Scaredy Cat

by Mark Billingham

  Simply a question of how bad . . .

  ‘Got a fax through ten minutes ago. The description of a man who threatened a woman with a gun near Clapham South tube station last night . . .’

  Thorne’s shoulders lifted. A reflex as the jolt ran through him. The tingle. Not bad news at all . . .

  McEvoy could see where Brigstocke was going. ‘Not attempted robbery or rape then?’

  Thorne answered her, quietly. ‘Attempted murder.’

  Brigstocke nodded. ‘Sounds like our man. Tall, thickset, sandy hair, glasses. Better add bleeding as well. Woman he pulled a gun on says she beat the shit out of him with a high-heeled shoe.’

  McEvoy swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Fucking good.’

  ‘When can we talk to her?’ Holland asked.

  ‘I’m trying to arrange it. She’s being looked after by her ­family – obviously she’s still upset.’ Brigstocke moved to sit down. Thorne shuffled along to make room for him. ‘Hopefully by the end of the day . . .’ Brigstocke sighed and allowed himself the first smile that Thorne had seen for a few days.

  Thorne stood up and reached for his jacket. If the man with the gun was one of the men they were looking for, then thankfully, one killer had failed. Thorne felt certain that the other one would not have done . . .

  The object: to collect pairs.

  Thorne disliked being the one to remove the smile from Brigstocke’s face, but didn’t hesitate to do so.

  In his head it was a scream. It came out like a whisper.

  ‘Somewhere, there’s a woman who’s been shot to death. I want to find her.’

  London was a city of ghosts, some deader than others.

  Thorne knew that in this respect, it wasn’t unlike any other major city – New York or Paris or Sydney – but he felt instinctively that London was . . . at the extreme. It was probably down to the history of the place. The darker side of that history, as opposed to the parks, palaces and pearly kings’ side that made busloads of Japanese and American tourists gawk and jabber. The hidden history of a city where the lonely, the dispossessed, the homeless, wandered the streets, brushing shoulders with the shadows of those that had come before them. A city in which the poor and the plague-ridden, those long-since hanged for stealing a loaf or murdered for a shilling, jostled for position with those seeking a meal, or a score, or a bed for the night.

  A city where the dead could stay lost a long time.

  Thorne had known about London’s skill at concealing its cadavers for as long as he had been a police officer, but it still disturbed him. Those that died peacefully at home could lie rotting in their front rooms for weeks and months, attracting the rats and the flies, and eventually the attention of the neighbour with the well-developed sense of smell.

  Those that died violently, those whose killers did not want them found, could lie alone and out of sight for far longer. Buried, burned or bricked up, dismembered, dumped or weighted down in water, until those that looked for them were only memories themselves. Until the dead were no more than a page in a yellowing file, or a name on a set of dental records.

  Of course, such things happened in small towns and in villages, in places where they were still remarkable, but there was something about London which, Thorne felt, suited anonymous death. There were those that bleated on about how their particular area of the city was a little community, no really it was, friendly and welcoming . . . Thorne knew that, in reality, this meant little more than the newsagent calling you by your first name and the barman in your local maybe knowing what your tipple was. When it came down to it, you could still lose touch with your best friend if he lived more than two streets away, and the reaction of many Londoners to a woman being raped on their train would be to raise their newspapers a little higher.

  Thorne’s depressing reflections on the city where he had been born, where he lived and worked, were prompted by the simple and not unexpected fact, that by the end of the day, they had still not found the body they knew was out there. They had of course been monitoring missing persons’ reports but nothing had come in. The victim had not been missed yet. There could be a hundred reasons why.

  Now, as he and Holland drove towards Wandsworth to question the woman who had survived the attempted murder the night before, Thorne tried to stop thinking about the woman who hadn’t. Her body, wherever it lay, might hold vital clues that even now were disappearing as the corpse changed shape, texture, consistency; popping and sighing gently.

