Lazybones

by Mark Billingham

  It was called a hotel. They also called MPs “right,” “honorable,” and “gentlemen”…

  The sign outside said HOTEL, but Thorne knew full well that certain signs, in less salubrious parts of London, were not to be taken too literally. If they all meant exactly what they said, there would be a lot of frustrated businessmen sitting in saunas, waiting for hand jobs they were never going to get.

  The sign outside should have read SHITHOLE.

  It was as basic as they came. The maroon carpet, once the finest offcut the warehouse had to offer, was now worn through in a number of places. The green of the rotting rubber underlay beneath matched the mold that snaked up the off-white wallpaper below the window. A long-dead spider plant stood on the window ledge, caked in dust. Thorne pushed aside the grubby orange curtains, leaned against the ledge, and took in the breathtaking view of the traffic inching slowly past Paddington Station toward the Marylebone Road. Nearly eleven o’clock and still solid.

  Thorne turned around and sucked in a breath. Opposite him in the doorway, DC Dave Holland stood chatting to a uniform—waiting, like Thorne, for the signal to step in and start. To sink both feet deep into the mire.

  In different parts of the room, three scene-of-crime officers crouched and crawled—bagging and tagging and searching for the fiber, the grain that might convict. The life sentence hidden in a dustball. The truth lurking in detritus.

  The pathologist, Phil Hendricks, leaned against a wall, muttering into the new digital voice recorder he was so proud of. He glanced up at Thorne. A look that asked the usual questions. Are we up and running again? When is this going to get any easier? Why don’t the two of us chuck in this shit and sit in a doorway for the rest of our lives drinking aftershave? Thorne, unable to provide any answers, looked away. In the corner nearest him, a fourth SOCO, whose bald head and bodysuit gave him the look of a giant baby, dusted the taps of the brown plastic sink with fingerprint powder.

  It was, at least, a shithole with en suite facilities.

  Altogether, seven of them in the room. Eight, if you counted the corpse.

  Thorne’s gaze was dragged reluctantly across to the chalk-white figure of the man on the bed. The body was nude and lay on the bare mattress, the spots of blood joining stains of less obvious origin on the threadbare and faded ticking. The hands were tied with a brown leather belt and pushed out in front of him as he lay, prostrate, his knees pulled up beneath him, his backside in the air. His head, which was covered in a black hood, was pressed down into the sagging mattress.

  Thorne watched as Phil Hendricks moved along the bed, lifted the head, and turned it. He slowly removed the hood. From behind, Thorne saw his friend’s shoulders stiffen for an instant, heard the small, sharp intake of breath before he laid the head back down. As a SOCO moved across to take the hood and drop it into an exhibits bag, Thorne took a step forward so that he could see the face of the dead man clearly.

  His eyes were closed, his nose small and slightly upturned. The side of the face was dotted with pinprick-size blood spots. The mouth was a mask of dried gore, the lips ragged, the whole hideous mess crisscrossed with spittle strings. The stained, uneven teeth were bared and had gnawed through the bottom lip as the ligature had tightened around the neck.

  Thorne guessed that the man was in his late thirties. It was just a guess.

  From somewhere above them, Thorne became aware of a rumble suddenly dying—a boiler switching itself off. Stifling a yawn, he looked up, watched cobwebs dancing gracefully around the plaster ceiling rose. He wondered if the other residents would care too much about their morning hot water when they found out what had happened in Room 6.

  Thorne took a pace toward the bed. Hendricks spoke without looking around.

  “Bar the fact that he’s dead, I know nothing, so don’t even ask. All right?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Phil, and how are you?”

  “Right, I see. Like you only came over here for a fucking chinwag…?”

  “You are such a miserable sod. What’s wrong with exchanging a few pleasantries? Trying to make all this a bit easier?”

  Hendricks said nothing.

  Thorne leaned over to scratch at his ankle through the bodysuit. “Phil…”

  “I told you, I don’t know. Look for yourself. It seems pretty obvious how he died, but it’s not that simple. There’s…other stuff gone on.”

