Their Little Secret

by Mark Billingham

  Or not there at all.

  So many cars flashing past in the other direction, and all those signs he peered at, searching for the right one, the colours and the noise churning in his stomach. More than once already it had been as if, for a few terrible seconds, he had suddenly woken with no idea what he was doing in the car or where he was going, and then he’d remembered. Had been momentarily relieved and then terrified.

  Conrad put his foot down and glanced at the dash, but the dials on the instrument panel swam in and out of focus, so he could never be sure how fast he was going.

  It didn’t matter, though.

  The faster the better.

  He wiped away the sweat from his eyes and the drool that was growing sticky around his collar before he veered out to power past a lorry, only just managing to move back into the right lane before the vehicle coming in the other direction was on him. His heart was dancing and he could feel the throb of the pulse in his throat. The other driver waved angrily and Conrad tried to shout, but it only made the pain in his abdomen worse; unbearable.

  Fuck. FUCK. He knew what she’d done …

  Another look in the mirror and now it was only the lorry receding behind him, but he held his own gaze for a few seconds longer than he needed, than was safe. The colour of him, for Christ’s sake …

  The tips of his fingers like he’d trapped them in a door. The whites of his eyes … the whites … the skin around his sunken cheeks.

  Like old newspaper.

  He moaned out loud at another stab of pain and yanked on the wheel, knowing what was coming. He bumped up on to the grass verge and threw the door open, retched and cried out. There was vomit on his trousers, on the inside of the door as he dragged it shut again; vomit and blood, and he wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears that made his eyes sting as the tyres spun in the mud before the car lurched back on to the road and he began to accelerate again.

  It’s probably just a twenty-four-hour thing.

  He knew exactly what she had done.

  As the car picked up speed, he unwrapped his hands from the wheel and, for a few seconds, scrabbled quietly at nothing, reaching to pull up a duvet that wasn’t there, needing its softness at his neck. Waiting for his mother to walk through the door with sweet tea or juice and words that made him feel better. That summer holiday when he’d fallen from a tree, spent days and days in bed, disorientated and delirious.

  A bang on the head can do that, darling …

  A punch from a woman he thought he loved.

  A rock, coming down.

  He wanted so much to sleep. He could not remember feeling so tired. He was grateful for the pain that was keeping him awake because, however much he wanted to pull in somewhere quiet and snuggle down beneath that duvet, he could not, must not drift away.

  Above and beyond, that’s what we are, my love.

  Five minutes or thirty, he had no idea. Moaning and heaving, murmuring curses as the road was sucked beneath his wheels, until he saw the sign he had been watching out for. That was the place he’d been after, the place he needed to go.

  He knew what the sign meant.

  Without thinking, or remembering that he should care, Conrad turned hard and swerved across the lane of oncoming traffic. He tried to cover his ears against the noise. Several drivers were shouting out of windows and leaning on their horns, but all he could hear were the screams of seagulls.

  SIXTY-THREE

  The evening was relatively mild, certainly bearable if they kept their jackets on, so, while they waited for the food to arrive, they carried their beers out on to Thorne’s small patio. It had been nicely maintained by the last tenants who had left behind a hanging basket and a number of plants in large terracotta pots. Something green that was now coming into leaf snaked up a trellis next to the table and chairs Thorne had bought when he’d first rented the place out and not had the chance to use before.

  ‘We going to eat out here, too?’ Hendricks asked.

  ‘Don’t see why not.’

  ‘It’s not warm, is it?’

  ‘Well, if you had a decent jacket. Is that a jacket, or is it a blouse?’

  ‘It’s Italian suede, mate, and I look gorgeous in it.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I hope they’re quick.’ Hendricks plonked his bottle down on the table and looked at his watch. ‘I could eat a scabby dog on a bap …’

  He had managed to persuade Thorne that another Indian takeaway was probably not a good idea. Having pointed out that they’d already eaten just about everything on the menu, the pathologist had proceeded to stress that all those rich sauces weren’t doing Thorne’s waistline any favours either, and that he might want to think about such things.

  Especially now.

