The Dying Hours

by Mark Billingham

  Mercer puts his foot down.

  Maybe staying angry is what keeps him feeling young. Maybe it was losing so much so early on. Either way, he didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter and yes, it’s done him a few favours. He knows he’s luckier than most in having enough stashed away so he doesn’t have to dress like a scarecrow or live on dog food and Cup-a-Soup.

  Nothing you can do about illness, he knows that. Nobody’s fault if bits and pieces start to pack up, let you down or whatever. But as long as you were fit enough and still had all your marbles, you owed it to yourself to stay useful. Who the hell needs a corpse on legs?

  Come the day he’s got sweet FA to live for, he won’t think twice. Ironic, all things considered, but he’ll have the Scotch and the sleeping pills open smartish.

  Talking of which.

  He looks at his watch. He’s going to be a few minutes late for his meeting, which needles him. Can’t be doing with that, not when you’ve spent most of your life doing what bells tell you.

  Now he’s really hoping it’s going to be a worthwhile trip, that the man he’s meeting will tell him what he wants to hear.

  Then he can crack on.

  He’ll enjoy getting rid of someone who’s been taking up space for far too long.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The weather was on the turn yet again by the time Thorne pulled off the small road that ran behind Bromley Museum. Tully was standing with his dog beneath one of the trees at the edge of the car park, peering up at a sky which had been all but cloudless half an hour before and was now darkening by the minute.

  He had a suggestion and two observations to make.

  ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ he said. ‘It’s going to piss down and she’s already had a walk this morning, so why don’t we just go back to the house?’ Then he squinted at Thorne and said, ‘You look rough as arseholes, mate.’

  Thorne followed Tully’s car to a house on a quiet street behind the leisure centre. Tully lived in the flat on the ground floor: a kitchen diner, one bedroom and a small bathroom. Tully walked through and opened the back door, let the dog out on to a patio half the size of the Jacobsons’ terrace, then came back and put the kettle on.

  ‘Used to have somewhere a lot bigger,’ he said. ‘Then my mother got taken ill. Police pension’s all right, long as something like that doesn’t come along. Had to sell the house just to keep her looked after.’ He told Thorne to sit down and reached up for mugs, a jar of coffee. ‘Fifty grand plus every year for a care home! They’re having a laugh if you ask me, and God knows how they’re actually treating her. Far as I know they could be feeding her on boiled rice and keeping her locked in her room all day… cleaning her up and slapping on a bit of lipstick when they know I’m coming to visit.’

  ‘You’ll go mad, thinking like that,’ Thorne said.

  Tully took milk from the fridge. ‘Don’t get old, mate.’

  Once he’d delivered Thorne’s coffee, Tully opened the back door for the dog who was scrabbling to be let back in. The promised rain had now arrived, though it was not particularly heavy. The dog trotted across and lay down at Thorne’s feet.

  ‘Fancy a sandwich?’ Tully asked. ‘I’ve got a decent bit of cheese.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘There’s a can of tuna somewhere.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ If he’d had any appetite to begin with, the smell coming off the dog at his feet would have been enough to kill it stone dead, but even though Thorne had not managed to eat very much of his fry-up six hours earlier, he was too tired to think about eating anything. In truth, he was already dreading the moment when he would have to get out of the chair he had dropped into.

  He was hoping the coffee would wake him up a little.

  Tully made himself a sandwich anyway. He talked about his dog while he put it together; cheaper than a wife or girlfriend, probably a damn sight more loyal, etc., etc. Thorne chuckled along, wondering when Tully was going to get to the reason he’d called. He was on the point of asking when Tully brought his lunch across and saved him the trouble.

  ‘So, come on then, what’s the state of play? I’m guessing you haven’t caught our friend Terence yet.’ Tully sat down and took a bite and when Thorne did not respond immediately, he swallowed quickly. ‘Look, my offer still stands, you know, but when you didn’t get back to me wanting any… practical help, I just thought you might be grateful for the chance to knock some ideas around. Talk it through, bounce stuff off me, whatever.’

