Книга Dead Men's s Boots — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

But that’s exorcists’ shop talk for you.

After a few more pleasantries Lou and Larry strolled away arm in arm, and I walked back over to the grave to say my goodbyes. Carla was now standing in deep conversation with the priest. Maybe a little too deep for comfort: at any rate, she took the opportunity as I walked up to extricate herself, thank him and disengage.

‘I’m heading out,’ I said. ‘Take care of yourself, Carla. I’ll be in touch, okay?’ But she was holding something out to me, and the something turned out to be her car keys.

‘Fix,’ she said apologetically, ‘could you drive me home? I really don’t feel up to it. And there’s something I want to ask you about.’

I hesitated. They say misery loves company but I’m the kind ot Q;m the f misery who usually doesn’t. On the other hand, I’d missed Bourbon’s charabanc and I needed a lift back into town. Maybe a half-second too late to look generous, I nodded and took the keys. ‘Thanks again, father,’ Carla called over her shoulder.

I glanced back. The priest was watching us as we walked away, the expression on his face slightly troubled.

‘He asked me if I had any doubts,’ Carla said, catching the movement as I looked around. ‘Any bits of doctrine I wanted to talk over with him. Then, before I could get a word in, he was pumping me for clues.’

‘Men of the cloth are the worst,’ I agreed. ‘They don’t approve, but they have to look. It’s the same principle as the News of the World.

’ That was slightly unfair, but it’s something you come across a lot. People assume that we’re sitting on a big secret: we have to be, because how could we do what we do without knowing how it’s done? But it’s not like that at all. Would you ask Steve Davis for an explanation of Brownian motion, or Torvill and Dean how ice crystals form? We’ve got a skill set, not the big book of answers."

"Carla’s car was the only one left in the car park: a big, roomy old Vectra GLS in a dark grey that showed the splatter-stains of old birdshit off to good effect.

I let Carla in – no central locking – and walked around to the driver side, taking an appraising look at her in the process. She was calmer now that it was all over, but she looked a little tired and a little old. That wasn’t surprising: having someone you love commit suicide has to be one of the nastiest low blows life can throw at you.