Lazybones (19 page)

Ahead of him, Thorne watched a young couple climb into the only available cab. He thought about Eve again, the things they could be doing. What the hell, he'd managed to avoid a Sunday being dragged around IKEA…

 

In the living room, when Thorne had suggested cooking something, his father had reddened and called him a “silly little bastard.” Half an hour later in the pub, his dad seemed an awful lot happier. A pint of bitter and a plate of sausage and chips could cause mood swings in the old man every bit as radical as those brought on by the changing chemistry of his brain.

“This is number three on my list of rules, you know?” his dad said.

They were sitting at a table in the corner: Thorne, his father, and his father's friend Victor. There used to be quite a gang of them, regulars in this pub two or three nights a week. Since the Alzheimer's had been diagnosed, his dad's other old friends tended not to be
around quite as much. Victor was the only one who didn't seem to think he could catch it…

“What is?” Thorne said.

His father held up his pint, pleased as punch. “This.
‘No beer.'
Number three, coming after ‘no going in the kitchen' and ‘no going out alone.' My list of stupid rules, you know?”

Thorne nodded. He knew…

“No booze.” Jim Thorne cleared his throat, lowered his voice, tried to sound like a DJ. “Straight in at number three in the Alzheimer's Hit Parade…” Thorne and Victor laughed. Thorne's father began to hum the theme to
Top of the Pops,
then stopped suddenly and looked across at Victor, his face creasing with panic. “Who are the top three chart acts of all time? In terms of weeks on the chart, I mean…”

Victor leaned forward, the mood suddenly urgent. “Elvis…Cliff Richard…”

“Obviously, yeah,” Jim said, agitated. “It's the third one I can't bloody think of. Christ, I know this…”

Thorne tried to help. “The Beatles…?”

With the perfect timing of a music-hall double act, his dad and Victor looked at each other, then at Thorne, before answering simultaneously, “No…”

Thorne could see his father beginning to sweat, to breathe heavily. The fact that he was wearing two sweaters was not helping. “I can see his bloody face. You know, bloke who fancies other blokes.” He began to raise his voice. “Christ, he plays the…the thing with keys on, black and white keys…”

“Piano,” Thorne said. His father often spoke like this, when the right word wouldn't come.
The thing you put in your mouth to clean your teeth with.
Bacon and…
those things that come out of a chicken.

Victor thumped his fist on the table triumphantly. “Elton John,” he said.

“I know,” Jim said. “I fucking know…” He began stabbing at the chips on his plate, one after the other, looking as if he might weep at any moment.

“I'll get some more drinks in,” Thorne said quickly. “If you're going to break one of your rules, you might as well really break the fucker…”

Victor drained his pint, handed Thorne the empty glass. “'Course, your dad might not have Alzheimer's at all…”

Thorne shot him a look. This kind of discussion was pointless, though Victor was, strictly speaking, correct. Alzheimer's could not be, could
never
be, confirmed. They were 90 percent sure, though, which was about as good…or bad, as it got.

“Same again, Victor…?”

“Are you listening, Jim?” Victor said. “You can't be
certain
it's Alzheimer's…”

Thorne put a hand on Victor's arm. “Victor…”

Then Victor shot
him
a look, and Thorne suddenly saw what was happening. He saw that he was trampling all over one of his dad's favorite lines. He felt sick with shame…

His father put down his knife and fork, picked up his cue. “That's right, Vic. The consultant told me that the only way they can be sure is to perform a postmortem. I said, ‘No, thank you very much. I don't think I'm too keen on one of those just yet!'”

Victor and his father were still laughing loudly as Thorne stood at the bar waiting to get served…

The “middle stage” of the dementia was how it had been described to him. It all sounded a bit vague, but Thorne figured that as long as there was another stage to go, things would be all right for a while longer. As long as the bad jokes outnumbered the moments of terror and despair, he would try not to be too worried.

 

Just briefly, for a minute or two, Carol had wondered about what she was doing, had thought about swapping places with her husband. She was a middle-aged woman, for heaven's sake! She ought to be inside like Jack, curled up on the sofa in front of the TV instead of wrapped up in an overcoat, rummaging through filthy cardboard boxes in their freezing garage.

