Scaredy Cat (14 page)

Keable put the note into a drawer and slammed it shut. 'No, 9bm, it isn't.'

Thorne couldn't look at him. His gaze drifted away to the green metal wastepaper bin, the cheap black plastic SLEEPYHEAD 131

hatstand and expensive Barbour jacket. It floated across the dirty yel ow wal s and settled grateful y on the calendar. September, A particularly uninteresting view of Exmoor in the mist. A two-dimensional and probably long-dead stag the most animated thing in the room.

'So how did you and Dr Bishop enjoy dinner?' Thorne was irritated that they'd put it together so quickly. He rather felt that he'd had his thunder stolen. He nodded, impressed. And curious.

'There was a message from Dr Coburn on your machine. She hoped you enjoyed your evening. We cal ed her.'

'Right.'

'Did you, by the way? Enjoy your evening?'

'Yes.'

'ras the spaghetti good?'

'How the luck... ?'

'You threw up al over your carpet, Tom. Spaghetti, and a fair amount of red wine...'

Thorne sensed that he might have only the one chance and he needed to perform better than he had last time. A matey tone was best. Conspiratorial. Us against him.

"He's a slimy piece of shit, Frank. He left before I did and waited.'

'He predicted your every move, then? tte toddled off with the note he'd already prepared, tucked in his pocket, did he? And an iron bar and a syringe hidden inside his overcoat?'

Thorne was thinking quickly. Did Bishop have a bag with him? Had he seen a briefcase in Anne's hal ? tte couldn't remember. He was pretty sure Bishop had come by car anyway.

132 MARK BILLINGHAM

'He would have left the stuff in his car.' Standing his ground.

'Come on, Tom...'

Thorne stood up a little too quickly. He felt dizzy and casual y reached out a hand to steady himself. He looked. Keable had seen it. It didn't matter. 'Surely te's worth looking at, Frank.'

'Yes, and Tughan's done it. We're not completely stupid. There's nothing there.'

'Tughan hates the idea because it's mine...' 'Nick Tughan's a professional...' 'Bol ocks.'

Fhorne was trying hard to sound control ed but he knew that by now the rest of the team would be eavesdropping without much difficulty.

Keable raised a hand. 'Go steady now; Detective Inspector.'

'Sir.' Thorne met Keable's eye. He pushed himself away from the wal and lowered his voice. 'I know what you think and I'm wel aware of a certain reputation that I may have...'

'Let's not get into that, Tom.'

Thorne stared hard at him, breathing heavily. 'No, let's.'

Keable wouldn't hold the stare. 'There's no evidence, Tom.'

'Dr Jeremy Bishop has tobe considered a major suspect. He worked at the hospital from which the Midaz61am was stolen. He now works at the hospital where Alison Wil etts was taken after she'd been attacked. I think he took her there after he'd attacked her to try, unsuccessful y, to give himself an alibi. He has no alibi for any of the murders and he fits the general description of the man seen talking

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to Helen Doyle on the night she was kil ed.' He'd said his piece.

Keable cleared his throat. He was going to say his.

'Bishop was involved with Dr Coburn, wasn't he?' 'Some years ago I believe.., yes.' 'Are you?'

They couldn't confuse what he thought about Bishop with his feelings for Anne, could they? It was necessary to let Anne think that Bishop got to him on that level but Keable would see beyond that surely...

'Tughan isn't the only professional.., sir.'

'Let's talk sensibly, Tom. Everybody agrees we're looking for a doctor.'

'But?'

'The Leicester connection is a red herring due to the date of the theft, if, in fact, the drug stolen was that used on the victims in the first place. Your reasoning as far as the Wil etts alibi goes seems to me fanciful at best, and what he was or wasn't doing when the first three victims were kil ed

is irrelevant.'

'What?'

'You know the game, Tom. The GPS isn't even going to look at the first three if we make an arrest. It was al pieced together too long after the event. We've got to go for Wil etts and Doyle if we want to secure a conviction. We don't even have an accurate time of death for the first three victims.'

' When he decided it was time, Tommy. That was when: 'Bishop was on cal every one of those nights. He's only on cal one night a week, it's a hel of a fucking coincidence.' He was almost whispering. 'I know it's him, Frank.'

