Scaredy Cat

by Mark Billingham

  Maxwell pressed the button to call the lift. He needed to go back to the murder scene. ‘Listen, you’ll be in on it when we get this fucker, all right?’

  Thorne looked at the smiley dolphin face, unable to read it. The offer at least sounded genuine. ‘Thanks, Colin. Anything you need, give us a bell . . .’

  ‘The DCI’s given us full access to the files, but you lot have done the donkey work, so it’s only fair, you know.’

  ‘Going at the staff first?’

  They’d been convinced six months earlier, before the killer had gone underground, that he had to have some sort of contact with someone on the inside. Their best guess was that a member of staff at each hotel was feeding him information. They had no idea how he made these contacts, but they had to be telling him which guests were in their rooms, which had ordered room service, where he needed to avoid CCTV cameras . . .

  Now, one of these contacts was an accessory to murder.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Maxwell nodded, but he narrowed his eyes slightly. Not liking to be told what to do. Not enjoying being patronised, however unintentionally or subtly Thorne was doing it.

  The lift arrived and Maxwell stepped inside. ‘Cheers then . . .’

  Thorne stepped forward and put his hand against the closing door. ‘Listen, has anybody looked into a drugs angle here? Just to be on the safe side. The torture, the Dutch connection . . . ?’

  Maxwell moved back inside the lift, leaned against the ornately mirrored back wall. ‘Ronald Van Der Vlugt was a rare book dealer. Over here for an exhibition of antique books and manuscripts at Olympia. My bet is, only drugs he ever took were sleeping tablets or laxatives. Viagra maybe . . .’

  In spite of himself, Thorne laughed a little. He stepped back and waited for the doors to shut.

  Maxwell was definitely smiling. His turn to patronise. ‘I’m surprised at you, Thorne. Clutching at straws . . .’

  Thorne looked at him hard as the doors began to close.

  ‘Always, mate. Always.’

  ‘You look like shit,’ McEvoy said.

  Thorne took a swig of coffee. ‘So do you, and I’ve been looking at dead Dutch people all night. What’s your excuse?’

  It was just after nine o’clock in the morning and Thorne had been up eight hours already. He’d got back to the flat at quarter to five, failed to get any more sleep and come into work. The drive in, through the virtually empty Saturday morning streets, had been the best part of his day by a long way. Thorne was guessing that, by the time he got to bed again that evening, it still would be.

  Now, he was utterly exhausted and in as foul a temper as he could remember. He obviously wasn’t the only one.

  ‘What I look like isn’t really any of your business, sir.’

  ‘What?’ Thorne wasn’t so wiped out that he couldn’t start to get angry.

  ‘Forget it.’ McEvoy stared at him for a few seconds, her eyes cold and challenging, before spinning on her heels and marching out of the office.

  ‘Jesus . . .’ Thorne took a deep breath. He opened his desk drawer, stared blankly at the stapler for a moment and slammed it shut again.

  He picked up the paper from his desk, leaned back in his chair and read the Tourist Slaying story for the third time since getting to the office. It was predictable fare, hinting at the unspeakable horror in Room 313 while laying on the ‘city no longer safe for visitors’ stuff with a trowel. A smattering of gory detail, a heavy dose of outrage.

  The newsprint began to dance in front of Thorne’s eyes, so he closed them. It might have been a few minutes, it might have been an hour, when he heard Holland’s voice.

  ‘Sir . . .’

  Thorne didn’t open his eyes. ‘If you’ve got fresh coffee for me, Holland, promotion’s in the bag.’

  ‘It’s better than coffee.’

  Thorne sat up as Holland dropped into a chair opposite him. It struck Thorne, looking at him, that maybe he’d had a rough Friday night as well.

  ‘Margie Knight’s turned up.’

  It was the instant jolt of adrenaline that Thorne needed. ‘Where?’

  ‘Uniform found her last night. Noshing off some solicitor in a parked car on the Caledonian Road.’