  “Right. Thanks…”

  Hendricks moved back a little and nodded toward one of the SOCOs, who moved quickly toward the bed, picking up a small toolbox as he went. The officer knelt down and opened the box, revealing a display of dainty, shining instruments. He took out a small scalpel and leaned across, reaching toward the victim’s neck.

  Thorne watched as the SOCO pushed a plastic-covered finger down between the ligature and the neck, struggling to get some purchase. From where Thorne was standing, it looked like washing line, the sort of stuff you can get in any hardware shop. Smooth blue plastic. He could see just how tightly it was biting into the dead man’s neck. The officer took his scalpel and carefully cut away the line in such a way as to preserve the knot that was gathered at the back of the neck. This was, of course, basic procedure. Sensible and chilling.

  They’d need it to compare with any others they might find.

  Thorne glanced across at Dave Holland, who raised his eyebrows and turned up his palms. What’s happening? How long? Thorne shrugged. He’d been there more than an hour already. He and Holland had been over the room, taking notes, bagging a few things up, getting a feel for the scene. Now it was the technicians’ turn and Thorne hated the wait. It might have made him feel better, were he able to put his impatience down to a desire to get involved. He wished he could say honestly that he was itching to begin doing his job, to kick off the process that might one day bring this man’s killer to justice. As it was, he just wanted to do what had to be done quickly, and get out of that room.

  He wanted to strip off the plastic suit, get in his car, and drive away.

  Actually, if he were being really honest with himself, he would have had to admit that only part of him wanted that. The other part was buzzing. The part that knew the difference between some murder scenes and others; that was able to measure these things. Thorne had seen the victims of enraged spouses and jealous lovers. He had stared at the bodies of business rivals and gangland snitches. He knew when he was looking at something out of the ordinary.

  This was a significant murder scene. This was the work of a killer driven by something special, something spectacular.

  The room stank of hatred and of rage. It also stank of pride.

  Hendricks, as if reading Thorne’s mind, turned to him, half smiling. “Just another five minutes, okay? I’m not going to get anything else here…”

  Thorne nodded. He looked at the dead man on the bed—the position of him, as if he were praying. Had it not been for the belt, for the livid red furrow that circled his neck, for the thin lines of blood that ran down the backs of his pale thighs, he might have been praying.

  Thorne guessed that at the end, he probably had been.

  The room was hot. Thorne raised an arm to rub a sore eye and felt the tickle as a drop of sweat slid down his ribs then took a sudden, sharp turn across his belly.

  Down below, a frustrated driver leaned on his horn…

  Thorne was not even aware that he’d closed his eyes, and when he heard a phone ring, he snapped them open, convinced for a few wonderful moments that he’d woken suddenly from a bad dream.

  He turned, a little disoriented, and saw Holland standing next to the bedside table. The phone was an off-white seventies model, the dial cracked, the grimy handset visibly jumping in its cradle. Thorne was now fully alert but he was still somewhat confused. Was this a call for them? Was it police business? Or was it possible that whoever was down at what passed for a reception desk had not been told what was happening and had put a caller through from the outside? Having met one or two of the
staff, Thorne could well believe that even knowing exactly what had happened, they might still be dim enough to put a call through to the occupant of Room 6. If that was the case, it would certainly be a stroke of luck…

  Thorne moved toward the ringing phone. The rest of the team stood frozen, watching him.

  The victim’s clothes—it had to be presumed they were the victim’s—lay strewn about the floor nearby. Trousers—minus their belt—and underpants were next to the chair. Shirt, crumpled into a ball. One shoe under the bed, up near the headboard. The brown corduroy jacket, slung across the back of a chair next to the bed, had contained no personal items. No wallet, no bus tickets, no crinkled photographs. Nothing that might help identify the dead man…

  Thorne did not know if the phone had already been dusted for fingerprints, and he had no time to check. He reached out to grab a plastic evidence bag from the fat, babyish SOCO and wrapped it around his hand. He held the hand up, wanting silence. He didn’t need to ask.

