"Brookmyre, Christopher - Quite Ugly One Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)

To Parlabane's incredulous horror, the police station was fifty yards away on the opposite side of the square, a local feature McLean had neglected to mention when he gave him the keys. Still, fugitive beggars couldn't be choosers.
They had walked him across the snow-spattered grass, past the inevitable gawking onlookers and what he instinctively ~ut just too late) recognised as a press photographer, who got half-a-dozen frames in before Parlabane's face was obscured by a fist and an erect middle finger. By the time they reached the front desk, his feet were soup-free but purple with the cold. A pale and visibly trembling postman was led out of the door as they came in.
Parlabane had been allowed to wash and been issued with the jaggy jumper, then led to an interview room where he sat for close to an hour before Inspector McGregor turned up with Dalziel, briefly rolling his eyes when he saw the shambles that was before him.
'Bad morning?' Parlabane inquired.
McGregor widened his eyes and exhaled, nodding.
'A dead body in pyjama trousers in a wrecked flat awash with blood and boak, and a huge jobbie on the manteipiece for garnish.'
Parlabane gaped.
'I didn't notice a jobbie myself.'
'No, it had been removed for tests before you showed up.
'What, you removed a jobbie before you removed the corpse?'
'You didn't smell this jobbie.'
'I'm not so sure about that.'
'Anyway, a short time later one of my officers discovers a barely dressed man wandering around the murder scene with the declared intention of climbing out the window. Now, I understand you have already agreed that we were not being over-zealous in considering this suspidous. So can you possibly explain what you were doing there?'
'Yes,' Parlabane said, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as his chattering teeth would allow. 'As I told DC DaIziel at the time, I was locked out of my flat and I was aftempting to climb back in.'
'Well, that seems logical enough, Mr Parlabane, but let me just ask you a couple of things. Did you know the occupant of the flat downstairs. . . what's his name?'
'You tell me.'
'OK... Ponsonby. Dr Jeremy Ponsonby.'
'Not at all. Never seen him before.'
And how long have you lived at that address?'
'Oh, a good thirty-six hours.'
'And where did you stay before that?'
'Sweetzer Ave.'
McGregor tried to place it. 'West End?'
'West Hollywood.'
McGregor nodded. 'Right. So it would be fair to say that you didn't have the run of Dr Ponsonby's premises, and that were he not dead, he might have minded a wee bit if you walked in unannounced and used his back window to gain access to your flat?'
'Pretty fair, yeah.'
'So here's my problem, Mr Parlabane,' he said, patiently but tiredly. 'Most people, even when they are locked out and underdressed, tend not to just walk into someone else's property, even if the door is wide open. But just supposing they did, just for talking's sake. Most people would be put off
13 by a strong smell of spew and by the large puddle of it at the door. But again, just for talking's sake, let's pretend that's not the case. Most people would have quite a strong reaction to a mutilated corpse. Some might faint. Some might throw up. Some might run out screaming and calling for the police.'
He looked Parlabane fiercely in the eye. 'Very, very few would be sufficiently unperturbed as to continue going about their plan of climbing out the window to get back into their flat. Most might consider, shall we say, that matters had overtaken them. That there were greater things afoot than their need to get back into their home.'
Parlabane nodded, understandingly.
McGregor continued. 'I suppose what I'm really trying to say is that I consider your behaviour to have been
unusual. Exceptional, even. So I have to ask myself two questions: A, why you ventured into Dr Ponsonby's flat, and B, why his condition failed to give you the screaming heebie-jeebies.'
Parlabane sat back in his chair, hugging himself with the over4ong sleeves of his jaggy jumper. His hangover had not abated through his new predicament, and he felt that large quantities of Irn-Bru, fried food and sleep were the only things that could save him. Between Parlabane and those things was McGregor, a man so clearly resigned to the inevitable unpleasantness and frustration of this case that he would probably sit patiently probing Parlabane well into the middle of the next century if he felt he had to.
Frank, uncomplicated honesty was a dangerous gambit with police anywhere, as you risked blowing their minds, with ugly consequences for all concerned. However, as McGregor was already looking bored in anticipation of a tedious fib, Parlabane decided to chance it.
All right. A, Curiosity. B, Dr Whatsisface was not the first murder victim I've ever seen. I'm assuming you've ruled out suicide by this point.'
McGregor smiled. It wasn't a big smile, but it was definitely there, and in it Parlabane could see relief, Irn-Bru, fried food and sleep. McGregor made a beckoning gesture with his right hand, encouraging Parlabane to elaborate.
'I am, I will freely admit, a dedicatedly professional nosy bastard,' he said with a sigh. 'I'm a journalist, and I'm afraid I find it difficult to walk past an open door, never mind an
14 unguarded crime scene. It's like a reflex, an uncontrollable instinct.'
'Like a fly to a shite?' asked Daiziel.
'Well, I'll admit that groups of cops tend to attract my attention, so if I'm the fly
'We're the insecticide, Mr Parlabane,' said McGregor firmly. 'So having had a look around, why didn't you go back out the door?'
'I heard someone coming up the stairs, and I didn't think it would look good to be found trespassing on a crime scene. After all, I didn't want to end up in the police station in my underwear, freezing my bollocks off, being questioned about what the hell I was doing by polis who I'm sure have more important things to be getting on with right now.
'Quite.'
There was a knock at the door, and Callaghan stuck his head round to beckon McGregor outside for discussion.
'Do you reckon he believes me?' Parlabane asked DaIziel once they were alone.
'Why are you asking me whether he believes you? Why aren't you asking me whether I believe you?'
'I already know you believe me.'
DaIziel laughed, as if she couldn't help it, and shook her head. She had softly curved features but a rather sharp nose, upon which Parlabane spofted a tiny dimple where he was sure a stud sat when she was off-duty.
'OK,' she said. 'You got me. But I'm just the DC, and instinctively believing you could be the kind of mistake I have to learn from as I climb the ranks.'
'But it's not instinctive,' he said, shamelessly going into charming/flirtatious mode, forgettul of his ridiculous appearance. 'You believe me because if I had anything to do with the murder, it would be both unlikely and improbably stupid for me to wander back into the scene of the crime while it's crawling with police officers.'