Scaredy Cat (21 page)

Then off and pushing through the crowd towards the door. As he sidled past her he saw her glance up from her book. Close up she was far from gorgeous but he didn't care. The tension in her face and the heat in his groin were al that real y mattered. It was c;nly a.game, after al . It was part of the hustle-bustle, wasn't it? He smiled and thought the same thing he always did after such a lovely start to the working day: So don't live in London, love.

Doing up the buttons of his jacket to hide the tiny bulge, Nick Tughan stepped off the train at Edgware Road, and 200 MARK BILLINGHAM

turning his mind towards the day ahead, began moving quickly towards the escalator.

Anne had left early saying she needed to get home before Rachel was awake and Thorne had slept until wel after nine. He'd phoned Brigstocke to say he'd be in late. Not that he had anything planned - he was waiting on Hol and: He was just plain knackered.

He was enjoying his fourth piece of toast and looking forward to the rare, il icit thril of Richard and Judy when the doorbel rang.

He recognised James Bishop straight away from Kodak's photo. Bethel 's appraisal had been about right, he thought: grungy was the word. He was tal and skinny, wearing a long dark coat over T-shirt, jeans and grubby training shoes. What looked like very short, bleachedblond hair was hidden beneath a black pork-pie hat, and he carried a dirty green bag slung across one shoulder. 'Are you Thorne?'

The same wel -modulated tones as his father, despite the sad attempt at the oikish London accent, and the same chisel ed features, albeit camouflaged by several days of light stubbly fuzz. It was like looking at Dr Jeremy Bishop as a student.

'Yes, I am, James.' That put the cocky little sod on the back foot. Thorne couldn't help smirking. 'Could I ask how you got my address?'

'Yeah. You told my dad which road you lived in... I've knocked on virtual y every door in the street.'

You should have just asked him, James. He knows exactly where I live.

'I see. Woken up many of my neighbours?'

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Bishop smiled. 'A couple. A very tasty housewife asked me in for a cup of tea.'

'We're pretty friendly round here. Fancy a bit of toast?' Thorne turned from the front door and strol ed back into his flat. There was a pause before he heard the young man close the outer door, and another before he shut the door to the flat and came sloping into the living room.

'Not bothered about the toast, but I wouldn't mind a coffee...'

Thorne went into the kitchen and watched as his visitor hovered in the middle of the living room. 'James is it, then?

Or Jim?'

'James.'

Right, thought Thorne, spooning the coffee into a mug. Jim to your trendy mates but James when you're trying to borrow money off Daddy. He carried the coffee through and handed the mug to him. 'So?'

Bishop looked disarmed. Evidently, this wasn't how he'd wanted things to go. He tried to sound as dangerous as he could, which wasn't very. 'I want you to leave my old man alone.'

Thorne sat down on the arm of the sofa. 'I see. What is

it you think I'm doing exactly?' 'Why are you hassling him?' 'Hassling?'

'There was a bloke taking photos outside his house the other day, then when you turn up with.some bol ocks about scrounging a lift you tel him it was probably reporters. He might have fal en for that, but I think it's crap. What were you doing there anyway?'

'I'm a policeman, James, I can go pretty much wherever I want.'

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Bishop was starting to enjoy himself a little. That made

two of them. He took a step towards the mantelpiece then turned to Thorne, smiling. 'Shouldn't you cal me "sir"?'

Thorne returned the smile with interest. 'If this conversation formed part of an investigation then perhaps I might, yes. But it doesn't, we're in my flat and you're drinking my fucking coffee.'

Bishop's hands tightened around his mug. Wondering what to say next. Thorne saved him the trouble. 'I think

your father's overreacting somewhat.' 'He doesn't even know I'm here.' Right. No. Course not. 'He got these phone cal s.' 'When?'

'Last night. In the middle of the night. Four or five, one

after the other. He phoned me up in a right panic.' 'What sort of phone cal s?' 'You tel me.'

The cockiness had started to return. He needed slapping down harder. 'Listen, I questioned your father as part of an investigation that I'm no longer even part of, al right?' As Bishop's mouth fel open, Thorne felt a twinge of something approaching sympathy. 'Now tel me about the phone cal s.'

mouth fel open, Thorne felt a twinge of something approaching sympathy. 'Now tel me about the phone cal s.'

