Lazy Bones (15 page)

She turned, licking her fingers. 'Keith. Remember? The guy that helps me out on a Saturday. He was here when Ben arrived. Ben reckons he's got a bit of a thing for Denise, and Denise told him not to be such an idiot...'

Thorne remembered the way Keith had looked at him when he was talking to Eve in the shop. Maybe Denise wasn't the only one he had a bit of a thing for...

'What do you think?' he asked. 'About Keith and Denise...'

A door squeaked and slammed and a moment later the door to the kitchen was pushed open by a slim, fair-haired woman. She was barefoot, wearing baggy, combat-style shorts and a man's black vest. She

marched up behind Eve and gave her backside a healthy tweak. 'That smel s fucking gorgeous!'

She turned and beamed at Thorne. Her hair was a little shorter and a shade lighter than Eve's. Though she seemed slight, the vest she was wearing showed off wel -defined arms and shoulders. Her delicate features sharpened as an enormous smile pushed up cheekbones you could slice bacon on.

'Hel o, you're Tom, aren't you? I'm Denise.' She al but ran across the kitchen, grabbed his outstretched hand and flopped down in a chair on the other side of the table. 'So, Tom?

Thomas? Which?' She

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reached for the wine bottle and began pouring herself a very large glass.

'Tom's fine...'

She leaned across the table and spoke as though they were old friends. 'Eve's been going on at nauseating length about you, do you know that?' Her voice was surprisingly deep and a little theatrical. Thorne couldn't think of anything to say. Took a sip of wine instead. 'Bloody fidl of it, she is. I'm guessing that the only reason she is resolutely refusing to turn around from the oven, at this very moment, is that she's gone bright red...'

'Shut your face,' Eve said, laughing and without turning round.

Denise swal owed a mouthful of wine, gave Thorne another massive smile. 'So, in the flesh,' she said. 'A man who catches murderers.'

Thorne needed to relax after the morning he'd spenl: in Soho. Now, he was starting to enjoy himself. This woman was clearly as mad as a hatter but likeable enough.

'Right at this very minute, I'm a man who isn't catching them...'

'We al have off days, 'Tom. Tomorrow you'l probably catch a bagful.'

'I'l settle for just the one...'

'Right.' She raised her glass as if in a toast. 'A real y good one.'

Thorne leaned back on his chair and glanced across at Eve. As if she sensed him looking, she turned, caught his eye and smiled.

Thorne turned back to Denise. 'What about you? What do you do?' He stared at the tiny, glittering stud in her nose, thinking, Actress, poet, performance artist...

She rol ed her eyes. 'God, IT. Sorry. Dul as fuck, I'm afraid.' 'Wel ...'

'Don't bother, I can see your eyes glazing over already. Bloody hel , how d'you think I feel? Al day surrounded by Eord of the Rings readers, making jokes about floppy this and hard that.

PCs going down on them . . .'

At the cooker, Eve laughed. Thorne knew straight away that she was

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thinking the same thing that he was. 'I know,' he said. 'Where I work, having a PC go down on you means a very different thing...'

When the man whom Thorne presumed to be Ben strol ed into the kitchen, it was Denise who stopped laughing first. He walked over, leaned against the worktop next to where Eve was cooking and began

chewing a fingernail. He tilted his chin towards Thorne. 'Hiya...' Thorne nodded back. 'Hi. Are you Ben?'

Denise spoke pointedly over the noise of the wine slugging into her glass. 'Oh yes, he's Ben.' Ben looked none too pleased at the horribly fake smile she gave him as she spat out his name.

Eve lobbed a tea-towel at her. 'Al right you two, stop it.' She leaned across and kissed Ben on the cheek. 'This'l be ready in about five minutes...'

Ben moved across to the fridge, opened it and took out a can of

lager. He turned to Whorne, held it up. 'Want one?'

Thorne lifted his glass of wine. 'No, thanks...'

Ben moved round behind his girlfriend and sat next to Thorne. He was tal and wel built, with fair, wavy hair, a gingerish goatee beard and neatly trimmed, pointed sideburns. Although in his thirties, and clearly fifteen years too old for it, he was wearing what Thorne guessed was skateboarding gear. He stuck out a hand, introduced himself. 'Ben Jameson...'