  The city would give it up when it was ready.

  In the meantime, Thorne had a whole list of things to worry about.

  A real cause for concern was the fact that the killings were speeding up. It had been nineteen days since Carol Garner and Ruth Murray. Jane Lovell and Katie Choi died over four months before that. A shortening of the intervals between killings was a predictable pattern, but this was dramatic. Unless of course there were murders in between the two sets that they’d missed . . . Thorne quickly dismissed this chilling thought, settling for the slightly less disturbing one that for the killers, the hunger was really starting to take hold.

  The killers . . .

  Thorne’s other major worry. Two killers but one of them was, as yet, no more than theoretical. A shadow. They were on their way to talk to a woman who’d come face to face with one of them. The same one seen by Margie Knight and Michael Murrell. The one whose face was all over every newspaper and TV screen. Was he the careless one? The sloppy one? Or was his partner just so much better at covering his tracks, at killing and killing, and staying invisible?

  The killer who had given them their only leads, the one whose blank, bespectacled face now stared out from a hundred thousand posters, was the one who killed quickly and efficiently; the single stab wound, the sustained pressure on the neck . . . the killer that wept. He was not the one who butchered and walked unseen into the darkness covered in blood. He was not the one that throttled the life out of Carol Garner, smashing and squeezing while her little boy watched.

  He was not the one . . .

  Thorne wanted the killer on those posters. He wanted him very badly. But he wanted his partner more.

  Sean Bracher glanced at his watch as he stood at the bar waiting for the useless wanker behind it to bring his drink.

  She was late.

  He wasn’t worried that she wouldn’t come, just slightly annoyed that he’d have to get up again to fetch her a drink when she finally deigned to arrive. He handed over the money for his beer without a word, grabbed a huge handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar and strolled across to a table.

  He wasn’t planning on sleeping with her tonight. Obviously he wasn’t going to say no if he turned out to be wrong, but he guessed that Jo, for all her flirting, was the type to make him wait for it. Jane had made him wait too, only the one more night mind you, and it had certainly been worth waiting for. It was only ever going to be a fling of course – he’d made that clear from the word go and she was cool about it. He didn’t want to be tied down to anybody, least of all a receptionist, but it certainly made the working day, not to mention the odd weekend business trip, a damn sight more interesting. She’d turned out to be kinky as fuck . . .

  He stuffed a fistful of peanuts into his mouth and looked around. The place was starting to fill up with those grateful to have got another Monday over with, desperate for a quick one before the struggle home on the train or the bus. Somebody had left a rolled-up copy of the Standard on the next table. He reached across for it and began idly flicking through the sports pages.

  Yeah, it was a nice pub. They would grab a couple here and then head off for an Italian or something. Nothing with too much garlic. He’d done exactly the same thing with Jane on their first date, over six months before.

  Jo was actually better looking than Jane, but not as much of a laugh. He missed the piss-taking wit
h Jane, the wind-ups, the crack. He’d encouraged her to flirt with that freak in the overseas section. That had been hysterical. The pillock had fallen for it one hundred per cent. Stammering and blushing. Went fucking ballistic when he found out he’d been had. Christ though, if you couldn’t have a laugh at work . . .

  He looked at his watch again. Checked his mobile for messages. Why the hell were women always so fucking late? She had been keen enough when he’d suggested meeting. He typed in a quick text message and sent it. Where r u? Probably still in the ladies back at the office, tarting herself up. On second thoughts, maybe he would end up giving her one later. Her place preferably, no reason to stay the night then . . .

  He smiled, mentally in bed with her already, as he flipped the Standard over.

  He glanced down at the front page and almost choked on his peanuts.

  The young student got off the bus on Kingsland High Street. From there it was only a two-minute walk up the Dalston Road to her flat.

  The evening was surprisingly mild. He took off his jacket as he went along and threw it across his arm. Walking quickly, looking through the windows of second-hand record shops and Greek cafés, thinking about the way she’d looked at him the night before.