'Like I said, in the middle of the night. He could hear somebody there. Whoever it was had withheld their number and that was it. One after the other. He's upset no, he's frightened. He's fucking shit-scared.'

I seriously doubt it.

'So what are you going to do about it?' Bishop was starting to sound genuinely angry.

'I'l tel you what I told him about the photographer. I'l

look into it. That's the best I can do.'

SLEEPYHEAD 203

'Are you seeing Anne Coburn?'

It was Thorne's turn to be genuinely angry. 'Behave yourself, James...'

'Seeing as you're off the investigation it could be that, though, couldn't it?'

'What?' Thorne took a deep breath. Trying not to lose it, knowing it was the father, not the son, he needed to save it for.

'If you and Anne were.., you know.., it would be a reason to get at my father.'

Thorne stood up and moved towards Bishop. Iqe saw the slightest flinch, but only shook his head and reached for the empty coffee cup.

'As far as I can remember, Dr Coburn, as your godmother, was responsible for your spiritual wel -being. Looking at you, she's obviously failed miserably but that is, I believe, where your relationship with her ends. You probably got a silver christening spoon and the odd birthday present, but who she's sleeping with is not part of the deal.'

Bishop nodded, impressed. Then he broke into a grin. 'So you are, then?'

Thorne smiled as he carried the empty mugs through to the kitchen. 'What do you do, James, when you're not worrying about your father?'

Bishop moved aimlessly around the living room. He stopped to study the pile of CDs.. 'I always worry about my father. We're very close. Are you and yours not, then?' Thorne grimaced. 'Wel ?'

'I move about a lot. Bit of writing. Tried being an actor. Anything that pays the rent, I suppose.'

Thorne was starting to feel that he understood this young man. Not that he understood many of them any more. This 204 MARK BILLINGHAM

one wasn't quite the good-for-nothing he'd thought Anne had described. Beneath the attempts at nonconformity there was almost certainly an inherited conventionality, which he was trying desperately to escape. Which was why he was trying to escape. He was misguided for sure, but essential y harmless. James Bishop had no idea of the poisonous gene pool in which he was splashing around. He could piss in the water as much as he liked, but in al the ways that didn't matter, the poor sod was his father's son.

'Did you study?'

'I wasted a couple of years at col ege, yeah. I'm not the ivory-tower type.'

Thorne came back into the living room and picked up

his jacket. 'Tower Records type, though?'

'Oh, yeah...' Bishop self-consciously fingered the T shirt that carried the shop's logo. 'I'm working there at the moment.'

Thorne gestured towards the hal way. It was time to go. Bishop moved quickly towards the front door, in no hurry to hang about.

'Wel , maybe I'l see you in there,' said Thorne. 'What's

your country section like?'

Bishop laughed. ' 'Fuck should I know?'

Thorne opened the front door. It was starting to rain. 'Stupid question. What - you more into ambient? Trance? Speed-garage? Could you get me a discount on the new Grooverider twelve-inch?'

Bishop looked at him.

Thorne pul ed the door shut. 'You've had quite a few surprises this morning, haven't you?'

Margaret Byrne lived on the ground floor of a smal

SLEEPYHEAD 205

terraced house in Tulse Hil . She was not what Hol and and Tughan had been expecting. A plain and prematurely grey-haired woman, she was probably in her late forties and considerably overweight. Tughan could not conceal his surprise as she peered round her front door at them, one foot held in place against the jamb to prevent a large ginger cat escaping. Once the IDs, which she'd asked to see, had been produced, she .was happy to invite them in. She insisted on making them tea, leaving Tughan and Hol and to negotiate a route round at least three more large cats before arriving at comfortable chairs in her front room.

Hol and was thinking it, but it was Tughan that said it. 'This place fucking stinks,' he hissed, before adding drily, 'No wonder he changed his mind and pissed off.'

After the tea, and a good selection of biscuits, had appeared, Hol and sat back, as he'd been instructed to do, and let Tughan run things.

'So you live alone then, Margaret?'

She pul ed a face. 'I hate Margaret. Can we stick to Maggie?'

Hol and smiled, thinking, Go on, don't make it easy for him.

'Sorry. Maggie...'

