Scaredy Cat (38 page)

The lights were with him along Nine Elms Lane and Battersea Park Road. He turned left on amber at the Latchmere pub, put his foot down al the way to Lavender Hil , and a few minutes later was turning almost casual y into Jeremy Bishop's quiet road.

He turned down the music and began to breathe deeply. There were cars parked along both sides of the street and Thorne drove slowly, looking for a parking spot. The rain was heavier now, and even with the wipers on double speed he had to lean forward, and squint hard through the windscreen to see anything at al .

Suddenly, fifty yards ahead, lights came on and dazzled him as a large dark car pul ed out and accelerated. Thorne's first thought was that he'd got a parking space, but a second later he could see that he was in trouble. The car rushed towards him on the wrong side of the road. With one hand shielding his eyes, which closed at the last second in anticipation of the impact, he yanked the wheel sharply to the right to avoid being hit as the car rushed past him with barely inches to spare.

A car with Anne Coburn sitting in the passenger seat. Thorne slammed on the brakes and watched in his mirror as the Volvo stopped at the end of the road and turned left. They were heading west:

He might have been wrong but he didn't think that either Anne or Bishop had seen him. Both had been staring straight ahead. Where were they going? He hadn't got room to turn the car round quickly. Without thinking, he ground the gearstick into reverse and put his foot down.

368 MARK BILLINGHAM

For the first few minutes, past the north side of Clapham Common, Thorne was happy to cruise along two or three cars behind the Volvo, watching for its distinctive rear lights, keeping it close. He was sure now that Bishop had no idea he was being fol owed. Thorne wanted to keep it that way and was content to maintain a relaxed pace. Let them get where they were going. Fol owing procedure for once in his fucking life. Keep it safe, he thought.

Keep it sedate.

Sedate. As the word formed in his mind, the car in front turned away giving him a clear view through the Volvo's rear window.

There was something very wrong with the picture.

It took half a second and then he got it. He couldn't see

Anne any more.

The car hadn't stopped he was certain of that. She had

been there a few minutes earlier, her head against the

window. There was only one explanation.

She had to be unconscious.

Things began to speed up in every sense. There was another car between Thorne and the Volvo. He tried to get past it as the traffic swung right on to Clapham Park Road, and as he overtook on the inside, he watched the Volvo accelerate away. It looked as though Bishop knew he was there after al .

Thorne had never been good at this. He'd been in

plenty of pursuits but he'd never been the one with his foot on the pedal. Forty-five miles an hour, along busy built-up streets at nine o'clock at night in the driving rain was fucking terrifying.

Why would Bishop hurt Anne? Why now? Thorne

knew he should cal this in. There was no radio in the car.

SLEEPYHEAD 369

His mobile was back at the flat. He thought about pul ing over, using a payphone. By the time a unit picked up Bishop's car it might be too late. He had to keep fol owing.

Fifty miles an hour along Acre Lane. The rear fog-lights of the Volvo blinding, the horns of other cars blaring.

Without taking his eyes off the Volvo for a second, Thorne switched tapes and turned up the volume. One type of music for another. Song replaced by sound. Melody by a pumping rhythm that seemed instantly to be emanating from inside his own head. The noise, the beat becoming a low, almost Zen-like hum, pulsing through his skul like the soundtrack to an arcade racing game.

Focusing. The wheel vibrating beneath his fingers. The car in front. The target. Speeding down the hil now towards the lights and the cinema ahead and pedestrians shouting and the wheels squealing as they turn left much too fast on to Brixton Road.

And suddenly, Thorne knows where they're going. Brixton. SW2. He remembers the address from a page in his notebook. The page headed 'children'. Thorne's never been to this address but why on earth would he have?

Thorne knows now that, even with a warrant, he'd have found nothing at the lqouse in Battersea. Where they're going now is Bishop's place of work. It's where he would have brought Helen and Leonie. A place to which he would have a key. A flat for which he helped pay the deposit. Somewhere almost certainly empty late at night if the occupant is working. Easily established with a phone cal ...