  She’d smiled a lot, raising her eyebrows, the tip of her tongue just visible against her top teeth. She had a laugh that made people on the other side of the pub stare. They’d all been a bit the worse for wear, celebrating their team’s quiz win by drinking the first prize. Then the pair of them had stood at the bus stop at Highbury Corner, talking, letting three or four buses come and go before walking home – her off towards Dalston and him, in the other direction, towards the small, damp cupboard he rented in Tufnell Park.

  They’d agreed to meet for lunch today at Pizza Express. He’d slept until really late and in the end he’d had to rush to get there on time, arrived out of breath and sweating. He’d waited for over an hour.

  It had been a casual sort of arrangement, maybe far more casual than he remembered – he had drunk an awful lot of Guinness – but he had expected her to come. She didn’t have a phone at her flat so he’d rung her mobile a couple of times during the afternoon, left messages. He was halfway through dialling her number again when he’d decided to go round. It was only ten minutes away and the bus was virtually door to door. He was sure she’d be glad to see him. Yes, they’d both had a lot of Guinness, but he was pretty sure she would be.

  It was a dirty white door between a shoe shop and a cut-price travel agency. Three bells, her name underneath the top one.

  He rang.

  He put his jacket back on; she’d said she liked it last night. Looked up at the windows above him. An old man peered down at him from the first floor. Maybe they could go and have a pizza now – there were loads of places in Islington. Or they could just sit around, smoke a bit maybe, order something later. Whatever, it would just be really nice to see her.

  He rang again . . .

  ‘Don’t let Bracher go anywhere. Just keep him there . . .’

  Thorne and Holland had been heading south towards Blackfriars Bridge when Thorne’s mobile had rung and he was informed that Sean Bracher was currently annoying the duty officers at Charing Cross, shouting about how he was one hundred and ten per cent certain that the man in the e-fit was someone he worked with, someone from Baynham & Smout . . .

  Thorne had all but yanked the wheel out of Holland’s hands. The woman in Wandsworth, Jacqueline Kaye, could wait until tomorrow. This was someone who they needed to talk to right now. They’d been to the office . . . Jesus, even Lickwood had been to the office, and the fucker had been there all the time . . .

  Now, Thorne was talking to a DI at Charing Cross as well as trying to give Holland instructions on the new route they were taking.

  ‘What’s the name?’ Thorne nodded solemnly as he was told, then began waving his arm in front of Holland’s nose. ‘Go right, we’ll cut through Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’

  Holland smacked a palm angrily on the wheel and did as he was told, keeping one eye on Thorne, watching his reactions, desperate to be told the details.

  ‘Has Bracher told anybody else? Anybody at work? Good . . .’

  Thorne pointed some more, grunting into the phone, meeting Holland’s sidelong glance and nodding. This was major.

  As the unmarked Rover roared along the Strand, Thorne began to shout into the phone, as if he was losing the signal. ‘We’ll be there in about ten minutes . . . yes, ten.’

  He punched the button to end the call and turned to Holland. ‘Sean Bracher . . .’

  Holland’s phone began to ring.

  ‘Fuck . . .’ Holland groped inside his jacket for the mobile.

  ‘Bet you it’s for me,’ Thorne said, ‘I could hear the call-­waiting signal on mine . . .’

  ‘Fiver?’ Holland asked, pulling out the phone. Thorne nodded.

  Holland answered. ‘Hello? Right . . .’ He handed the phone across. ‘McEvoy.’

  Five pounds to the good, a smiling Thorne took the phone. Sarah McEvoy was out of breath. She’d run to make the call.

  ‘We’ve got a man fitting our description, a man named Martin Palmer . . .’ The smile froze on Thorne’s face. It was the same name he had heard a few moments before; the name Bracher had given. ‘Palmer walked into West Hampstead nick half an hour ago, dropped a gun on to the desk and confessed to two murders.’

