Lazy Bones (14 page)

Thorne nodded. Flowers weren't the only thing that came across from Hol and in vans...

They were standing across the road from the fishmonger's, the

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flashing neon sign above Raymond's Revue Bar reflected in the shop window. The reds and blues dancing across the shiny heads of salmon, herring and turbot. Next to it, a narrow brown door.

Bethel forced his hands into the pockets of tight leather trousers. Shifted his weight from one expensive training shoe to the other. 'Right, I'l get out of your way then, shal I?'

Thorne reached for his wal et, wondering if the tightness of Bethel 's trousers might have something to do with the height of his voice. He counted out fifty in tenners. Bethel took it and handed over an envelope in return.

'There's your photo back...'

Thorne took a step into the road, turned and held up the envelope. 'I'd better not see this popping up on the Internet, al right?'

Bethel laughed. A series of shril peeps. 'I didn't know you visited those sorts of sites...' Thorne was already starting to cross. 'Listen, you won't mention my name, wil you...?'

Thorne stopped to let a car pass, spoke without turning. 'Oh, s I can't say, "Dennis sent me , then?' .

'Relax, Kodak. Your reputation wil remain squeaky clean. No pun intended...'

Thorne pressed the button on the grimy, white intercom and stepped back. He glanced up at an unmoving grey curtain, and right, into the black eye of a large, ugly-looking fish he couldn't put a name to. The shopfront was original, the tiling that edged the windov ornate, but the prices and stock were firmly in line with the twenty-first-century trendiness of the location. Swordfish steaks at a river a pop, and not a

whelk to be seen...

'Yes...?"

'Mr Dodd? I was wondering if I could talk to you about renting some studio time...?

Thorne could hear suspicion in every crackle of the speaker. He

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looked back at the ugly fish, found himself raising his eyebrows. What d'you reckon?

He was buzzed up.

Charlie Dodd stood at the top of a narrow, carpetless stairway. He was in his fifties with thin lips and a comb-over. He smiled, barring the way and trying to make it look like a welcome.

By the time Thorne had reached the top of the stairs, warrant card

in hand, the smile had become a grimace.

'Have you got a warrant?'

'I don't need one, you invited me up.'

'Listen, you obviously aren't one of DCI Davey's boys. Everything's been sorted...'

Plenty of things in Soho were stil the same forty years on. Thorne made a mental note of the name as he stepped past Dodd and pushed open an unpainted plywood door.

Dodd scuttled after him. 'What the fuck's your game...?'

The studio was no bigger than an average double bedroom and the main feature was indeed a double bed. Unlike the average bedroom, the wal s were painted black, there were lights hung from a ceiling bar, and Thorne guessed that the array of sex toys and costumes on display was only likely to be replicated in the bedrooms of a few high-ranking Members of Parliament...

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 pul ed her arm from beneath the other and reached down to pick up a packet 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

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Thorne. 'Now listen, there's nothing il egal going on here, so why don't you sod off?.'

'What about the stuff you've just brought back from Hol and, 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 smel 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 lUt it back on to his shoulder. He was mumbling something to the girl 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 towards the bed. 'Stuff like this today, run of the mil , I usual y stick around, get on with other things...'

One of the girls began to moan theatrical y. 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, stil smoking her cigarette.

'You saying you don't remember this picture being taken?' 'There's times, punters 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...'

'Bol ocks.' Thorne pushed the photo into Dodd's face. 'Do you see any animals? Underage boys?'

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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. Al 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 piss 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...

'Al 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. Probabl/a one-off.' 'Yeah, but stil ...'

'Just one man and a girl. Think...'

The cameraman kicked the end of the bed in annoyance and spun

round. '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. Normal y, 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 al that himself. Said he knew what he was doing.'

'What about the girl?'

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'I never saw a girl. It was just him...'

'Give me a name.'

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

Thorne took a step towards 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 dispatch rider, 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 tel ing 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 clobber on. I remember him standing out there on the stairs, in al 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 rol ing 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 wal , and right now it felt as real, as black, as the one that ran around the ratty fuck-parlour 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.

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10 AUGUST, 1976

It was the first time in a long while that he'd seen anything at al register on her face. He wasn't expecting a reaction, but it tickled him nevertheless. To see her jaw drop a little, watch her eyes widen when she saw his hand

tighten around the base of the lamp...

'Please,' she said. Please...

In the few seconds that he held the lamp high above his head, he thought about the different uses of that word. The meanings that it could take on. Its many, subtle varieties, conjured by the tiniest changes in emphasis. He thought about the number of ways it could mislead. Please don't. Please do.

Please don't stop doing..

Please me. Pleasure me. Please...

Pleading for it.

As he brought the lamp down with every ounce of strength he had, he thought that, al in al , it was a pretty appropriate word. For her very last.

At least, the way she meant it now, it was honest.

With each successive blow he became more focused, his thinking becoming less cluttered until final y, when she was unrecognisable, he could remember where in the garage he'd last seen the tow rope.

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NINE

That dreadful hiatus between arriving, and anything actual y happening...

The cling-film, 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...

Tragical y, 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. Tel ing jokes to a couple of teenage boys who 117

sniggered and sipped their shandies. 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, zv, lzat was it cal ed 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 on such good form. To see him enjoying himself. It was a huge relief after the phone cal twenty-four hours earlier that had put paid to 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 hob. She nodded towards 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 usual y 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'l watch out for that.'

'Don't worry, you'l know it when it happens...'

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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 vhich belonged to her flatrnate. He guessed that the vast array of herbs in terracotta 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 wal . 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...?'