  Reluctantly, Thorne had agreed to compromise and they had ordered pizza instead.

  They sat down and stared for half a minute at what was left of the smoggy sunset. They each took a swig of supermarket lager and Hendricks lit the single cigarette he allowed himself once a week.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s not going to be that stressful.’

  ‘Be prepared,’ Hendricks gave a two-fingered salute. ‘I learned that in the Scouts.’

  ‘I thought you were chucked out of the Scouts for touching up one of the Scoutmasters.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Hendricks grinned, took another drink. ‘Happy days. So, come on then …’

  The reason Hendricks had come over.

  Thorne began to talk, not altogether fluently, about the situation with Helen; the most recent developments, the final reckoning. ‘She called the other night,’ he said. ‘Both of us in tears by the end of it.’

  There had been plenty to catch up on already. Four days on from the raid at Michelle Littler’s house, it was the first chance Thorne had had to bring Hendricks up to speed work-wise, but after having arrived and been given the lowdown on what Thorne still believed was an unsuccessful operation, Hendricks had failed to offer much in the way of a constructive response. He had simply grunted and tugged at the piercing in his lower lip.

  Said, ‘So, what happened to the dog?’

  He was there because of what had happened with Helen, the decision she had come to. To keep his friend company. To offer advice and consolation, or to gently take the piss, whatever he thought Thorne needed.

  ‘She didn’t say the dreaded, did she?’ he asked now.

  ‘The dreaded what?’

  ‘You know, the old, “It’s not you, it’s me” rubbish.’

  ‘God, no.’ Thorne let out a long breath. ‘She was fairly clear about the fact that it was me. My fault. I mean, you know, Helen … she’s not shy about saying what she thinks.’

  Hendricks nodded, because he certainly did know. He and Helen had fallen out for several weeks the previous year, after a heated argument about the legalisation of drugs. Not to mention countless minor spats over everything from US politics to recipes and an ongoing debate about whether RuPaul’s Drag Race was a better TV show than Orange is the New Black.

  ‘So, your fault because …?’

  ‘Because I’m a miserable bastard and my moods make me a nightmare to live with. Because, apart from both having warrant cards, we’ve not got enough in common. Because, except when I’m pissed off about something, which is glaringly obvious to all and sundry, I don’t show my feelings enough.’ Thorne was trying to smile, to make light of this litany of shortcomings, but the necessary effort was obvious. ‘Because, apparently, I keep myself … “walled off”.’ He shook his head and used his fingers to scratch quotation marks in the air. ‘Parts of myself, anyway.’

  ‘I can’t really argue with any of that,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘Because sometimes I made her feel like it was a straight choice between her and the Job, and ninety-nine per cent of the time the Job won.’

  Hendricks winced and downed what was left of his beer. ‘Yeah, she doesn’t hold back, does she?’

  ‘One of the things
I love about her.’ Thorne picked up his own bottle and examined it. ‘Maybe I should try getting used to saying loved. Past tense.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be true though, would it?’

  ‘No,’ Thorne said, after a moment or two. ‘Not right now, anyway.’

  ‘It’ll get better.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s the point,’ Hendricks said. ‘You know now. Look, it’s a bugger, mate … I’m not pretending it isn’t and I’m really sorry, but at least you can finally stop mithering about what you want to happen and how you might or might not feel when something does happen, because it’s happened.’ He leaned to lay a hand on Thorne’s arm. ‘So, now you can just … feel it.’

  Thorne looked across the table as an overground train rattled noisily by on its way towards West Hampstead. The solemn expression on his friend’s face made him uncomfortable and he could not hold eye contact for very long. He picked at the label on his beer bottle. He said, ‘You’re not going to give me the “plenty more fish in the sea”, bit, are you?’

  ‘I’m not daft.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Hendricks shook his head and took his hand away. He smiled. ‘Just hoping they remember my extra pepperoni, that’s all.’

  Then Thorne’s phone rang.