  ‘He’s killed another one,’ Thorne said. ‘The pupil barrister on his defence team. Set fire to himself.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I just came from there.’

  ‘That can’t have been easy.’

  ‘His wife’s in bits. I mean, she’s trying her best not to be.’

  Tully licked his fingers. ‘I meant for you.’

  Thorne said nothing. The dog got up, padded over to the other chair and dropped back down at her master’s feet.

  ‘You know,’ Tully said, ‘what with you worrying about whether it might have happened at all if you’d said something. Gone back to the Murder Investigation boys with everything you’ve found out. I mean, feeling guilty, that’s only natural.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I understand, all right?’ Tully held out his arms. ‘Listen, I’m on your side, mate. I know what they’re like.’ He took another bite and chewed noisily for a few seconds. ‘And I know why you’re doing this.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ Thorne said.

  ‘You got knocked back. That hurts.’

  ‘That’s not what it’s about.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Tully said. ‘I know how it feels. The number of times I’ve gone to them, told them I’m available. They’ve got all these cold case units now, right? I’d be perfect for one of those, but I’ve never had so much as a sniff. They haven’t got the funding or I’m not sufficiently up to speed with the new technology, some crap like that. Like I’ve never worked a computer or something! I’m not even sixty, for God’s sake.’ He held tight to what was left of his sandwich, a sliver of cheese sliding from between the slices of white bread. ‘So, I do know what it feels like to get ignored.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Course it is. You were offering them expertise… your professional opinion. They chose to turn their backs.’

  ‘Like I said. That’s not what this is about.’

  Tully shrugged and carried his empty plate across to the sink. He tore off a strip of kitchen towel and wiped his hands.

  ‘So, where do you suggest I go from here?’ Thorne asked. ‘With Terry Mercer.’

  ‘Tricky.’ Tully walked back and sat down again. ‘You’ve got no idea who he’s targeting next and none of the obvious ways of tracking him. All you could do last time was hope for a bit of luck or wait for him to do something.’

  Thorne nodded. It felt good to hear it.

  ‘He’s not exactly giving you a lot to work with, is he? Then again, he was always careful, even when he was just turning over banks and building societies. He always thought about the details.’

  ‘How did you catch him?’

  ‘We received intelligence,’ Tully said. ‘We knew when and where the job was going to be. It just went wrong when we tried to grab him, that’s all.’

  ‘You knew the officer that was killed?’

  Tully gave a small nod and reached down to rub the dog’s head for a few seconds. ‘Listen, all I’m saying is that even if you had gone back and said something, the MIT wouldn’t have been able to do a lot more than you did yourself. There’d just have been a few more of them sat about waiting, that’s all.’

  ‘They’re looking into this new one,’ Thorne said. ‘For all the good it’s going to do them.’ He told Tully about the investigation into Jacobson’s death that looked like drawing a blank and about his encounter with Neil Hackett. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Big fat bastard?’

&nb
sp; ‘Big fat, scary bastard.’

  ‘I know of him,’ Tully said. ‘Never had the pleasure though.’ He thought for half a minute. ‘Well maybe they’ll get lucky and you can back away. As long as they never find out you had any information to begin with, you’ll be all right.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Tully smiled. ‘Unless I’m reading this all wrong, of course, and you’re secretly hoping that you won’t be all right.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘You never thought about getting out, doing something else?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Thorne said. ‘Everyone does.’

  ‘Not me.’ Tully shook his head firmly. ‘Never had anyone telling me I should either. A wife or a girlfriend or whatever. The last thing I wanted to do was stop being a copper, but it wasn’t up to me in the end, was it?’

  ‘I still don’t see—’

  ‘Maybe, deep down, you’ve had enough.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, this would be a good way of doing it without actually quitting, and you don’t strike me as the type to do that.’