Thorne did the same, suddenly feeling a little awkward, and some

what overdressed in his chinos and black M & S polo shirt...

'I'm starving,' Ben said.

Eve carried four plates across to the table. 'Good. There's loads...' For half a minute there was only the sound of china and glassware clinking. Of cutlery scraping against dishes, and chairs against the

quarry-tiled floor as the meal was dished up.

'This lools amazing,' Thorne said.

Nods and grunting from Denise and Ben, a smile from Eve and then silence. Thorne turned to his right. 'You in IT as wel , Ben?'

'Sorry?'

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'I wondered if the two of you had met up at work...?'

'God, no. I'm a filmmaker.'

'Right. Anything I might have seen?'

'Only if you watch a lot of corporate training videos,' Denise said. Thorne could feel his foot pressing against something underneath the table. He pushed, hoping it was Eve's foot. She looked up at him . . .

'Yeah, that's what I'm doing at the moment,' Ben said. He drummed

his fork against the edge of his plate. 'But I've got some stuff of my

own I'm trying to get off the ground as wel .'

Denise reached across and laid a hand across Ben's, stil ing the movement of the fork. Her tone was blatantly patronising. 'That's right, darling. Course you have...'

Ben pushed his pasta around a little, spoke without looking up from

the plate. 'So, what's new at your place, thegn, Den? Any riveting

system crashes? Any interesting computer viruses to tel us about...?'

Thorne took his first mouthful, caught Eve's eye. She smiled and

gave a smal shrug. He glanced across at Denise and Ben who were looking anywhere but at each otler. The row might be official y over, but they were clearly intent on scoring a few points off each other.

'Right.' Eve folded her arms. 'If you two don't kiss and make up,

you can luck off next door and ring out for pizza. Fair enough?'

First Denise and then Ben raised their eyes to Eve, who was doing

her best to look serious. The antipathy between the couple seemed to melt away in the face of her mock-annoyance, the two quickly shaking heads and nuzzling necks and saying sorry for being stupid. Thorne watched al three clutching hands - apologising without embarrassment to him and to each other - and he was struck by the dynamic between these people who were clearly great friends, by the warmth and strength of it.

He smiled, waving away their apologies. Impressed by them, and envious . . .

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When his phone rang, Denise leaned forward, seeming genuinely excited. 'This could be the first of those murderers, Tom...'

Something tightened inside Thorne when he saw the name come up on the phone's display. For a second he thought about leaving the room to take the cal , maybe even pretending it was work. He decided he was being over-dramatic, mouthed 'sorry', and answered the phone.

'This is bad, Tom. Very bad. I've been getting my things ready for tomorrow. Ready for the trip. Laying it al out on the bed, trying to choose and there's a problem with this blue suit...'

Thorne listened, watching Eve and her friends pretending not to, as his father moved from panic to complete hysteria at frightening speed. When al he could hear down the phone was sobbing, Thorne pushed back his chair, dropped his eyes to the floor and stepped away from the table.

'Dad, listen, I'l be there first thing in the morning, like I said I would.' He moved across to the kitchen window, stared out across London Fields. The light at the top of Canary Wharf winked back,at him as he stood, wondering if Eve and the others could hear the crying, and trying to decide what to do.

Eve stood and moved across to him. She put a hand on his arm. 'It's al right, Dad,' Thorne said. 'Look, I'l have to go home first, al right? To get my stuff and pick up the hire car. Calm down, OK? I'l be there as soon as I can...'

The snotty cow behind the reception desk looked at Welch like she thought he was going to nick something. Like he was a piece of shit that one of those businessmen laughing loudly in the bar had brought

in on their shoes. It wasn't like it was the fucking Ritz either...

'I rang a couple of days ago to book,' Welch said.

The receptionist stared at her computer screen, plastered on a smile that was fake and frosty at the same time. 'So you did,' she said. 'Just the one night, is it?'

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Welch felt like reaching across the desk and slapping her. He had half a mind to ask for the manager, to demand the level of service and fucking courtesy to which he was entitled. 'Yeah, one night. I get breakfast, don't I?'

The girl didn't look up. 'Yes, sir, breakfast is included in your room rate.'

