"Quintin, Jardine - Autographs in the Rain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Quintin Jardine)

'God,' Ruth snapped. 'He's gone out and left the place unlocked!' She
stepped past him into the kitchen, and gasped. Looking over her shoulder,
Sammy could see even in the dim light that the place was in chaos; worse,
it stank of staleness. Dirty plates filled the sink and were strewn on the
work-surface beside the cooker. A badly soiled tea-towel lay in the middle

12

AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN





of the floor. A milk carton sat on the small table, surrounded by discarded
food wrappers.

'What the hell's the old bugger living like?' she murmured. 'He's always
struck me as such a neat man, yet this is pure squalor. If this is what happens
when I don't warn him of a visit, I'll be here every Saturday from now on.'
She screwed up her face. 'Jesus, the place stinks!

'Uncle John!' she called out, listening for a few seconds before turning
towards the back door. 'Come on. Let's go up there and find him.'

The young detective handed her the car keys. 'On you go. I'll make this
place secure; the front door has a Yale so I'll come out that way.' She
bought the lie and did as he told her, although to be sure he turned the back
door key in its lock as soon as she had left.

The smell became more obvious as soon as he stepped out of the kitchen;
it was thick, and cloying. He had done this job before, but nonetheless he
was a shade fearful as he moved up the hall and opened the front bedroom
door. Crumpled clothes were strewn all around, and the bed itself was
unmade, its sheets so soiled and tangled that they might have won a place
in a modern art exhibition. But the room was empty.

He had seen on the way past, through its open door, that the second
bedroom had been untouched for weeks, either by duster or vacuum cleaner;
so that left only the bathroom. Hesitantly, he opened the door. As he did so,
the smell, strong before, seemed to wash out and over him like an ocean
wave, almost knocking him backwards, physically. He knew, before he
looked inside, what he would find.

Uncle John McConnell lay full length, submerged completely in his big
enamelled bath. He had played his last round of golf, and listened to his
last radio football commentary.

Even before stepping into the bathroom Pye had guessed that he had
been dead for days, and he had feared that he would find him in a state of