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'Listen to yourself, Tom. This isn't police work, this is... obsession.'

Thorne was suddenly very hot. Here it was, then. Calvert. His mark of Cain. Keable was going to pick away the scab.

'I'm sorry, but you were the one who talked about reputations. I'm not interested in reputations, but I would n't be doing my job if I wasn't aware of... recurring patterns.'

'You're talking like I'm a basket case. How many murderers have I put away in the last fifteen years?'

'You were right fifteen years ago. I know that.' 'And I've paid for it ever since. You've got no idea.'

'You've been right lots of times since then, but it does n't mean you're always right.'

A minute or so earlier he'd felt like a fight. He'd wanted to get into it, but now he was suddenly exhausted, beyond it. 'Most of those times I was lucky. I could just as easily have fucked it up. I didn't always "know". But I knew fifteen years ago. And I know now.'

Keable shook his head, slowly, sadly. 'There's nothing there, Tom.' Then, an afterthought: an attempt to damp down the flames a little. He waved towards the main operations room. 'And you know ful wel that half the men in that office fit the general description.'

Thorne said nothing. Jesus, Exmoor looked bleak. Even the majestic stag looked deeply pissed off about the whole thing. Thorne saw himself walking into the mist, a tiny, distant figure leaving this shit behind him and disappearing. He felt the curtain of fog closing behindhim, clammy on his shoulders as he marched across the damp, mossy ground with the voices of the girls echoing far behind him.

SLEEPYHEAD

He knew they'd be the only ones who would care where he'd gone.

'Now, sit down, Tom, and let's talk about the things can do. The reconstruction's already been shot. It's gc

out in a couple of days.'

'Let Tughan do it.'

Thorne was walking quickly towards the door. He'd Keable. He didn't care. He opened the door then mr: back to the DCI. 'If, you said.' Thorne shook his h Keable stared at him. 'If we make an arrest. Not when!" real y are an inspiration to us al , Frank.'

'DI Thorne--' Keable was on his feet, shouting, Thorne was already half-way across the operations to. Those with the imagination picked up conversations wl they hadn't left off and those that couldn't be bothe stared at their shoes. As Thorne passed him, Tughan loo up, smiling, from his computer screen. 'I don't know you're getting so worked up about, Tom. He's a doctor a lecturer.'

Thorne kept moving. He would make the bastard for that one day, but now was definitely not the time.

Hol and stood in the corner brandishing a sand and watching his boss stride towards him without loo[

left or right.

'Sir?'

'Right, Detective Constable Hol and,' said Tho 'Now you can take me home.'

Rachel Higgins lay on her bed, listening to her mot moving about in the bathroom. She had the sound tur: down on the TV but every so often she glanced at screen and tried to figure out exactly what was happer

136 MARK BILLINGHAM

plotwise. It was a trashy late-night Channel 5 skinflick so it wasn't difficult. She heard the toilet flush. Mum was on her way to bed.

She reached over for her Walkman and swept her long brown hair behind her ears before putting on the headphones. The Manic Street Preachers would take her mind off the fight with her mother. It was so stupid the whole thing. It had started with the usual argument about the bloody resits. So what if her grades for IT and chemistry were not what they'd been expecting? She wasn't doing any science subjects in the sixth form anyway. They'd knocked that around for a while and got on each other's nerves and then she'd started on about her

'privacy'. Her right to have a life! Jesus Christ...

Maybe she and her mum should stop pretending they were mates in that wanky Ab Fab middle-class way. If that was what her mother wanted, that suited her just fine. She'd only been talking to her dad, for fuck's sake. It wasn't like she'd been told not to.

On TV a flabby sound engineer was trying to get some session-singer's bra off. Or maybe he was her manager. He was ugly and she had saggy old tits.

She quite liked the copper, actual y, and didn't give a toss if her mum wanted to shag his brains out, but now al of a sudden her mum was moving the goalposts. Certain things were 'her business' and she was al owed to have a private life. It was obvious that the flabby bloke wasn't going to get out. She picked up the remote, flicked off the TV

his

dick

and lay there in the dark trying not to cry.

