‘Ready when you are,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ Thorne raised his glass to show her that he still had a third of a pint left. ‘You OK?’
Before Helen could answer, Hare was leaning towards her. ‘Sorry about this bloody weather.’ He reached to give his wife a squeeze as she passed behind him. ‘Probably spoiled your homecoming a bit.’
‘It’s fine,’ Helen said. ‘We didn’t really come here for that.’
‘We’ve been luckier than some, mind you.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Haven’t we, love?’ She nodded and Hare smacked his hand down on to the bar. ‘Touch wood.’
‘Never gets flooded here though,’ Helen said. ‘I don’t remember it, anyway.’
‘No, we’ll be all right, but you’ve got to feel for those poor buggers lower down, haven’t you?’
‘Must be horrible,’ Helen said.
‘Irony of it is, there used to be a pumping station round here. Derelict now though . . . ten or fifteen miles south?’ He looked to his wife for confirmation as she moved back to the other end of the bar. She said something about one of the barrels. Hare sighed, long-suffering. ‘No rest for the wicked . . . ’
Helen leaned closer to Thorne. ‘Can we go?’ She blinked slowly. She looked pale, suddenly.
Thorne put what was left of his drink on the bar and stood up at the same moment as the farmer pushed between them and laid his own glass down, demanding the same again.
‘You’ll have to wait a few minutes,’ Hare said. ‘Barrel needs changing.’
One of the other drinkers at the bar said, ‘You want a packet of pork scratchings with that, Bob?’
‘Piss off,’ the farmer said.
FOURTEEN
It was killing him that he couldn’t see her, that he couldn’t just jump in the car and go down there.
He felt like someone who was on the wagon or trying to get off the fags or something. He would forget. Just for a second or two he would think about going, start looking forward to it. His heart would lift, only to plummet when he remembered what was happening; that it was just not possible at the moment. Difference was, you wanted a drink there was always one around and it was easy enough to go and buy a packet of fags when you were gagging for one.
It had been the thing that got him through the tedious, everyday crap. The shitty jobs and the social niceties, such as they were. It had been the bright spot on his horizon.
Bright, and dark.
Now, thinking about her, about all the things he was missing, was making every minute of every hour almost unbearable. He had always known it might come to this, of course, but it didn’t make it any less painful. He could vividly recall that last image of her down there; yanking at the chain that he knew would never give; kicking her Doc Marten boots through the shallow puddles and screaming at him; calling him every name under the sun. A foul mouth she had on her, but he supposed it was understandable, all things considered.
She’d be cold down there, and hungry. She’d be trying to block out that smell which was only going to get worse, and she’d be trying not to think of the things he might do when he came back. That he would do, given half a chance.
‘Don’t panic,’ he had said. ‘I’ll be back.’
Worst of all though, he reckoned, would be the loneliness. Hard to put up with that. He’d been on his own plenty of times over the years and it wasn’t something he’d recommend. He was lucky, he knew that, having someone to share his life with, someone who loved him. He appreciated that every day, but the simple truth was that it would never be enough. Whatever your set-up was, marriage or boyfriend and girlfriend or whatever it was the homosexual contingent got themselves into, a man needed something for himself. Something that was his. A woman as well, probably, but he could never claim to be any kind of expert when it came to that.
Some space, some time, something to get the blood jumping a bit.
He was never cut out for trains or stamps or any of that nonsense. A shed full of gardening tools and tat was never going to do the job. This had been his thing. Yes, a release . . . he’d heard it called that. Something he’d seen on television.
Now though it was just frustration, and sometimes it felt as though he could hardly breathe. It was sitting there, twenty minutes’ drive away. Just waiting for him, her all lovely and screaming in the dark and nothing he could do about it.
Not for the time being, at least.
FIFTEEN
‘So, come on then,’ Paula Hitchman said. ‘What’s the latest?’
