Time of Death

by Mark Billingham

  ‘Oh, I don’t want the fucker back,’ Linda said. ‘I know what he didn’t do and I know damn well what he did do, and whatever happens when he gets out he’s not coming back to me and my kids. He’s not coming back to Charli.’ She shook her head. ‘We’ll be fine as we are, thank you very much, just like we were before I ever met him.’ She held up her left hand, stared at the mark where her wedding ring used to be. ‘What, you seriously think I’d take him back?’

  She rubbed at the small dark spot on the newspaper; watched the next one form and the next . . .

  SIXTY-NINE

  ‘Nice,’ Thorne said. Nodding approvingly, he followed Hendricks along a carpeted hallway lined with framed black and white photographs into a smart, modern kitchen. Every inch of bleached wood and stainless steel was spotless. ‘Looks like you landed on your feet.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Hendricks was barefoot, wearing a black vest and tracksuit bottoms. He padded across the tiles and loaded a capsule into a shiny Nespresso machine. ‘Not that I’ve spent a great deal of time on my feet.’ He flashed Thorne a grin. ‘On my knees, mostly.’

  ‘I don’t need the details.’

  ‘Don’t forget I’m doing all this for you.’

  ‘Course you are,’ Thorne said.

  They took their coffees into an equally smart and tidy sitting room. Wooden floors and cowhide rugs, chrome and soft leather, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, high-end magazines and CDs which Thorne immediately began to peruse.

  ‘I told you I’d call,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When I heard anything from the lab.’

  Thorne took out an album and examined it. He hadn’t heard of the band, but was impressed that the collection was in alphabetical order. ‘I know, but I thought I might as well come and keep you company in the meantime.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  Thorne found an Emmylou Harris CD and waved it at Hendricks. The album she’d made with Daniel Lanois. ‘He’s got good taste in music, anyway.’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘How’s he afford all this on a lecturer’s salary and a bit of consulting work?’ Liam Southworth’s flat was on the top floor of a portered block a few miles from the Warwick University campus. Thorne had seen signs for the gym on the way in, the entrance to a private parking garage.

  ‘He is a senior lecturer.’

  ‘Still.’ Thorne put the CD back in its place and began poking around the room, touching things. He picked up a small, marble sculpture from the top of a cupboard. He had no idea what it was supposed to be, but it looked expensive. ‘Is there some kind of black market in dead beetles?’

  ‘I think he inherited some money,’ Hendricks said. ‘Not really talked about it.’

  Thorne wandered back and sat down next to Hendricks on a sofa which looked a lot more comfortable than it felt. Hendricks passed him a wooden coaster for his cup which Thorne dutifully set down gently on the glass table next to him.

  He smirked. ‘Look at you. Coasters.’

  ‘Not my place, is it?’

  ‘You weren’t wrong about the TV.’ Thorne nodded at the huge screen mounted on the wall, a built-in shelf lined with DVDs.

  ‘The sound’s incredible,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘I bet.’ Thorne had already clocked the sub-woofer, the Bose speakers high up in the corners of the room.

  ‘So, what you been doing with yourself?’ Hendricks sat back and sipped his latte. ‘Apart from turning up here to keep me company.’

  ‘I met up with Patterson, the pig farmer. Complete waste of time. After that, I went for a walk in the woods.’

  Hendricks stared. If he had been at home and less concerned with not making a mess, he would probably have spat out his coffee for comic effect.

  Thorne shrugged. ‘Yeah, I went back to the spot where Jessica’s body was found, hung about there for a bit. Then I just . . . walked around. You know, nice enough day.’

  Now, it was Hendricks’ turn to smirk. ‘Look at you. Walking.’

  ‘No law against it.’

  ‘No, but you are normally someone who thinks there should be.’

  Thorne did not want Hendricks to know that trudging through the woods for almost two hours had simply been about killing time; that although he was now enjoying himself considerably more, he was still trying to kill it.

  He had no desire to talk about why.

  ‘So, what’s Helen up to?’

  Hendricks knew him far too bloody well. Thorne guessed that his friend had known something was up from the moment Thorne had arrived out of the blue.

  ‘She’s just kicking around at Paula’s, I think.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘I think she wants to be on her own for a bit.’

  ‘Right . . . ’

  Hendricks was asking the question.

  ‘You were . . . bang on,’ Thorne said, eventually. ‘Remember you said something about home and bad memories? Turns out that town’s got some pretty bad ones for her. So . . . ’ Thorne did not want to say any more. He knew that Helen would tell Hendricks what those bad memories were if and when she was ready; they were close enough. Seeing the look on his face now though, Thorne found himself wondering if Hendricks already knew. Or perhaps he had guessed. ‘Thing is, I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know if the things I did say were the right things.’

  Hendricks put his drink down. ‘Not sure there’s ever any right things. You know . . . depends on the situation, obviously, but whatever it is . . . you just say what you’re feeling and you can’t go far wrong.’

  ‘I wanted her to feel better,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Course you did, mate. I’m sure you told her what she needed to hear.’

