Love Like Blood

by Mark Billingham

  ‘Because you’re good at making trouble.’ Hassani sipped his coffee. ‘It’s not something that comes naturally to her.’

  Thorne looked at his watch. ‘Quick chat, you said.’

  Hassani leaned forward. ‘Trouble isn’t something we need right now. It’s really not helping.’

  ‘Not helping you.’

  ‘Look… we’ve got several sources at these meetings, OK? People embedded in this organisation who are providing us with information, some of the groups I talked to you about the other day. That’s why we were monitoring the AHCA. Except for this honour-killers-for-hire business, it’s the same reason Nicola was so interested. It’s how I found out she was going in the first place, what the pair of you were up to. It’s how I heard about that stupid bloody circus last night.’

  ‘Information about what?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious, but as you’ve already made it very clear that you think our unit’s a joke —’

  ‘Unit? One room with a couple of whiteboards in it?’

  ‘Whether you believe it or not, and I really couldn’t give a toss either way, we’re investigating several serious honour-based crimes right now and everything you’re doing is seriously threatening to screw them all up.’

  ‘So, what? Your cases take precedence over mine?’

  ‘You know how this stuff goes. It’s hard enough to stop the community pulling the shutters down as it is. With crap like you pulled last night… ranting about murders being arranged, veiled accusations… important people in that community are starting to talk about a witch hunt, and they’ve got a point. You aren’t doing yourself any favours and you certainly aren’t helping me.’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘OK, then. I’m sorry.’

  Hassani nodded, pleased. ‘Good. That’s… good. Surely it’s better for everyone if there’s some co-operation.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick,’ Thorne said. ‘I meant I’m sorry if my accusations were “veiled”. I thought I’d made them perfectly clear.’ He shook his head. ‘Must be losing my touch.’

  Hassani stared at him for a second or two then pushed his chair back hard. ‘Fine. I’ll have to take this somewhere else then.’

  ‘Fill your boots, mate. There’s probably a Witch Hunt Unit just down the corridor from yours, in Tumbleweed Towers.’ Thorne took a drink and winced. ‘Christ, I really hope your coffee’s better than my tea.’

  ‘I’m spoiled for visitors today,’ Tanner said.

  Thorne nodded, fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. ‘That prick’s enough to spoil anything. What did he have to say for himself, anyway?’

  ‘Probably much the same things he said to you.’ She reached behind herself to adjust her pillow. ‘He made a few sympathetic noises to begin with: how much I was missed, how he hoped I’d be back on my feet before too long. He told me he’d been praying for me, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That must have been an enormous comfort.’

  ‘Obviously… but as soon as I told him how grateful I was, he started going on about how we were messing up his investigation. Well, you, actually.’ She slapped her hands down on to the bed. ‘I mean I can’t be causing too much aggravation stuck in here, can I?’

  ‘Which means he’s the one that should be grateful.’

  Tanner laughed. She was sitting up in bed now. There was still a saline drip, but the morphine pump had gone, and though both lower legs were plastered up to the knee, the dressings that had covered most of her face had been removed, leaving only scabs and a few butterfly stitches.

  She was starting to look – and to sound – more like herself again.

  She said, ‘Well, at least it explains what Hassani was doing at that meeting. How he knew I’d be there.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘You think he’s up to something else?’

  Thorne shrugged. ‘I don’t like him. It’s probably just that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s never been top of my Christmas card list either,’ Tanner said. ‘He does have a habit of forgetting that I’m still technically his senior officer.’

  Thorne was the detective sergeant’s senior too, of course; technically and in every other respect. It was not the kind of thing he normally paid a lot of attention to, but ten minutes earlier, running out of patience in that cafeteria, he had come close to pulling Hassani up on it. Telling him that in order to earn respect you had to show some; trotting out the same tiresome lecture he’d been on the receiving end of himself, more times than he could remember. In the end, he’d decided that Hassani was one of those who assumed respect was something he deserved.

  Or maybe he just thought he’d get some if he prayed hard enough.

  Thorne looked across and saw that Tanner was grinning.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He told me what you did with those T-shirts.’

  ‘Very creative, I thought.’

  ‘It’s good to keep putting the wind up them,’ Tanner said.

  Thorne’s smile faded. ‘Not sure it’s actually achieving anything.’

  ‘It might put a hold on any more killings being arranged. Just them knowing we’re around. Then, once I’m out of here we can ramp things up even further.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Thorne said. ‘You can chase after them in your wheelchair.’

  Tanner laughed, but it petered out fast.

  ‘When do you think you’ll be coming out?’

  ‘Tomorrow, they reckon, maybe the day after.’ She picked at the blanket. ‘Can’t say I’m thrilled about the wheelchair thing, crutches, all that. Once the plaster’s off I’ll be doing physio for God knows how long.’

  Thorne knew that Tanner was not someone who enjoyed sitting around doing nothing for as much as five minutes. It was clear how little she relished the prospect of weeks, or even months, out of action. ‘Where are you going to go?’

