Time of Death

by Mark Billingham

  Tim Cornish leaned towards Poppy Johnston’s mother and whispered something. She nodded and Cornish laid a hand on her arm.

  Michael Johnston unfolded a piece of paper. He took out a pair of glasses, looked down and read. ‘Stephen Bates has persistently refused to tell police where our daughter is.’ His voice cracked a little. Cornish pushed a glass of water towards him, but he didn’t take it. ‘So . . . today we’re appealing to anyone who might know anything that might help us find Poppy to please come forward. Anything at all. If anyone saw anything or has heard anything, please call the incident room, night or day. It doesn’t matter what it is, just call. You don’t have to give your name.’ He folded the piece of paper again. ‘We just want to find her.’ Now, he reached for the water.

  ‘Please,’ Annette Johnston said. She had no piece of paper to read from, and something about the way she spoke up suddenly made Thorne wonder if she had come intending to speak at all. ‘Somebody must know something.’ She leaned forward, found a camera. ‘If by any chance you’re watching this, Pops, we’re trying our best to bring you home.’ She tensed, and it was hard to tell if she was squeezing her husband’s hand or he was squeezing hers. ‘We love you so much . . . ’

  Cornish said, ‘OK,’ and laid a hand on the woman’s arm again. Chairs scraped noisily against the floor as they stood, one by one, and Cornish helped the couple to the edge of the platform. From there, a uniformed officer walked them towards a small door in the corner of the hall; cameras flashing as though they were walking a red carpet.

  Assistant Chief Constable Harris waited for Cornish to return to his seat, then nodded out towards the phalanx of journalists.

  ‘Do you believe that Poppy Johnston is still alive?’

  Heads turned, all well aware that the Johnstons had not quite left the hall yet. Annette Johnston spun around and her mouth fell open. She scanned the room for the source of the question, but the man responsible had already lowered his hand. There was one more explosion of flashes before she turned away and was ushered through the door.

  The following morning’s front page.

  ‘We are keeping an open mind,’ Harris said, eventually. ‘Our priority is to find her, but yes, until we learn otherwise, we remain hopeful.’

  ‘Even though Bates must have killed Jessica Toms almost immediately?’

  Clearly the press knew as much about the state of the body as they did about everything else. Based on that, the journalist’s question was couched around the only explanation possible.

  The very explanation that was troubling Thorne so much.

  ‘As I said, we remain hopeful.’

  A hand was raised within a few feet of where Thorne was sitting, and when the eyes of those on the platform were cast in his direction, Thorne imagined getting to his feet to ask a question of his own.

  If Stephen Bates is guilty of murdering Jessica Toms, are you not concerned by the fact that her body was not discovered for at least two days? Despite having conducted extensive searches of an area that is usually crawling with dog-walkers?

  Harris answered the question that had actually been asked. Something about how Bates had behaved in custody. It prompted others.

  ‘Poppy’s father said that Bates has refused to say anything about where Poppy is.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘But has he admitted taking her?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that.’

  ‘Has he admitted killing Jessica Toms?’

  ‘I’m afraid that, as of now, I can’t comment on matters that may directly affect the prosecution.’

  There were several more questions along the same lines and all were met with much the same response. Then proceedings were wrapped up fairly quickly. The press liaison officer gave the nod and Harris made a closing statement.

  As before, he thanked the people of Polesford for their continued support. He said how grateful he and everyone else was to the media for showing sensitivity. He urged the journalists present to focus on the hunt for Poppy and not to dwell on matters that were unimportant, or at best ‘peripheral to the case’. Thorne saw Cornish glance in his direction and could not help wondering if the comment had been aimed at him.

  What else could Harris have been talking about?

  He could imagine Helen telling him that he was being paranoid. There were plenty of other angles for the press to explore, after all, every bit as peripheral as the presence of a newsworthy Met officer. Thorne knew the kind of stories the papers would be shelling out cash for.

  I sat next to Stephen Bates at school.

  Stephen Bates gave me a funny look at a bus stop once.

  There was definitely something about him I never liked.

  Those were the stories that angered Thorne the most. The neighbours or old schoolfriends crawling out of the woodwork, queuing up to pocket a fee and point out that they always knew there was something dodgy about Killer X or Rapist Y.

  No, they didn’t. Simple as that.

  That was why the people who did these things were able to get away with it for so long; precisely because they behaved every bit as normally as everyone else. You could appear just as kindly as the village vicar and be a sexual predator. You could look like a central casting serial killer and be as harmless as an infant.

  Stephen Bates looked like . . . Stephen Bates. Not a killer, no, but probably not a choirboy either. Probably . . .

  Thorne was suddenly struck by a possibility he had not considered.

  What if Bates had been involved, but in league with somebody else? It would certainly explain the wealth of evidence against him. Perhaps he had taken the girls and his accomplice had disposed of the body. But that did not explain the cigarette butt with Bates’ DNA that had been found in the grave. Perhaps Bates’ partner was thinking on his feet and had been trying to stitch Bates up once he had been arrested.

