Scaredy Cat (15 page)

They always saved the reconstructions for the real y nasty ones. He knew it was down to the tight budgets in both policing and television but there was stil something so... last gasp about it al . There was a mawkishness to the whole process which made him uncomfortable. Every 'Sleep wel ', each 'Don't have nightmares' seemed 142 MARK BILLINGHAM

desperately forced. One minute they'd be showing you your neighbour being battered, raped, murdered, and the next they were reassuring you that crimes such as this were 'extremely rare'. The false security of wonderful y mal eable crime figures.

Sleep wel , if you're a statistician.

Despite the taste, sensitivity and sombre tones it was stil television. It was stil , at bottom, entertainment or, at its very best, journalism, and it niggled him.

He thought about those police photographers getting Helen Doyle into focus.

'Here we go...' Hendricks sat up and grabbed the remote. The presenter and the special y selected mediafriendly officers outlined the menu of mayhem on offer for the next forty minutes.

Backhand was up first. After a photogenic female DI had looked into the camera and assured him that attacks by complete strangers were very, very rare, Thorne was taken inside the Marlborough Arms.

He watched a young actress sitting with a group of girls, laughing. He watched her go to the bar and buy a round of drinks as the voiceover informed the viewer exactly who she was and what she was doing there and hinted darkly at what was about to happen to her. He watched as the young actress picked up her coat and walked towards the door with several other girls.

And he saw Helen Doyle step out on to the Hol oway Road, say goodbye to her friends and strol away to meet the man who would murder her. He saw the colour reappear in her face and the leaves fal from her hair. Beneath her blouse and skirt he knew that the scar from Hendricks's Y-shaped incision had faded and that her young skin was smooth again and smel ing of talcum powder. His throat

SLEEPYHEAD 143

tightened as the blood pumped around the pal id, crumpled legs that carried Helen Doyle down past Whittington Park towards a house where her parents were waiting for her.

Now Helen is laughing and talking to a man and swigging from a bottle of champagne. The man is tal with greying hair. He is in his mid-thirties. Could he be a little older? Now Helen is starting to get a little wobbly. She al but fal s into a dark-coloured car, which moves away to an unknown location where its driver wil quietly, and with great skil , rob Helen Doyle and al those that love her of everything she is.

Then there was Nick Tughan at his most user-friendly. Thorne couldn't deny that he came across wel . The jacket and tie were sober. That lilting voice sounded good, no question. The appeal for information was simple and heartfelt. Make a difference and come forward. For Helen. For Helen's family. The operations-room number was given out, and it was on to a series of armed robberies in

the West Midlands. Thorne closed his eyes.

' What d'you reckon, Tommy?'

' We'l have to wait and see what the cal s bring in:

'No... I mean.., was I pretty, Tommy? Tel me. Did I look al right?'

' Yes, love. You were gorgeous.'

'Tughan's got a touch of the Wogan about him, if you ask me.'

'I didn't. And you're pissed. Now, much as I hate to sul y my expensive Scandinavian sofabed with Gooner scum such as yourself, you're welcome to stay.'

Hendricks was already clambering to his feet and reaching for his leather jacket. A half-empty can of lager was kicked across the room in the process.

144 MARK BILLINGHAM

'Sorry...'

'Glumsy bastard. Try and make it to the tube in one

piece, wil you?'

Hendricks waved and pul ed a face as he walked past

the front window. Thorne mopped up the spilt lager with kitchen towel, stuck on a George Jones CD and settled back in his chair. He was glad Hendricks had gone. He wanted to sit on his own and wait for Hol and's cal .

Anne turned off the television and moved around the room, switching off the lamps. Thorne had told her about the champagne, about how the kil er had drugged that poor girl. And Alison. Seeing it acted out in the places where it had happened had been chil ing. Somehow she felt a connection with Helen Doyle, and through her she suddenly felt connected to Alison in a different way. She knew that she was being fanciful, dramatic even, but she knew she wanted to give Alison her life back for more than just professional reasons. She wanted the man who had attacked her and who had kil ed those other girls to have failed. She wanted to be the reason he failed.

