Time of Death

by Mark Billingham

  Thorne had never seen Helen as angry, had been shocked by the violence. Her eyes, flat as she had meted it out. There was no doubt that the kid had deserved everything he had got, but Thorne could not help but suspect he was paying for something he had nothing to do with.

  It had been coming since Helen had first set foot back in Polesford.

  They met outside the abbey. The girl was wearing the same thick jacket she’d had on the night before and it was certainly cold enough for it. Thankfully, the rain had kept away again. The local newspaper Thorne had flicked through before he’d left Paula’s said that the floodwater had subsided still further, but that those areas affected by it were not out of the woods yet.

  ‘So, what happened?’

  They walked through the archway into the graveyard. There was a couple at the noticeboard, a man walking slowly along one of the narrow paths, studying the gravestones.

  ‘I went to the control unit place like you told me to and a copper took all my details, then they sent a car for me crack of dawn this morning, drove me to Nuneaton.’ She shook her head. ‘Waste of time. Should have had a lie-in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They didn’t believe me, that’s why.’

  ‘They said that?’

  ‘Didn’t have to. Bloke looked at me like I was five years old or something. I was only in there fifteen minutes.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  She shrugged. ‘Some dick with one of those stupid electronic cigarettes. Thanked me for coming in, nodded a lot and asked a few questions, then told me they’d be in touch. Made it pretty obvious that nothing I’d told him made a blind bit of difference.’

  They had reached the part of the graveyard that Thorne and Helen had visited a few days earlier. Thorne looked along the line of headstones, identified Sandra Weeks’ grave. The flowers Helen had laid were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What kind of questions did he ask?’

  ‘Stuff about the pub,’ she said. ‘That night I met Steve. Wanted to know which football match was on the TV or something.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘I don’t know the first thing about football and it wasn’t like we were there for very long anyway. It was where we’d arranged to meet, that’s all. We had one drink then got in the car and left because we had better things to do.’

  ‘Right.’

  She looked at him, a trace of a smile. She had clearly made an effort for her early-morning visit to the police station and was wearing almost as much make-up as she had the previous evening. ‘We had sex in Steve’s car.’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ Thorne said.

  They stopped at the entrance to the abbey and looked up. The gargoyles leered, stuck their tongues out. There was almost no wind and the flag was limp above the turrets.

  ‘You want to go in?’

  ‘If you like.’

  She nodded. ‘Freezing my tits off.’

  If anything it was colder inside, and certainly quieter. Their footsteps were unnaturally loud against the stone and instinctively their voices dropped to a whisper. The man Thorne had seen outside was at the far end, where steps led up to the high altar, bending to read an inscription on the font.

  ‘You believe in any of this?’ Aurora asked.

  Thorne shook his head.

  ‘Me neither. Stupid. Just something to make people feel better when things turn to shit. What d’you call it? A crutch.’

  ‘For some people, I suppose.’

  ‘Nice though.’ She walked forward, staring up at the windows, motes of dust dancing in the streams of coloured light. ‘Peaceful.’

  ‘You never been in here before?’

  ‘You been to the Tower of London? Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘Not since I was a kid.’

  ‘There you go then. You never appreciate what’s on your own doorstep.’ She walked further on past the rows of wooden pews, stopped to look at a Norman tomb; a knight carved in stone, arms folded across the sword on his chest. She waited for Thorne to join her. Said, ‘So what do I do now?’

  ‘You could try talking to a different copper.’

  She shook her head. ‘Been there, done that. I want people to know. The whole town’s talking about Steve like he’s some kind of monster, like a paedo or something. I want them to know it’s not true.’

  Thorne waited, let the man who had been at the front of the abbey walk past them, back towards the entrance. ‘There’s plenty of reporters around. I’m sure they’d be interested in your story. Probably pay a fair bit, too.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A lot, I should think.’

  The girl appeared to like the sound of that.

  ‘You got a job?’

  She looked at him like he was stupid. ‘I’m doing A/S levels, aren’t I? English, French and drama.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Thorne asked. ‘After.’

  ‘Get out as fast as possible,’ she said. ‘Maybe Birmingham or somewhere.’

  ‘What about a job?’

  ‘I’d rather work in Burger King there than have a decent job here.’ She smiled. ‘Steve said he’d come with me.’

  ‘What about university?’

  She pushed her hands into her pockets. ‘Steve said it’s a waste of time. We want to get a place together, start enjoying ourselves.’

  Thorne said nothing. He’d never clapped eyes on Stephen Bates, but guessed he was the sort to say anything that might get someone like Aurora Harley into bed. That cocky chef was another one, the sort who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Making fools out of young girls with his bullshit and his books.

  He watched her running a hand across the effigy, fingers tracing the smooth edges of the sandstone. She didn’t seem the sort to be impressed by the likes of Shelley or Steve Bates without good reason. Perhaps she was just a bad judge of character. Maybe she was just smart in all the ways except the one that really mattered.