  Friendly enough, but no-nonsense, the caller promptly identified herself as DC Jilani Azad from the Serious Crime Unit at Suffolk Constabulary. ‘I’m calling from West Suffolk hospital,’ she said. ‘Something you might be interested in …’

  Thorne widened his eyes at Hendricks, who immediately shifted his chair to Thorne’s side of the table, then leaned close so he could listen in.

  ‘Where’s this hospital?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘It’s just outside Bury St Edmunds,’ Azad said. ‘About halfway between Cambridge and Ipswich.’

  ‘OK. I’m hoping that’s not the interesting bit.’

  The officer grunted. ‘They admitted a patient about four hours ago, just after he staggered into A and E covered in sick, with what they thought was acute liver failure. White male, early forties. Looked like he’d overdosed on Quavers, the colour of him. Plus, there was …’ Now it sounded as though the DC was reading something she’d written. ‘Cyanosis of the extremities.’

  Thorne looked at Hendricks.

  ‘Blue fingers,’ Hendricks whispered, waggling his own.

  ‘They only called us after he started rambling about being poisoned.’

  ‘OK …’

  ‘So, I was going through this bloke’s wallet, looking for ID of some kind, and I found a whole bunch of them. Driving licences, credit cards, all sorts in different names. I ran them through the system and your name popped up.’

  ‘Which name?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Your name.’

  ‘Which name led you to my name?’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a short pause. ‘Patrick Jennings?’

  Thorne sat up a lot straighter. Hendricks raised a thumb. ‘OK, listen, I’ll need to talk to him as soon as possible, so—’

  ‘OK, well good luck with that.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Poor bugger slipped into a coma,’ Azad said. ‘About half an hour after they brought him in.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake …’

  ‘Sod’s law, isn’t it?’ Azad said.

  Hendricks raised his thumb a second time, then slowly turned it anticlockwise, grimacing.

  ‘I’ll be there as quickly as I can,’ Thorne said. Azad began trying to explain that she might have gone off shift by then, but Thorne wasn’t really interested in much beyond ending the call and getting on the road. By the time he was off the phone he was back inside the flat, locking the back door, gathering up papers and car keys. ‘What do you reckon? Hour and a half, this time of night?’

  ‘Yeah, probably.’ Hendricks dropped the two empty bottles into the recycling bin. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Should be there by half-nine with a bit of luck, presuming we don’t hit traffic.’

  Hendricks turned and stared at him. ‘We? No chance, mate, I’ve—’

  ‘It’s a hospital,’ Thorne said. ‘Medical stuff. You might actually be some help for a change.’

  ‘What about the pizza?’

  Thorne had the front door open. ‘They’ll probably just leave it on the doorstep,’ he said. ‘It’s better warmed up, anyway.’

  SIXTY-FOUR

  They drove into the hospital car park just before nine forty-five and Thorne was surprised to find Tanner, who he had called as soon as he had left home, waiting for him in reception.

  ‘How the hell …?’

  ‘No need for the M25 from where I am,’ Tanner said. ‘Plus, I put my bloody foot down. Didn’t you?’ Before Thorne could answer, she had turned her attention to Hendricks, who did not look a good deal happier than he had been when they’d left London almost two hours earlier. ‘Another favour he owes you, Phil.’

  ‘Damn right, he does. I gave up pizza for this.’

  ‘Greater love hath no man—’

  ‘Are you two finished?’ Thorne looked at Tanner.

  ‘Come on then.’ She rolled her eyes at Hendricks and led them across to the lifts. ‘I’ve already sussed out where the ICU is …’

  Having identified themselves at the nurses’ station, they followed directions to a room at the far end of the unit and discovered DC Jilani Azad on a chair outside the door. She looked up from the paperback thriller she was reading, then got smartly to her feet. Thorne was impressed that she’d stayed on to wait for them and told her so.

  ‘Bugger all else on.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘So, what’s the story with him in there, then?’

  They certainly did not need an over-keen DC under their feet, but Thorne saw no reason to be an arsehole about it and send her away ignorant, not after all she’d done this far. ‘I’ve every reason to believe that the man you called me about is one of our prime suspects in a major murder investigation.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Thanks for the good work tonight, Jilani,’ Tanner said. ‘You can get on your way now, but we’ll let you know how it pans out.’