Thorne looked at Helen, but she refused to meet his eye. She just said, ‘We know about as much as you do. Less, probably.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ Paula said. She worked as a nurse at a hospital in Nuneaton and had only been home for half an hour or so when Thorne and Helen arrived. She had answered the door wearing a dressing gown and tracksuit bottoms; teddy bear slippers with ears on them.
‘Out of my uniform, quick shower to get rid of the smell of the place and into my jammies,’ she told them.
Thorne and Helen dropped their bags at the bottom of the stairs and followed her into the kitchen. They told her how grateful they were for her offer to put them up and she told them not to be so daft; that there was no point having a spare room if you weren’t going to use it and that old schoolfriends should stick together. They stood and watched her make toast, turning down her offer to stick a couple more slices under the grill for them. Helen said that they’d already eaten and when Thorne told her where, Paula laughed and told them where the bathroom was. Said that there was every chance they might need it in a hurry.
Paula put her toast on to a plate and said, ‘Come on, let’s go and sit down and you can fill me in.’
Following her into the living room, Thorne gave Helen another ‘told you so’ look, but got no response.
‘So, how’s she doing? Linda.’
Helen hesitated, said, ‘She’s OK.’
‘Really?’
‘As well as can be expected, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Paula said. She bit into a piece of toast and chewed enthusiastically. ‘That’s what we tell people at hospital, when a relative’s about to snuff it.’
They were sitting in a living room almost as sparse as the one Thorne had seen at the house where Linda Bates was staying. The furnishings were a lot newer and more expensive though. Leather, chrome and glass, with shelves of neatly organised CDs and DVDs. Thorne could just make out some of the titles sitting beneath an enormous flat-screen TV. The Expendables. Iron Man. A box set of Adam Sandler comedies.
The house was on a nicely kept estate with good-sized front gardens and a view across fields at the back. There was a new Mini and a four-by-four parked on the drive. Thorne had no idea what Paula’s partner did for a living and knew that a nurse’s salary was far from lavish, but with no kids to support, he guessed that they were doing all right for themselves.
‘You stayed in touch with Linda then?’ Helen asked. ‘Since school.’
‘Well, obviously she wasn’t in my year, but I see her now and again. The supermarket or the pub. We’re not what you’d call friends exactly, but still, horrible what’s going on.’ She polished off her slice of toast. ‘Horrible for everyone.’
‘What about her husband?’ Thorne asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘You know him?’
‘About the same, really. Just to say hello to or whatever. The four of us had a drink a few months ago, but it wasn’t planned or anything. Jason and me just ran into them in the Harvester in Tamworth . . . would have been a bit awkward not to sit together, that’s all it was. Jason knows Steve better than I do, so you should ask him really.’
On cue, they heard a car pull up outside. They waited silently until the front door was opened and, a few seconds later, Paula’s boyfriend breezed into the room. As soon a
s the introductions had been made, Jason Sweeney tossed his leather jacket on to the back of a chair and quickly disappeared into the kitchen, returning half a minute later with cans of lager for everyone.
Thorne and Helen tried to refuse, but their protestations were ignored. Thorne was exhausted and Helen looked even more ready for bed than he was, but both knew it would be rude not to stay up and have a drink with the people who were putting a roof over their heads.
Sweeney opened his can, sucked the froth off then leaned across to touch it to Thorne’s.
‘Cheers, mate.’
He was good-looking, if a little florid. Somewhere near forty, Thorne guessed, wearing stonewashed jeans and a T-shirt that showed off his nicely developed gut and budding man-boobs. His dark hair was curly, slicked back into something approaching a mullet.
He sat down next to Paula, held her hand.
‘How was it, love?’ she asked him.
‘Haven’t bloody stopped since lunchtime.’ Sweeney took a long swig of lager. ‘One fare after another.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Bang, bang, bang.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Tamworth, Burton, up to Derby . . . ’
‘What is it you do?’ Helen asked.