Welch suddenly wondered what would happen if there were two of them coming down in the morning. He didn't know if she would want to stay for breakfast. He thought about asking, decided to leave it. 'I won't keep you a second, sir...'

While the receptionist punched her keypad, Welch stared around the lobby. The plants were plastic. The grey carpet looked like it would take your skin off if you fel on it. There was a sign next to the desk which said The Greenwood Hotel, Slough, Welcom'es Thompson Mouldings Ltd...

'There we go, sir. If you could just fil that in.' She slid the booking form across to him. He had to think for a few seconds before he could remember the address of e hostel. 'I'l need an imprint of a credit card. Nothing wil be charged to it, but...'

'No need. I'm paying cash.' He signed the form and reached into the

pocket of his jacket for the rol of rennets.

'That's fine, sir...'

Welch took out the money. He had a card he could have used if he'd felt like it, but he wanted her to see the cash. He slipped off the elastic band, started counting it out. The hostel was fucking horrendous, but being released NFA - having No Fixed Abode - did have its advantages. The discharge grant was more than double what you'd get normal y.

'No payment in advance, sir. You settle the bil when you check out.' She placed a key card on top of the pile of cash and pushed the lot back towards him. 'Room 313. Third floor.'

He grabbed his money, tried not to shout. 'I do bloody wel know. I know what you're supposed to do, al right?'

The receptionist reddened and turned away from him.

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Welch picked up the plastic bag that contained a toothbrush, condoms, clean pants and socks for the morning. He thought about joining the gang from Thompson Mouldings in the bar, having a quick one. On second thoughts, he'd go straight to the room, maybe have a shower, try to enjoy every single minute of it...

Grinning at nobody in particular, he walked towards the lift.

This was stuff that only went on at family weddings. That Thorne knew could never happen anywhere else: an old woman, seventy if she was a day, dancing awkwardly in the corner with a smal boy; two women in their forties shouting at each other across the table, raising their voices so that their comments about the food/dress/service could be heard above the Madonna/Oasis/George Michael; smal children sliding on their knees across the polished dance floor, while smal er ones screamed or struggled to stay awake in spite of the loud music.

Some related by blood, for ever, and some for only an hour or two. Eyeing each other up and staring each other out. A fuck or a fight not much more than a look or a lager away...

Twenty minutes since the happy couple had taken to the floor to dance the first dance to 'Lady in Red', and Thorne hadn't moved from his seat in the corner. From there he could watch what was happening in the main hal and keep an eye on his old man.

He looked across. His father was no longer sitting at the bar. Thorne got up, ordered himself another Guinness, and while he was waiting for it to settle, wandered through into the main hal .

He passed people he knew not wel or not at al , their faces coloured by the DJ's piss-poor lighting rig - red then green then blue. At the far end of the hal , Thorne looked to his right and through the archway that led to another, smal er room, he could see his father shuffling along the buffet table, muttering to himself, piling food he would never eat on to a paper plate...

'Go easy, Dad. How many chicken legs can one man eat?'

'Mind your own fucking business...'

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'It's too much.., look, get your hand underneath it...' 'Shit...'

The flimsy cardboard folding, unable to sustain so much food. The plate col apsing in on itself. The mattress sagging beneath the weight of the dead man...

Thorne was suddenly angry with his father, at having to play nursemaid. Then angrier stil at knowing that if he were at home there would be luck al happening, the leads dried up, the new angles nonexistent. There was no reason for him to be missed.

He bent to pick up the food that had spil ed on to the floor, thought better of it, and kicked it under the table.

The room was absolutely fucking huge. Or perhaps it just seemed huge. He knew that his sense of perspective was stil a little skewed. Christ, having a crap without company felt like luxury ....

It was al Welch could do to stop himself running into the bathroom for a wank. That had been exactly what he'd done when Jane had got in touch with him at the hostel. Grabbed one of her photographs and thrown one off the wrist, hardly able tO believe what she was suggesting.

He'd been gobsmacked, how had she known where he was? He didn't bloody care, mind you, he'd been fucking delighted. He hadn't thought he'd hear from her again. He'd presumed she was one of those sil y tarts that got off on writing to cons while they were inside, but would run a mile once they got out. He'd been so sure that he'd actual y chucked away the letters she'd sent him in prison when he got out. He kept the photos, obviously. No way was he getting rid of them...