'My husband left a couple of years ago. Don't know why I cal him that, he could never be arsed to marry me, but anyway...'

'No children?'

She wrapped her grey cardigan tight across her chest. 'Got a daughter. She's twenty-three, lives in Edinburgh, and I haven't got the first idea where her father is.'

She took another biscuit and began stroking the blackand-white cat that had jumped on to her lap. She muttered 206 MARK BILLINGHAM

to it softly and it settled down. Hol and thought she was a bit like his mum. He hadn't seen her for ages. Maybe he'd talk to Sophie about asking her down to stay for a bit.

'Right, tel us about the man with the champagne, Maggie.'

'Didn't you write it down when I phoned up?' Hol and smiled. Tughan didn't.

'We just need a few more details, that's al .'

'Wel , it was about eight o'clock, I think. I answered the door and this bloke was standing there waving a bottle about. He asked me if this was where Jenny was having a party?'

'Have you got a neighbour cal ed Jenny?'

'I don't think so. He said he was sure he'd got the right address and we had a bit of a laugh about something or other and he started being a bit naughty, you know, saying how it was a shame to waste a bottle of champagne. He was flirting... I think he was a bit tipsy.'

'You said when you cal ed that you could give us a very good description.'

'Did I? Oh, bloody hel . Right, wel he was tal , definitely over six feet, glasses, and very wel dressed. He had a very nice suit on, you know, expensive...'

'Colour?'

'Blue, I think. Dark blue.'

Hol and was jotting it al down and keeping his mouth

shut like a good boy.

'Go on, Maggie.'

'He had short, greyish hair...'

'Greyish?'

'Yeah, you know, not silver, just greying, but he wasn't that old, I don't think. Wel , not as old as me at any rate.'

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'How old?'

'Thirty-six... thirty-seven? I've always been rubbish at that. Wel , I think most people are, aren't they?' She turned and looked at Hol and. 'How old d'you reckon I am?'

Hol and could feel the colour coming to his cheeks. Why the hel had she asked him? 'Oh... I don't know... Thirty-nine?'

She smiled, acknowledging the kindness of the lie. 'I'm forty-three, and I know I look older.'

Tughan, anxious to get back on track, cleared his throat. The cat, startled, shot off Margaret Byrne's lap and flew out of the door. This, in turn, made Tughan jump, which Hol and would later remember as the only amusing thing about the entire interview.

'What did he sound like? Did he have an accent?'

'Pretty posh, I'd say. A nice voice.., and, you know,

very good-looking. He was handsome.'

'So you invited him in?'

She brushed more cat hair than there was from her skirt. 'Wel , I think he was dropping hints. Like I said, he was waving this bottle around.' She looked at Tughan and held eye-contact. 'Yes. I invited him in.'

Tughan smiled thinly. 'Why?'

Hol and was starting to feel uncomfortable. This woman could help them. She might wel be the only person who could help them. Why she had invited the man who might have kil ed her into her home was information they didn't need now. This woman wasn't mad or desperate or sex-starved, for Christ's sake. Loneliness was not a crime, much as Tughan seemed to be enjoying touching the tender spot of it. She hadn't answered him anyway. He let it go.

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'What happened then?'

'Like I said on the phone, this was the funny part. He opened the champagne - I remember being disappointed because there wasn't a pop - and I said I'd go and get some glasses. He said great and he was just going to make a quick phone cal .'

Tughan looked at Hol and then back at Margaret. 'You

didn't mention that when you cal ed.'

'Didn't I? Wel , he did.'

Tughan sat forward in his chair. 'He made a cal from here? From your phone?'

'No. Just as I was going off to the kitchen I saw him take

out one of those horrible little mobile things. I hate them, don't you? Always beeping and playing daft tunes when you're sitting on a train.'

'And you were in the kitchen?'

'And I was in the kitchen, and I'd just got the glasses down and given them a wipe out because they were a bit dirty, and I heard the front door slam. I came back out and he'd buggered off. I opened the front door but I couldn't see him. I heard a car pul away up the road, but I didn't real y see it.'

Tughan nodded. Hol and had finished writing. Margaret Byrne looked quickly from one to the other. 'You reckon he was the bloke who kil ed that girl up in Hol oway, then?'