  ‘So, you reckon I should talk to one of those journalists, then?’

  ‘Up to you,’ Thorne said. ‘They can twist things though.’

  A shrug. ‘No more so than anyone else round here.’ She took cigarettes from her pocket and they began walking back towards the door. ‘Was all that stuff about you twisted? In the paper?’

  ‘Some of it,’ Thorne said.

  She was flicking her lighter on and off as they walked. ‘You seem all right to me.’

  Thorne thought: Terrible judge of character.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  It wasn’t like too many people arrived at these places full of the joys of spring, Linda thought, but the whole process seemed designed to make a bad mood a damn sight worse. The queuing to get through that first reception area for a start; dumped on a chair and stared at, nobody in any real hurry to help, however polite you were being. Not a lot of people skills, the officers, especially the women. By the time you’d filled in the umpteenth form and had your picture taken you’d already lost the will to live, and that was before the metal detectors and these unsmiling arseholes going through your stuff and taking everything off you. Like your mobile might explode at any minute and your fags were laced with heroin or something.

  Wasn’t it getting out that was supposed to be impossible?

  Linda understood why it was necessary, she wasn’t stupid, but something about the way it was all done made her feel grimy and unwelcome. Like the very act of coming to see a prisoner made you one notch above a scumbag yourself. She tried telling herself that she needed to toughen up and get used to it. It was the way she’d been made to feel ever since that first knock on the door and maybe she’d been naïve thinking it wouldn’t be the same coming here.

  They knew who she was, didn’t they?

  The visiting area was smaller than she’d expected. A rubberised floor and four or five table
s and chairs. Maybe there was somewhere else for the general prison population, those who weren’t on remand, the ones who weren’t vulnerable. A vending machine stood in one corner, a prison officer sitting alongside with a magazine. There were more officers around than prisoners, only two when Linda sat down to wait. A man in his early twenties opposite a woman who was probably his mother and one who was much older, maybe seventy. Linda knew that there were all sorts in a vulnerable prisoners’ unit, not just sex offenders. Ex-coppers, lawyers, whatever, but looking at the two already sitting there, it was impossible not to wonder.

  Was the old man a judge or a kiddie-fiddler? Maybe both. The way she saw it, there were far too many child abusers getting sent down for less time than somebody who’d nicked a shirt during a riot.

  When Steve was led in, she felt her heart start to race.

  A thrill, for those first few seconds, same as that first time she’d seen him. Her and a girlfriend on the piss in that pub in Dorden, him and his mate buying them drinks all night, giving it all the chat. He was funny and full of himself, his shirt was open a long way down, and he was just what she needed.

  Today, he was wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt with a bib over it. Red for the vulnerable prisoners. He looked even thinner than he had done in court, and paler. His hair was all over the shop.

  He sat down and smiled and said, ‘Hello, gorgeous.’

  When she’d had that conversation with Helen about what it would be like, this was the moment that Linda had been imagining. Hands reaching across the table, squeezing and stroking.

  It was lucky for him that the rules prevented it. She could have happily reached across and taken one of his eyes out.

  ‘How are the kids?’ he said.

  ‘They’re OK.’

  He nodded. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about the other day, I don’t know what I was thinking. They told me you came down to the hospital.’

  Linda noticed the frayed edge of the bandage poking from the sleeve of his sweatshirt. ‘You must have been feeling awful,’ she said.

  ‘I was all over the place,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like in here.’

  ‘Bad, is it?’

  ‘Worse than I imagined. Worst bit is missing you and the kids, you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  He sat back. ‘Sorry, love. You didn’t come here to listen to me moaning.’ He smiled; same smile as that night at the pub in Dorden. They reckon when a woman goes for a night out she’s usually got a friend who’s not quite as attractive as she is. But it’s obviously rubbish, because me and my mate have been staring at you two all night and we can’t decide which one of you is the tastiest. ‘Glad you did come though. Couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about it.’

  ‘Tell me about the girl,’ Linda said.

  It was hard to read his expression. Shock, anger, and, by the time he finally spoke, something that looked like genuine disappointment. ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, I thought at least you’d believe I didn’t do anything. How could you think I’d done those things? You know me better than anyone.’

  ‘I don’t mean the girl they think you killed. I mean the girl I know you’ve been shagging. The sixteen-year-old girl?’ She watched his face change again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, and wondered where his chat was now. He blinked quickly and she could almost hear his mind working as he struggled to find whatever words might help him. ‘It’s why you couldn’t look at me in court, isn’t it? If that’s what guilty looks like, you’d better try and avoid it next time you’re standing in the dock.’

  ‘I met her a few times,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’ She leaned forward, just enough to remind him what she was capable of, ‘no touching’ rule or not. ‘Don’t even try to lie to me.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘So, what exactly was it you were thinking, those times you were “meeting” her brains out?’

