Lazybones Read Free Page B

messages. This one was the first. The man who called left the name of the hotel and the room number for delivery…”
    The man who called. Was that the man on the bed or…?
    â€œWhat was the message?”
    â€œHe was placing an order. Bloody funny time to be doing it, though. That was why I was a bit…cautious about calling. I thought it might be a joke, you know, kids messing about, but kids wouldn’t give you the right address, would they?”
    â€œDid he leave a name?”
    â€œNo, which is one of the reasons I’m calling. And to get a credit card number. I don’t do cash on delivery…”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘bloody funny time’?”
    â€œThe message was left at ten past three this morning. I bought one of those flashy machines that tells you the time, you know?”
    Thorne pressed the mouthpiece to his chest, looked across at Hendricks. “I know the time of death. A tenner says you don’t get within half an hour either side…”
    â€œHello?”
    Thorne put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, I was conferring with a colleague. Can I ask you to keep the tape from the machine, Miss…?”
    â€œEve Bloom.”
    â€œYou said something about placing an order?”
    â€œOh sorry, didn’t I say? I’m a florist. He was ordering some flowers. That’s why I was slightly freaked out, I suppose…”
    â€œI don’t understand. Freaked…?”
    â€œWell, to be ordering what he was ordering in the middle of the night…”
    â€œWhat exactly did the message say?”
    â€œHang on a minute…”
    â€œNo, just…”
    She’d already gone. After a few seconds, Thorne heard the click of the button being hit and the noise of the tape rewinding. There was a pause and then a bang as she put the receiver down next to the machine.
    â€œIt’s coming up,” she shouted.
    Then a hiss as the tape began to play.
    There was no discernible accent, no real emotion of any sort, in the voice. To Thorne, it sounded as if someone was trying hard to sound characterless, but there was a hint of something like amusement in the voice somewhere. In the voice of the man Thorne had to assume was responsible for the bound and bloodied corpse not three feet away from him.
    The message began simply enough.
    â€œI’d like to order a wreath…”
    Â 
    December 3, 1975
    He inched the Maxi forward until the bumper was almost touching the garage door before yanking up the handbrake and turning off the ignition.
    He reached across for his briefcase, climbed out of the car, and nudged the door shut with his backside.
    Not six o’clock yet and already dark. Cold as well. He was going to have to start putting his vest on in the mornings.
    As he walked toward the front door he began whistling it again, that bloody song he couldn’t get out of his head. It was on the radio every minute of every day. What the hell was a “silhouetto” anyway? Do the bloody fandango? The thing went on for hours as well. Weren’t pop songs supposed to be short?
    He shut the front door behind him and stood on the mat for a second, waiting for the smell of his dinner to hit him. He liked this moment every day, the one where he could pretend he was a character in one of those programs on the TV. He stood and imagined that he was in the Midwest of America somewhere and not stuck in a shitty little suburb. He imagined that he was a rangy executive with a perfectly presented wife who would have a pot roast in the oven and a cocktail waiting for him.Highballs or something they called them, didn’t they?
    It wasn’t just his little joke, it was theirs. Their silly ritual. He would shout out and she would shout back, then they would sit down and eat the frozen crispy pancakes or maybe one of those packaged curries with too many raisins in.
    â€œHoney, I’m home…”
    There was no reply.