  If it was what Thorne needed, it might also be the bit of luck that the investigation needed. A simple piece of London business after dark. A woodentop with a torch, a working girl cleaning up on a Friday night and a brief who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Cases had hinged on a lot less.

  ‘Right, get her and Murrell in here today. I want pictures of this bloke on the streets as soon as possible. Let’s move this thing forward, Dave.’ Holland nodded and stood up. ‘What’s wrong with McEvoy this morning, anyway?’

  Holland stopped at the door and turned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Somebody’s rattled her bars. I made some crack about what she looked like and she bit my head off.’

  ‘Right.’ Holland looked away, shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Probably just being over-sensitive. Maybe it’s her . . .’

  Thorne held up a hand to stop him. ‘The mood she’s in right now, Holland, if you so much as suggest that it might be her time of the month, I’m guessing she’ll kill you on the spot.’ Thorne was making light of it, but he sensed that it was more than just a bad mood. His original comment had been tit-for-tat, but there was no question, McEvoy did look rough.

  ‘I’ll try to find out if there’s anything up with her.’ Holland spoke as if Thorne had asked him to perform an autopsy.

  ‘Are you OK, Dave?’

  There was a long pause, and the few mumbled words that Holland managed before hurrying out of the office obviously did not come easily. ‘Bit of trouble at home . . .’

  Thorne had wondered about it before, but this was the first time that Holland had so much as hinted that things between him and Sophie might not be hunky-dory. His reticence told Thorne that now was probably not the time to dig any deeper. Whatever was going on, he hoped they could work it out quickly. Thorne had only met Sophie once; she had seemed nice enough.

  Thorne glanced up at the clock. Nearly ten. Brigstocke was due back from a meeting with Jesmond any time, and chances were it would not have been a barrel of laughs. Thorne would bring him up to speed about last night and then give him the good news about Margie Knight’s miraculous reappearance.

  Take some of that pressure off.

  McEvoy . . . Holland . . . Brigstocke. Thorne got up, left his office and walked across to the coffee machine, thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t be the first one to crack up after all.

  Duddridge always waited for the customer to leave before counting the cash. It was only polite. Besides, knowing that nobody ever tried to rip him off had made him fairly relaxed about payment. People were always told gently that if their accounts weren’t settled to his satisfaction, he could find them.

  Use some of his own stock.

  The money was all in twenties. He counted it without even looking down. He glanced around the pub which was starting to fill up with the afternoon football crowd, the lads with mullet haircuts and loafers, gathering for the last Saturday before the Christmas break. They would crowd around the big screen TV, drink themselves silly and watch the Sky coverage of the day’s games, each of them putting away enough lager to pay twice over for a satellite dish at home.

  The money, as expected, was all there. Duddridge decided to have a celebratory drink. It had been a nice bit of business after all. A simple referral from someone he knew and a mug punter he could overcharge, one who had no idea he was paying over the odds.

  He pushed his way to the bar and ordered a Jack Daniels and Coke.

  He’d sold gear to all sorts over the years, but this one had been odd, no question about it. The bloke hadn’t got a clue what it was he wanted for a start. It had all been wri
tten down for him, presumably by the bloke who’d referred him to Duddridge in the first place. He said he wanted it for protection of course, which was what they all said, trying to make out like they were just responding to the dangerous times they were living in, but just needing it quickly and not wanting to piss about with licences and stuff. Right, and people only did smack to see what it was like, because they were writing a book about it.

  Thing was, with this bloke, Duddridge could almost have believed it. The fucking great idiot had looked scared to death. Most of his customers were a little nervous, but they weren’t buying cornflakes, after all. The bloke who’d handed over the fistful of twenties, one of which Duddridge was now peeling off to pay for his drink, he looked like he was going to shit his pants at any moment.

  Maybe he did just want it for protection. Weirdo certainly didn’t look like he could hurt anybody, or want to hurt anybody, at least.

