Scaredy Cat (30 page)

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He was enjoying himself, she could tel . He'd seemed a little tense when he'd picked her up outside the Green Man, but now he looked more relaxed. She watched him far more than she watched what was happening on stage. He stared, engrossed, at the comedian, or at other members of the audience. He was a ferocious watcher, critical and unblinking. She loved that about him. She loved how he lived every moment to its ful est, taking everything in and savouring it. She loved his intensity, his refusal to compromise.

The comedian was tel ing some joke about his parents and Rachel thought about her mother. Anne had been in a strange mood when she'd come home - from the policeman's place, Rachel guessed. It had definitely been him who'd phoned that morning. Probably at it al day, the pair of them.

She thought quite a lot about Thorne fucking her mother.

She thought quite a lot about fucking.

There had been a bit of an atmosphere when she'd announced that she was going out, but her mother had hardly been in a position to say anything after the way she'd changed their plans earlier.

Around her people started to applaud and she joined in. The compare was coming back on again to introduce another act. He said that there'd be an interval afterwards. She wondered if they'd go out for a meal when the show had finished; there were loads of great, restaurants within walking distance. Then they could sit in his car for a while before he drove her home.

The next comedian was a woman. She was gentler and did a real y funny song about men being crap in bed to start off.

288 MARK BILLINGHAM

Rachel took a sip from her half of lager and smiled at him, feeling a little light-headed. He smiled back and squeezed her hand. When he'd let go she slid her arm between his back and the chair.

She was as happy as she could ever remember being. She rested her hand on his waist.., the audience laughed.., he had on a real y nice linen shirt which he wore out of his trousers.., the audience groaned at a corny line.., he always wore gorgeous clothes.., the woman on stage started ano .ther song... Rachel wanted to touch his skin.., a drunk at the other side of the room started to cheer and clap.., she moved her hand under his shirt and

her fingers crept round to stroke the flesh of his stomach ....

Then he screamed.

In that split second when everything fel apart, and he was standing up, and her drink was in her lap, and the woman on the stage was pointing at them, it seemed to Rachel that he had screamed. Christ, he had. He'd bel owed. As if he'd been scalded...

His face was a mask and she reached up to grab his arm, but he cal ed her a stupid little bitch and grabbed for his coat and he was away, moving quickly away, pushing between the tables and knocking over empty chairs.

And the woman on the stage was laughing and saying something to him as he marched out, and he turned and shouted and told her to fuck off, and people in the audience started to boo, and he looked like he wanted to hurt them.

He crashed out through the door, and she could feel the beer soaking through her thin skirt, and the eyes of everyone in the room burning into her. The door slammed shut with a bang, and the woman on the stage leaned in close to

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her microphone and put a hand over her eyes to stare into the lights and beyond, to where Rachel was sitting arid wishing she was 'dead.

'Bit of a domestic, love?'

A few people in the audience laughed. And Rachel began to cry.

Hol and was listening to the sports round-up on Radio 5 Live for the third time in as many hours, when headlights swept across his rear-view mirror and he turned to see Jeremy Bishop pul ing up outside his house.

Thorne had cal ed at around six and Sophie was not best pleased. She'd known immediately that it was Thorne. She knew everything immediately. She'd have been pissed off at his having to go out.anyway but Thorne, as far as she was concerned, represented an unhealthy future for him in the force. A future he should run from at al costs. A future without promotion, without stability, without certainty. By implication, without her.

He couldn't argue with her. Everything she said made complete sense. But they were words from beyond the grave. His father's words. Sophie was mouthing the sentiments of a man he had loved but had never admired.

It was hard not to admire Tom Thorne.

He couldn't argue with Sophie, so he didn't bother. He left the house in silence and conducted the argument with her in his head as he drove to Battersea.and sat waiting. In truth, he was arguing with himself as wel .

Thorne was clutching at straws, of course he was. Jeremy Bishop, who, Hol and knew, had been at work in the Royal London hospital at the time, had dropped a ring in Maggie Byrne's bedroom as he was murdering her.