  ‘You’re being stupid now,’ Thorne said.

  Tully raised his eyebrows and smiled again, warming to his theme. ‘I remember having this girlfriend once… ages ago, back when I was a teenager. I wanted to finish with her… think there was some other girl I had my eye on at the time… but I didn’t have the bottle to chuck her. So, I just behaved really badly. Treated her rotten, ignored her, until she turned round and dumped me, which was what I wanted all along, of course.’ He sat back, enjoying the memory. ‘I’m not even sure I knew I was doing it, you know?’

  He looked at Thorne. ‘Thinking back though, I can see exactly what I was up to.’

  ‘I should make a move.’ Thorne leaned forward and finished what was left of his coffee. ‘I think we’ve probably bounced enough ideas around for now.’

  ‘No rush,’ Tully said. ‘Listen, if you fancy it we could go out and get something to eat a bit later. Grab a curry or something and talk a bit more.’

  Thorne thanked him for the offer, told him he needed to be in for the night shift. Said, ‘Another time, maybe.’

  ‘OK, well never mind… but listen, there’s no need to shoot off. You look like you could use some rest, to be honest. Put your feet up for a bit. I’ve got stuff to do, anyway.’ Tully stood up and the dog followed suit. ‘I might shampoo the dog, something important like that.’

  Thorne did not really want to stay very much longer, but forcing himself to his feet was proving as difficult as he had thought it would be. It felt as though his jacket was lead-lined, as though the cotton wool in his head had turned to cement.

  He closed his eyes. Just for a few seconds…

  Remembering Hackett’s invitation, the first of two inside a couple of hours. Thinking that, despite his best efforts to alienate as many people as possible, he could not remember the last time he’d been this popular.

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Thorne’s taking the piss,’ Holland said.

  Kitson looked at him. ‘He’s a friend.’

  ‘Which is exactly why he’s taking advantage.’

  They were sitting at a corner table in the Royal Oak, a watering hole midway between Becke House and Colindale station and hence a pub where lock-ins tended to get ignored, while any civilian unfamiliar with the venue’s clientele and foolish enough to cut up rough was likely to be confronted with several dozen unhappy coppers, each trying to avoid having to make the arrest.

  It was a table they had shared many times with Tom Thorne, a spot where victories had been celebrated and sorrows drowned. They had bitched about the Brass here and gossiped into the early hours about the arse-lickers and the dead weight. Those on the fast track to promotion and the Woodentops-in-waiting; the ones who couldn’t cut it and would be lucky to end up waggling hand-held speed cameras on the A1.

  The irony was not lost on either of them.

  They had arranged to meet after work during a snatched and whispered conversation at lunchtime. Now they were here though, neither seemed to be finding it particularly easy to talk. There was a good deal that was going unsaid; a tension at the small table that was not lost on DS Samir Karim when he blithely wandered over – slurping at a pint – and attempted to join them. He got no further than ‘Mind if I…⁠?’ before clocking the looks on their faces and backing awkwardly away.

  ‘Have you done anything else?’ Kitson asked. ‘Since the last time you saw him.’

  Four days before, in the Grafton. When Thorne, Hendricks and Holland had looked at the list Thorne had extracted from Frank Anderson. Holland had said he’d try and find out if any money from Mercer’s bank robberies was still unaccounted for and that he’d see about getting a look at CCTV footage from the areas in which the earlier victims had been killed.

  He hadn’t tried particularly hard.

  ‘That was the same night Jacobson was killed,’ Holland said. He picked up his beer bottle, stared at it. ‘Remember? Looked like we might not need to do anything else.’

  Kitson nodded. The two of them had found out about the ‘suicide’ in Blackheath the day after it had happened. Without saying as much to one another, it was clear they had both been counting on the Murder Squad team that was looking into it coming up with something that would save them both a lot of trouble.

  What had Thorne said to Holland on the phone? They would all be ‘off the hook’.