She stood in the darkened living room and wondered why Thorne hadn't been on the programme. Perhaps he hadn't ful y recovered yet. He'd seemed on the mend when she'd seen him in hospital, but maybe he shouldn't have checked himself out so quickly. He was pig-headed, but perhaps he was soft-headed as wel . She thought about cal ing him, but she knew it would be a long cal . She needed to get some sleep.

Brushing her teeth, she thought about David and pictured him being knocked over by the lift doors. The image made it easy for her to check her laughter lines in the SLEEPYHEAD 145

mirror as she rubbed in night cream. She turned off the bathroom light and saw Tom Thorne in the shadows, sitring on the edge of the bed in the hospital ward and staring across the room, a mil ion miles away.

She'd cal him tomorrow at work and suggest a drink. As she went into her bedroom she heard the muffled chirp of the mobile from Rachel's room next door. She heard her daughter mumble a hel o before pushing her door firmly shut. Anne was annoyed, but didn't want to chal enge her about it. Not so soon after that stupid argument. Al the same, she had to be up early for school in the morning.

It was a ridiculous time for her friends to be cal ing.

Hol and cal ed just after eleven thirty. Cal er ID told Thorne that he was using his mobile. 'A lot of people saw her walking down the main road. One bloke rang up to tel us that she was singing when she walked past him.'

She'd been happy walking home. Was that a good thing? 'What was she singing?' 'Sir?'

'I can't remember, Tommy. Robbie Wil iams, maybe...' 'What about the kil er?'

'Wel , obviously there were fewer witnesses once she'd turned off the Hol oway Road, but we've had a couple come forward. Nothing real y new on a description. Three people rang to say that they thought the car might be a Volvo... Can you hear me?'

'Has Keable gone home yet?'

'Yeah, he left a couple of hours ago. Sir?'

Thorne grunted. Was it too late to ring?

'One other thing. We think the kil er might have cal ed.'

146 MARK BILLINGHAM

Thorne had thought it was possible, but it stil took the breath out of him. 'Who took the cal ?'

'Janet Noble. We had the usual load of nutters, but she

said this bloke sounded pretty convincing. She was a bit

upset, to tel you the truth.'

'Go on.'

'A deepish voice, wel spoken...'

Thorne knew what he sounded like. 'What did he say?' 'He said he was better-looking than the actor, that Helen Doyle was a lot plainer and that it was a far better brand of champagne.'

Of course. He'd care about details like that� 'And he asked where you were.' 'What did Noble tel him?'

'She said you'd been taken il , sir.'

Thorne knew how wel that would have gone down. If

he'd believed it.

'Thanks, Hol and, I'l catch up with you tomorrow...'

'Goodnight, then, sir. '

� .

'... and thanks for that CD by the way. I never got a chance to...'

'That's al right. Is it any good?'

He felt a twinge of guilt. Kenny Rogers' Greatest Hits lay

in a box at the bottom of his wardrobe along with a col ection of battered paperback books and a self-assembly bathroom cabinet that had go the better of him. He was planning to take it to the charity shop at the weekend.

'Is that it on in the background? Sir?'

Dave Hol and clipped his phone to his belt, said goodbye to the officers stil taking cal s and waited for the lift. He'd known this sort of thing might happen, especial y with SLEEPYHEAD 147

Thorne, but none of it was making his life any easier. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but you would have had to be stupid not to see that lines were being drawn. He knew what Sophie would tel him to do. Keeping your head down hadn't done the likes of Keable or Tughan any harm

over the years, had it?

Or his father.

No harm. Just a nice little pension and some stories and not an ounce of anything like satisfaction in thirty-five years. He'd spoken proudly about 'keeping his nose clean' right up until the day he'd keeled over, stone dead at sixty.

qbm Thorne had never kept his head down in his life. Perhaps he was just.., losing it. He'd been on the beer when Hol and had cal ed, no question about it.

As the ambulance had taken him away from his flat four days earlier, delirious, and Hol and had done his best to clear up, he realised that Thorne didn't consider himself better than anyone else. Not Keable or Tughan or exDetective Sergeant Brian Hol and, four years dead. He was just a different sort of copper. A different sort of man. Maybe the sort of man whose approval meant something. If Hol and could get that and stil play it safe, then maybe that would be the way to go.

