TT03 - Lazybones

by Mark Billingham

  'Why did you shit in my bed?' Thorne said.

  The boy did a pretty good job of looking unutterably bored, but there was a jerkiness to the seemingly casual roll of the head, a tremor at the ends of the fingers. Thorne wondered how long it had been since he'd had a fix. Maybe not since he'd failed to sell Thorne's CDs, to turn Cash into cash and score with it...

  'Come on, Noel . . .'

  'What's the fucking point? You going to put in a good word for me, are you? Speak up for me in court?'

  'No chance.'

  'So why should I bother talking to you?'

  Thorne leaned back and folded his arms. 'Listen, break into places,

  Noel, by all means. It's your job, after all. Break in and trash them a bit if you have to, while you're looking for the decent stuff, the gear that's going to score you the best deal. I can understand that, I really can.

  'Not just the posh places, either. Don't just do the rich bastards who you might, might have a legitimate reason to enjoy turning over. No, why not rob from your own? Dump on your doorstep. Do the ordinary, working idiots who live on your own estate, on the poxy estate that you've already done your best to make that little bit worse than it would have been anyway, by pissing in the lift and leaving dirty needles all over what passes for a playground. Smash your neighbour's door in and see how high a black and white TV can get you. Or some cheap jewellery. Fuck it, any good stuff, the widescreens and the DVDs, will have been rented anyway, so who cares? Stupid fuckers aren't insured, that's not your fault, is it...?'

  'Jesus, have you finished?'

  'Do it and feel nothing. See something and take it, because all that matters is what you might be able to get for it. Feel fuck all...'

  'You're wasting your..."

  'Feel luck all. Then see how you feel when one day one of your mates needs some cash and puts his foot through your mother's window. Size-nine Nikes tramping around your mum's living room, and going through her drawers. And maybe your mate's a little bit wired, a little bit over the edge, and maybe your mother's lying there in bed at the time...'

  'It's because you're a copper.'

  Thorne stopped, took a breath and waited.

  'That's why I took a shit on your bed, all right?'

  It made sense. Thorne wasn't so poor a detective that he hadn't considered the possibility that his flat had been targeted. That was the problem with Neighbourhood Watch. You didn't always know which neighbours were watching...

  'How did you know?' Thorne asked.

  'I didn't, not before I got in there. There was a photo that had fallen down behind one of your speakers. You, in your fucking PC Plod outfit...'

  Mullen leaned back and folded his arms as Thorne had done. He looked at him, as he might look at a stereo or a VCR, evaluating it, working out whether it was worth taking.

  'Your hair was darker then,' Mullen said. 'And you weren't such a fat cunt.'

  Thorne nodded. He remembered the photo, had wondered where it had gone. It wasn't a picture he was hugely fond of, but still, Mullen's response when he'd seen it a few weeks earlier had been a bit harsh.

  'So, you take one look at an old photo and decide to use my bed as a crapper, that about right?'

  Mullen grinned, starting to enjoy himself. His teeth were browning where they met the gums. 'Yeah, more or less...'

  'You cocky little strip of piss...'

  Thorne's movement, and the scrape of his chair across the floor, caused Mullen to jerk back and stiffen, momentarily defensive. He appeared to recover his confidence just as quickly.

  'Look, it was nothing personal.'

  'And it won't be personal when I come round there, knock you over and shit in your mouth, fair enough? I'm a copper and you're a burglar. Right, Noel? Clearly there's certain things we have to do. '

  Mullen's expression was closer to pity than boredom. 'You're not going to do anything.'

  Other than strike a few poses to try to make himself feel better, there was nothing that Thorne could do. He wondered if the old man he'd seen sitting opposite Darren Ellis had felt as useless.

  'Are you sorry, Noel?'

  'Am I what?'

  'Sorry. Are you sorry?'

  'Yeah. I'm sorry I got fucking caught.'