  He took a breath and picked up the receiver. “Hello…?”

  “Oh…hi.” A woman’s voice.

  Thorne locked eyes with Holland. “Who did you want to speak to?” He was holding the phone an inch or so away from his ear and didn’t hear the answer properly. “Sorry, it’s not a very good line, could you speak up?”

  “Is that any good?”

  “That’s great.” Thorne tried to sound casual. “Who do you want to speak to?”

  “Oh…I’m not really sure, actually…”

  Thorne looked at Holland again and shook his head. Fuck. It wasn’t going to be that easy. “Who am I talking to?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Who are you?”

  There was a short pause before she spoke. The voice was suddenly a little tighter. Confident, though, and refined. “Listen, I don’t want to sound rude, but it was somebody there who called me. I don’t particularly want to give out—”

  “This is Detective Inspector Thorne from the Serious Crime Group…”

  A pause. Then: “I thought I was calling a hotel…”

  “You have called a hotel. Could you please give me your name?” He looked across at Holland, puffed out his cheeks. Holland was poised, notebook in hand, looking utterly confused.

  “You could be anybody,” the woman said.

  “Listen, if it makes you happier, I can call you back. Better still, let me give you a number to call so you can check. Ask for DCI Russell Brigstocke. And I’ll give you my mobile number…”

  “Why do I need your mobile number if you’re calling me back?”

  The conversation was starting to get faintly ridiculous. Thorne thought he could detect a note of amusement, perhaps even flirtation, creeping into this woman’s voice. Pleasing as this was on an otherwise grim morning, he wasn’t really in the mood.

  “Madam, the phone I’m speaking on, the phone you’ve called, is located at a crime scene and I need to know why you’re calling.”

  He got the message across. The woman, though suddenly sounding a little panicky, did as she was asked.

  “It was on my answering machine. I got here, I got into work this morning, and checked my messages. This one was the first. The man who called left the name of the hotel and the room number for delivery…”

  The man who called. Was that the man on the bed or…?

  “What was the message?”

  “He was placing an order. Bloody funny time to be doing it, though. That was why I was a bit…cautious about calling. I thought it might be a joke, you know, kids messing about, but kids wouldn’t give you the right address, would they?”

  “Did he leave a name?”

  “No, which is one of the reasons I’m calling. And to get a credit card number. I don’t do cash on delivery…”

  “What do you mean, ‘bloody funny time’?”

  “The message was left at ten past three this morning. I bought one of those flashy machines that tells you the time, you know?”

  Thorne pressed the mouthpiece to his chest, looked across at Hendricks. “I know the time of death. A tenner says you don’t get within half an hour either side…”

  “Hello?”

  Thorne put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, I was conferring with a colleague. Can I ask you to keep the tape from the machine, Miss…?”

  “Eve Bloom.”

  “You said something about placing an order?”

  “Oh sorry, didn’t I say? I’m a florist. He was ordering some flowers. That’s why I was slightly freaked out, I suppose…”

  “I don’t understand. Freaked…?”

  “Well, to be ordering what he was ordering in the middle of the night…”

  “What exactly did the message say?”

  “Hang on a minute…”

  “No, just…”

  She’d already gone. After a few seconds, Thorne heard the click of the button being hit and the noise of the tape rewinding. There was a pause and then a bang as she put the receiver down next to the machine.

  “It’s coming up,” she shouted.

  Then a hiss as the tape began to play.

  There was no discernible accent, no real emotion of any sort, in the voice. To Thorne, it sounded as if someone was trying hard to sound characterless, but there was a hint of something like amusement in the voice somewhere. In the voice of the man Thorne had to assume was responsible for the bound and bloodied corpse not three feet away from him.

  The message began simply enough.

