Lazybones (5 page)

Back when the Peel Centre had been the home of cadets in training, Becke House had been a dormitory building. To Thorne it still felt utilitarian, dead. He swore, on occasion, that rounding a corner, or pushing open an office door, he could catch a whiff of sweat and homesickness…

No surprise when, a month or so earlier, everyone on Team 3 had got very excited at news of improved facilities and extra working space. In reality, it amounted to little more than an increased stationery budget, a reconditioned coffee machine, and one more airless cubbyhole, which Brigstocke had immediately commandeered. There were now three offices in the narrow corridor that ran off the major incident room. Brigstocke had the new one, while Thorne shared his with Yvonne Kitson. Holland and Stone were left with the smallest of the lot, negotiating rights to the wastepaper basket and arguing about who got the chair with the cushion.

Thorne hated Becke House. Actually it
depressed
him, sapped his energy to the point where he hadn't enough left to hate it properly. He'd heard somebody once joking about Sick Building Syndrome, but to him the place wasn't so much sick as terminally ill.

He'd spent the morning catching up. Sitting at his gunmetal gray desk, sweating like a pig, and reading every scrap of paperwork there was on the case. He read
the postmortem report, the forensic report, his own report on the visit to Derby Prison. He read Holland's notes on the search of Remfry's house, the interviews with relatives of the women Remfry had raped, and the statements from some of the men he'd shared cells with in three different prisons.

Inches thick already and only one promising lead. An ex-cellmate of Remfry's had mentioned a prisoner named Gribbin, whom Remfry had talked about falling out with, back when the pair of them were on remand in Brixton. Gribbin had been released from prison himself only four months before Remfry and had skipped parole. There was a warrant out…

When Thorne had finished reading, he spent some time fanning his face with an empty folder. He stared at the mysterious scorch marks on the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Then he read everything again.

When Yvonne Kitson came in, he looked up, dropped the notes down onto his desk, and gazed toward the open window.

“I've been thinking about jumping,” he said. “Suicide seems like quite an attractive option, and at least I'd get a breeze on the way down. What d'you reckon?”

She laughed. “We're only on the third floor.” Thorne shrugged. “Where's the fan?”

“Brigstocke's got it.”

“Typical…” She sat down on a chair against the wall and reached into a large handbag. Thorne laughed when she pulled out the familiar Tupperware container.

“Wednesday, so it must be tuna,” he said.

She peeled the lid off and took out a sandwich. “Tuna
salad,
actually, smart-arse. My old man went a bit mad this morning and stuck a slice of lettuce on…”

Thorne leaned back in his chair, tapped a plastic ruler along its arm. “How do you do it, Yvonne?”

She looked up, her mouth full. “What?”

Still holding the ruler, Thorne spread his arms wide, waved them around. “This. All of it. As well as three young kids…”

“The DCI's got kids…”

“Yeah, and he's a fucking mess like the rest of us. You seem to manage it all without breaking a sweat. Work, home, kids, dogs,
and
your sodding lunch in a box.” He held out the ruler toward her, as if it were a microphone. “Tell us, DI Kitson, how do you manage it? What's your secret?”

She cleared her throat, playing along. Truth be known, they were both glad of a laugh. “Natural talent, an old man who's a pushover, and ruthless organizational skills. Plus, I never take the job home.”

Thorne blinked.

“Right, any more questions?”

Thorne shook his head, put the ruler down on his desk.

“Good. I'm going to get a cup of tea. Want one…?”

They walked along the corridor, past the other offices, toward the Major Incident Room.

“Seriously, though,” Thorne said, “you do amaze me sometimes.” He meant it. Nobody on the team had known Yvonne Kitson for very long, but bar the odd comment from older, less efficient male colleagues, nobody had a bad word to say about her. At thirty-three, she would almost certainly have been furious about the fact that many of them, Thorne included, found her comfortingly mumsy. This had more to do with her personality and style than with her face or figure, both of which were more than attractive. Her clothes were never flashy, her ash-blond hair was always sensible. She had no sharp edges, she did her job, and she never seemed to get rattled. Thorne found it easy to see why Kitson was already earmarked for bigger and better things.