That had been before she got into it. As soon as she began to delve into all that was left of Alan Franklin's past—his
first
past—she'd stopped feeling the cold. She'd rediscovered that bizarre and exciting feeling of looking for something,
getting after it,
without having the foggiest bloody idea of exactly what “it” was.

All around her, in front rooms and kitchens on her quiet little road in Worthing, women her age were doing crosswords, or losing themselves in crappy romances or pouring breakfast cereal into bowls ready for the morning…

Carol pulled a pile of dusty blank paper out of one of the boxes, swept away the grime with the side of her hand. She wouldn't have swapped places with any one of those women…

There was lots of paper in both boxes; reams of the stuff in a variety of sizes, once presumably white, but now yellowed and slightly damp. There were envelopes, too, and smaller packages of file cards, sticky labels, and rusted staples. Franklin had met Sheila while working for an insurance firm in Hastings, but had clearly wanted to hold on to a few odd souvenirs of the working life he'd had before.

None of the other stuff would have caused pulses to quicken at the
Antiques Roadshow:
a couple of unused diaries from 1975 and 1976; a bunch of keys on a Ford Escort key ring; plates and teacups wrapped up in old newspaper; a couple of Polaroids inside a manila envelope—two boys; one a baby, the other a toddler, and
later the same two as a pair of gawky, unsmiling teenagers.

Carol unwrapped the dry newspaper from around what turned out to be a large silver tankard. She laid it to one side and smoothed out the crumpled page on the garage floor. It was from a local paper. She looked at the date—presumably the day Franklin had walked out on, or been thrown out by, his wife. Not a great deal seemed to have happened in Colchester that day: a small protest about a proposed ring road; a leisure center reopening after a refit; a smash-and-grab at the jeweler's on the High Street…

Carol smiled at a phrase she hadn't heard for many years.
Smash-and-grab.
Not much more than twenty years ago and even the crimes seemed more innocent somehow…

She picked up the tankard, which, after a closer look, she could see was silver-plated. In spite of the newspaper, it had blackened slightly on one side, but she could make out an engraving. She held it up to the light from the bare bulb, and read:

 

From the boys at Baxters, May 1976.

Welcome back.

Have one to celebrate or
more
than one to forget the whole thing!

 

Carol thought about ringing Sheila Franklin, but knew instinctively that she wouldn't be a great deal of help. Her husband had not shared his past with her. Maybe he went up into the loft once in a while and peered at it, or perhaps he was trying to forget it himself. Either way, Carol was pretty sure that she would have to work it out on her own. She'd start tomorrow. It couldn't be that hard. She'd get that lazy bastard McKee to make a few calls.

Wincing, Carol hauled herself up from where she'd been kneeling on the floor. She'd put a cushion down on the concrete, but her knees still felt very sore. She switched off the garage light and stood for a few seconds in the darkness before going inside.

Wondering what Alan Franklin had cause to celebrate back in 1976. And what he might have wanted to forget…

 

On the twenty-five-minute train journey back from St. Albans, Thorne had the entire carriage to himself.

He reached into his bag for his CD Walkman and a couple of discs. He opened up an album by a band called Lambchop—a birthday present from Phil Hendricks that, until he'd shelled out three hundred pounds in Tower Records, had been the
only
CD he'd owned for a day or two after the burglary. It was “alt. country,” Hendricks had told him. Apparently, Thorne needed to move with the times a little…

Thorne pressed
PLAY,
let it come, and thought about the curious good-bye he and the old man had shared.

Half an hour after Victor had left and whatever tea was still in the pot had gone stone-cold, Thorne and his father had stood together on the doorstep. Both, for very different reasons, trying to find the right thing to say.

Jim Thorne had never been one for tactile displays of affection. Occasionally a handshake, but not today. Instead, with a twinkle in his eye, he had leaned in close and, as if imparting a great pearl of wisdom, told Thorne that “Three Steps to Heaven” by Eddy Cochrane had been number one in the hit parade on the day he'd been born.

