Lazybones (10 page)

A man turned from the foot of the bed, lifted a large video camera down from his shoulder. Behind him, a foot or so away from the bedstead, Thorne could see the white backdrop with the burn mark in the bottom right-hand corner.

Two thin, pale girls lay on the bed. One pulled her arm from beneath the other and reached down to pick up a pack of cigarettes from the floor. The other stared at him, her face blank and white as new paper.

“What's this?” the man with the camera said.

Thorne smiled. “Don't mind me…”

Dodd raised a placatory hand to the cameraman and turned to Thorne. “Now listen, there's nothing illegal going on here, so why don't you fuck off?”

“What about the stuff you've just brought back from Holland, Charlie?” Thorne stepped forward and steered Dodd into the corner of the room. “Sorry, I know you prefer Charles…”

The watery green eyes narrowed as Dodd's mind raced, trying to work out who had the big mouth. “What do you want?”

Thorne took the picture from the envelope. “This
photo was taken here.” He handed it to Dodd. “I just want to know who took it. Nothing too difficult…”

Dodd shook his head. “Not here, mate.”

Thorne squeezed behind Dodd, stood close enough to smell the sweat and hair oil. He jabbed a finger over his shoulder at the smudge on the photo and then lifted up Dodd's head and pointed it at the scorch mark on the backcloth.

“Have another look, Charlie…”

Dodd turned back to the photo. The man with the camera had put it back onto his shoulder. He was mumbling something to the girls, who were lazily shifting their position on the bed.

“If it was taken here, I wasn't around at the time,” Dodd said, handing the photo back to Thorne. He inclined his head toward the bed. “Stuff like this today, run-of-the-mill, I usually stick around, get on with other things…”

One of the girls began to moan theatrically. Thorne glanced across. The camera was trained on one girl's head as it busied itself in her friend's crotch. At the other end of the bed, the girl who was moaning stared at the ceiling, still smoking her cigarette.

“You saying you don't remember this picture being taken?”

“There's times, customers would rather I wasn't here. You understand what I'm saying? Maybe there's things being shot I'd prefer I didn't witness anyway and they're paying good money for the place, so—”

“Bullshit.” Thorne pushed the photo into Dodd's face. “Do you see any animals? Underage boys?”

Dodd swatted Thorne's arm away, shook his head.

“This is top-shelf stuff, no stronger than that. There's a whole series of these and they're much the same, so start remembering, Charlie…”

Dodd was starting to get upset. He ran his hands back and forth through the oily strands of hair. As he spoke, Thorne watched a white fleck of dried spittle move from bottom lip to top and back again. “I wasn't here. All right? I'd remember if I was, I can remember every fucking shot taken up here, ask anybody. Like you say, the picture's harmless enough, so what reason have I got to fuck you about…?”

On the bed, the girl who was being worked on leaned across to stub out her cigarette on a saucer. The cameraman moved in closer. “Go on,” he said to the other girl. “Get your tongue right up her arse…”

“All right,” Thorne said. “Think about anybody who might have asked you to make yourself scarce while they were shooting. Last six months or so…”

“Jesus, d'you know how many people use this place?”

“Not a regular. Probably a one-off.”

“Yeah, but still…”

“Just one man and a girl. Think…”

The cameraman kicked the end of the bed in annoyance and spun around. “For Christ's sake, can you two shut up? I'm recording sound here…”

The girl who had been going down on her friend raised her head and turned to look at Thorne. The lights washed out her face, exaggerating the job that the heroin had already done. Dodd opened his mouth to speak and Thorne was grateful for the chance to look away.

“There was one, four or five months ago. It was like you said, a one-off. He just wanted the place for a couple of hours. Normally, even if they want rid of me for the shoot I stick around to set the lights up, but this bloke said he was going to do all that himself. Said he knew what he was doing.”

“What about the girl?”

“I never saw a girl. It was just him…”

“Give me a name.”

Dodd snorted, looked at Thorne in disbelief. “Right. I'll check the files, shall I? Maybe ask my secretary to look it up. For fuck's sake…”

Thorne took a step toward the doorway. “Get your coat on, Charlie. I need a picture of this fucker, and for your sake your memory for faces had better be as good as it is for tits and arse…”

“Sorry, mate, it's not going to happen. That's why I remembered him, as it goes. First I thought he was a messenger, you know, dropping off some negs or something. Head to foot in leather, with a dark visor on his helmet…”

Thorne knew straightaway that Dodd was telling the truth. It felt like something starting to press heavily against the back of his head. His piece of good luck turning to shit.

“You must have seen him more than once. He didn't just turn up on the off chance…”

“Once to make the booking, once on the day.” Dodd was starting to sound slightly smug. “Never got a look at him, though. Both times he had the motorbike outfit on. I remember him standing out there on the stairs, in all the leather gear like a fucking hit man, waiting for me to leave…”

On the other side of the room, a vibrator began to buzz. The camera was rolling again.

Thorne turned and yanked open the door. The statement could be taken later, for what it was worth. He'd run headlong into another wall, and right now it felt as real, as black, as the one that ran around the tatty fuck parlor behind him.

He took the stairs down two at a time. The jolt that ran through his body at every step failed to dislodge the image that had fixed itself in his head. The face of the
girl on the bed when she'd raised up her head and turned to look at him…

Her mouth and chin glistening, but the eyes as black and dead as those of the fish that lay on slabs in the window of the shop next door.