  ‘Please, love—’

  ‘Same thing you were thinking the last time, or the time before that? Not that they were quite as young as this one, were they? Not still doing homework, as far as I can remember. Were you thinking: Look at me, I’ve still got it? Sad old twat who normally has to sit and toss himself off in front of the computer and look what I can still pull? Were you thinking how great you were, was it making you feel like you were twenty-one again? Looking up at some kid bouncing up and down on top of you and thinking, how great is that arse and look at those tits and thinking how much nicer they were than what you had at home? What you were stuck with?’ She shook her head and stared for a few moments, enjoying it. ‘No, definitely not that. Because the only thing I’m certain about is that you were not thinking about me. While you were lying and sneaking off and shagging that little slag, you did not spend one second thinking about me or about my kids.’

  She leaned back again, looked around. The prison officer by the vending machine dropped his eyes quickly back to his magazine. The woman visiting the younger of the other prisoners turned back to him.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ Steve said.

  Linda was thinking much the same thing. She could, for example, tell her husband that the young girl they had been discussing was determined to give him an alibi. She could mention that a pair of high-ranking police officers from London believed he was innocent, that they and a forensic expert were working hard to prove it.

  For the time being though, she decided to keep those things to herself.

  FIFTY-NINE

  They didn’t even get as far as Cornish’s office. After ten minutes making small talk to a desk officer, he came down to greet them, showed them through to what was basically a waiting room just off the main reception area. He seemed cheerful enough, puffing happily on his e-cigarette as he talked, like he was happy to be taking a break from proper police work.

  Thorne said, ‘You saw Aurora Harley this morning.’

  ‘Yeah, she told me she’d spoken to you.’ Cornish looked at his watch. It was just after eleven thirty. ‘You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?’

  ‘She said you didn’t take her seriously.’

  Cornish shook his head. ‘Not true. Kids like to exaggerate, don’t they?’ He was sitting on a plastic chair. He hooked a second one with his boot and pulled it into line so that he could put his feet up. ‘Look, I did exactly what anyone else would have done. What you would have done, I’m sure. The girl was interviewed, a statement was taken and we’re in the process of passing everything on to the CPS, but in all honesty it’s not like we’re holding the front page. I can’t see anything she told us changing the focus of this investigation or of the forthcoming prosecution.’ He took another hit of his e-cig, hummed with pleasure as the tip glowed blue. ‘You know you can get these in different flavours, right?’ He held it up. ‘This is cappuccino. You get a fag and a cup of coffee at the same time.’

  ‘Why doesn’t it change anything?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What she told you.’

  ‘She was all over the place for a start,’ Cornish said. ‘She couldn’t give us any real details. She couldn’t remember what was on TV in the pub that night, couldn’t even remember the name of the pub.’

  ‘I was in some pub a couple of days ago,’ Thorne said. ‘Had lunch there. Couldn’t tell you what the place was called, but I’m sure you’re not going to call me a liar.’

  ‘Listen, I’m perfectly willing to believe that Bates was giving her one, but if that’s the case, she’d say anything to get him off, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe she would.’

  ‘You telling me you’ve never questioned an alibi from a loved one? Most of the time they’re no better than prison confessions.’

  ‘So why didn’t she come forward straight away?’

  ‘God knows.’ He smiled, tapped the e
nd of his e-cig against his teeth. ‘Maybe she was busy with exams or something.’

  ‘I reckon it took her that long to pluck up the courage,’ Thorne said. ‘It took a lot of guts.’

  ‘And I’m grateful that she did come forward.’

  Thorne looked at him.

  ‘I mean, it confirms that Bates likes teenage girls, doesn’t it? If anything, it makes the case against him stronger, so I suppose I should thank you for pointing her in our direction.’

  Hendricks had said nothing, sitting there looking at his phone as though he was paying little attention to the exchange. Now, he said, ‘Just so you know, when we prove that Bates didn’t kill Jessica Toms, that he didn’t abduct anybody, we won’t be making a song and dance about it. When your mug is all over the front of the paper because you’re the copper that got it wrong and there are lawsuits flying about faster than shit off a shiny shovel, we won’t bother marching back in here to tell you what a bollocks you made of the whole investigation. Fair enough?’ He smiled. ‘We’re happy to leave that to somebody else.’

  Cornish blinked. He had clearly felt on safe ground jousting with Thorne, but something about Hendricks – his manner perhaps, the threat in his appearance and in that nice friendly smile – seemed to disconcert him for a moment or two. ‘Prove it, how?’ he said.

  ‘Whoever killed Jessica Toms disguised the time of death,’ Hendricks said. ‘He planted insects on the body to make it look like she’d died a lot earlier than she actually had. Like Bates had killed her as soon as she’d been taken.’ Cornish raised a hand, trying to get in, but Hendricks wouldn’t let him. ‘It’s why the body was partially burned. Just enough to open the skin, give the bugs something to feed on. All so it would look like Bates, so it’ll still look like it was Bates when he kills the next girl.’