  ‘I’ll stay with my brother while the house is getting sorted.’ A nod, another tentative smile. ‘His wife works from home, so she can help. Drive me around or whatever.’

  ‘It’ll go quickly,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  For the next fifteen minutes or so they talked about anything but the Shah and Azim case, the woman whose murder had brought them to this. They talked about TV, hospital food, the latest political scandal. Tanner did most of the talking, while Thorne was happy enough to chip in where necessary, doing his best to disguise the fact that he had other things on his mind.

  When he was getting up to leave, Tanner said, ‘I never thanked you for your present.’

  Thorne looked to the bedside table, saw that the bag had been opened. ‘Oh, I hope you like it.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘How did you know I liked jigsaws?’

  ‘Just a guess.’

  ‘Loved them ever since I was a kid.’ She shook her head, mocking herself. ‘Probably my stupid fixation with making order out of chaos.’

  Thorne leaned down to kiss Tanner goodbye, which seemed to surprise both of them equally. He said he wasn’t sure if he’d be back in to see her again before she was discharged because his shift patterns were a bit up in the air. He left the room thinking that, sometimes, a little chaos might be exactly what was needed.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  ‘What kind of name is fluxx, for God’s sake?’ Muldoon shook his head and muttered the name again as he picked up a fat chip from his plate and dragged it through a smear of ketchup. ‘What’s it supposed to mean, anyway, and what’s with the stupid spelling? In my day, clubs had proper names, like the Delta or the Plaza. Talk of the Town…’

  Next to him, Riaz sat staring through the window, towards the pair of central-casting bouncers on the other side of the road, arms folded like shaven-headed bookends beneath the neon sign. The name of the club in lower case. They wore black jackets and earpieces, as if they were
high-status protection officers and didn’t spend their working hours tossing drunks into the street or selling coke and MDMA to make a few extra quid.

  In front of him on the scarred plastic tabletop sat a cup of lemon tea and a photograph of the girl. A printout of a photograph.

  ‘Probably talking to the wrong person, aren’t I?’ Muldoon said. ‘I doubt you were ever much of a clubber.’

  Riaz looked at him. ‘Actually, I am a pretty good dancer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not like that.’ He nodded across at the club. ‘Proper dancing.’

  ‘You’re messing with me, right?’

  Riaz glanced down at the photograph, then back across at the entrance to the club. ‘I don’t really care if you believe me or not.’

  ‘Oh, I’d like to see that.’ Muldoon laughed and picked up what was left of his burger. ‘That’s one for my bucket list, that is.’ He counted off his fantasies on thick fingers. ‘I want to swim with a great white shark, slip Angelina Jolie a length and I want to watch you doing your Strictly Ballroom bit.’

  They were sitting in an all-night café on Shoreditch High Street, opposite the club inside which, according to information provided by her brother, the girl would be drinking, dancing, whatever else. They could not be sure what time she’d be coming out, but people were already beginning to leave, so Riaz guessed they would not have much longer to wait.

  ‘Trendy as fuck, this place,’ Muldoon said.

  Riaz looked at him.

  ‘Shoreditch. Where all the hipsters are. I read an article in some magazine while I was waiting to get my wisdom teeth done.’ He peered out into the street. ‘Not seen any so far, like.’ He sounded rather disappointed that he had yet to spot anyone matching the description in the magazine he’d read. ‘They have them skinny jeans, and a checked shirt with the top button done up and a stupid big beard, like they’re farmers.’ Grinning, he looked over at Riaz. ‘Or —’

  Riaz raised a hand to silence him, then pointed across to the club. A group of eight or nine had just emerged and were milling around on the pavement; lighting cigarettes, talking and laughing. Men and women, black, white and Asian. He said, ‘There,’ then stabbed at the photograph. ‘Raheema.’

  Muldoon leaned close to the window. ‘Where?’ Outside the club, hugs were being exchanged before several people moved off together. The remainder began to drift slowly away in the opposite direction and that was when Muldoon spotted her. ‘Oh, right, I’ve got her.’ He nodded, impressed. ‘She looks pretty fit.’

  Riaz said nothing.

  The girl whose photograph lay on the counter in front of them was wearing jeans and a red leather jacket. She was tall and slim. Her hair was down and she pushed it away from her face as she leaned close to one of the men in the group.

  Muldoon said, ‘What now, then?’

  Riaz had already folded the picture in half and was slipping it into his jacket. ‘Nothing. We’re finished.’

  ‘So, we’ve seen her, and that’s it? Job done?’

  ‘I like to see them in the flesh beforehand,’ Riaz said. ‘A photograph is never enough. They might look different when the time comes and it’s easy to make mistakes.’

  Muldoon shook his head. ‘Come on, it’s not like we won’t know who she is. The brother’s going to be with her, isn’t he?’

  ‘So, what does he look like? We don’t even have a photograph of the brother. This is the only way to be certain.’ Riaz got to his feet, watched as Muldoon grabbed a last handful of chips. ‘What, you think we should do it now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You seriously want to go after her?’

  ‘Just saying we could.’

