Murder of a Dead Man by Katherine John Read Free Book Online Page B

did,’ Nigel winked at Anna.
    ‘Years ago,’ Anna said in a tone that warned off both Nigel and Peter.
    ‘But Tom has more than just his looks,’ Nigel continued. ‘He’s wasted where he is. I told him to go for a career in advertising or presenting. His looks and sincerity could take him to the top.’
    ‘Possibly he appears sincere because he believes in what he’s doing,’ Peter suggested.
    Cut to a queue forming outside the hostel. It was still light – mid-afternoon? A pan along the queue. Tony huddled into his black overcoat and bright red baseball boots stood between two men.
    One, who could have been any age between thirty and fifty, had dirty blond hair, a round face and cheerful, empty smile. The other was as tall and dark as Tony, but, unlike Tony, his eyes were heavy and dull in his lean face. Trevor wondered if it was lack of interest or – drug damage.
    ‘Know them, Sam?’ Bill asked the priest.
    ‘The dark one is Vince. We’ve learned to tread carefully with our guests, and that one in particular is very withdrawn.’
    ‘He still around?’ Dan reached into his pocket for his peppermints.
    ‘I didn’t see either of them last night, but that doesn’t mean anything. They’re regular casuals, if you know what I mean. They sleep with us when they can afford it and on the streets when they can’t.
    We sometimes go for days without seeing them.’
    ‘They a pair?’ Peter leaned forward on his elbows.
    ‘They’re usually together. The dark one is – not quite himself.’
    ‘Mental case?’ Peter diagnosed.
    ‘I believe they’ve both been discharged from Compton Castle.’
    Trevor remained silent. He’d had first hand experience of Compton Castle, and some of his colleagues’ attitudes to his brief incarceration in a psychiatric ward had been anything but supportive or understanding. It was the hush that descended when he walked into some of the station’s offices that hurt the most.
    The camera continued to roll along the queue, the same syrupy female voice droned in the background. A grey, foam-topped microphone came into focus in the centre of the screen. Out of shot, Nigel addressed Tony and the two men standing next to him.
    ‘There are only beds for twenty-seven men in this hostel. Do you realise you’re the fiftieth in line?’
    ‘Of course he bloody realises!’ Tony, no longer shambling and incoherent, but aggressive, high on something that had pumped him full of adrenaline, stepped close to the camera. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Haven’t you the decency to leave us alone? Some of us have families. People who don’t know how low we’ve sunk.’ The camera swung alarmingly. A shot of ground speckled with spittle and dog mess was followed by a fuzzy blackout, then sky; beautifully clear blue sky adorned by white fluffy clouds that ended sharply in black nothingness.
    ‘He smashed the camera,’ Nigel said.
    ‘Serves you right for playing with junkies,’
    Peter interjected.
    ‘We were trying to make an honest social statement.’
    ‘About what?’ Peter demanded. ‘The depths those forced to live on our streets have sunk to?
    Let’s visit the dossers, they’re more amusing than monkeys and have the added spice of being more dangerous. And, watching this programme will make you feel superior to the common herd for an hour or two.’
    ‘Curb it, Peter!’ Bill warned.
    ‘There’s nothing worse than a bloody armchair do-gooder. Try doing it his way,’ Peter pointed to Sam, ‘then you might accomplish something.’
    ‘We’re raising consciousness –’
    ‘By turning your audience into voyeurs? You and your kind make me sick.’ Ignoring the “No Smoking” sign on the wall, Peter filched a cigar from the top pocket of his shirt, and rammed it between his lips.
    Bill waited until he was sure that Peter had finished his outburst before taking his finger off the pause button. Shots of the interior of a hostel came into view, dark with shadows and poor