  ‘OK, we’re on our way.’

  Holland grimaced, unsure which direction to head in now. Thorne pointed north. Keep going.

  ‘Slight problem,’ McEvoy said. ‘West Hampstead doesn’t have a custody suite.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Thorne thought fast. ‘Right, Kentish Town’s about the nearest. Get somebody to run him over.’

  ‘I’ll call them and get straight down there.’

  ‘Good. We should be with you in about fifteen minutes.’

  McEvoy was already there by the time Thorne and Holland arrived. The three of them stood outside the room where Martin Palmer was being held. McEvoy filled them in on the details. He had walked calmly into the station to give himself up at around about the same time that Bracher had barged into Charing Cross, shouting his name out. Palmer hadn’t been cautioned. He was there of his own volition.

  Holland sat down on one of the green plastic chairs that were bolted in a row along the wall. ‘He saw the picture too, must have. Knew somebody was going to recognise it. Thought he’d be doing himself a favour.’ McEvoy looked across at him, nodded her agreement.

  Thorne stared at the door. ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Reckon he’ll give up his mate?’ Thorne turned and stared at McEvoy. She’d asked, knowing it was what he was thinking, watching the tension take hold as he glared at the scratched grey door, imagining the man on the other side of it.

  Give up his mate . . .

  It had been the question Thorne had been asking himself since he’d heard Palmer’s name for the second time. Christ, it could be that simple. Perhaps there was a chance, if he was hit quickly, and hard.

  ‘Is Brigstocke coming?’ Holland asked.

  McEvoy took a few paces back towards the main reception area, smiled politely at the small collection of gawping uniforms gathered around the desk. ‘On his way.’

  ‘Should we wait for him?’

  ‘Probably,’ Thorne said, and opened the door.

  In the couple of seconds he spent marching across to the tape recorder on the far side of the room, he took it all in. The uniform in the corner, jumping slightly as Thorne slammed the door. The cold. Palmer, his white collar grubby, sitting at the brushed metal table, head bowed. The wad of bandage clumsily plastered to the top of his head, the blood dried brown.

  Thorne picked up two fresh cassette tapes and began tearing roughly at the plastic packaging, his eyes never leavin
g the figure seated at the table.

  Palmer was a big man, that was obvious, slumped and hunched over as he was. Wispy, sandy-coloured hair and metal-framed glasses. Murrell and Knight had done a good job. The picture was spot on.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Thorne and I’m in no mood to piss about, is that all right with you?’

  Palmer said nothing. He didn’t even move.

  Thorne slammed the tapes into the recorder, hit the red button and waited. Once the buzzing had stopped and the recording had begun, he cautioned his interviewee. He spoke the caution quickly, spitting out the words like pips from something gone sour. He told Palmer he was free to leave, that he was not under arrest, that he was entitled to free and independent legal advice. He said these things because he had to, without thinking about them, or caring a great deal. The only moment of hesitation came when he looked across at the uniformed statue in the corner, to ascertain his name for the tape.

  The constable’s eyes widened and he spoke his name as if he was confirming it from the dock.

  Thorne stood opposite Palmer, his hands on the dull metal tabletop, staring hard. He was aware of Constable Stephen Legge in the corner, shifting his feet nervously. Good, Thorne thought. I’m scaring you, I must be scaring this fucker . . .

  Palmer didn’t look up.

  ‘Now then, these two murders you’re so courageously putting your hand up to. That’s two murders out of four, if we’re being accurate, isn’t it? Four murders all told. There’s another man, isn’t there?’

  Nothing. Thorne let a few seconds become thirty. Moved in that bit closer.

  ‘Actually, we’d better make that five murders. You fucked up last night, fucked up or bottled out, doesn’t matter which, but I’m bloody sure he didn’t.’ Slowly, asking it again, ‘There’s another man, isn’t there?’

  Palmer nodded. Sniffed. He was about to cry.