  If she was even a little disappointed at being surplus to requirements, the Suffolk DC didn’t show it, and Thorne enjoyed watching the woman walk away down the corridor with something like a spring in her step.

  ‘Shall we?’ Tanner pushed the door open and she, Hendricks and Thorne walked into the room.

  They could hear the patient, or at least the wheeze and bleep of the machines he was wired up to, before they rounded a portable curtain and took their first look at the man in the bed. A breathing tube, thick as a vacuum hose, had been strapped across his face and a thin wire snaked up from his skull to some kind of wall-mounted monitor with a bag attached. A tangle of cables connected to various pumps and monitors criss-crossed his chest. With little or no idea what any of the equipment was actually doing, Thorne found himself staring instead at the IV stand; the steady drip-drip of the glucose-saline being fed through a cannula in the patient’s right hand.

  ‘Somebody’s having a bad day,’ Hendricks said.

  Tanner leaned close to one of the monitors. ‘You can say that again.’

  Thorne felt a twinge of something like sympathy, because it was hard to look at anyone in such a helpless state, but it was gone the instant he reminded himself what the man in the bed had done. ‘He’s been responsible for plenty of other people’s bad days. Their worst days.’

  He took a step closer to the head of the bed and looked down at the patient’s face. What he could see of it beneath the plasters and the plastic. A man who carried ID documents in the names of Patrick Jennings, Paul Jenner and others, but who Thorne knew only as Conrad.

  Who Thorne … knew.

  There was something oddly familiar about the man, but Thorne had no idea what, or why it should be disturbing him so much. Something around the eyes, was it? The shape of the face? He
was as certain as he could be that he had never met this man, and yet …

  There was a sharp knock at the door and the three of them turned as a woman stepped in. Fifty or thereabouts, with a shock of red hair and dressed as though she’d been called away from a posh evening out. She walked straight across to the bed and, without looking at the visitors, introduced herself as Maggie Drummond. ‘I’m the consultant in charge of looking after … well, as I understand it, we still don’t have a name.’

  ‘Actually, we’ve got quite a few,’ Thorne said.

  The woman turned and asked to see ID again, which Thorne thought was a little over the top and said as much. As he and Tanner dug into pockets for warrant cards, Hendricks stepped forward.

  ‘I gather you thought it was liver failure,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it was—’ She stopped and looked at him.

  ‘He’s a doctor too,’ Thorne said. ‘Hard to believe, I know.’

  ‘I normally work with stiffs. But, you know …’ Hendricks jerked a thumb towards the bed, ‘seeing as this one’s more or less there already …’

  Drummond nodded. ‘It’s what caused the liver to fail that was stumping us. Until he started babbling about poison.’

  Thorne listened as the pair of them began to discuss the man’s symptoms and the treatment, or at least the care, he was currently receiving. The conversation showed little regard for the two police officers standing around like lemons, at least one of whom could barely understand one word in ten. They talked about fulminant hepatic necrosis, coagulopathy and elevated prothrombin time, computed tomography and oesophageal varices.

  ‘Is there any chance of talking English?’ Thorne said. ‘Just for five minutes?’

  Drummond looked across at him as though she’d all but forgotten the police presence in the room and that this was anything but a run-of-the-mill case conference. ‘So … yes, all the classic signs of liver failure, jaundice and so on and it became obvious fairly quickly that the kidneys were shutting down too. That everything was starting to shut down.’

  ‘What did he say? You said he was babbling.’

  ‘That’s right. Confusion and disorientation are common symptoms.’ She glanced at Hendricks, who nodded. ‘But there were moments when he was lucid enough. Thirty seconds here and there, when we could ask some questions. He managed to tell us that he’d started feeling ill four or five days ago … vomiting, diarrhoea and so on … that he thought it was just a stomach bug. Twenty-four hours later he was right as rain again, until yesterday morning, when he began to go downhill very fast and eventually drove himself to hospital. A little too late, as it turned out. A case like this that’s caught early, there’s the possibility of a transplant, but he was way too far gone for that.’