The volume on her Walkman was turned up as high as

it would go. The noise would send her to sleep eventual y and the row would be forgotten in the morning.

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It didn't real y matter anyway. Her mum could have her secrets if she wanted.

Rachel had plenty of her own.

It sounds as if Anne gave that tit of a husband as good as she got by the lift. She's definitely wel shot of him. I wish I could tel her to stop pissing about and make a move on that chunky copper. They've done dinner, now she should go for it, no question. Especial y now some hurter's smacked him over the head. Get 'em while their resistance is low. Give him one while he's stil dizzy.t

I've always been good at getting people together. It was me who got Paul to go and chat Carol up. I wonder if they're back from their honeymoon yet. Presumably not or they'd have been in.

We had a real y good laugh, actual y, me and Anne. Wel , she had a good laugh and I just thought about laughing. It's fucking freaky to tel you the honest truth. When I'm half out of it, which is most of the time (did I mention that the drugs in here are fantastic?) I imagine that al the nurses are actual y inside me instead of outside in the real world. I try and pretend that they're like these little munchkins running about inside my body and doing al the things that my brain tel s them to do. Sweet little mobile body parts. Nursey to open my eyes. Nursey to wipe away the sweat. Nursey to scratch an itchy tit (wel , once I've mastered tel ing them it's itchy). Remember the Numskul s in that old comic? A funny bunch of dwarfs that lived inside this bloke's head. I think "hungry" and this little thing in a blue uniform with a stiff Cap and an upside down watch comes and sticks something yummy in my feeding tube. I think 'piss'and, Bob's your uncle, the next little slave

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empties my catheter. Wel , fuck it, you've got to get through the day. That's another thing. I've got no bloody idea what time of day it is. Anne makes a point of tel ing me but ten minutes after she's gone I'm confused again. There's a lot of dizziness as wel ('No change there, then; the girls at the nursery would say). I wonder how al the kids are doing? Some of them wil have moved up into the next room. A new lot for Daniel to start biting. I real y miss them.

I wonder if I could stil get pregnant?

Hendricks had arrived laden down with cheap lager and by

nine fifteen the pair of them were having trouble staying

awake. The reconstruction would be shown in ten minutes.

Hendricks, who was far too opinionated for his own good,

ranted al the way through the news, while Thorne worked

his way quietly through another can of beer and wondered

why he hadn't cal ed Anne Coburn.

Of course, he knew ful wel why he hadn't cal ed her.

The real question was how much longer he could maintain the pretence of integrity. Of actual y having any.

His resolve was crumbling, can by can.

The most formal of contact, the most banal conversa tion would, he knew, be tainted by what he wasn't tel ing her. What he was choosing careful y and deliberately not to

tel her. Of course, he was right on a procedural level not to

involve her,-he knew that. Wel done him. But he wanted to

see her. He wanted to tel he al sorts of things.

So... options. ,.

He could continue to see her and simply not talk about '

the case. Or about Alison. Or about how he felt every hour

of the day.., but he real y wouldn't be giving very much

of himself in return for what he needed from her, would

he? Or he could tel her the truth. If, however, he confided

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in her that he thought her oldest friend was a multiple murderer then the relationship might wel get off to an iffy start. If he told her that her medical,school chum - and former lover, let's not forget that - was a sociopathic kil er then she was hardly going to see him as a prime candidate for getting into her pants, was she?

From the sofa Hendricks let out a long, contented belch. There was nothing like alcohol for bringing out the northern bloke in the southern professional. Or the testosterone fuel ed lad in the tired old man.

And now he'd have to deal with this...

It was not a programme he usual y watched. He could n't deny that itoften provided useful leads and bumped up the arrest rates. At work they cal ed it Grass Up Your Neighbour and it was truly astonishing how many people were only too pleased to do just that. It was the reconstructions that bothered him, and the grainy CCTV footage. He couldn't help but find the whole concept vaguely hilarious. It was usual y about the time the orange coloured presenter talked about 'anything that's jogged your memory' that Thorne stopped paying attention. The city, after al , was chock-a-block with members of the public happily toddling about having completely forgotten that they'd been caught in the middle of a vicious armed robbery a formight earlier. That sort of thing can easily slip your mind...