Thorne kicked off his shoes, put his feet up on the seat opposite. What his father had said, what he'd
remembered,
was, he supposed, touching in its own way…

The music in his headphones was slow, and lush and
strange. Thorne couldn't make head or tail of the lyrics and there were horns, for crying out loud. Not
Ring of Fire–
style Tijuana trumpets, or mariachi, but proper
horns,
like you'd hear on a soul record…

Thorne ejected the Lambchop CD, put it back into its jewel case. Another time, perhaps. He put on Steve Earle's “Train a Comin'” and closed his eyes.

Soul was all well and good, but there were times when guts sounded a whole lot better.

 

Carol lifted the handset and dialed, checking the number on her pad twice as she pressed each button carefully. She reached over to straighten a picture on the wall as the phone at the other end began to ring.

She had only been able to stand watching McKee mess around for so long before she'd taken over herself. Two and a half days spent on the phone, digging through records at Companies House, getting wound up. Reminding herself of how shit the job was most of the time.

“Nobody made you do it,” Jack had said. “Nobody would think any the worse of you if you chucked it in.”

Nobody except her…

Tracking down Baxters, the company Alan Franklin had worked for in Colchester nearly thirty years before, had proved enormously frustrating. She'd discovered quickly that the company, a stationery wholesaler, had not only left the area in the early eighties, but had changed its name. She was pretty much starting from scratch. She had spoken to every company in the south of England able to provide so much as a plain brown envelope, and got precisely nowhere. Then, just at the point when Jack was starting to talk about divorce, she got lucky. The personnel manager of a firm in Northampton knew
everybody
in the stationery supply business, played golf with most of them, God help him! He was only too delighted to tell her
exactly
where to
find the person she needed to talk to, and gave her the name of a company in King's Lynn…

“Hello, Bowyer-Shotton, may I help you?”

“Yes, please,” Carol said. “I'd like to speak to Paul Baxter.”

“I'll put you through…”

 

Andy Stone sat, sweating through his white linen shirt, some small fraction of his mind on the report he was writing up…

He thought about the woman he'd woken up next to. He remembered the look on her face the night before, and the look she'd given him as she'd slipped out of his bed that morning without a word…

She'd been attending a tedious conference at the Greenwood Hotel a couple of weeks earlier, when Ian Welch had been killed. Stone had interviewed her, given her his number in case there was anything else she remembered. She'd remembered that she fancied him, rung, and asked if he wanted to go for a drink.

He guessed that she was turned on by the fact that he was a copper. A lot of women seemed to find it exciting. The power, the handcuffs, the war stories. Whatever the reason, once the novelty wore off, most of them seemed to lose interest in him very quickly.

Meantime, the sex was usually pretty good…

He wanted to control things in bed. He liked to be on top, the woman's arms flung above her head, his hands around her skinny wrists, pushing himself up and away from her while he was doing it. He'd done weights, built up his chest and arms so that he could hold the position for as long as he needed to.

Last night had started really well. She'd looked up at him, her eyes wide, and said all the right things,
just
the sort of words he imagined hearing whenever he thought
about it. She told him he was too big, that he might hurt her. He threw back his head, gritted his teeth, pushed harder…

Then she'd spoiled things. She'd begun to moan, to grab at his shoulders, to say that she liked it rough. Then, between ragged breaths, she'd told him that she
wanted
him to hurt her.

In seconds he had shrunk and slipped out of her. He dropped down and rolled onto his side, listening to her sigh, aware of her inching across to her own side of the bed so that no part of their bodies were touching…

Stone looked up at the greeting of a colleague passing his desk. He smiled and continued to type. He remembered the warm feeling of his hand, cupped between his legs, and the sound of the woman's body sliding across the sheet as it edged away from him.

 

Carol had been put on hold…

She had probably been listening to Celine Dion for no more than a couple of minutes, but she could feel herself growing a hell of a lot older.

