Sleepyhead Thorne 1

by Mark Billingham

  He kept his eyes open and did some catching up. The phone lay on the small cupboard by the side of the bed and he propped a couple of pillows up against the headboard. One extremely comfy office. The call to his dad was surprisingly enjoyable. Jim Thorne hated Sundays, and his irascible commentary on everything from garden centres to 'God-botherers' had made Thorne laugh out loud several times. They'd agreed to have a night out the following week.

  Thorne had arranged to meet Phil Hendricks the day after next but this was a less enjoyable prospect. The pathologist had sounded distant and edgy. The call had taken less than a minute. Thorne wondered what Hendricks wanted to see him about. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with tickets for Spurs-Arsenal. Then he'd rung Anne.

  She'd been having breakfast with Rachel. The two of them were planning to spend the day together and she told Thorne she'd ring back. Within fifteen minutes she was on her way over. Rachel had not seemed too disappointed at the change of plan, and by the time she was climbing back into bed with her mobile phone, her mother was climbing into bed with Tom Thorne.

  After making up for lost time they'd dozed for a while but now, surrounded by discarded bits of newspaper, they lay in a bed dotted with toast crumbs and smelling of sex. And began to talk.

  It was a conversation of a very different nature from the one they'd had nearly a month earlier, on the night Thorne had gone round for dinner; the night he'd been attacked and drugged in his own home. Then, certainly as far as he had been concerned, there had been a lot of lying. There had been the lies implicit in the flirting and the lies behind his questions about Jeremy Bishop.

  There was so much he hadn't told her. So many lies by omission.

  Now they talked easily, and truthfully. Two people the wrong side of forty with little reason to puff up achievements or suck in stomachs. They spoke about David and Rachel and Jan and the Lecturer. Divorces with children versus divorces without. About her grade-seven piano and the work she'd done on her house and the cups she'd won for tennis before she went to university. About how much he hated poncy tea and brown bread, and how he'd been quite a useful footballer until he'd started putting on weight. '

  About how often she'd saved a life and how many times he'd fired a gun.

  They talked about how utterly unsuited they were, and laughed, and then made love again.

  For a few hours on a damp Sunday afternoon at the fag end of September, the case that had changed both their lives - that would twist and warp their lives, and those of others, even more before it was over - might not have existed.

  Then a woman picked up a phone in Edinburgh and changed everything.

  He'd enjoyed his Sundays in the past. They had been a vital part of the process. It had been the day when he'd selected several of his early ones. He'd watched Christine on a Sunday - she'd had friends round. And Susan - at home alone in front of an old film. Even after he'd stopped working in other houses, Sunday was still a day to take stock. To plan. Today, he didn't like what he saw. It was all going to shit. He could feel himself on the edge of a depression that he knew would be crippling if he let it take hold. The days after Helen had been hard but he'd seen a light at the end of it all. The knowledge that success was possible. That the capacity to achieve success was within him. And the days after Alison. A happiness he hadn't known before or since.

  Today he saw no light ahead. The doubt was taking hold of every part of him and starting to squeeze out the joy and the hope.

  It was more than just his own failure, of course. Thorne was failing as well, or at the very least not being allowed to succeed.

  Without Thorne there was really no point.

  All his channels of information were clear. The news, the rumour, the word. None of it good. He'd made it all so easy for them and they'd screwed it up. They'd missed every marker he'd left so carefully in their path. He sat and stared at the pristine white wall. Whatever happened, however it worked itself out, he would always have Alison. She would always be a testament to him and his work. The other part of it, the other half of it, might not work out exactly as planned but that was not his fault. That was the result of involving others. There were ways of achieving a similar end on his own.

  The punishment was not going to fit the crime, but he would see it meted out nevertheless.

  It wasn't over, not yet, but he was starting to feel weary. Twelve days before, with Margaret Byrne's body cooling where he'd left it and his car effortlessly trailing the night bus carrying Leonie Holden towards him, he'd felt bright and invincible. Today, he wasn't sure he'd even be able to drag himself out of doors.

  Even though, later, he would have to.

  They were laughing about his taste in music. The track was 'Delia's Gone', which involved Johnny Cash tying his girlfriend to a chair and shooting her. a couple of times, essentially because she was 'devilish'. Thorne couldn't see the problem.

  Then the phone rang. 'Tom? It's Sally Byrne.'

  Thorne laughed. 'Hi, Sally. Elvis is fine. He's destroying the place but he's fine.'

  Anne, who hadn't met the cat yet, threw him an odd look from the other side of the bed. He grinned at her over his shoulder, shaking his head. Don't worry about it. She picked up a newspaper and snuggled down to read.

  'It's not actually about the cat, Tom.'

  Thorne began to sit up slowly. He could feel the smallest of sensations, a tingle, a burning, an excitement, building between his shoulder-blades. 'I'm listening, Sally.'

  'It's just something a bit odd and I probably should have spoken to the Irish officer. What's his name?'

  'Tughan.' Go on...

  'Well, I've been going through Mum's things, you know sorting stuff out for the charity shop or whatever, and I was looking through her jewelry and I found a man's ring.'

