Scaredy Cat (37 page)

Whoever lay in the bed inside that room was here by accident. That was the difference.

Thorne turned and moved across to Alison's door. He knocked quietly and reached for the handle.

He gasped as the door was yanked open from the inside and David Higgins al but pushed him back into the corridor.

'She's not here.' Higgins was in his face.

'What?' Thorne tried to push past him into the room. 'You're out of luck, Thorne. Sorry.'

Thorne looked at him, not understanding. Higgins began to raise his voice. 'My fucking wife. My fucking

wife, who you are fucking. Sbe. Isn't. Here.'

Thorne could smel Dutch courage.

'I'm not here to see Anne. Move out of the way.'

'Of course. Have fun.'

Higgins took a step to his left but Thorne didn't move, just looked at him. 'What does that mean?' Knowing exactly what it meant but wanting to hear him say it.

358 MARK BILLINGHAM

'Wel , in the absence of the lovely Anne, who doesn't actual y enjoy it that much anyway, you might as wel ... make hay with someone who real y doesn't have a great deal of say in the matter. Like a blow-up dol with a pulse.'

Thorne had always thought that the accusations about

his relationship with Alison were a little cheap for the kil er. A little beneath him. Now he knew who had been responsible. The motivation was obvious but Thorne asked an,vway. 'Why?'

Higgins swal owed, licked his lips. 'Why not?'

As his right arm bent and swung at speed, Thorne unbal ed his fist. A slap seemed so much more appropriate. Higgins wasn't man enough to punch.

The hard flat hand caught Higgins across the jaw and

ear, sending him sprawling across the highly polished linoleum. He lay stil , whimpering like a child.

Without looking at him, Thorne stepped across Higgins's outstretched leg and opened the door to Alison Wil etts's room.

The second he looked at her, she began to blink. Once,

twice, three times. Thorne realised that she'd heard the noise from outside and was disturbed. Maybe he should cal for a nurse. What had Higgins been doing in her room anyway?

Probably just looking for Anne, but couldn't he have spoken to someone at reception?

Thorne's mind was racing. He needed to calm down if

he was going to be able to say what he came to say.

Alison was stil blinking. One blink every three or four seconds.

'It's OK, Alison. Look, I'l try and keeP this short. It's

about what I said the other day, about being close to him,

the man who did this to you...'

SLEEPYHEAD 359

She was stil blinking.

Please, for fuck's sake shut up, and listen. Get the board... 'What's the matter?' His eyes darted across to the blackboard, stil lying against the wal and covered with a sheet.

He looked back at Alison. One blink. Yes.

s!

He moved across the room, whipped off the sheet and dragged the blackboard to the foot of the bed.

He knew roughly how the system worked. He hurried to switch off the main light and then, using the remote at the end of the bed, he raised Alison up so that she was nearly sitting. Then he picked up the pointer, switched it on and positioned the smal red laser dot beneath the first letter: E.

He began to move the pointer slowly along the letters. Nothing.

Starting to speed up, studying her face, watching for the smal est reaction.

Come on... come on... Then a blink. He stopped. 'S? Was that an S, Alison?'

Yes, for Christ's sake! Of course it was!Hurry up. Move. Wait. Watch. Move. Wait. Watch. Move...

Another blink. Thorne was sweating. He threw off his jacket. 'L. Yes? OK, that's S, L. Right.'

Back to the beginning again and.., a blink. No, two blinks.

'Is that a no to the E, Alison?'

No, it isn't fucking no. Two blinks is usual y no but when I'm doing this it means 'repeat'. Didn't Anne tel you any of this?

'Or do you mean two Es? Yes? Right. S, L, E, E... sleep? Do you want to go to sleep, Alison?'

Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .

360 MARK BILLINGHAM

Two strong blinks. One, two.

No. L Don't. Have you got any idea how hard this is?

He raised the pointer again. Point. Stop. Look. Point.

Stop. Look. Point. Stop... a blink. No question about it.

A big fat positive Y.

'You're sleepy? I'm sorry, Alison, I can come back when...'

She was blinking quite rapidly now. Repeatedly.

Do I look fucking sleepy? Wel , do I? Come on, Thorne, sort

it out...