Moments like this, the empty minutes that made up so much of any case, made her glad she'd agreed to take the job on the clear understanding that she could work from home. She'd guessed that AMRU would not be given the swankiest office facilities, and working as they did (or were supposed to do) in teams of just two, she'd have been lucky to get a cupboard.

Jack had cleared a space for her in the spare room. They set up the old computer that his daughter had used, and shelled out twenty pounds on an extra handset for the cordless phone. Her filing system consisted of yellow Post-it notes stuck around a picture frame, her husband doubled as a coffee machine, and when Carol glanced at the mirror above her desk, she saw dusty hatboxes, old
lamps without plugs, and a collection of china dogs that had seemed like a good idea a couple of years before.

It was cramped, but she liked her things around her.

The day she'd taken up residence in her new office, Jack had stood behind her and they'd both stared into the mirror. Carol sat at her desk and smiled at the rubbish they'd amassed together down the years, piled up on the single bed behind her. The reflection of her retired self.

“That'll stop you getting too carried away,” Jack said.

The Muzak came to an abrupt and merciful halt. “Can I help you?” a man asked.

“Yes. Paul Baxter, please…”

“Wrong department, love. You've come through to accounts. Let me try and transfer you…”

Ten seconds of clicking and then a familiar voice. Carol's heart was already sinking as she spoke.

“Paul Baxter, please…”

“Is that you again? Sorry, dear, you've come back to the switchboard. I'll put you through…”

 

The sun, blazing through even the grimiest of the big windows, had turned the Major Incident Room into a sauna by midday. Yvonne Kitson didn't really need to reapply her lipstick, but did it all the same. Any excuse to spend a few minutes in the cool of the toilets was welcome.

She didn't usually wear a great deal of makeup. Just enough to feel good, but that was all. In this job more than most, people were quick to judge, to form instant opinions that would be passed around and set in stone before you'd so much as got your workstation organized.

She knew very well what people thought about her. She knew what the likes of Tom Thorne thought she
was,
thought she
did.
She knew just how wide of the mark they were.

Makeup—the colors, how much, when you wore it—gave off a signal. It said you were this or that. Concealing, lying,
making it up
…

She stood for a few moments, looking at herself in the cracked mirror. She moved her head a few inches, until the crack ran right down the middle of her face. Until it looked about right.

 

She would give it one more minute…

She began to count down the time in her head. Fifty-five seconds more, then she would slam the phone down, make some tea, and go and shout at her old man for a while. No, she would snatch the phone back up, call McKee and shout at
him
…

Carol began to swear repeatedly under her breath.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She'd turned her back on gardening, and old films in the afternoon, and the
Reader's Digest,
for
this
…

“Paul Baxter's phone…”

She almost cheered. “Thank God. Is Mr. Baxter there?”

The woman sounded unsure. “Well, he was here a minute ago. He might have grabbed an early lunch. Let me see if I can find him for you…”

There was a clatter as the receiver was dropped, then silence. Thirty seconds later Carol heard voices, then muffled laughter, which grew suddenly louder before the receiver was picked up and abruptly replaced. Then she just heard a dial tone.

Carol took a deep breath and dialed again, jabbing at the buttons as if each were the eyeball of a Bowyer-Shotton employee.

“Hello, Bowyer-Shotton, can you hold for a moment…?”

Carol shouted. “No!”

It was too late…

 

Dave Holland was in a reasonable mood until the little fucker started to get cocky.

“Listen, I don't think I have to go into the details…”

“Well, that depends, doesn't it?” Holland said. “On just how much of a pain in the arse you want me to be.”

“I did some modeling up there. Fair enough?”

“Right. Catalog stuff, was it? The Marks & Spencer autumn collection…?”

“You want to know my connection with Charlie Dodd, so I'm telling you. I was booked to do some filming, all right?”

“Did you ever mention it to anybody else?” Holland asked. “Pass Dodd's name on? Maybe you told somebody about the studio?”

There was a hollow-sounding bark of laughter down the line. “Yeah. I was so proud of the work, wasn't I? I mean,
London Cock Boys
and
Borstal Meat
are fucking classics. Maybe you've seen them…”

Holland hung up, put a line through another name on the list.