  ‘Right. Of course. With crowds of people walking around and cameras everywhere. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.’

  Now Muldoon stood up too. ‘There’s always cameras. There’ll be cameras when we do it.’

  ‘So, what are these cameras going to see? Nothing suspicious. Nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly not a young woman being attacked on a busy street with dozens of witnesses.’ Riaz allowed himself a patronising half-smile as he waited for his partner to see the sense in his argument.

  It didn’t take too long.

  Muldoon was smiling himself as they walked towards the door and was laughing by the time they stepped through it on to the street.

  ‘What?’

  The Irishman tried to look serious, struggling to keep a straight face as they stood buttoning their coats. He said, ‘Not sure there’s any Muslim hipsters, like. But it’d be easy enough.’ He raised his hand and waggled fingers beneath his chin, miming an extravagant beard. ‘I mean, you’re halfway there already, right?’

  Riaz turned and walked away towards the street where he’d left the car.

  Muldoon took a step after him, then saw that he was being stared at from the opposite side of the road. He grinned and waggled his fingers in the bouncer’s direction, then casually gave him the finger.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, September 12th

  Met P for coffee after work!!!

  He held my hand under the table, and we talked about going clubbing again, but we spent most of the time with me moaning about how bad everything is at home and it’s not like he hasn’t heard it all before. Not exactly a romantic chat, but great to see him. Good news is, he’s every bit as good with computers as J is and says there’s a way he can show me so we can talk online and J won’t ever find out.

  Doing happy dance. Well, inside my head, anyway.

  I try not to let them see when I get upset, but last night my dad was in a particularly vicious mood for some reason and said that it was worrying about me that had driven my mum to an early grave. I’m not an idiot, I know it was cancer and not me, but just the fact that he would SAY it had me crying like a baby. Like I haven’t done in front of him for a long time. J agreed with him, of course, nodding like a dog, saying that she would be spinning in her grave if she knew how I’d turned out. He was grinning as I ran out of the room and I know the two of them sat and talked about what a problem I was afterwards. All the trouble I’m causing.

  I told P what had happened when I saw him and he was sweet. He says I shouldn’t put up with it, that there are all sorts of groups I can join to get help. He says he’ll do whatever he can and kept reassuring me that I haven’t done anything wrong.

  I know he’s right, OBVIOUSLY, but I’m not quite as brave as I like to make out when I’m scribbling in here every night. In the end though, it probably won’t be a question of being brave or choosing the right moment. I can feel a time coming when something will just snap and then I know it’ll all just come pouring out. I’ll tell them EVERYTHING I’m thinking and feeling and exactly what I think of them and their rules.

  What they can do with them.

  Time to stand well back when that happens though. I might need to get stuck into that bottle I’ve got hidden in the airing cupboard first.

  Because the SHIT… will hit the FAN!!

  SIXTY-SIX

  Thorne called Helen’s mobile from his car just after eight, and wasn’t surprised to find that she was still at the office. The case she was working involving the two young brothers was proving rather more complicated than she had first thought, and with Thorne trying to catch up on several cases of his own, neglected as a result of his ongoing off-the-books activities, the two of them had seen little of each other over the last few days.

  A snatched conversation at breakfast.

  A grunt of acknowledgement as one or other of them crept into bed.

  The necessary abandonment of routine meant that domestic arrangements were now being made on the hoof, if they were made at all. Shopping, cleaning, childcare. The only constant was the unwelcome tension that such a ‘ships in the night’ existence inevitably bred.

  ‘Alfie’s at Jenny’s,’ she said. ‘No idea when I’ll be able to get round and collect him.’ Her implied question was obvious en
ough.

  ‘I don’t think I can do it either.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Helen said, though it clearly was. ‘He’ll be happy enough to stay over. Staying up late and watching telly.’

  ‘How much longer are you going to be?’

  ‘Another couple of hours, so it’s not really worth it. By the time I get over there and wake him up, get all his stuff together…’

  ‘Easier to leave him where he is.’

  ‘Right. So, what about you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When do you reckon you’ll be done?’

  ‘Later than that,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m not sure when.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I was hoping I might be able to get away, then twenty minutes ago they pulled some bloke out of the reservoir in Lea Valley. Been in there a couple of days, looks like.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Last thing I could do with.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he wasn’t too thrilled about it either.’

  Thorne stared out of the car window. People who’d already worked later than most were beetling through the drizzle towards the trains and buses that would take them home. Others had been home and were now heading out to eat somewhere or to meet friends; to the pub or the pictures.

  Ordinary things. Harmless things.

  ‘So, how’s it going, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Those two boys.’

  ‘Well, either a lot of people have got this spectacularly wrong, me included, or we just haven’t found the source of the abuse yet.’

  ‘Your money still on the father?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve got nothing to back it up.’ She sounded tired, suddenly. Frazzled. ‘The boys haven’t said anything that implicates their dad and the parents are rock solid. So we’re widening things out a bit, looking at friends and neighbours. I don’t know what else to do. They don’t go to after-school clubs or scouts, nothing like that. They don’t go to church.’