, picking up a small toolbox as he went. The officer knelt down and opened the box, revealing a display of dainty, shining instruments. He took out a small scalpel and leaned across, reaching toward the victim’s neck.
    Thorne watched as the SOCO pushed a plastic-covered finger down between the ligature and the neck, struggling to get some purchase. From where Thorne was standing, it looked like washing line, the sort of stuff you can get in any hardware shop. Smooth blue plastic. He could see just how tightly it was biting into the dead man’s neck. The officer took his scalpel and carefully cut away the line in such a way as to preserve the knot that was gathered at the back of the neck. This was, of course, basic procedure. Sensible and chilling.
    They’d need it to compare with any others they might find.
    Thorne glanced across at Dave Holland, who raised his eyebrows and turned up his palms. What’s happening? How long? Thorne shrugged. He’d been there more than an hour already. He and Holland had been over the room, taking notes, bagging a few things up, getting afeel for the scene. Now it was the technicians’ turn and Thorne hated the wait. It might have made him feel better, were he able to put his impatience down to a desire to get involved. He wished he could say honestly that he was itching to begin doing his job, to kick off the process that might one day bring this man’s killer to justice. As it was, he just wanted to do what had to be done quickly, and get out of that room.
    He wanted to strip off the plastic suit, get in his car, and drive away.
    Actually, if he were being really honest with himself, he would have had to admit that only part of him wanted that. The other part was buzzing. The part that knew the difference between some murder scenes and others; that was able to measure these things. Thorne had seen the victims of enraged spouses and jealous lovers. He had stared at the bodies of business rivals and gangland snitches. He knew when he was looking at something out of the ordinary.
    This was a significant murder scene. This was the work of a killer driven by something special, something spectacular.
    The room stank of hatred and of rage. It also stank of pride.
    Hendricks, as if reading Thorne’s mind, turned to him, half smiling. “Just another five minutes, okay? I’m not going to get anything else here…”
    Thorne nodded. He looked at the dead man on the bed—the position of him, as if he were praying. Had it not been for the belt, for the livid red furrow that circled his neck, for the thin lines of blood that ran down the backs of his pale thighs, he might have been praying.
    Thorne guessed that at the end, he probably had been.
    The room was hot. Thorne raised an arm to rub a sore eye and felt the tickle as a drop of sweat slid down his ribs then took a sudden, sharp turn across his belly.
    Down below, a frustrated driver leaned on his horn…
    Thorne was not even aware that he’d closed his eyes, and