‘Jason’s a taxi driver,’ Paula said.
‘Get it right, love.’ Sweeney beamed. ‘I’m the taxi driver. Only game in town, mate.’
‘You must be busy all the time then,’ Thorne said.
‘Yeah, but it’s mental at the moment. Well, you’ve been in town, so you know.’
Thorne nodded. Another local business on the up.
‘I’ve got all my usual customers, plus everyone who’s here because of what’s happened. Getting a lot of journalists in the back of the car, I can tell you that much.’ He smiled. ‘Charging them double, obviously.’
Thorne laughed. He had no problem at all with that.
‘It’s crazy, mate, swear to God.’
‘Like a normal Saturday night in Leicester,’ Paula explained. ‘Wanted somewhere a bit quieter, didn’t you, love?’
‘I wanted the work,’ Sweeney said, ‘don’t get me wrong. Driving a cab in a big city though . . . it’s one arsehole after another, isn’t it? Pissing in the back of the car, throwing up, doing runners. Did my head in.’
‘So, you thought you’d move somewhere a bit nicer,’ Thorne said. ‘Where nothing ever happens.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Sweeney squeezed the can gently, denting the metal with a pop.
‘You hungry?’ Paula asked. ‘Want me to do some more toast?’
Sweeney emptied his can and handed it to her with obvious expectations of a replacement. ‘Actually, I could murder a sarnie.’
‘Ham and cheese?’
‘Good girl . . . ’
When Paula had gone, Thorne nodded towards the street. ‘That your Land Rover out front?’
Sweeney said that it was.
‘It’s his bloody pride and joy, that’s what it is,’ Paula shouted from the kitchen. ‘Spends more time messing about in that thing than he does with me.’
Sweeney looked at Thorne and shook his head, looking in vain for a little male solidarity. ‘Actually, it’s been a bloody lifesaver recently,’ he said. ‘Literally. I’ve been doing a few runs down to some of the villages that are flooded, seeing what I can do to help.’
‘That’s good of you,’ Thorne said.
‘Nice to put it to some use. Not made for going shopping in, are they?’
‘Not round here, maybe.’ Thorne took a mouthful of beer. ‘In London, people seem to think a dirty big four-by-four is the perfect thing for doing the school run or going to get your nails done.’
When Paula had come back with a sandwich and a fresh can of lager for Sweeney, she put a CD on. Paolo Nutini. ‘I love him,’ she said. Sweeney ate half his sandwich in two bites, made approving noises as he chewed.
Thorne exchanged a look with Helen. It didn’t seem as though their hosts would be ready to call it a night any time soon.
‘It’s funny really, when you think about it.’ Paula had taken Sweeney’s hand and was staring at Helen, half smiling. ‘You sitting here.’
‘Why’s that?’ Helen asked.
‘Well, you weren’t exactly very nice to me at school.’
Helen blinked. ‘Sorry?’
‘You and Linda.’ The half-smile was still there, but was not reflected in the tone of voice. ‘I suppose it was because we were a couple of years younger . . . me and Jenny, but the pair of you never wanted us hanging around.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘Always trying to get rid of us.’ Paula sniffed, thought for a few seconds. The smile was a little thinner. ‘Used to bully us quite a bit, actually.’
Helen had reddened, aware that Thorne and Sweeney were both looking at her. The taxi driver was drumming his fingers against his knee in time to the music. ‘I wouldn’t really call it bullying,’ she said.
Paula laughed, dry. ‘So, you obviously remember it a bit.’
‘Well . . . I’ll take your word for it,’ Helen said. ‘I mean . . . If that’s what you thought, I’m sorry.’
Paula nodded, and her smile broadened suddenly. ‘Oh, don’t be daft, it was a long time ago.’
Sweeney broke what was threatening to become an uncomfortable silence. ‘So, what’s happening, then? They going to charge him, or what?’