The beat and the speed increasing and rain lashing the windscreen, and Thorne's hands on the wheel guided

370 MARK BILLINGHAM

solely by the movements of the two red lights ahead of him. His eyes fixed on those two red lights, which flash as the Volvo brakes suddenly, like the eyes of some sleek, dark monster, which roars and is away from him quickly as the Volvo jumps the traffic lights and he has no choice but to do the same.

From the corner of his eye he sees the blue and red of the traffic patrol car to his left, and a thousand yards further on the second one pul s out in front of him.

The last thing he needs. A pair of fucking black rats, working in tandem.

As Thorne slowed down, hammering his fists on the steering-wheel, he watched the eyes of the dark monster ahead of him get smal er and smal er.

When the constable, a fat fuck with a pockmarked face and a walrus moustache, final y sauntered up to the Mondeo's passenger door, the first thing he saw was an ID pressed hard against the window. The first thing Thorne saw when he removed it was the smug look the constable gave to his col eague in the patrol car: Look what we've got.

- Thorne took a deep breath. This was going to be interesting.

The walrus made a casual winding motion with his forefinger. Window down. Thorne counted to three and wound down the window like a good boy.

'Detective Inspector Thorne. SCG West.' There was no reaction. Thorne certainly hadn't been expecting a tug on the forelock and a polite 'On your way, sir', far from it, but this was going to be a bad one.

Age-old animosities. Uniform and ptainclothes. Anyone and Traffic.

SLEEPYHEAD 371

'Fifty miles an hour plus, through a red light, in the pissing rain. Not clever was it?' The estuary accent trying its very best to drip with sarcasm.

'I'm in pursuit of a suspect,' said Thorne, flatly. The constable turned casual y to watch the traffic disappearing into the distance and smiled, the rain dripping off the peak of his cap.

Thorne tried to keep his temper. 'I was in pursuit of a suspect.'

'You were driving like a twat.'

Thorne was out of the car, the red mist ready to come down. 'Is this how you normal y deal with members of the public?'

Another sly smile, another glance to his mate in the car. 'You're not public, are you?'

Thorne stood, staring straight ahead, the rain running down the back of his jacket. He thought about the kil er's first note again. He thought about Anne lying across leather seats, unable to move. Bishop was probably playing

classical music... Fuck, they'd probably be there by now. Jesus fucking Christ... 'Have you been drinking, sir?' 'What?' Starting to lose it.

'Simple enough question. You fuckers obviously think you're above the lawJ'

Thome grabbed his jacket, spun him round, and pressed him hard against the car, sending his cap tumbling into the From the corner of his Thorne Could see the

gutter.

eye,

other one step out of the patrol car. Without even turning to look, he shouted through the rain, 'I'm a DI, now get back in that fucking car.'

The walrus's mate did as he was told. Thorne turned his attention back to the man himself, leaning in close, the 372 MARK BILLINGHAM

rain beating down on the two of them, nose to nose at the side of the road. Passing cars honked their approval, the drivers of Brixton pleased .to see a copper getting what was coming to him from an innocent motorist.

Thorne raised his voice just enough to make himself clearly understood over the noise of the rain, spattering off the PC's reflective plastic tabard. 'Listen, you fat, scabby arsehole, I'm getting back into my car now and driving away, and if you so much as raise an eyebrow, you'l be pissing blood for a week. That was a threat. The next bit is an order. Are you fol owing this?'

The walrus nodded. Thorne released his grip but only slightly. 'This is an instruction, understand? Get back into your car right now and get on your radio. I want you to contact someone at Operation Backhand out of Edgware Road. You need to get hold of DC Dave Hol and...'

bz my dream I'm running.

It's nowhere dramatic. Not across a cornfield or through the surf on a storm-lashed beach or anything. And I'm not running towards anybody. There's nobody in the distance with arms thrown wide, aching to kiss me. Not a soldier returned from the

war or a film star. Not Tim. It's just me.

Just running.

It's funny because I've always hated running, always done whatever [ could to avoid it. Skinny little legs and knock knees. I was always rubbish at any kind of sport and I'm total y unfit.

Running for the bus, if I absolutely have to, is about my limit, and that wil fuck me up for the rest of the day. But here I am...

I'm running, sprinting, and it feels easy.