  Or Stephen Bates was being stitched up by someone else entirely.

  Around him, the hall was emptying quickly, the majority of the audience needing to get their copy filed as fast as possible. Thorne stood and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. Up on the platform, Tim Cornish was chatting to the press liaison officer; nodding and puffing away on his e-cig as the banner was being disassembled behind him.

  Cornish turned and looked directly at Thorne. He smiled, showing plenty of teeth.

  Thorne smiled back.

  Play dead.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Once Carson and her colleagues had established that nobody was in any physical danger, they retreated to the kitchen, but Helen was certain that they could hear the shouting. She guessed that the crowd still gathered outside could hear it.

  ‘I want to see my kids. Where are they? I demand to see my fucking kids . . . ’

  Linda just sat there while her ex-husband ranted, as though she were well used to it. Looking on from just inside the door of the living room, Helen wondered if the man’s prodigious temper might be one of the reasons he and Linda had split up in the first place. Watching him stomp around though, she thought the man’s anger began to seem a little theatrical, as though he were playing the part of the furious father. Perhaps giving a performance that could be easily overheard was exactly the point.

  ‘You can’t stop me seeing my own kids.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You got that?’

  ‘Who’s stopping you?’ Linda said.

  ‘Yeah, well you’d better not try.’ Wayne Smart leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He wore camouflage cargo pants and trainers; a green army jacket. Helen had no reason to believe he was ex-army, looking rather more like someone who fancied himself as a soldier. Someone who’d been turned down, perhaps. He was big enough, but a little bloated, with blond highlights and earrings in both ears. Helen had smelled booze on him as he’d pushed past her in the hallway.
<
br />   Something he and Linda had in common.

  Smart reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out cigarettes.

  ‘Not in here,’ Linda said. ‘This isn’t our place.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s.’ Smart lit his cigarette and sucked in fast. He jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. ‘Let one of your pet coppers come and arrest me if they want. There’s enough of them.’ He took another drag, then turned and stared at Helen. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘I’m another one,’ Helen said.

  ‘Yeah, well why don’t you piss off and join your mates? Me and my ex-wife have got things to talk about.’

  ‘She’s a friend,’ Linda said.

  ‘She’s what?’

  ‘An old friend.’

  Smart turned to look at Helen again.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Helen said.

  Smart studied her for a few seconds, genuinely curious, then shrugged and marched across to the window. He pulled a curtain aside and looked out. Helen was aware of the movement as the crowd shifted to look, of cameras flashing.

  ‘Shut that,’ she said.

  Smart did not move. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘Shut it, or I’ll nick you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t know, for having shit hair?’ Helen stepped further into the room. ‘Or I’m sure I can make breach of the peace stick.’

  Smart let the curtain fall back and turned round. He flicked cigarette ash on to the carpet. The anger had reappeared in his face, or been turned on again. ‘Where are Charli and Danny?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ Linda said.

  ‘Good.’ He walked across and sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘Go and get them.’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Why do you suddenly care so much now?’ Linda leaned forward. ‘How long since you’ve seen them, eighteen months? How long since you even bothered to call?’

  ‘Yeah, well it’s different now, isn’t it?’

  ‘What, you suddenly a model father, are you?’

  Smart stabbed a finger at her. ‘I’m a father who’s found out who his kids have been living with.’

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ Linda said.

  The finger continued stabbing the air. ‘So, don’t come all high and mighty about who’s a model this or model that, because you haven’t got a leg to stand on.’

  ‘Don’t . . . ’

  ‘Because I’m not the one who chose to marry a kiddie-fiddler, am I? A child murderer, for God’s sake.’ He glanced across to bring Helen into the conversation. ‘Not that she was ever much of a mother to begin with. Not what you’d call “responsible”.’ He picked up the empty wine bottle from the table and dangled it between two fingers. ‘Still caning it, I see.’ He dropped his cigarette end into the bottle and banged it back down on to the table.

  ‘You finished?’ Helen asked.

  Smart turned to her again. Said, ‘Nowhere near.’ He sat back in the chair, as if he had lived in the house for years. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘She told you,’ Helen said.

  ‘Well, I’ve got no idea who you are and I’ve known her for the best part of twenty years, so you can’t be that bloody close.’ He seemed pleased that Helen did not have a quick response. ‘I tell you this for nothing though. However much of an old friend you think you are, I know her a damn sight better than you do.’

  ‘No,’ Linda said. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘She knows exactly what that pervert she married is like, and if she tells you any different, she’s full of shit.’

  ‘All right,’ Helen said.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else.’ Smart leaned towards Linda and, for the first time, Helen sensed anger that was genuine; simmering and dangerous, barely contained. ‘If I find out that bastard’s touched my kids, you’ll be the one I’m coming after.’

  Linda’s head dropped slowly.