  It always made Duddridge a little wary selling to people like that. You never knew when it might come back at you. The items he sold were completely untraceable – he had a reputation built on that – but you could never predict exactly what the people who bought them might do. A simple job was fine, they were his bread and butter. He saw himself as someone who sold quality tools to professionals.

  But there was no accounting for nutters.

  Duddridge felt the mobile phone on his belt vibrate. Another customer. He downed his drink and began making his way through the crowd towards the doors. He pictured his last customer doing the same, just a few minutes earlier, moving awkwardly between the tables, clumsy cunt knocking over a drink, one hand flapping for the door handle, the other clutching on to his purchase for dear life.

  He always made a bit more dosh out of the amateurs, but he didn’t really like doing business with them. You could never be certain what you were dealing with. It was always the unassuming punters, the funny-looking ones, the ones whose neighbours were always shocked and amazed . . . who you saw on the news, their eyes like puddles of piss, shooting up a playground or walking calmly into McDonald’s with an Uzi.

  The thought reminded him. Uzis. He needed to talk to his contact in the States, see if he could get his hands on a few.

  1999

  He shut the door behind him, took off his jacket and slumped down behind his desk. From somewhere down the corridor he could hear raised voices, a door slamming. The temperature must have been well into the eighties; fans on all over the building, the place reeking of sweat and bad tempers. He stared out of the window, perfectly content. He had his own ways of coping with stress.

  He reached into his jacket pocket, took out his wallet and removed a small, tattered, passport-size photo. Two young boys, on an afternoon much like this one, pulling faces in a photo-booth. Two boys he used to know, pissing about in Woolworths, more than fifteen years earlier.

  Now, he bore only the faintest physical resemblance to the smaller of the boys in the photo. Just the eyes, really. He was a world away.

  He was nearly thirty, and considering the somewhat bumpy start, had achieved a hell of a lot. Anybody would have to admit that. Life was good, he was still on the up, and in Caroline, he seemed to have found the perfect wife. She was someone suitable in every sense, the ideal person to have by his side. They’d met seven years before, during training, and clicked straight away. They found the same things funny, they each had their own interests, and in the five years they’d been married, he could barely remember a cross word.

  Yes, he felt good about sharing his life with Caroline. Sharing most of his life.

  She never questioned the late nights, or the time away from home, or the occasional lack of interest in the bedroom. Perhaps she’d already convinced herself he was having an affair. If so, that was no bad thing.

  He was seeking excitement of course; it was what he’d always done, but he’d never have found what he needed in furtive liaisons, in the willing arms of some young tart or other. He needed a hit, a high, a buzz. He needed something far deeper and longer-lasting than he could find in simple adultery.

  He wanted no part of anything consensual.

  He’d always managed to get what he wanted, eventually, and this had been no different. It had become surprisingly easy actually. He was always careful – travelling widely, never repeating himself, taking no chances. Now, if he was being honest, he was becoming a little bored.

  He wondered if perhaps it went in cycles. Exactly ten years before, hadn’t he become bored with who he was? He’d made the decision then to start again, to change everything, to become someone else. Now, he was happy with who he was, who he’d become, but what he was doing, for pleasure, had started to excite him less and less. It was a drug to which he was rapidly becoming inured, and it was not acceptable. It was something that needed to change.

  Happy with who he was . . .

  There was a knock on the door and a colleague put his head round, pale-faced and sweating, to remind him he was needed elsewhere.

  He pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on.

  He picked up his wallet from the desk and slid the small photo back inside.

  He stared at the credit cards that carried his name. Not his real name, of course, but the name he’d been known by for more than ten years. His real name belonged to someone he’d last seen in a first-floor flat in Soho, a long time ago. If he was walking along the street now, and heard his old name, heard those two words being shouted at him, he’d know he was being shouted at by someone who didn’t know him. Someone he’d been at school with . . .