I don't know what I'm wearing or zokat the weather's like. None of that seems important. I suppose the wind must be blowing in my hair but, to be honest, I don't real y notice. lTzat / do notice is the wind rushing into my open mouth and inflating my lungs. I notice my lungs pushing the air back out

through my mouth.

I'm running.

I notice my legs moving me along and my arms pumping, and I notice that the muscles in my mouth are working overtime, every last fucking gorgeous one of them. Each muscle working in harmony with the others. Meshing perfectly with its neighbour. Forcing my lips to part, raising the corners of my 374 MARK BILLINGHAM

mouth up, pushing my tongue out slightly against my top teeth. Making me smile.

I'm running away.

TWENTY-FOUR

It was a narrow green door without a window.

Easy to miss between a greengrocer's and a shoe shop in a smal street behind the busy Brixton Road. Thorne couldn't see the Volvo anywhere. Maybe there was another way to get in.

That would make sense, after al . A back entrance that was easier to carry bodies into unseen.

Yes, and maybe he was wrong about the whole thing. Maybe it had just been coincidence that they'd seemed headed for this address and even now as Thorne was standing in the rain, staring at a narrow green door without a window, Bishop was spiriting Anne away to a place where he would never find her.

Was al this just to hurt him?

Thorne put his ear against the door and listened. Not a sound.

He was certain that Bishop had known he was being fol owed. Thorne had half expected the door to be open. Six inches ajar, tempting him inside. NOt a trap, nothing so vulgar.

More like an invitation.

He pressed his hand against the door. It was locked.

Back off now and wait for Hol and to arrive with troops. It wouldn't be long, presuming those idiots in the Traffic 376 MARK BILLINGHAM

car had done as they'd been told. Get back into his car and sit tight, that would be best.

He put the side of his head to the door again and this time added the heft of his shoulder. Not a violent movement. Just a sustained pressure, using his weight.

The door gave as easily as if he'd used a key. There was barely any noise.

Ahead of him, by the light from a shopfront opposite, Thorne could see a long straight hal way leading to a staircase that climbed away into darkness. Everything else looked to be on the upper levels, above the greengrocer's.

He stepped smartly inside and tried to shut the door behind him. The lock wouldn't catch against the jamb where he'd forced it, so he just pushed it to. Then he turned inside and listened.

Nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the rain outside and the rumble of the traffic from the main road. He felt for a light switch and found one of those press-in jobs designed to save money. He started up the stairs.

The place was messy. Scattered about on the torn staircarpet were various bits of junk mail and unopened letters. He could smel fast food of some kind, Chinese maybe.

At the top of the stairs was the kitchen. He found the light switch just as the one on the sirs popped out and the light went off.

It was poky and squalidl The brown vinyl flooring was cracked and greasy, the wal s grubby and sweating. Days' worth of used tea-bags squatted in the sink like turds, and a ketchup stain ran down the side of the once white plastic swing-bin. Fast food would certainly be preferable to anything prepared in here.

SLEEPYHEAD 377

Thorne backed out of the room. Another half-dozen stairs led up to the second floor. He could see a door ahead of him and two more off to the left. He moved on slowly towards the rooms on the next level, stopping and listening for a few seconds at every step. His doubts outside the front door had given way to a cold, clammy certainty that he was not alone.

It was ending. He could feel it. Somewhere in this building was the wal he would back himself against.

Thorne moved forward and upward, knowing he must be getting closer to where Helen Doyle and Leonie Holden were kil ed. The wal s of the hal way were bare and dusty, the paper peeling and dry as dead leaves. The carpet was stained and gritty. He imagined he felt it moving beneath his feet.

This was not a place anyone should be brought to die. The first door on the left opened on to a bathroom no bigger than a large cupboard. Thorne put his head round the door for a few seconds. It was enough. No fripperies. Just grimy white fittings and a bad smel .

Then a bedroom. Maybe a little cleaner but stuffed and cluttered and stinking of stale sweat. There were shoes lined up along a mantelpiece. An ironing-board stood in the corner next to a ful -length mirror. Piles of magazines spil ed out on to the faded cork floor tiles from beneath the unmade bed and cardboard boxes were piled high against the far wal .