  Thorne was already out of bed and wandering into the living room, trying to pull on a dressing-gown.

  'Tom?'

  'Sorry. Which jewelry are we talking about?'

  'This is what I'm saying, it's the stuff you lot took away. The scene-of-crime people. They let me have it all back after the funeral, said they didn't need it any more. I don't know where they found this ring, on the floor with the rest of the stuff, I suppose, and they obviously thought it belonged to my mum, but it doesn't.'

  'It's definitely a man's?'

  'Definitely. It's plain gold. Looks like a wedding ring.'

  'Not your dad's?'

  'Are you kidding? That bastard would never have worn a wedding ring. Might have spoiled his chances of pulling.'

  Thorne was starting to miss what Sally Byrne was saying. A melody was pouring into his brain and filling every corner of it. A classical melody. Mournful and haunting. He couldn't remember what it was called. Something German. But he could remember where he'd heard it. And he could remember a rhythm, a tempo, marked out by the clicking of a wedding ring against a gearstick.

  'I mean, I'm sure it's nothing, Tom, but...'

  When Thorne came back into the bedroom a few minutes later, Anne knew in a heartbeat that something had changed. He was trying to sound casual. He asked if she wanted tea.

  She got up and began to dress.

  Whatever it was that had actually happened wasn't important. She knew that murder and suspicion were back in the room with them and she needed to leave. They moved around each other awkwardly now, embarrassed, and they froze for half a second as each caught the other's reflection in the long wardrobe mirror.

  Thorne saw something like accusation and hated himself for wanting her to leave so that he could ring Dave Holland.

  Anne saw the excitement that was running through Thorne like voltage.

  She saw a hunger in him.

  She saw the face of Jeremy Bishop and the dark sadness that had settled around his eyes as he'd whispered to her.

  'People have secrets, Anne.

  They sat at a table towards the back of the room, not in total darkness but close to it. It seemed to be the way he wanted it. He'd led her
to the table, avoiding the empty seats near the stage. It was probably a good idea considering that they didn't want to get picked on and she was underage.

  Rachel looked around. She wasn't the only one. Actually she had had no trouble in getting away with it. The club was dimly lit and the woman on the door had barely looked up from her cashbox when the two of them had come in. She'd spent a long time on her makeup. She'd even stood beneath the lights at the bar and bought them both a drink, staring at herself in the mirror that ran along the back wall behind the optics. She looked eighteen easily. Twenty, probably.

  This small comedy club below a pub in Crouch End was, he'd told her, one of his favourite places. It was a mixed audience. Nobody cared what you looked like or how old you were. It wasn't exactly the Comedy Store, but you could see some of the same comedians that you were likely to see at the bigger clubs without having to struggle into the West End.

  Rachel had liked the sound of it straight away and asked him if he'd take her. He told her about another night at the same club when they did what were called try-out shows or open spots. He came to those as often as he could, if he wasn't working. A dozen or more hopefuls would get up and do a couple of minutes. None of them was any good. It was clearly just therapy for most of them, but it was riveting to watch. Like a car accident. Watching them struggle, watching them 'die', was an amazing experience, he assured her. The comedian on the tiny stage was a sneering Scotsman with red hair and a loud suit who shouted a lot and swore too much. He talked about sex in graphic detail and Rachel sat blushing in the darkness. She looked out of the corner of her eye at the man next to her so that she could laugh when he did. She didn't want to seem young, or stupid, or unsophisticated.

  He was enjoying himself, she could tell. He'd seemed a little tense when he'd picked her up outside the Green Man, but now he looked more relaxed. She watched him far more than she watched what was happening on stage. He stared, engrossed, at the comedian, or at other members of the audience. He was a ferocious watcher, critical and unblinking. She loved that about him. She loved how he lived every moment to its fullest, taking everything in and savouring it. She loved his intensity, his refusal to compromise. The comedian was telling some joke about his parents and Rachel thought about her mother. Anne had been in a strange mood when she'd come home - from the policeman's place, Rachel guessed. It had definitely been him who'd phoned that morning. Probably at it all day, the pair of them.

  She thought quite a lot about Thorne fucking her mother.

  She thought quite a lot about fucking.

  There had been a bit of an atmosphere when she'd announced that she was going out, but her mother had hardly been in a position to say anything after the way she'd changed their plans earlier.

  Around her people started to applaud and she joined in. The compare was coming back on again to introduce another act. He said that there'd be an interval afterwards. She wondered if they'd go out for a meal when the show had finished; there were loads of great, restaurants within walking distance. Then they could sit in his car for a while before he drove her home.

  The next comedian was a woman. She was gentler and did a really funny song about men being crap in bed to start off.

  Rachel took a sip from her half of lager and smiled at him, feeling a little light-headed. He smiled back and squeezed her hand. When he'd let go she slid her arm between his back and the chair.

  She was as happy as she could ever remember being. She rested her hand on his waist.., the audience laughed.., he had on a really nice linen shirt which he wore out of his trousers.., the audience groaned at a corny line.., he always wore gorgeous clothes.., the woman on stage started another song... Rachel wanted to touch his skin.., a drunk at the other side of the room started to cheer and clap.., she moved her hand under his shirt and her fingers crept round to stroke the flesh of his stomach .... Then he screamed.