Charlie Dodd had known a lot of people. They'd worked their way through every number on his phone records and everyone appeared to have a valid, if occasionally sordid, reason for being a friend, or “business associate.” Photographers, film developers and suppliers, video production companies, prostitutes. Each person was asked to give the name of anybody else they thought might have known Dodd, and this, together with a few more contacts provided by Thorne's squeaky-voiced informant, had generated another, much bigger list to be worked through.

Holland stifled a yawn. At the end of the day, it would probably result in nothing more than a handy contact list to pass on to Vice. It was certainly unlikely to pro
vide any link to the killer as, contrary to what Thorne had said, Dodd had discovered that it
did
pay to advertise. One of the first numbers on the list had turned out to be a specialist S&M magazine. They were suitably saddened at the news that a much-valued client would not be placing any further small ads to advertise his facilities…

Holland leaned back in his chair, thrust up his arms, and stretched. Wasting his time, as he'd wasted it the night before at home. Making calls that could have waited, crossing names off the list. An excuse, an escape…

Sophie had come through in her dressing gown. One hand cradling her stomach and the other holding a mug of tea. She'd put it down in front of Holland and stood looking over his shoulder at the paperwork on the tabletop, her hand resting on the top of his head.

She'd laughed softly. “Little bastard's been kicking the shit out of me all day…”

When Holland had looked up half a minute later, she'd been standing in the doorway. He'd picked up his tea, smiled a thank-you at her.

“I know you think I want you to choose,” she'd said. “And I really don't. Yes, I sometimes hate what you do, and I get pissed off at your pigheaded boss and the fact that you worship the ground he walks on, but you know all that. Yes, I would be happy if you took some time off and, no, I don't want you doing anything stupid. Not now. I wouldn't ask you to make a choice, though, Dave.” Then she'd turned to stare out of the window for a moment. “I'd be too scared…”

For a few seconds there had been only the sound of the traffic rumbling up the Old Kent Road and a radio from the flat downstairs. Holland had picked up the phone from its cradle, reached for his pen. “Can we talk about
it later?” He'd looked down at the papers on the desk, at the pointless list of names. “This is really important…”

 

Thorne watched his team going through the motions. Holland, Stone, Kitson…

He saw dozens of other officers and civilian staff talking and writing and thinking—the impetus running out. As if the heat had thickened the air, made it a little harder to move through.

Thorne stood watching from the doorway of the Incident Room, thinking about the thrashing limbs of a body near to death…

It was always the same pattern. In the days that followed the discovery of a murder victim, the activity was frantic. An urgency seized the team, the knowledge that the hours, the days immediately following, would be when they had their best chance. After Dodd, they'd run around like blue-arsed flies, checking records and tracing contacts and taking statements and chasing couriers. Waiting for
anything.

And, gradually, as always, the flurry of activity on the case had slowed, like the movements of the victim himself as death had approached. The frenzy became drudgery. The phone was picked up and the statement taken reflexively, the small spark of hope fizzling to nothing, until the body of the investigation itself began to stiffen and cool, to swing aimlessly…

Something would be needed. The case, and those working it, needed a jolt to kick some life back into them. An external force, like the passing train that had given movement to Charlie Dodd's corpse.

Thorne had no idea what it was or where it might come from.

 

“Paul Baxter…”

“Am I
speaking
to Paul Baxter?”

“Yes, who's this?”

Carol felt a little of the tension in her back and neck begin to ease. “My name's Carol Chamberlain, from the Metropolitan Police Area Major Review Unit. You would not believe the trouble I've had trying to get hold of you…”

“Get hold of
me
…?”

“You, your company…”

“We're in the phone book…”

“Right, but I was looking for
Baxters.
”

There was a pause. Carol could hear Baxter taking a drink of something, swallowing. “That was a long time ago. My dad got bought out in…'82. I think. I stayed on as head of sales when we moved up here, that was part of the deal…”

“Anyway…”

“So how can I help you?” Paul Baxter laughed. He had a low, sexy voice. Smooth, like a DJ. “Does the Met need some new headed notepaper?”