The sweat was running off him. He was making a complete mess of it. One more try and then he'd go and get somebody. Back with the pointer. And Alison blinked. And blinked again.

An H. Another E...

And the word became obvious.

And a firework went off in Thorne's stomach.

A memory file, a tiny soundbite was pushed forward in

his brain and something pressed the button marked 'play' and lit the fuse. The charge began to churn through his guts and the explosions rang in his ears and the sparks were dancing behind his eyes, green and gold and red and silver, and he was squeezing Alison's hand.

And he was scrabbling in his pockets for change for the phone.

Running from the room.

'Bishop? This is Thorne...'

'What?' Weary, but also frightened.

'I know what you said to her. I know what you said to Alison before you stroked her out. What you said to al of them ?

SLEEPYHEAD 361

'What are you talking about?'

'"Night-night, Sleepyhead." Same thing you said to me when you put me out for that hernia operation last year.'

His tongue heavy in his mouth, his voice growing weaker as he counts backwards from twenty, wondering if it wil hurt when he wakes up, and seeing the smiling face of the anaesthetist looming above him. Murmuring...

'Is there a point to any of this, Thorne? I'm expecting somebody.'

'The same thing you said to me, Bishop. "Night-night, Sleepyhead.'"

'Look, if it helps you, yes, I say that to patients sometimes when they're going under and I say, "Wake up, Sleepyhead," when they're coming round from the anaesthetic. It's a sil y catchphrase.. A superstition. For God's sake, I used to say it to my children when I put them to bed at night. Is this helping you, Thorne? Is it?'

'I was about to let it go, do you know that? You were so close to walking away. I thought I was wrong, but I wasn't, was I? Now I'm fucking certain...'

'You need help, Thorne. Serious professional help...'

'You're the one who needs help, Jeremy. I'm coming for you. I'm coming for you right now.'

Jesus... Jesus... Jesus...

I thought he was never going to get it.

I thought maybe it would be important, you know, because

I'd heard it when I woke up as wel as when he was doing it to

That same word.

I thought it was probably significant and as soon as I heard Thorne outside the door I knew I wanted to try to tel him, but I hadn't expected him to shoot out of here quite like that.

Like shit off a shiny shovel, my old man would have said.

He was obviously stil worked up after punching Anne's old

znan.

Like a blow-up dol with a pulse. What a fucking charmer.

I hope Thorne knocked his teeth down his throat.

So it has to be that doctor who brought me round. The anaesthetist who came in here with Anne a couple of times is Champagne Fucking Charlie. The one who's her friend. The one Thorne had the photo of. He obviously suspected him al along.

How can you be a doctor anddo . . . this?

Jesus, though, I thought that was going to take for ever.

That's the best I've ever done. Anne would have been dead proud, I reckon. I was fucking spot on.

Blinking for England. I said I would, didn't I? It was so hard, though. Now I real y am sleepy...

TWENTY-THREE

Dave Hol and stared at the film Sophie had rented, not taking in a single word. He pushed bits of cold lasagne round his plate, not real y hungry.

Thinking about Tom Thorne.

He hadn't been there that morning when Thorne had stormed out of the office at Edgware Road. He was stil trying to bring himself round after the night before when he'd drunk far too much trying to forget about Helen Doyle's parents. They'd made quite a night of it, him and Thorne. Even though he'd been pissed, and asleep some of the time, he could remember a lot of what Thorne had been saying. Lying on the settee late into the night, eyes closed, head spinning, while Thorne talked about blood and voices. Things Dave Hol and wouldn't forget in a long time.

Now nobody seemed to know where Thorne was, or even if he'd be back at al .

Those who had been there, this morning and seen the state of the DI as he'd walked into the lift, Staggered, somebody had said, had been only too keen to pass on the details when Hol and eventual y got into work. 'You'l be interested in this...' they said sarcastical y. It seemed that a line of inquiry, developed by Detective Inspector Thorne, had now been official y discredited.

364 MARK BILLINGHAM

It sounded like he'd had the shit kicked out of him. Hol and had gone quietly back to work. Every half an hour or so since, he'd checked his mobile, looking for a message.

