Free The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) by William Brodrick

investigate.’ Olivia was leaning on her desk, hands joined, her almost black eyes levelled upon him. She was saying to Anselm what she’d probably said to Nigel Goodwin and his subdued wife. ‘There’s no evidence and no crime. Just a broken husband.’
    The killer had got off because Anselm had found a small hole in one of the prosecution’s forensic reports. An innocent slip. He’d picked away at it with smart, technical questions, making it seem far bigger than it really was. The distinguished author had been outraged and the jury had confounded righteous indignation with the bluster of incompetence. Now, remembering that great triumph, Anselm vowed to trap his man. There was no forensic evidence against this other killer, no hole in the paperwork, nothing for a scornful barrister to pick wide later on. And that was all to Anselm’s advantage.
    ‘Have you heard of the Red Barn Murder of eighteen twenty-seven?’
    Olivia blinked slowly. ‘Yes. The case began with a dream … a nightmare.’
    ‘And the evidence came afterwards,’ observed Anselm. ‘Sometimes we just have to persevere, especially when we can’t sleep easily any more.’
    Olivia walked Anselm to the main entrance. She’d given him Nigel Goodwin’s address. She’d warned him not to expect much when he got there. They stood beside each other in the sunshine, wondering where the years had gone. They spoke of judges, counsel and detectives, people they’d both known, seeking points of contact. There weren’t many, because Anselm had been out of the field for a long time. It was like they were trying too hard to be nice. Time seemed to run out and anyway, Mitch was right in front, waiting in his rusted Land Rover.
    ‘I want to make up for the cases I should have lost,’ said Anselm, abruptly.
    Olivia made another unconvincing shrug. ‘Then you’ve a lot of work to do.’ But then she seemed to turn a page, more interested in what was to come than in what had already happened. ‘Why not just … do your best, again?’
    Anselm could settle for that. He said goodbye but then surrendered to an afterthought.
    ‘Just out of interest, is Nigel Goodwin a doctor?’
    Olivia made a slight start, impressed that this ‘fretful explorer’ had discovered a man’s profession through the simple exercise of his imagination. It was a promising beginning.
    ‘He is, actually. But I wouldn’t trust him to treat the common cold.’
    The condemnation unsettled Anselm. It had been harsh, suggesting there was more to this man than troubled grief. Mitch (emboldened, now) begged to differ. Clunking through the gears, he improvised once more and Anselm, disinclined to put much store on his assistant’s judgement, stared out of the window, barely listening. His mind soon drifted away from the inept doctor to the haunted brother, the quiet man with the lowered face in all the photographs. What had happened to Michael Goodwin that he’d chosen the shadows? Grief, on its own, wasn’t a sufficient explanation.

Part Two

The Diary of Timothy Henderson

~
    It’s very quiet in the house. Except for the clock. There’s a clock in the sitting room that ticks really loud and I’m wondering why it carries on like that. It just keeps going as if nothing has happened. Tick tock, tick tock. My mum stopped breathing yesterday but the clock’s still working. It’s like someone walking past. Doesn’t even slow down. My mum’s dead. And the clock’s still working.
    My granddad gave me this diary after my mum’s accident. He told me to write down my feelings because otherwise they’d get stuck like leaves in a drain. But they didn’t. Because my mum was still with me. She’s gone now, though. Everyone’s saying she died of cancer but that’s not true.
    ******
    16th June
    My granddad was right. He knew what was going to happen two years ago. I’m all blocked up, just like he said. I’ve been like this since the night my mum died and it’s getting worse. So I’m