At the coffee machine, Kitson leaned down to take
Thorne's cup from the dispenser. She handed the tea to him. “I meant it, about taking the job home.” She began to feed more coins into the machine. “Couldn't if I wanted to, there's no bloody room…”

Every window in the Incident Room was open. Bits of paper were being blown from the tops of desks and filing cabinets. Thorne sipped his tea, listened to the flutter of paper, to the grunts of those bending to pick it up, and he thought how different he was from this woman. He took the job everywhere, home included, though there wasn't usually anybody there to bring it home
to.
He and his ex-wife, Jan, had divorced five years earlier, after she'd started getting distinctly extracurricular with a fine-arts lecturer. Thorne had had one or two “adventures” since then, but there hadn't been any one significant.

Kitson dropped the red-hot plastic cup into another empty one and blew across the top of her drink. “By the way, the Remfry case?” she said. “Is it just me, or are we getting seriously fucking nowhere?”

Thorne saw Russell Brigstocke appear on the far side of the room. He beckoned, turned, and headed back in the direction of his office. Thorne took a step in the same direction, and, without looking, he answered Kitson's question.

“No, it isn't just you…”

 

When Russell Brigstocke was really pissed off, he had a face that could curdle milk. When he was
trying
to look serious, there was a hint of the melodramatic, a cocking of the head, and a pursing of the lips that always made Thorne smile, much as he tried not to.

“Right, where are we, Tom?”

Thorne tried and failed not to smile. He didn't bother to hide it, deciding that a more upbeat response than the one he'd just given Yvonne Kitson might not be a bad idea anyway. “Nothing earth-shattering, but it's ticking
along, sir.” It was always
sir
after one of Brigstocke's looks. “We've traced most of the male relatives now. Nothing that hopeful, but we might get lucky. Spoken to most of Remfry's former cellmates and the Gribbin thing looks the most likely…”

Brigstocke nodded. “I think it sounds promising. If someone bit half my nose off, I think
I'd
bear a fucking grudge.”

“Remfry
said
it was him that did it. Probably just showing off. Anyway, we can't find Gribbin…”

“What else?”

Thorne held up his hands. “That's it. Apart from chasing up the computer side of it. We can start looking at the Inmate Information System as soon as Commander Jeffries reports back.”

“He has,” Brigstocke said. “Don't get too excited…”

Stephen Jeffries was a high-ranking police officer who actually worked for HM Prison Service. As the official police adviser, he was based at Prison Service Headquarters, in a grand-looking building off Millbank, from where he could stare directly into the offices of MI6 on the opposite side of the river.

Jeffries had been looking,
quietly,
into the feasibility of a leak from the Inmate Information System. If this was where the killer was getting his information, an awful lot of people would be wanting to know how.

“Commander Jeffries has delivered an interim judgment, suggesting that as an avenue of inquiry, this would be unlikely to prove fruitful.”

“You'll have to help me,” Thorne said. “I haven't got my ‘bullshit to English' dictionary handy at the minute…”

“Don't be a smart-arse, Tom. All right? That would really help
me.
”

Thorne shrugged. It sounded as if Jeffries came from
the same place that shat out Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond. “I'm listening.”

Brigstocke glanced down at the piece of paper on his desk, speed-read a section out loud. “‘Individuals with computer access to the system are based at the main HQ building as well as the twelve regional offices nation-wide—London, Yorkshire, the Midlands, et cetera…'”

Thorne groaned. “We're talking hundreds of people…”

“Thousands. Checking them all out would be a major drain on manpower, even if I had it.”

Thorne nodded. “Right. So even if that
were
to prove fruitful, it wouldn't be proving very fruitful very bloody quickly.” He picked up his empty teacup from Brigstocke's desk, spun around on his chair, and took aim at the wastepaper basket in the corner.