  ‘I hope so, Phil.’

  ‘I mean, you’re not a complete twat, are you?’ Hendricks smiled. ‘Not all the time.’

  Hendricks phoned out for pizza and they ate from the boxes, in front of the TV. They talked about music and football for a while and Thorne asked a few more questions about Liam. When Brigstocke called again and Thorne dropped the call, they both enjoyed listening to the irate message the DCI left. Reading the text message that arrived from him a few minutes later, saying much the same thing.

  FFS!! Maybe u should have quit after Bardsey. You’ll be lucky to end up back on the beat. Saw a vacancy for a lollipop man but that’s probably out of your league . . .

  ‘I think I’m getting addicted to daytime TV,’ Hendricks said.

  Thorne had been enjoying his friend’s running commentary on Doctors, Win It, Cook It and especially Cash in the Attic. ‘That’s serious.’

  ‘I know and as far as I’m aware there isn’t a single support group, there’s no rehab centres.’

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ Thorne said.

  They watched and took the piss, the pin-sharp images and surround-sound heightening each unintentionally comic gem and profoundly undramatic moment.

  ‘We could do this,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Knock up a reality show.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Piece of piss. We just use what we know, right? How hard can it be? People love a bit of murder and forensics, don’t they? Ice ’Em, Slice ’Em, what about that?’

  Thorne laughed, as he usually did. These sessions with Hendricks had often been the only time he was able to relax during some of the tougher investigations they had worked on together. A way to decompress, to forget, if only for a few hours. But there was no way he could forget what Helen had told him. The pain in the telling and the deeper pain of those events she was recalling, still eating her up after almost thirty years.

  Despite Hendricks’ best efforts, Thorne was craving the simple distraction of the Bates case.

  The case he was not supposed to be involved i
n . . .

  When Liam Southworth called, Thorne enjoyed seeing his friend’s face change, soften. He watched Hendricks turn away and lower his voice and Thorne decided it might be a good time to check out the toilet.

  When he came back, Hendricks held up the phone and said, ‘We’re in business, mate. We’ve got Percy Pig in our bugs. A hundred per cent match for porky DNA. Good news, right?’

  Thorne nodded, his mind already racing, but unable to go anywhere.

  ‘One thing, though.’ Hendricks told him that Cornish had already been informed, that Liam had been given no choice in the matter.

  ‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ Thorne said. ‘I won’t be holding my breath for an apology, or a “thank you”.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’

  ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue,’ Thorne said.

  They sat around for another ten or fifteen minutes, but Thorne was unable to settle. When Hendricks got up to carry the pizza boxes into the kitchen, Thorne announced that he was heading back to Polesford.

  ‘You want me to come with you?’ Hendricks asked.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ll call and tell you what’s happening.’

  ‘Let me know how Helen’s doing, will you?’

  Thorne pulled on his jacket and said that he would. As he was walking to the door, Hendricks shouted through from the kitchen.

  ‘What about Corpse in the Attic? Come on, mate, you know that’s a winner.’

  SEVENTY

  Jason Sweeney knocked on the bedroom door and walked in without being invited. Helen was lying on the bed. She had picked up a book but been unable to focus and had read the same sentence several times without understanding it, before finally giving up.

  She swung her legs off the bed, tugged down the polo shirt she was wearing over jeans.

  ‘Sorry.’ Sweeney was still wearing his dressing gown.

  You should have waited until I asked you to come in, then, Helen thought. ‘It’s OK, I was just reading,’ she said.

  ‘Just thought you might want to know . . . there’s stuff on the TV. That schoolgirl Bates was supposedly banging.’ He saw Helen’s reaction. ‘Sorry. Having a relationship with.’

  ‘I’m not really interested, to be honest.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sweeney looked a little crestfallen. He shifted his weight from one slippered foot to the other. ‘I thought you would be.’

  ‘I saw the paper,’ Helen said. ‘There won’t be anything new on the TV.’

  ‘You’re Linda’s mate though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Sweeney nodded slowly. ‘A bit of a turn-up, don’t you think?’ He leaned against the door jamb. ‘This girl, I mean.’

  Helen looked at him. The dressing gown was gaping at the top. Black hairs curled against the pale fat of his chest. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said.

  She left it ten minutes and, as she’d hoped, by the time she walked into the sitting room, the news channel had moved on to a report about flood clean-up operations. The damage had been far worse in the south-west and parts of Wales than it had been locally.

  Sweeney was in his armchair, a can of beer nestled in his lap.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working later?’ Helen asked.

  ‘It’s only the one can.’

  She could smell the fags on him from several feet away. ‘It’s one can too much when you drive for a living.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s like I said last night. You lot are never off duty.’

  ‘I’m off duty right now,’ Helen said. ‘It’s just friendly advice.’ She sat down on the sofa and concentrated on the television. Now it was a sports round-up, but she pretended to be engrossed. She was wondering what Thorne was doing.

  ‘You think they’ll release him now?’ Sweeney asked. ‘Bates.’

