Mark Billingham has twice won the Theakston’s Old Peculier Award for Crime Novel of the Year, and has also won a Sherlock Award for the Best Detective created by a British writer. Each of the novels featuring Detective Inspector Tom Thorne has been a Sunday Times bestseller. Sleepyhead and Scaredy Cat were made into a hit TV series on Sky 1 starring David Morrissey as Thorne, and a series based on the novels In the Dark and Time of Death was broadcast on BBC1 in 2017. Mark lives in north London with his wife and two children.
Visit Mark’s website at www.markbillingham.com or follow him on Twitter @MarkBillingham.
Also by Mark Billingham
The DI Tom Thorne series
Sleepyhead
Scaredy Cat
Lazybones
The Burning Girl
Lifeless
Buried
Death Message
Bloodline
From the Dead
Good as Dead
The Dying Hours
The Bones Beneath
Time of Death
Love Like Blood
Other fiction
In the Dark
Rush of Blood
Die of Shame
Cut Off
COPYRIGHT
Published by Sphere
978-0-7515-6693-2
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Mark Billingham Ltd 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
SPHERE
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
The Killing Habit
Table of Contents
About the Author
Also by Mark Billingham
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE: NINE LIVES, TWO DEATHS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
PART TWO: THE PICTURE ON THE BOX
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
PART THREE: THIS BLOODY JOB
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
PART FOUR: THE NECESSARY STEPS
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For Claire, Katie and Jack. It’s a good job
that Kevin and Stan can’t read…
I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories…
EDGAR ALLAN POE
The sea hath fish for every man.
WILLIAM CAMDEN
The party was in full swing, the cash-and-carry booze flowing freely and the buffet his wife had slaved over taking a hammering, when Andrew Evans spotted the Duchess, and thought, for a second or two, that he was going to shit himself.
That, or throw up on the spot.
He was in the garden, watching the son he hadn’t seen in eighteen months creep carefully down a plastic slide, when he caught sight of her. She was standing at the open back door with a serviette in one hand and a drink in the other. She smiled and stood aside to let a teenage boy past, then turned to look at Evans.
She waved and raised the paper cup she was holding.
‘It’s going pretty well, isn’t it?’ Evans’s wife helped their son up from the bottom of the slide and shook her head as the boy immediately ran around for another go. ‘Good turnout.’
‘Yeah…’
‘Lucky with the weather.’ She looked at him. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Evans said. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ He reached across to stroke her bare arm then downed what was left of his beer and crushed the empty can in his fist. ‘Just going inside to get another drink.’
The WELCOME HOME banner that had been strung across the small patio had begun to droop a little and he was forced to duck beneath it on his way towards the back door. The old woman in the doorway stood aside for him and he walked past without acknowledging her. In the kitchen, he grabbed the beer that he now very much needed and hugged his sister who had clearly needed several already. Collared on his way back out by a couple of people he used to work with, he thanked them for coming, told them it meant a lot and said he would catch up with them properly later. Then, though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Evans walked back outside, laying a hand on the old woman’s mottled, fleshy arm as he passed, to let her know that she should follow him.
A minute or so later, she pushed through the side gate and joined him at the front of the house.
‘What are you here for?’ He took another drink, half the can gone already.
‘Well, that’s not very nice.’ She sounded genuinely hurt. ‘I mean, why wouldn’t I be here?’
‘This is family. Friends.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ she said. ‘It’s a special occasion, isn’t it? And I was a very good friend until yesterday, wasn’t I?’ She stepped across and touched her plastic cup to his beer can. ‘Congratulations.’
Evans stared and fought the urge to back away.
The Duchess…
It’s what they all called her, the ones she came to see, what they thought she looked like. Always nicely dressed, with her hair up; smelling of something sweet and with a bit too much old-lady make-up, as though she could just have been somebody’s grandmother. Probably was, because she played the part well
enough. Grandmother to God knows how many blokes on visiting day.
She smoothed down the front of her party dress, looked up and saw him staring. ‘Like I said, special occasion… so I made an effort. I always do.’
Whatever they called her, whatever she was trying to look like, the accent was pure Essex.
He said, ‘You should go. We can do this by phone.’
‘I just wanted you to know how things stood, that’s all. It’s my job to make sure you know what the situation is.’
‘It’s about two grand, right?’ Evans took another drink. ‘Obviously I haven’t got a job yet, I mean it’s only been a day, but as soon as I do, I’ll start paying it off.’
The Duchess nodded, smiled. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘But you’re forgetting about the interest, my love.’ She shook her head, laughing softly as though the mistake was one she was very familiar with. ‘The interest on the interest.’ She reached down to prod at the earth in a terracotta plant pot. ‘That needs a bit of water, that does. Dry as a bone.’
‘How much?’ The hand that was clutching the beer can had begun to shake a little, so he held it against his chest.
‘It’s around twelve, I think —’
‘What?’