  That morning, though, word had filtered through that Richard Jacobson’s death was now being treated as a suicide; that the investigation was being wound down with immediate effect.

  ‘So now it’s just him again,’ Holland said. ‘Him and us. Soon as Thorne finds out, he’ll be back on the phone.’

  ‘So, say no,’ Kitson said. ‘We’ve been through this.’

  ‘What will you say?’

  Kitson shook her head and reached for the small glass of wine in front of her that had so far gone untouched.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling this is all about me?’ Holland asked. ‘That I’m the one that’s being disloyal or ambitious or whatever. It’s like you’re trying to make out I’m the only one with any doubts about this.’

  ‘I’ve never said that.’

  ‘I saw your face when we heard about Jacobson.’

  Kitson put her glass down, now virtually empty. ‘Do you know what you should be asking yourself? What would Thorne be doing if he was in your shoes and you were the one wanting the favour?’

  ‘It’s a bit more than a favour now, Yvonne.’

  ‘Would he do it for you?’

  Holland shook his head, not needing to think very hard about it. ‘Yeah, but we’re not as stupid as he is, are we?’

  They said nothing for a minute or so after that, their eyes anywhere but on each other. Studying their drinks or their mobile phones, looking round when a burst of laughter erupted from another table.

  ‘What are you thinking, Dave?’ Kitson asked, eventually.

  Holland emptied his bottle and felt for his wallet, checking it was there before standing up to leave or else getting ready to buy another; to settle in and make a decent night of it.

  ‘Nothing you aren’t thinking,’ he said.

  FORTY

  Helen was not stupid. She knew that in insisting what had happened three months before had left her undamaged, there was at least an element of denial. It was far easier, though, to see how it had affected those closest to her. In the three days she had spent being held hostage by a grief-stricken father, her own seemed to have aged ten years.

  ‘Could you…⁠?’ Robert Weeks held his grandson at arm’s length. ‘Could you take him, love?’

  Helen stood and collected a wriggling Alfie from her father. Wrapped her arms around him. ‘Come here, you,’ she said.

  ‘He’s full of beans today.’

  ‘He’s excited to see you.’

  And her father was equally excited, Helen had no doubt about that. He just seemed rather less able to cope with a boi
sterous eighteen-month-old tearing about his house than he had been before; when the noise and the mess had only broadened his smile and Helen would have had to insist on taking Alfie from her father’s arms. He had always been tidy – even more so since he’d been living on his own – but where he had once embraced the happy chaos Alfie wrought, he now seemed far too anxious to relax.

  He never said as much, of course. Wouldn’t have dreamed. Even when Helen had gone back to work so soon after it had happened and, as per usual, Jenny had not fought shy of making her opinion known.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. If you had any sense at all you’d find yourself another job…’

  Her father had not added to the concerns being voiced, but Helen knew that, for once, he had agreed with her sister.

  ‘We’ll get out of your way in a minute,’ Helen said.

  ‘Don’t be daft. I’m just a bit tired today, that’s all.’

  He’d been living alone a long time; more than ten years since Helen’s mother had died and five since his second wife had walked out. Neither Helen nor Jenny quite understood what had happened there, and it was never talked about. He had taken up an assortment of hobbies and activities afterwards – baking, book clubs, neighbourhood watch – and there had even been a brief dalliance with a woman who lived nearby, but those things no longer seemed to interest him. Now, they were simply there to be grabbed at with an ever-waning enthusiasm. Clinging on to life instead of actually living it. Helen glanced down at the paperback books arranged neatly on her father’s coffee table. She was pretty sure they were the same ones that had been there last time she had been round.

  He was only sixty-four. Helen thought about that stupid, jaunty song and it made her angry. Angrier. Old suddenly, and well before his time and it was her fault for making him worry.

  I don’t know what you’re trying to prove…

  ‘You should bring him round,’ her father said. ‘Might be nice to actually meet him.’