290 MARK BILLINGHAM

Right. Looked at rational y, these were the ravings of a man popularly thought by many of his col eagues to have gone over the edge. But there'd been something in Thorne's voice. Yes, desperation possibly, but more than that. An excitement, a zeal, a passion that had Hol and reaching for his coat and wondering what he was going to say to Sophie before he'd put down the phone.

He stepped out of the car and crossed the road. Bishop, who had just locked the Volvo and was about to head towards his front door, saw Hol and coming. He sighed theatrical y and leaned back against the car, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers.

Hol and was ready with an apologetic shrug and al the appropriate phrases. Just a few more questions. Investigating a fresh lead. Grateful for al your help and co-operation. As he approached he could see that Bishop remembered him. He didn't care. He had his badge in his right hand with the other politely outstretched. 'Detective Constable Hol and, sir.'

Bishop pushed himself away from the car and took a step towards him. 'Yes, I know. How's your girlfriend's hand?' The tone impatient, the smile saying he knew it was bol ocks.

Hol and was thrown, but only for a second. 'Fine.'

'How long is this going tO take?'

It wasn't going to take very long at al . As Bishop had started speaking, he had proffered his left hand in return for Hol and's. They'd shaken, and with a quick downward glance, Hol and had got what he'd come for. What Thorne had sent him for.

No wedding ring.

I've been reading a lot. The same page usual y, over and over again, but what the hel ? Early on, there was a bit of a scramble to find some interesting reading matter and while they were looking, to sort of test out their new-fangled device, the occupational therapist gave me some official hospital literature to read.

Yawn...

Wel , that's what I thought until I started reading. Fascinating stu.. This is a quote, and I can remember it very accurately having stared at it for twenty minutes: 'The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, incorporating the Institute of Neurology, is a unique resource for teaching, training and research in neurology and the neurosciences. The work of academic staff and their research is closely integrated with the hospital's care of its patients."

Wel , that al seems clear enough to me. The 'care'bit is very much an afterthought, you know, tagged on at the end when somebody remembered that it was supposed to be a hospital.

The rest seems to be al about research and training and, frankly, they can just fuck right off.

I'm a patient. Trust me, I'd real y rather not be here at al , but if I am then my job description is 'patient mate. I'm nobody's resource. Nobody's fucking teaching aid.

'Let's have a look at this poor young woman here, utterly buggered thanks to brainstem trauma. Can you try and blink for us, dear?'

No thanks.

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Al right, I'm being a bit over the top but when I first read that I was real y upset. I lay awake al night wondering if anybody here was making any effort at al to help me get better.

I'm stil wondering.

Am I more use to them the way I am?

SEVENTEEN

Keable and Tughan had questions ready, and Thorne had plenty of answers. First, there was the smal matter of another complaint from Jeremy Bishop.

'He claims there was somebody watching his house on Saturday evening.' Keable looked at Thorne.

Thorne shrugged and turned to Hol and innocently. 'Did he say anything about this to you last night?'

Tughan spoke before Hol and had a chance to answer. 'You are on such thin ice, Thorne.'

Thorne smiled. He was feeling elated and no amount of sniping from Nick Tughan was going to alter his mood. One day soon they would have it al out. For now, he was best ignored.

Tughan was seated in a chair against the wal beneath the calendar, and Hol and stood with his back to the door. The office felt crowded. Thorne placed both hands on Keable's desk and leaned down to him. 'So what are we going to do, Frank?'

Keable slid his chair away from the desk, retreating. He held up a hand. 'First we're going to think about what we've real y got here. How on earth can she be sure the ring isn't her mother's?'

'She's sure.'

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Tughan snorted. 'She lives in Edinburgh, she never saw her mother, for fuck's sake. The ring could be anyone's. Who knows how many men she had round there?'

Hol and spoke quietly. 'I don't think Margaret Byrne had any men. Sir.'

Tughan turned round and glared. Hol and refused to look away.

'SOC got no prints off the body...'

Thorne slammed a hand down on the desk. 'If SOC hadn't fucked up and catalogued a vital piece of evidence as one of the victim's possessions we wouldn't even be here. This would be over by now.'