‘Don’t worry, because that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? There’s no need to panic, because you can work it off. That’s the beauty of it.’
‘Work it off how?’ Something bright caught Evans’s eye, and he looked up to see a WELCOME HOME balloon rising up and away from the back of the house. He could hear his friends and family laughing in the garden.
‘Oh, I couldn’t say for sure, love. Bits and bobs, that’s all. Just a few bits and bobs. They’ll let me know, and I’ll let you know, see?’
‘What if I don’t want to do it?’
‘Now, don’t be daft, love…’
This time, when the Duchess moved towards him, Evans did step back and found himself against the side of the garage. She reached for his hand, and when he finally gave it she pressed a package into his palm then wrapped her own fingers around his. ‘There you go.’ She patted his hand. ‘I bet you need this, don’t you?’
For those few seconds, before Evans slipped the package into his pocket and pushed himself away from the wall, he could smell her: sickly and cloying, the lacquer and the skin cream.
‘And this one’s on the house,’ she said. ‘Like a whatever you call it… a goodwill gesture.’
As he pushed back through the gate into the garden, he could hear her chuckling behind him. ‘A welcome home gift from Granny.’ Then: ‘Do you mind if I stay for a bit, love? Those sausage rolls are bloody lovely.’
Evans’s wife was coming towards him across the grass, the smile slipping from her face, and she was saying something, but he began walking faster and cut hard left on to the patio and into the house. Into the noise and the crush of bodies. Immediately, arms were outstretched towards him, but he pushed past them and hurried quickly into the hall and turned on to the stairs.
He took them two at a time.
The Duchess had been right. He needed what she had given him, but first he needed to be sick.
PART ONE
NINE LIVES, TWO DEATHS
He was always amazed at how easy it was.
Part of that was down to him of course, and it was no more than common sense: the thorough preparations, the thought he put into it. The care taken each and every time and the refusal to get lazy.
That was what they were, after all. So trusting and desperate for affection.
Victims had never been hard to find, quite the opposite, but still, each night’s work needed to be treated with caution. Best laid plans and all that. There were basic measures that needed to be taken, things to steer clear of, cameras and that sort of carry-on. He was no expert when it came to forensics, but he knew enough to avoid leaving any sorts of traces. The gloves were thicker than he would have liked, but that couldn’t be helped. It took away some of the feeling at the end, which was a shame, but he wasn’t going to risk getting scratched, was he?
Enough feeling, though. There was always enough left, and each time it was as though things were starting to… even out inside him.
A lifting, of sorts.
Funny old word, but it sounded right.
He shook his head and drank his tea, one ear on the radio, as he sat and thought about who he was.
He knew there were some who would declare that this business of his was all about hate, but that kind of nonsense wasn’t even worth considering. It was never about that, never would be. Certainly not about sex, either, because that would be… ridiculous.
He smiled, shook his head, just thinking about it.
Did it really have to be about anything? Was it worth making a fuss about in the first place?
Not when you actually stopped to think, not if you sat down and put what he was doing into perspective. When there were bombs going off and plane crashes and kiddies getting cancer right, left and centre, did pathetic creatures like these really matter? What was the point of them, anyway, in the scheme of things? At the end of the day, how many people were really going to miss them?
He turned off the radio and carried what was left of his tea out into the hall. He watched himself in the mirror while he downed it. He checked the front door was locked, then turned and walked back into the living room, such as it was.
He stopped and stretched, then rubbed a hand across his belly.
It felt as though it was time to go looking again, not that he would need to look very hard, of course.
He decided that he might even treat himself to a new pair of gloves.
ONE
‘Cats?’ Thorne shook his head. ‘Are you serious? I mean they’re just… cats.’
DCI Russell Brigstocke gathered some papers on his desk and straightened them. ‘Yes, but there’s a good few of them. Fifteen more that we know about in the last ten weeks.’ A tone sounded from his mobile phone. He picked up the handset, swiped and stabbed, then laid it back down on the desk.
‘It’s a lot of dead cats, I get that.’ Thorne had followed the case in the papers and seen the coverage online and had known straight away what Brigstocke had been talking about. ‘Obviously, people are upset, and I know you’re getting it in the neck from the Chief Superintendent, but surely there’s someone else who can handle it. For now, at least. I mean, we’re Homicide. We’re not…’
Brigstocke grinned. ‘Tomicide?’
Thorne smiled in spite of himself.
‘See? You’ve even got the perfect name for it.’
‘Look, maybe whoever’s doing this just doesn’t like cats. Some people don’t. Think they’re a bit creepy.’
‘We have to take it seriously, Tom.’ Brigstocke sat back and ran fingers through hair that seemed to be getting greyer by the day. ‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I? Not for you.’
Thorne didn’t need to answer. He knew very well that he was fighting a losing battle; that fighting at all was no more than a reflex. A degree of bolshiness that was usually expected of him, especially this early in the week, still not quite up to speed after a weekend trying and failing to relax with his partner Helen and her overactive four-year-old.
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