  In that split second when everything fell apart, and he was standing up, and her drink was in her lap, and the woman on the stage was pointing at them, it seemed to Rachel that he had screamed. Christ, he had. He'd bellowed. As if he'd been scalded...

  His face was a mask and she reached up to grab his arm, but he called her a stupid little bitch and grabbed for his coat and he was away, moving quickly away, pushing between the tables and knocking over empty chairs. And the woman on the stage was laughing and saying something to him as he marched out, and he turned and shouted and told her to fuck off, and people in the audience started to boo, and he looked like he wanted to hurt them.

  He crashed out through the door, and she could feel the beer soaking through her thin skirt, and the eyes of everyone in the room burning into her. The door slammed shut with a bang, and the woman on the stage leaned in close to her microphone and put a hand over her eyes to stare into the lights and beyond, to where Rachel was sitting arid wishing she was 'dead.

  'Bit of a domestic, love?'

  A few people in the audience laughed. And Rachel began to cry.

  Holland was listening to the sports round-up on Radio 5 Live for the third time in as many hours, when headlights swept across his rear-view mirror and he turned to see Jeremy Bishop pulling up outside his house.

  Thorne had called at around six and Sophie was not best pleased. She'd known immediately that it was Thorne. She knew everything immediately. She'd have been pissed off at his having to go out anyway but Thorne, as far as she was concerned, represented an unhealthy future for him in the force. A future he should run from at all costs. A future without promotion, without stability, without certainty. By implication, without her.

  He couldn't argue with her. Everything she said made complete sense. But they were words from beyond the grave. His father's words. Sophie was mouthing the sentiments of a man he had loved but had never admired. It was hard not to admire Tom Thorne.

  He couldn't argue with Sophie, so he didn't bother. He left the house in silence and conducted the argument with her in his head as he drove to Battersea and sat waiting. In truth, he was arguing with himself as well. Thorne was clutching at straws, of course he was. Jeremy Bishop, who, Holland knew, had been at work in the Royal London hospital at the time, had dropped a ring in Maggie Byrne's bedroom as he was murdering her.

  Right. Looked at rationally, these were the ravings of a man popularly thought by many of his colleagues to have gone over the edge. But there'd been something in Thorne's voice. Yes, desperation possibly, but more than that. An excitement, a zeal, a passion that had Holland reaching for his coat and wondering what he was going to say to Sophie before he'd put down the phone. He stepped out of the car and crossed the road. Bishop, who had just locked the Volvo and was about to head towards his front door, saw Holland coming. He sighed theatrically and leaned back against the car, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. Holland was ready with an apologetic shrug and all the appropriate phrases. Just a few more questions. Investigating a fresh lead. Grateful for all your help and co-operation. As he approached he could see that Bishop remembered him. He didn't care. He had his badge in his right hand with the other politely outstretched. 'Detective Constable Holland, sir.'

  Bishop pushed himself away from the car and took a step towards him. 'Yes, I know. How's your girlfriend's hand?' The tone impatient, the smile saying he knew it was bollocks.

  Holland was thrown, but only for a second. 'Fine.'

  'How long is this going to take?'

  It wasn't going to take very long at all. As Bishop had started speaking, he had proffered his left hand in return for Holland's. They'd shaken, and with a quick downward glance, Holland had got what he'd come for. What Thorne had sent him for.

  No wedding ring.

  I've been reading a lot. The same page usually, over and over again, but what the hell? Early on, there was a bit of a scramble to find some interesting reading matter and while they were looking, to sort of test out their new-fangled device, the occupational therapist gave me some official hospital literature to read.


  Yawn...

  Well, that's what I thought until I started reading. Fascinating stuff. This is a quote, and I can remember it very accurately having stared at it for twenty minutes: 'The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, incorporating the Institute of Neurology, is a unique resource for teaching, training and research in neurology and the neurosciences. The work of academic staff and their research is closely integrated with the hospital's care of its patients." Well, that all seems clear enough to me. The 'care' bit is very much an afterthought, you know, tagged on at the end when somebody remembered that it was supposed to be a hospital. The rest seems to be all about research and training and, frankly, they can just fuck right off.

  I'm a patient. Trust me, I'd really rather not be here at all, but if I am then my job description is 'patient mate. I'm nobody's resource. Nobody's fucking teaching aid.

  'Let's have a look at this poor young woman here, utterly buggered thanks to brainstem trauma. Can you try and blink for us, dear?'

  No thanks.

  All right, I'm being a bit over the top but when I first read that I was really upset. I lay awake all night wondering if anybody here was making any effort at all to help me get better. I'm still wondering.

  Am I more use to them the way I am?

  SEVENTEEN

  Keable and Tughan had questions ready, and Thorne had plenty of answers. First, there was the small matter of another complaint from Jeremy Bishop.

  'He claims there was somebody watching his house on Saturday evening.' Keable looked at Thorne. Thorne shrugged and turned to Holland innocently.

  'Did he say anything about this to you last night?'

  Tughan spoke before Holland had a chance to answer.

  'You are on such thin ice, Thorne.'