August 10, 1976

That dreadful hiatus between arriving and anything actually happening…

The plastic wrap, they were assured, would be coming off the buffet platters
very
shortly, and the DJ wouldn't be too long setting his gear up. Until then, there was a hundred and fifty quid behind the bar, so everybody could get a couple down them and toast the bride and groom one more time while they were waiting for the fun to start. Everyone could mingle…

Tragically, there weren't quite enough people in the rugby club bar for a significant hubbub to develop; there was no comforting blanket of noise for Thorne to hide under. He got a pint of bitter for his dad, half a Guinness for himself, and looked for the nearest corner. He sat sipping his beer and tried to summon up the necessary enthusiasm for Scotch eggs and pork pie and cold pasta salad. Raised his glass to anyone whose eye he caught and tried not to look too bored or miserable or, God forbid, in need of cheering up.

His father was
certainly
in no need of it. Jim Thorne sat on a chair at the bar holding court. Telling jokes to a couple of teenage boys who laughed and sipped their weak lagers. Informing any woman who would listen that he had a memory like a goldfish, because he had that disease with the funny name. He'd forgotten,
what
was it called again? Asking with a twinkle to be forgiven if he'd slept with any of them and couldn't remember.

Thorne was delighted to see his dad in such good form. To see him enjoying himself. It was a huge relief after the phone call twenty-four hours earlier that had ruined his evening with Eve Bloom…

 

The large, stripped-pine table in the kitchen had been set for four. Thorne had yet to encounter anybody else. Eve turned from the cooker.

“In case you're wondering, they're in her room.” She spoke at the level of a stage whisper. “Denise and Ben. I think they've had a row…”

Thorne was pouring wine into two of the glasses. He whispered back. “Right. Was it a big one? Should I start clearing away a couple of these place settings…?”

Eve moved over to the table and picked up her wine. “No chance. Ben won't let an argument get in the way of his dinner. Cheers.” She took a sip and carried the glass back across to where several large copper pans sat on the halogen burner. She nodded toward the door at the sound of footsteps and raised voices coming from elsewhere in the flat. “Those two enjoy a good row anyway. They're pretty violent, but usually short-lived…”

Thorne tried to sound casual. “Violent?”

“I don't mean like that. Just a lot of shouting. Bit of throwing stuff, but never anything breakable…”

Thorne glanced across at her. She was busy at the cooker again, her back to him. He stared at the nape of her neck. At her shoulder blades, brown against the cream linen of her top.

“I'm more of a seether myself,” she said.

“I'll watch out for that.”

“Don't worry, you'll know it when it happens…”

Thorne looked around the kitchen. A couple of
framed black-and-white film posters. Chrome kettle, toaster, and blender. A big, expensive-looking fridge. It looked like the shop was doing pretty good business, though he couldn't be sure which things were Eve's and which belonged to her flatmate. He guessed that the vast array of herbs in terra-cotta pots were probably down to Eve, as were the scribbled Latin names of what Thorne presumed to be flowers on the enormous blackboard that dominated one wall. He was pleased to see his own name and mobile-phone number scrawled in the bottom left-hand corner.

“So, what are they arguing about? Your friends. Nothing serious…?”

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 smells 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 well-defined arms and shoulders. Her delicate features sharpened as an enormous smile pushed up cheekbones you could slice bacon on.

“Hello, you're Tom, aren't you? I'm Denise.” She all 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 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
full 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 around.

Denise swallowed 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 spent in Soho. Now he was starting to enjoy himself. This woman was clearly as mad as a hatter but likable enough.

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

“We all have off days, Tom. Tomorrow you'll probably catch a bagful.”

“I'll settle for just the one…”

“Right.” She raised her glass as if in a toast. “A really
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 rolled her eyes. “God, Information Technology. Sorry. Dull as fuck, I'm afraid.”

“Well…”

“Don't bother, I can see your eyes glazing over already. Bloody hell, how d'you think
I
feel? All day surrounded by
Lord of the Rings
readers, making jokes about floppy
this
and hard
that.
PCs going down on them…”

At the cooker, Eve laughed. Thorne knew straightaway that she was 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 strolled into the kitchen, it was Denise who stopped laughing first. He walked over, leaned against the work-top next to where Eve was cooking, and began chewing a fingernail. He tilted his chin toward Thorne. “Hiya…”

Thorne nodded back. “Hi. Are you Ben?”

Denise spoke pointedly over the noise of the wine glugging 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. “All right you two, stop it.” She leaned across and kissed Ben on the cheek. “This'll be ready in about five minutes…”

Ben moved across to the fridge, opened it, and took out a can of lager. He turned to Thorne, held it up. “Want one?”

Thorne lifted his glass of wine. “No, thanks…”

Ben moved around behind his girlfriend and sat next to Thorne. He was tall and well 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 awk
ward, and somewhat overdressed in his chinos and black Marks & Spencer 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 looks 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 well, Ben?”

“Sorry?”

“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 well.”

Denise reached across and laid a hand across Ben's, stilling the movement of the fork. Her tone was blatantly patronizing. “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, then, Den? Any riveting system crashes? Any interesting computer viruses to tell us about…?”

Thorne took his first mouthful, caught Eve's eye. She smiled and gave a small shrug. He glanced across at Denise and Ben, who were looking anywhere but at each other. The row might be officially 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 fuck 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 all three clutching hands—apologizing 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…

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 call, maybe even pretending it
was
work. He decided he was being overdramatic, 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 all 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 all 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'll 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 all right, Dad,” Thorne said. “Look, I'll have to go home first, all right? To get my stuff and pick up the hire car. Calm down, okay? I'll be there as soon as I can…”

 

The snotty cow behind the reception desk looked at Welch like she thought he was going to steal 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?”

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 gray carpet looked like it would take your skin off if you fell on it. There was a sign next to the desk which said
THE GREENWOOD HOTEL, SLOUGH, WELCOMES THOMPSON MOULDINGS LTD
.

“There we go, sir. If you could just fill 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 the hostel. “I'll need an imprint of a credit card. Nothing will be charged to it, but—”