Murder Club - Mark Pearson [64]
Bible shook his head, confused, and looked down at his hands again as they arrived back at his room. ‘My skin is parchment, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘How charged with punishments the scroll!’ he continued.
‘What are you on about, Bible?’ asked Sergeant Matthews.
‘The spirit is weak, so the flesh must be punished, and here that punishment is recorded.’ He held up his hands, forming them into fists. ‘The body is a canvas and pain is the paint with which God marks us.’
Dave Matthews held his hands up. ‘Okay, Bible. Let’s not do any decorating here.’
The confused man lowered his hands, looked at Laura, then back at the sergeant. ‘I do remember one thing,’ he said, tears forming in his eyes again.
Laura put her hand on his arm. ‘What?’
‘A death.’ He almost whispered the word.
‘What do you mean?’
Tears streamed from the homeless man’s eyes now. ‘I murdered a young woman.’ He looked down at his bunched fists again. ‘I can still see her blood.’
Sergeant Matthews would have pressed him but the registrar came bustling up to them, a nurse in tow and a serious expression on her face.
‘Okay. That’s quite enough, Sergeant. You’re upsetting him.’
‘He’s just confessed to a murder.’
‘He is tired and confused. Your questions will have to wait and we need to do some blood tests.’
‘Hold on just a minute,’ said Dave Matthews. ‘I need to speak to him.’
‘Then you need to speak to him later.’
‘It’s important.’
‘He’s in no state to be questioned right now. That’s a medical … and a legal opinion.’ She looked over at Laura, who nodded.
‘I’m not talking about a formal interview. We just want to talk.’
‘Then you can do it a little later. Come on, sir. Let’s get you back to bed.’
She led Bible Steve back into his room. Sergeant Matthews swore mildly under his breath. ‘What the hell’s going on here, Laura?’
Laura Chilvers shook her head, her eyes troubled. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course I am!’ she snapped back.
Dave Matthews looked down at the hand she was rubbing nervously, unaware that she was doing it.
‘How did you hurt your hand?’
‘I did something really stupid.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
47.
THE BRIEFING ROOM was about half-full. Uniforms and CID, some sitting, some standing. Most with cups of coffee. The windows were steaming up, but through them you could see the snow falling in earnest. Delaney wiped his hand on the window, peering out to see a white layer covering his Saab. Maybe it was time to get a new car. As a detective inspector he was entitled to have replaced it years ago. And with a baby on the way, maybe he should. An estate maybe. Kate would probably approve of a Volvo, something dependable, reliable, safe. Words not usually associated with him. He smiled at the thought, and realised that Diane Campbell had just said something to him.
She half-sat on the desk behind her, a pint-sized mug of tea held in her petite hand.
‘Sorry, what’s that?’ he asked.
‘I said, is something amusing you, Detective?’
‘Life, boss. Sometimes just looking out of the window, seeing the city stretching out in all directions. The millions of people. Some of them loving. Some of them just living. The hate, the poverty, the dirt. And then days like today with the snow falling, covering up all the dirt. Makes you wish it could do the same for the pain and hurt that human beings visit on each other on an hourly basis. But you know nothing can. You have to either smile or cry.’
‘Yes, thank you, Brendan Behan. But back in the real world of the Metropolitan Police, what can you tell us about the John Doe we dug up in Queen’s Park yesterday morning?’
‘Not a lot more, ma’am. The lab will run a DNA analysis, but that will take a while. Likewise dental records. We’re checking the missing-persons lists for the area, going back to the time we estimate he was buried there.’
‘Any hits?’
‘The vicar at the time, Geoffrey Hunt. His brother went missing about the same time. A little while later, the reverend’s brother called to say he was okay, apparently.