  He looked at his watch. Late for a meeting. His mind racing backwards and forwards in time. Remembering, imagining . . .

  Moments later, striding briskly away down the corridor, he reached for his wallet a second time. Smiling, he took out the photo again, and looked at the two young faces.

  Fifteen years was a very long time.

  EIGHT

  Date: 16 December

  Target: Fem

  Age: 20–30

  Pickup: Pub, club, winebar etc.

  Site: TBA

  Method : Firearm (pref not silenced)

  Sunday. Thorne’s first real day off in nearly a fortnight.

  Lunch with the old man had seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. A distraction, something to wash over him, a time-killer. Now, driving back down the M1, he really wished he hadn’t bothered. Aside from anything, he was starving. Of his parents, it had been his dad who’d done most of the cooking. Once upon a time, he’d enjoyed it, but his enthusiasm for that, along with everything else, had waned at the same rate as his fascination for pointless trivia and old jokes had rocketed.

  While Thorne had pushed a lump of overcooked chicken and a few pallid, underdone vegetables around his plate, his dad had waffled on at absurd length about everything and fuck all. He’d quizzed him about what he thought the five top-selling soap powders in the country were, and giggled through countless stories about men walking into pubs. In fact, he’d barely drawn breath for the entire time Thorne had been there, except for a few uncomfortable minutes when, in the middle of a story about nothing, his eyes had filled with tears, and he’d calmly got up from the table, walked through into the kitchen and closed the door.

  Thorne could do nothing but sit there, hating himself for thinking that he’d have been happier at a murder scene.

  The big Christmas discussion had never really materialised until Thorne was about to leave, and even then, it was just the usual tiresome dance, a frustrating bit of back and forth on the doorstep.

  ‘So, dad . . . are you coming, or what?’

  ‘What d’you need to know now for? It’s not for numbers is it?’

  ‘It’s only a week away and . . .’

  ‘Nine days.’

  ‘I just want to know what’s happening.’
>
  ‘I don’t know . . . it might be good to do something different.’

  ‘Well it’s up to you, but . . .’

  ‘I might go to Eileen’s . . .’

  ‘Right. Have you asked her?’

  ‘Name the last six Prime Ministers . . .’

  ‘Dad . . .’

  ‘Blair, Major, Thatcher.’

  ‘Have you asked Eileen?’

  ‘They’re the easy ones. Callaghan . . .’

  It was starting to get dark so Thorne flicked on the headlights. He let the Mondeo drift slowly across into the inside lane. The drive home was relaxing him, calming him down, and he was in no great hurry.

  He turned on the radio and tuned it in to Radio 5 Live. The second half of Ipswich versus Leicester City. Hardly a glamour fixture, but the commentary soon engaged him as he pushed on along the all but empty motorway towards north London. Moving: out of the semi-countryside and into the unlovely and reassuring urban sprawl of Brent Cross, Swiss Cottage and Camden. Moving: from one old man’s life going slowly down the tubes, to thoughts of four young women who would never even have that golden opportunity. Moving, towards the possibility of more . . .

  Moving, away from an afternoon and towards an evening.

  They rolled apart from each other and lay there, sweating, exhausted, each of them trying to think of a good thing to say. Something that might help. Eventually, Holland came up with something, but Sophie was already turning over, ready for sleep. The sex had been good, better than good, but then it usually was after an argument. They’d spent the best part of the day fighting, then fucked away the rest of it, trying to pretend the fight had never happened.

  The row came at them with the slow, graceful horror of a lorry skidding on black ice. With the arse-end of a dull Sunday just around the corner, the boredom had slowly given way to irritation and finally, anger. It was an anger that had been there all the time of course, like a bad smell in a locked room, and, once it escaped, it got everywhere, and into everything. It followed them around the flat, as each of them took turns in chasing the other from room to room, swearing and screaming and pounding on walls. It was still there, all over both of them, two hours later, as they cried and squeezed each other until finally, the kissing began.