  “I’d like to order a wreath…”

  December 3, 1975

  He inched the Maxi forward until the bumper was almost touching the garage door before yanking up the handbrake and turning off the ignition.

  He reached across for his briefcase, climbed out of the car, and nudged the door shut with his backside.

  Not six o’clock yet and already dark. Cold as well. He was going to have to start putting his vest on in the mornings.

  As he walked toward the front door he began whistling it again, that bloody song he couldn’t get out of his head. It was on the radio every minute of every day. What the hell was a “silhouetto” anyway? Do the bloody fandango? The thing went on for hours as well. Weren’t pop songs supposed to be short?

  He shut the front door behind him and stood on the mat for a second, waiting for the smell of his dinner to hit him. He liked this moment every day, the one where he could pretend he was a character in one of those programs on the TV. He stood and imagined that he was in the Midwest of America somewhere and not stuck in a shitty little suburb. He imagined that he was a rangy executive with a perfectly presented wife who would have a pot roast in the oven and a cocktail waiting for him. Highballs or something they called them, didn’t they?

  It wasn’t just his little joke, it was theirs. Their silly ritual. He would shout out and she would shout back, then they would sit down and eat the frozen crispy pancakes or maybe one of those packaged curries with too many raisins in.

  “Honey, I’m home…”

  There was no reply. He couldn’t smell anything.

  He dropped his briefcase by the hall table and walked toward the lounge. She probably hadn’t had time today. Wouldn’t have finished work until gone three and then she would have had shopping to do. There was only a fortnight until Christmas and there was loads of stuff still to get…

  The look on her face stopped him dead.

  She was sitting on the settee, wearing a powder-blue housecoat. Her legs were curled underneath her. Her hair was wet.

  “You all right, love?”

  She said nothing. As he took a step toward her, his shoe got tangled in something and he looked down and saw the dress.

  “What’s this doing…?”

  He flicked it up and caught it, laughing, looking for a reaction. Then, letting the length of it drop from his fingers he saw the rip, waggled his fingers through the rent in the rayon.

  “Christ, what have you done to this? Bloody hell, this was fifteen quids’
worth…”

  She looked up suddenly and stared at him as if he was mad. Trying not to make it obvious, he began looking around for an empty bottle, making an effort to keep a smile on his face.

  “Have you been to work today, love?”

  She moaned softly.

  “What about school? You did pick up…?”

  She nodded violently, her hair tumbling damp across her face. He heard the noise then from upstairs, the crash of a toy car or a pile of bricks coming from the loft they’d turned into a playroom.

  He nodded, puffed out his cheeks, relieved.

  “Listen, let’s get you…”

  He had to stop himself taking a step back as she stood up suddenly, her eyes wide and wet, folding herself over slowly, as if she were taking a bow.

  He said her name then.

  And his wife gathered up the hem of the powder-blue housecoat and raised it above her waist to show him the redness, the rawness, and the darker blue of the bruising at the top of her legs…

  TWO

  Thorne lost his bet with Phil Hendricks.

  He answered the phone barely four hours after they’d found the body and within a few seconds he was lobbing his half-eaten sandwich across the office, missing the bin by several feet. He chewed what was left in his mouth quickly, knowing that his appetite was about to disappear.

  Hendricks was calling from Westminster Mortuary. “Pretty quick,” he said. He sounded extremely chipper. “You’ve got to bloody admit—”

  “Why do you always manage to do this when I’m eating lunch? Couldn’t you have left it another hour?”

  “Sod that, mate, there’s money at stake. Right, you ready? I’m going for time of death at somewhere around quarter to three in the morning.”

  “Shit.” Thorne stared out of the window at a row of low gray buildings on the other side of the M1. He didn’t know if the window was dirty or if that was just Hendon. “This had better be worth a tenner. Go on…”

  “Right, how d’you want it? Medical jargon, layman’s terms, or pathology-made-easy for thick-as-shit coppers?”

  “That’s cost you half the tenner. Get on with it…”