Murder Club - Mark Pearson [68]
She looked across as Laura Chilvers pulled her car into the adjoining slot. ‘What do you make of Dr Chilvers?’ she asked Delaney.
Delaney winked at her. ‘I don’t go for blondes,’ he said.
‘Yeah, funny, sir.’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something odd about her lately.’
‘She’s a lesbian, Sally. Maybe she fancies you.’
Delaney got out of the car before she could reply, and walked towards the entrance.
49.
MRS JOHNSON LOOKED down at the man who had his head placed between her legs. He was a twenty-four-year-old called Simon, who worked in the bar for her. He worked in the bedroom for her too.
She moaned and tangled her fingers in his hair, pressing his head down harder on her sex.
‘That’s it, work that tongue, boy. Do a good job of it and I might let you fuck me.’
She smiled as she saw his bare buttocks buck slightly on the mattress. If he came before she did, it wouldn’t be the first time, but she’d keep him down until the job was done. She had had a variety of young lovers over the year since her husband had died, and regretted not starting a lot sooner. The truth was, she was never much interested in sex before his death. He was a boring man in life, and never more so than in the bedroom, where he would roll on top of her like a beached seal and, after a few cursory pumps with his small member, would reach a climax and flop back over again. In all the years since they had been married she hadn’t orgasmed even once. Now she insisted on it every time. Two or three times a day.
She lay back and smiled as the boy beneath her moaned with pleasure himself as he lapped at her like a large dog at his water bowl.
And then the phone rang.
Bible Steve was dressed in a hospital gown. Blood was dripping slightly from his arm where he had ripped the IV tube loose, and the young female nurse blocking his way to the hospital exit was holding her arms up trying to placate him.
‘Please, sir. You can’t leave.’
‘I’m no sir,’ he bellowed back at her. ‘Look at me. Look at these hands.’
He held his weather-beaten, scarred and sore hands palm upwards.
‘These are not the hands of a sir. They are the hands of a bum. Of a tramp. And there is blood on them. Macbeth blood. They will not be washed clean.’
‘You need treatment.’
‘I need scourging. I need fire. Most of all … I need whisky!’ He brushed her aside and stumbled up to the door, where Delaney held out his hand and put it on his chest.
‘Hold your horses, Bible.’
‘Stop calling me that. You think if you keep calling me Bible or Steve, it will make me believe it’s who I am.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I’m just a man in need of a drink!’
He moved to skirt around Delaney, but the DI held his hands wide.
‘You need to stay here,’ added Laura. ‘They are doing some tests. They can help you.’
‘No one can help me.’
‘The thing is, we need to talk to you. You made some claims this morning,’ said Delaney.
‘I can’t remember,’ he said and stumbled past him to Laura, holding his hands out to her. ‘Give me money, so I can get some hot tea and a sandwich.’
‘They can give that to you here.’
Bible Steve shook his head angrily. ‘I need a drink.’
‘For God’s sake, man. Do you want to kill yourself?’ asked Laura.
The bearded man looked at her sadly for a moment. ‘I must have wanted to, mustn’t I? Whoever I was, that’s what I’ve been doing.’
He turned away and then started coughing, his body shaking violently. Then Bible Steve dropped to his knees and vomited. Spattering the clean and shiny floor with bile and bright blood. Laura rushed over to him and Delaney handed her a handkerchief.
‘Is he all right?’
‘No, he’s not.’
A few minutes later and Bible Steve was back in the intensive-care room. He watched passively as drips were once more attached to his arm, monitoring devices attached to his chest. There was no fight in him and his eyes were scared.
The registrar, Dr Lily Crabbe, came back out of the room.
‘We’ve given him some more sedation.’
‘Vomiting blood. That’s quite serious, isn’t it?’ asked Delaney.
‘It can be. We