'No prints on the body, Tom. The kil er wore gloves, so how the hel does he lose a ring?'

Thorne took a deep breath. Answer the question. Nice and calm. 'I think he put the gloves on once she was unconscious. Surgical gloves. He put them on to handle the scalpel. To make his incision. The ring could have come off anytime before then. There was obviously some sort of struggle.'

Keable looked over at Tughan, who shook his head. 'What does Bishop say?'

Hol and stepped forward, placed a hand on the back of Tughan's chair. Spoke over his head. 'He claims to have lost it a few weeks ago.'

Tughan was stil shaking his head. Not having any of it. 'How do you "lose" a wedding ring?' He began twisting his own. 'I couldn't get this fucker off even if I wanted to.'

Hol and had answers as wel as Thorne. 'His comes off quite easily, he told me. He takes it off at work. Takes al his jewel ery off. Claims somebody took it out of his locker.'

Keable seized on this. 'Anything else taken?'

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'His wal et and a watch. A Tag Heuer.'

'Did he report it?'

'No point. He says stuff goes missing from lockers al the time.'

Thorne's eyes flicked from one face to the other. Hol and was doing wel . Keable would not go for this without facts. He needed a weight of facts in support, and Hol and was supplying them.

'When was this?'

'Nearly three weeks ago. The eleventh.'

Keable nodded. 'The day before Margaret Byrne was kil ed.'

Thorne said nothing. The day he'd conned the lift into town. Bishop had been wearing the ring then. Letting Keable make the decision. It was important he felt that it was his. He was stil nodding.

'What do you want, Tom?'

'I want a warrant.'

Tughan stood quickly, his chair shooting back behind him. Keable raised a hand. 'Let's get this ring down here first, and over to the forensic boys. We'l talk about warrants if and when.

Nick, get on the phone to Lothian and Borders. I want it driven down here. Understand?'

Tughan was first out of the door. Hol and held it open for him. As Thorne went to fol ow, Keable stopped him. 'There's a press conference scheduled for midday, Tom. I'd like you on the platform, please.'

Keable's tone implied that he would brook no arguments. He wasn't going to get any. The adrenaline was pumping round Thorne's body. He was high as a kite. He'd have happily agreed to appear on Stars In Their Eyes.

Thorne...

296 MARK BILLINGHAM

Walking into the operations room. Avoiding eye-contact with nobody. Acknowledging the kind words and approving looks. Putting a hand on Dave Hol and's arm and savouring the smile he gets in return. Relishing the scowl on the face of Nick Tughan as the Irishman runs fingers

through his thin blond hair and grabs at the phone. And enjoying the relief in the voices of the girls. 'It's going to be over soon, isn't it?' ' Tommy? Is this it?'

' You going to get him, Tommy?'

' Get the fucker...'

Christine, Madeleine, Susan. And Helen at the end. Spitting out enough hope for al of them. It was a hope he was no longer afraid of dashing.

' Yes, I'm going to get him. Very soon.'

And somewhere in the background, the laughter of Leonie Holden.

He watched it twice. He watched it on each edition of the lunchtime news, BBC and ITV. Both times he was entranced. Both times he laughed out loud, and applauded at the end.

He was in a much better mood anyway. Things were looking up and the despondency of the day before - it had been a dreadful day - had evaporated with one smal snippet of news. It was a little overdue, but more than welcome. He stil had no great urge to try the procedure again, but it seemed as if things might work out as planned after al .

Commander Sincere, Detective Chief Inspector Eyebrows... and Tom Thorne. He'd cheered when Thorne had been introduced, final y, to the nation. So SLEEPYHEAD 297

everything was hunky-dory again, was it? Tom was back on the team.

The commander spoke about 'new leads and exciting new avenues of investigation'. And about time too! That said, they were stil keen to hear from anyone who could supply even a partial number-plate on the blue Volvo, and they were stil showing that bloody awful e-fiB courtesy of some blind passer-by on the night he'd taken Helen Doyle.

Margaret Byrne would have come up with something far more accurate...