Suddenly he noticed that the picture on the TV screen was frozen. Paused. He turned to see Sophie, the remote in her hand, talking to him. Was there real y any point in her going to the video shop? Or cooking dinner? Or bothering to talk to him?

He apologised and told her that he was stil feeling a bit rough, the worse for vear after his drinking session with the lads last night. Sophie had a go at him, but secretly she didn't real y mind. She didn't begrudge him a night out on the beer with the lads. As long as he didn't make a habit of it and had worked out which side his bread was buttered Oil.

As long as he'd final y decided against throwing in his lot with that loser Thorne.

Anne was annoyed. She had a bag ful of shopping - food for the dinner she was going to cook for Jeremy - it was pouring with rain, and she couldn't find a single parking spot on his street. She eventual y squeezed into a tight space round the corner and ran back, doing her best to avoid the rapidly growing puddles.

She was amazed to see him sitting in the car outside the house.

She tapped quickly on the glass and laughed as he jumped. The electric window on the Volvo slid down and she leaned in. 'What are you doing sitting out here?'

'Just thinking about things. Waiting for you.' The rain was blowing in through the open window on to his face.

SLEEPYHEAD 365

Anne grimaced, confused. 'It's a lot warmer in the house.' He said nothing, staring blankly forward through a windscreen running with rainwater. Anne moved the handles of the plastic shopping-bag round in her hand. It was starting to get heavy. 'Are you coming inside?'

'Can you get in here first? Please, Anne, I need to talk to you about something. Just for a minute.'

Anne wanted to go into the house. She was wet, and very cold. She wanted a cup of tea or, even better, a large glass of wine before she got started on dinner. Stil , he seemed upset about something. She hurried round to the passenger side and, dropping the shopping bag on to the floor at her feet, got into the car.

It was nice and warm: the heater had obviously been on for a while. He didn't look at her. She began to think something was seriously wrong.

'Is everbxahing al right? Has something happened?'

He didn't answer and instinctively she began to look around her. Was the answer to whatever was going on here with them in the car? There was something on the back seat, covered with a tartan picnic blanket.

She looked at him. 'What's... ?'

Instinctively she knew that she wasn't going to get an answer and, with a grunt of effort, she lifted herself off her seat, reached across into the back of the car and pul ed off the blanket.

She gasped.

She didn't even feel the needle slip into her arm.

Thorne tried to stay calm. The rain had slowed up the traffic as per usual and it had taken an infuriating twentyfive minutes just to get the half a mile or so from Queen 366 MARK BILLINGtlAM

Square to Waterloo Bridge. Now it had eased off a little and the Mondeo was testing every speed camera it passed as Thorne pushed the car south, through the spray towards Battersea.

The clock on the dashboard said eight forty-five and Merle Haggard was complaining about being let down by the bottle as Thorne drove past St Thomas's Hospital.

He thought about a pathologist whose skil , whose observation, whose curiosity, months before, had started it al . He might be working late at this very minute, in one of those lit offices, those bright white squares that Thorne could see as he drove past. Getting tired now, probably, as he stared down into a microscope, then excitement mounting as he spotted some inconsistency, some curious detail that might change the lives of hundreds of people for ever.

He didn't know whether, if he ever met that man, he should thank him or spit in his face. What was certain was that, without him, he would not be on his way right now to confront a kil er.

He had no idea what might real y happen between him and Bishop. Confront him, yes, and what

else? Arrest him? Intimidate him? Hurt him?

Thorne would know when he got there.

He hit the brakes too late and too hard approaching the

big traffic lights at Vauxhal Bridge. The car skidded a little before stopping, the squeal oftyres attracting the attention of the evening's traffic-light cabaret. Those cleaning windscreens in return for a few coins and a great deal of abuse had now been replaced, bizarrely, by street entertainers. One such, wearing a large, multicoloured jester's hat and juggling three bal s, stepped jauntily through the rain towards Thorne's car with a broad grin.

The juggler took one look at Thorne's face and backed

SLEEPYHEAD 367

away again quickly, dropping bal s as he went. The light, reflected in the puddles of oil and water, turned from red to green, and the Mondeo sped away.