  ‘Now I can arrest you for threatening behaviour as well,’ Helen said.

  ‘It was a promise,’ Smart said. He didn’t take his eyes off his ex-wife. ‘Not a threat.’ He let out a long breath and reached for his cigarettes again. ‘So, am I going to see my kids, or not?’

  ‘How do you know they want to see you?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t they want to see me?’ He tried to light his cigarette, shook the lighter. ‘I’m their father, aren’t I? I’m not the pervert.’

  ‘Linda?’

  ‘Yeah . . . ’

  Helen told Wayne Smart to wait, asked Linda if she’d be all right for a few minutes. Linda nodded.

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’ Smart asked.

  Helen left without answering him, stepping out into the hall, careful to leave the living room door ajar. When she turned at the bottom of the stairs, she saw Charli and Danny looking down at her. They were sitting close together on the same stair, halfway up.

  Like pyjama-clad toddlers who’ve crept down in the middle of the night.

  FORTY

  It had been a good choice, those woods where he’d left Jessica in the night. The perfect place for that last hour or so they had been together. He was happy she had gone to sleep somewhere peaceful. He shook his head, adjusted the thought. Happy that it was where she had been laid to rest.

  She had gone to sleep elsewhere, of course.

  Places like that – natural, green, quiet – still felt a little strange, even after all this time. So different to where he had grown up, the places he had worked in before. He watched the local kids sneaking off into those woods sometimes, bags clinking with bottles, pockets full of condoms, and he was jealous because he couldn’t help but wish that his first few times had been somewhere like that, under trees rather than flyovers. Birds and things that smelled nice. Moss on a girl’s back instead of brick dust.

  He remembered his first time, just like everyone else did. Forget that and you might as well cash in your chips. A week before his sixteenth birthday, a girl called Julia, who was a year younger than he was. They had been walking back to the bus from the cinema and it had been her idea to cut through a narrow alleyway. She’d known exactly what she was doing, of course she had, but it had been more than OK with him.

  In a stinking doorway, the clatter of heels on concrete somewhere nearby; the usual unzippings and fumblings. It had all been over pretty quickly, but the girl had been OK about it, he knew he was remembering that right.

  She’d been putting her lipstick back on and he’d asked her. She’d said ‘fine’ or ‘great’ or something.

  He remembered asking her.

  Obviously there would be people who thought what he was doing was because he felt inadequate; hating these girls deep down, because of being laughed at in the past or something. They could not have been wider of the mark. In fact, all the girls he’d ever been with had made a point of saying how well he’d treated them, how nicely. He’d asked all of them, more than once, and every girl had seemed happy. They’d all made it pretty clear that he was no slouch in the bedroom department either.

  He smiled. His hand dropped to his groin.

  Bedroom, bathroom, back seat, whatever.

  Obviously, he knew that girls like Jessica and Poppy were far more likely to be impressed with the things he could do, because most of them didn’t have a lot to compare it to. No, if anything, it was the women his own age who tended to be more judgemental. Seen it all, done it all, blah blah. There hadn’t been too many complaints, but surely there wasn’t a bloke walking around who didn’t recognise the occasional look of mild disappointment. Couldn’t be too many who hadn’t been told it didn’t matter, when they knew very well that it did.

  Younger girls were . . . kinder.

  And he was kind to them in return, at the end. He was quick
about it.

  Poppy though. Sweet Pops . . .

  It wasn’t his fault, not entirely, he had miscalculated, that was all. He hadn’t thought things would get so hectic, and he probably should have done. No, he definitely should have done. The end, if it hadn’t come already, would be anything but kind and he was living with the pain of that every day. Like an ulcer or something. Like cancer . . .

  Cruelty did not sit easily.

  It was not who he was.

  FORTY-ONE

  Thorne guessed he was the only Spurs fan in the pub. He was certainly the only one watching the match who seemed upset about the fact that they were one down at home to Manchester City within fifteen minutes. He was starting to wish he hadn’t bothered coming. Wasn’t football supposed to be an escape from the stress and anguish of his job?

  All that pain and grief.

  Murder was a doddle in comparison . . .

  ‘Not your boys’ night by the look of it.’ Trevor Hare was collecting empty glasses.

  ‘Long way to go,’ Thorne said.

  They watched for half a minute. Thorne winced as his team’s leaky defence almost gifted a second goal to the visitors.

  ‘Steve Bates was sat where you are a week or two ago,’ Hare said. ‘Watching the match, same as you.’

  Thorne looked at him. Was the landlord telling him in case he fancied moving to another table? Was he about to start another of those ‘you think you know people’ routines Thorne was getting so tired of?

  ‘Won’t be so relaxed now, will he?’

  ‘I seriously doubt it,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Why not tell them though?’ Hare shook his head. ‘I don’t get that at all. He’s going down anyway, right? So why not put that poor girl’s parents out of their misery and just say where she is?’

  Thorne stared into his glass and decided against offering up his best guess.