He took out his phone again. If Sophie was stil up he'd grab them a curry on the way home. He let it ring four times and hung up. Final!y the lift arrived and he stepped inside, knowing deep down-that, in the coming days and weeks, playing it safe would not real y be an option.

'Frank?'

'What is it, Tom?'

148 MARK BILLINGHAM

'Bishop drives a Volvo.'

'Right...'

'A dark blue Volvo sedan. I didn't put it in my initial

report but there was one parked outside his house.' 'It's in Nick Tughan's report.' 'Tughan knew?'

'I told you, he's already looked into al that.'

'Al that!'

'Can we talk about this in the morning?'

'And the cal s tonight don't make a difference?'

'It's one more thing in the plus column, but there are stil too many minuses)

'You've spent too long talking to Tughan...' 'Goodnight, Thorne...'

'I'm making a formal request to be taken off this case, sir.'

'We'l definitely talk about this in the morning...'

'Anne? It's Tom Thorne. Sorry, did I...?'

'Hel o?'

'I'l cal you tomorrow.'

'It's OK - funny, I was angry about Rachel being on the phone a minute ago. Is it a minute ago? I must have gone out like a light.'

'Rachel's on the phone? I'm--'

'On her mobile. Hate the whole idea of it, real y, but...' 'It's a safety thing." 'Umm.'

'I was just wondering about Alison, real y.., and obviously how are you?'

'Alison's... hang on, let's get sat up. That's better... Alison's making progress, slowly. I don't want to bring the SLEEPYHEAD 149

occupational therapist back just yet, but things are moving. And I'm fine.., thanks.'

'I'd like to see her. To see how she's getting on. You said about her communicating more.'

'She is, but it's just not.., reliable, I suppose. I'm putting together a system, which wil probably be a complete disaster but anyway... How's the head?'

'So, what do you think? Can I come in and see you?' 'Her or me? You said--' 'Sorry?'

'Both of us... yep. What about Friday?'

'Fine.'

'I'm up to my eyes in it at the minute.'

'I know... That's great. I'm sorry for ringing so late. I've had.., just...'

'A couple of drinks?'

'I've had al sorts of things.'

'Sounds interesting.'

'Not real y. I'l let you get back to sleep...'

Past midnight. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair with an unpronounceable Swedish name and rearranging his life. Or screwing it up completely. Why did he only ever feel like he was achieving anything if he was pissing someone else off?. He was the loudmouth in the pub quiz shouting at the questionmaster until he's proved wrong. He was the irate driver effing a.nd blinding until the other driver points to the sign showing who has right of way. He was the stupid copper who couldn't conceive of being wrong. The idiot whose feelings were written al over his face. That face sent messages. It whispered, 'You're making a mistake.' It murmured, 'I'm right.' It screamed, 'I know.' It had got backs up for as long as he could 150 MARK BILLINGHAM

remember. It had alienated col eagues and wound up superior officers.

It had told Francis Calvert to kil children.

There was one can of beer left. He put his favourite

track from the George Jones album back on and turned it

up. Jones's duet with Elvis Costel o...

' There's a stranger in the house no one wil ever see.., but everybody says he looks like me.'

He'd have to play it careful y with Keable. However

much he discredited Thorne's theories about Jeremy Bishop, Keable knew that the kil er and Thorne had a connection. That first note had been written before Thorne had even met Bishop. There was a link. The kil er wanted Thorne close. So, whatever Thorne did, he knew that Keable would be watching. The truth was that Thorne didn't real y know what he was going to do and, more disturbingly, he had no idea what Bishop was going to do either. How would he react to Thorne leaving the case? Would he be... insulted? Would he do something to demand the attention he thought he deserved?

Thorne tried not to think about those things that might

make him bitterly regret what he had chosen to do. He told himself that he'd been given very little choice. They wouldn't listen. Worse, they were judging him. Putting it down to Calvert.

Fifteen years, and stil he was tainted, any instinct cal ed an obsession. Every observation, every thought weighed up and judged and found wanting.

He couldn't bear that judgement any longer. He didn't

need the judgement of the living.