  ‘Not because of the girl.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Alibis from spouses, partners, whatever. They really need to be checked out and even then . . . ’

  ‘Some other reason, then?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘“Not because of the girl”, you said. Sounds like there might be another reason.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Helen said.

  Sweeney smiled and swigged. ‘I reckon you’re not as off duty as you say you are.’

  ‘You can reckon all you like.’

  Another smile, another swig. ‘I noticed you were keeping very quiet last night,’ Sweeney said. ‘When Paula was talking about the bugs and all that, how it was important. You just sat there like a shop dummy, never made a peep.’ He was watching her. She kept her eyes on the screen. ‘I mean it was obvious you knew something.’

  Helen’s mobile buzzed. She looked and saw a text from Thorne.

  on my way back to polesford hope you’re feeling ok.

  ‘Didn’t want to say anything with your other half around, that it?’

  Helen typed a reply while Sweeney talked.

  Come and pick me up . . .

  ‘Maybe he wouldn’t have liked it if you’d let something slip, given you what for later on. Don’t worry, I get it.’

  . . . We can go for a drink or something . . .

  ‘Some couples are like that, aren’t they?’

  . . . Get an early dinner x

  Sweeney leaned forward. ‘He’s not here now though, is he?’

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Thorne put his foot down.

  He had felt a rush of excitement on receiving the message from Helen, at having a good reason for going back. It had not been exaggeration when he had told Hendricks he had no idea where this new DNA evidence would lead. Other than straight into a brick wall, of course.

  Now, Thorne knew beyond reasonable doubt that Stephen Bates was not the man they were looking for, but in truth he was no closer to identifying the man actually responsible for the murder of Jessica Toms. He knew who the killer wasn’t, but that wouldn’t cut much ice with the likes of Tim Cornish and it wouldn’t help save Poppy Johnston.

  If she was still alive to save.

  His desire to get back to Polesford – and Helen – as quickly as possible, was soon compromised by Friday afternoon traffic on the M42. To compound his frustration, it seemed to be moving fast enough in the other direction. Perhaps somebody was trying to tell him something.

  He put a CD on, a compilation he’d made. Johnny singing about the darkness he saw, then Hank sounding like there was something even blacker inside him. The traffic crawled past a junction while Thorne tried and failed to decide if he’d be better coming off the motorway; tried and failed to gain any comfort from the fact that those officially working on the inquiry would be feeling every bit as frustrated as he was.

  Despite the fact that they had misread the evidence, and in Cornish’s case refused to accept the possibility that they might have done so, Thorne knew they had gone about things the same way that any other team would have done.

  They had simply run out of options.

  In a town the size of Polesford, an obvious step would have been to take DNA samples from every man of a suitable age, but without anything to match those samples to, it was a pointless exercise. In burning the body of Jessica Toms, eliminating any traces of his own DNA had not been the killer’s main objective, but it had certainly been a very useful side-effect. It had become clear that they were looking for someone with at least a basic knowledge of forensic procedure. That, whatever was driving him, the man who had taken Jessica and Poppy was far from stupid. Unless – like so many Thorne had come across – he made a careless mistake, he would remain free to kill again; in Polesford, or more likely somewhere else, once the investigation had run out of steam and the media circus had upped sticks and moved on.

  Thorne asked himself if he would be satisfied, knowing that he had at the very least prove
d a man’s innocence. It sounded as though Helen’s relationship with Linda Bates had about run its course, and if that was the case, he and Helen would probably be leaving sooner rather than later. Would getting Stephen Bates off the hook be enough?

  Thorne knew very well that it would not.

  For all the killers he had put away, it was the ones he had failed to catch who kept sleep at bay now and again or nudged him awake in the early hours. Then there were those he had caught and failed to hold on to.

  He thought about a man called Stuart Nicklin. Wherever he was and whatever he was calling himself now, Thorne knew their paths would cross again, that Nicklin would make sure of it. It was something no sane individual would look forward to.

  After forty minutes of stop-start, the traffic finally began to move a little more freely. If it stayed that way, he could be back with Helen before the CD had finished.

  He put his foot down again.

  Driving through Polesford on his way to collect Helen, Thorne saw a small group of teenagers gathered in the semi-dark outside a shop. They were banging on the window, shouting at someone inside. He slowed, then when the driver behind began sounding his horn, he pulled on to the pavement and flicked on his hazards. He had wondered if the boys he and Helen had confronted the previous night were among those doing the shouting, but quickly saw that they weren’t. If anything, these kids were even younger, boys and girls. Watching one of them kicking at the door, Thorne realised they were standing outside the milkshake bar he had walked past on his first day in town.

  He watched as a young woman came out of the shop to confront them. He lowered his window and heard her tell them to piss off, that she would call the police if they didn’t. After hurling a few final insults, the group wandered away, exchanging backslaps and high-fives, and as the woman walked back into the milkshake bar, Thorne could finally see who it was they had been abusing; the solitary customer, her back to the window, hunched over a table near the counter.