“No,” Brigstocke said.

The paper cup missed by more than a foot. Thorne spun around again. “What about somebody hacking into the system?”

“Bloody hell, thousands of suspects is bad enough, now you want millions…”

“I don't
want
them, but if the system isn't secure…”

“If that system isn't secure, a lot of people are going to get their arses severely kicked. The IIS has information on the whereabouts of every prisoner in the country, terrorists included. There's all sorts of stuff on there. If it turns out that somebody's been able to break into it, for
whatever
reason…Jesus, they'll be talking about Douglas Remfry in Parliament.”

“They're looking into it, though?” Thorne asked.

“As far as I know…”

“They've got things that tell them, haven't they? If they've been hacked. Like alarms. If somebody's been trying to break into the system?”

“Don't ask me,” Brigstocke said. “I can barely send a fucking e-mail…”

Not long ago, even doing
that
would have been beyond Thorne, but he'd made an effort and was starting to get to grips with the technology. He'd even bought a computer to use at home. He hadn't used it very much yet.

“So, one thing's a drain on manpower, the other's politically sensitive. Has Commander Jeffries got any suggestions as to what we
can
do?”

Brigstocke took off his glasses, wiped the sweat from the frames with a handkerchief, and put them back. “No, but
I
have. I think there are other ways that the killer could have got the information he needed about Remfry.”

“Go on…”

“What about if he got it from the victim's family? Gets his mum's name out of the phone book, rings up, and says he's an old friend who wants to visit…” Thorne nodded. It was possible. “Once he finds out where Remfry is and when he's coming out, he starts sending the letters…”

“He gets everything from Remfry's mother?”

“Remfry's mother…maybe one of the prison staff. I just think there are other things we could be looking at…”

“What's the motive, Russell?” Still the big question. “Why was Remfry killed?”

Brigstocke puffed out his cheeks, leaned back in his chair. “Fucked if I know. Got to be worth talking to Mrs. Remfry again, though…”

Thorne couldn't see it, and yet there was something in what Brigstocke had said.
Something
that had caused Thorne's heart to beat faster, just for a second; but, like the face of someone in a dream, like an object he ought
to recognize, glimpsed from an unfamiliar angle, it had faded away before he could see it for what it was.

He was still trying to work it out when he spoke. “I'm chasing something else up. Something with the photos…”

Brigstocke leaned forward, raised an eyebrow.

“I'll tell you if it comes to anything,” Thorne said. He looked at his watch. “Fuck, I'm going to be late…”

As he was standing up, the phone began to ring in his office next door…

 

Holland's mobile had rung just as he was heading across to the pub, for what was becoming something of a regular lunchtime pint. Andy Stone had given him that look. The one he'd been getting from a few of the lads, whenever the mobile rang, and they saw his face as
HOME
came up on caller ID.

“Shit,” Holland said.

Stone took a few steps toward the pub doorway and stopped. “Shall I get you a beer, Dave?”

Holland pressed a button on the phone and brought it to his ear. After a few seconds he caught Stone's eye and shook his head.

Sophie was still crying when he walked through the door twenty minutes later.

“What's the matter?” He wrapped his arms around her, knowing what the answer would be.

“Nothing,” she said. “I'm sorry…I know I shouldn't call.” The words sputtered into his collar between sobs.

“It's okay. Look, I've only got about a quarter of an hour, but we can have a quick bit of lunch together. I'll go back when you're feeling calmer.”

The baby was three months away. It was easy enough to put these weekly collapses down to hormones, but he
knew that there was much more going on. He knew how frightened she was. Frightened that he would make a choice between her and the job. That he would think she was
forcing
him to make a choice. That the baby would not be enough to make him choose her. He understood because he was twice as scared.

They sat on the sofa and cuddled until she grew quiet. He whispered and squeezed, feeling the bump against his leg that was the child inside her, staring across the living room and watching the minutes go by on the video recorder display.