  Thorne's smile was genuine. A certain warped faith had been restored by Mullen's honesty. Perhaps, faced with a few years' hard time, he would learn a trick or two, learn how to turn it on in the same way that Darren Ellis had. For now, there was something heartening about Mullen's answer. Something reassuring about the fact that he really and truly didn't give a toss.

  There was a moment when Thorne almost liked him. The moment passed, and for a minute and more, Thorne stared into Mullen's unexcited eyes until the boy jumped up, moved quickly across the room and began banging on the door. Stone took the call, held the receiver out towards Holland. 'For you...'

  As Holland walked across their small office, Stone put his hand over the receiver. 'She sounds sexy as well.'

  Holland said nothing and took the phone. He'd pretty much learned to put up with Stone's arrogance, but he still got impatient with the smirks and the shrugs and the knowing looks that actually knew fuck all. Mind you, these days, he got impatient with a lot of things.

  'DC Holland.'

  'This is Joanne Lesser...'

  'Oh, hello, Joanne.' Holland looked up to see Stone rolling his eyes and mouthing her name. Holland casually stuck up a finger.

  'No luck on the actual files yet,' she said. 'I did leave a message yesterday. About some of them being moved?'

  'OK. I didn't see that, but...'

  'Don't worry, I'm still working on it. I found out something else, though.'

  'Right...' Holland picked up a pen, began to doodle as he listened.

  'A colleague on the team here reckons that the old index cards, from years back, are all piled up down in our cellar. I'll try and dig them out, presuming they haven't all gone rotten...'

  'Do you think the cards for Mark and Sarah Foley will be down there?'

  'That's why I rang. I don't see why not. There's probably not much information, they're just small cards, you know? The proper files are probably six inches thick...'

  'What's on them?' Holland glanced up to see Stone staring across at him, interested.

  'Usually just the basic stuff,' Lesser said. 'Case number, DOB's, placement dates and names of carers...'

  Holland stopped doodling, wrote down 'names & dates'. 'That sounds great, Joanne. Really helpful...'

  I'll call you when I've got the information then, shall I?'

  'Can you e-mail it? Probably safer...'

  When he thanked her again for her trouble, he could almost hear the blushing.

  'Sounded good,' Stone said, after Holland had hung up.

  'Reckons she can get us a list of all the kids' foster parents,' Holland explained. 'The dates they were placed in care...'

  Stone looked thoughtful. 'Is she going to carry on looking for the full files?'

  'Probably no stopping her, but I reckon these names and dates are as much as we're going to need.'

  'Let me know when you get them,' Stone said. I'll give you a hand on it.'

  Holland leaned back, stretched. 'Shouldn't be much to do. I think I can manage it on my own...'

  'Please yourself.' Stone looked back to his computer screen, began to type.

  Holland knew that it had been a fairly petty moment of self-assertion. More so, considering that he didn't really consider it to be a worthwhile line of inquiry in the first place. Thorne had got a bee in his bonnet about it, so Holland would do what needed doing, but he couldn't help thinking that they were almost certainly wasting their time. He didn't see how knowing where Mark and Sarah Foley had been twenty-five years ago was going to help them find out where they were now.

  Thorne stepped out of the tube station on to Kentish Town Road. He turned for home, walking down in the direction of Camden, and the police station in which he'd encountered Noel Mullen ne
arly twelve hours before.

  He thought about what the boy had said...

  'I'm sorry I got fucking caught'

  .. and wondered if he'd ever make the killer of Remfry, Welch, Southern and Charlie Dodd sorry. He had a feeling that if he did catch him, it would be just about the only thing the killer would be sorry about.

  Thorne was vacillating, standing on the pavement outside the Bengal Lancer, when his phone beeped. He listened to the message, then pressed the hash button to call Eve straight back. The apology wasn't the first thing he said but it was "pretty close.

  'I'm sorry...'

  'For what?'

  'Lots of things. Not calling, for starters.'

  'I know you've been bus).'

  The owner of the restaurant, a man who knew Thorne very well, saw him through the window. He started waving, beckoning him inside. Thorne waved back, mouthing and pointing at the phone.

  'Where are you?' Eve asked.

  'Just heading home, trying to decide what to do about dinner.'

  'Stressful day?'

  Maybe she'd heard it in his voice. He laughed. 'I'm thinking about chucking it all in, becoming a florist.'

  'Bloom and Thorne sounds good...'

  'Actually, no, I don't think I could stand the early mornings.'

  'You lazy bastard...'

  And the sights, the sounds, the smells of Thorne's dream came straight back to him. He shivered, though it was warm enough to be walking around with his jacket thrown across his arm...

  'Tom?'

  'Sorry...' He blinked the pictures away. 'You said something about Saturday. In your message...'

  'I know you're probably working late.'

  'No, I'm not, for once. I'm signed out for most of the day. Unless something comes up.' An urgent meeting, a new lead, another body. 'So, should be fine...'

  'It's not a big deal, but it's Denise's birthday, so her and me and Ben are going to be in the pub Saturday night. That's it, really. Just come along if you fancy it.'

  'What, a double date?'

  'No. I just thought you might prefer it. No pressure...'

  'Pressure?'

  'Well, you have been sort of... blowing hot and cold...'

  'Sorry...'

  There was a pause. Thorne caught sight of the owner again, throwing up his hands. He heard Eve move the receiver from one ear to the other.

  'Look, I'm sorry too,' she said. 'I didn't want to get into this on e phone. Let's just have a drink on Saturday. Take it from there.' "

  'That sounds good. I'll have something to show you as well.'

  Thorne enjoyed listening to the laugh that he hadn't heard in a while. He pictured the gap in the teeth. 'Cut out the dirty talk,' she said. 'And go and get something to eat...'

  A few minutes later, ten minutes since he'd first arrived outside the restaurant, and Thorne was still trying to decide what to do. There was stuff in the fridge he could eat. Should eat... He pushed open the door, the smell of the Indian food just too good to resist. His friend, the owner, had already opened a bottle of Kingfisher.

  TWENTY-ONE

  'Who are you rooting for this afternoon then, Dave?'

  Holland looked up from his desk to see DS Sam Karim beaming down at him. 'Sorry...?'

  'The Charity Shield. Who d'you Want to win it?'

  Holland nodded. The traditional game on the eve of the season proper. Last year's FA Cup winners versus the Premiership champions.

  'Whichever team isn't Manchester United,' Holland said.

  'Suit yourself, mate, we'll still walk it. I fancy us for the league again as well.'

  'I don't understand, Sam. You're from Hounslow, aren't you?'

  Karim wandered away, still smiling. 'You're just jealous...'

  Holland picked up the phone again and dialed. He didn't actually care one way or the other about football. Virtually everything he knew or understood about the game had been encapsulated in that fifteen second conversation.

  The line was still engaged. He hung up and looked back at his notes. Since Joanne Lesser had e-mailed the information across the day before, Holland had been working through the list of names pretty solidly. He was getting there, but it had been frustrating. Despite his bravado with Andy Stone, simply getting hold of people was sometimes tricky, even if the people themselves had no reason whatsoever to make it difficult.

  The Foley children had spent the six months after the death of their parents in short-term foster care. Then, in January 1977, they'd begun the first of half a dozen long-term placements. There were still two sets of foster parents Holland had yet to speak to, but from the conversations he'd already had, a pattern had emerged. In almost every instance, the children had appeared to settle quite quickly, but had gradually become sullen and disruptive, especially in families where there were existing children. Those Holland spoke to admitted that it had been difficult, but also thought that it was understandable, considering what the children had been through. Mark and Sarah were basically nice kids, but had withdrawn, spending more and more time alone, trying to shut out everybody around them...

  It was all interesting enough, but Holland was still not convinced that any of it would prove to be of any use. He had not yet spoken to the most recent set of foster parents and that might at least turn up something they could work with. Brigstocke was mooting the idea of getting photos of the Foley children, digitally ageing them, and circulating the resulting images. It seemed a decent enough idea. The Nobles, who had cared for the children up to the beginning of 1984, were due back from Majorca later that day, and were likely to have the most recent pictures...

  Holland reached for the phone. The number for the Lloyds, the third set of foster parents, was still busy. The instant he put the phone down, it began to ring.

  It was Thorne.

  'Fancy a drink tonight?' he said.

  'Why not?' As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Holland knew exactly why not, as he felt instantly guilty. He knew, on a Saturday night especially, he should talk to Sophie first He also knew very well that she would smile and say she didn't mind. 'Where are we going?'

  'Bar in Hackney,' Thorne said.

  Holland could picture himself picking up his jacket and turning for the door, catching a glimpse as the film of tears formed in a moment across Sophie's eyes. He could already hear the bang of the door as he pulled it shut behind him, and feel each heavy step down towards the street like a low punch.

  'What time?' Holland said.

  'About half eight. Why don't I pick you up?'

  'Eh? Kentish Town to the Elephant and then back up to Hackney?

  That's miles out of your way...'

  'I don't mind.'

  'I'll just get the tube up to Bethnal Green and walk.'

  'No, it's fine, really...'

  'What's this bar called? I'll meet you there.'

  Thorne's tone of voice told him that there was little point in arguing. I'll be round at eight-thirty, Dave...'

  Thorne had rung the bell then walked back to strike the appropriate pose. By the time Holland emerged from his flat, Thorne was leaning on the car, grinning, like some sixties motor show model gone very much to seed.

  'Right,' Holland said. 'So the insurance money came through, then?'

  'Not yet, but it will. I borrowed a bit from the bank.' Holland stood, hands in pockets, looking extremely unsure. 'It's a BMW,' Thorne added, just in case Holland was in any doubt.

  'It's a very old BMW...'

  'It's a classic. This is a three-litre CSi. These are vintage cars, mate.'

  'It's yellow.'

  'It's pulsar yellow.'

  'Pardon me.' Holland began a slow walk around the car. To Thorne, he looked like he was examining a freshly discovered corpse.

  Thorne pointed in through the car window. 'It's got leather seats...'

  Holland was at the back of the car. He looked at the registration plate. 'P? When's that...?'

  'There's a CD player mounted in the boot. Holds
ten CDs...'

  'What year is it?'

  Thorne knew there was no way to make it sound good. '1975...'

  Holland laughed. 'Christ, it's almost as old as I am.'

  'There's only fifty-eight thousand miles on it...'

  'You've gone mental. Did you have it checked for rust?'

  'Yeah, I had a look. Seems fine...'

  'Underneath, I mean. Did you get it jacked up?'

  'It was restored four years ago and the bloke told me it's only done ten thousand miles since the engine was rebuilt.'

  'How much did you pay for it?'

  'The clutch is virtually brand new.., or it might be the gearbox. One of them's new, anyway...'

  'Five grand?' Thorne said nothing. 'More? Bloody hell, there's q,) way you'll get anywhere near that for the Mondeo...' "

  'It's a present, all right? I've got fuck all else to spend money on.'

  'You don't know anything about old cars. You could have got something nearly new for the same money, something nice like that hire-car you had. This'll cost you a fortune in the long run...'

  'It's gorgeous, though, don't you think?' Thorne took a tissue from his pocket and began polishing the badge on the car's bonnet. Holland shrugged, opened the car door. 'Doesn't matter when you're sitting on the hard shoulder, does it?'

  Thorne stomped sulkily round to the driver's side of the car. 'I've a good mind to make you walk to fucking Hackney now. Miserable sod . . .'

  'I'm just trying to be practical. What happens when the big end goes on the way to a murder scene?'

  Thorne dropped down into the leather seat, turned to Holland who was sinking into his. 'Next time, I'll ask Trevor Jesmond if he fancies a drink...'