Paula slapped his leg playfully. ‘Leave them alone. They’re only here because Helen’s a mate of Linda’s and anyway, they wouldn’t be allowed to talk about the case, even if they knew anything. Right?’ She looked at Helen and shook her head, as though she herself had not been digging for dirt only five minutes earlier.
‘Paula was saying you knew him quite well,’ Thorne said. ‘Stephen Bates.’
Sweeney looked at Paula, then shook his head, chewing. ‘Pint and a game of cards in the Magpie, that’s about it. We both like rock music, so we talked about that now and again, bands we’d seen, you know. Went to see Metallica with him in Birmingham a few months ago.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, they were good, actually.’
Thorne was aware of Helen tensing next to him. Aside from the awkward exchange with Paula, she hadn’t spoken a great deal and had not touched her drink.
‘Pretty good bloke,’ Sweeney said. ‘I mean, obviously he isn’t, is he? Not if he did what everyone reckons he did.’ He turned to look at Paula, took her hand again. ‘Just goes to show, you can’t ever really know people, can you?’
‘Except when they’re seriously ill,’ she said. ‘No point pretending then, is there? You can really see what a person’s made of when they’re scared to death.’
‘I knew the girls as well, a bit.’ Sweeney looked at Thorne, then down to his plate. ‘I mean, I’d had both of them in the cab a few times, Poppy and Jess. When you’re the only taxi there is, you pick up everybody eventually, don’t you?’
‘Where did you take them? Can you remember?’
Sweeney thought about it. ‘I suppose Tamworth was pretty regular for all those girls. A Friday or Saturday night to some club or to one of the bars. There was usually three or four of them, all dolled up and gassing on the back seat, always asking if they could smoke out of the window and moaning at me when I said no. They split the fare, you know, so it was probably just as cheap as getting the bus. Not the same when they were on their own though.’ He raised the can to his lips. ‘Maybe if they’d had a couple more quid in their pockets, Poppy and Jess might still be alive.’
Paula looked at him. ‘Hang on, we don’t know they aren’t still alive.’
‘Yeah,’ Sweeney said. ‘All right.’
‘Top of the stairs?’ Helen stood up suddenly. ‘The bathroom?’
Paula nodded. ‘Lock’s a bit iffy though,’ she said.
>
Thorne turned to watch Helen leave the room, while Sweeney belched softly behind him.
SIXTEEN
Danny slammed the lid of the laptop computer down hard. ‘Fucking wankers!’ He leaned back and pushed the machine away, across the top of the small table that one of the coppers had carried up from downstairs for them. ‘Cheap piece of shit, anyway. When are we going to get our own computers back? It’s not fair.’
Charli was lying on the bed. ‘I told you not to look.’
‘I want to know,’ Danny said. ‘I want to know what people are saying about him.’
‘Facebook’s just full of retards,’ Charli said. ‘They’re just trying to get a reaction. That’s the whole point of it.’
Danny pushed his chair back, walked across and dropped on to the end of the bed. ‘They know nothing,’ he said. ‘They’re going to look really stupid when this is all over.’ His jaw was set and Charli could see the muscles working in the side of his face, but there were tears brimming at the corners of his eyes too.
‘Do you want to see what’s on TV?’ she asked. She nodded towards the portable TV on a chest of drawers in the corner of the room. Something else the coppers had brought up for them.
‘Trying to get on our good side,’ Danny had said. ‘Make up for the fact that they’ve fucked our lives up.’ Now, he shook his head. ‘It’s going to be on TV too.’
‘I’m not suggesting we should watch the news.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Might be a film on or something.’
‘Can’t be arsed,’ Danny said.
Charli put down her book, folded over the page she had been staring at for the last twenty minutes. She leaned across and pressed PLAY on the portable CD player. They didn’t have a lot of good music on disc; just a couple of albums that her mum or Steve had bought them, thinking they knew what kids were into, not realising that they’d much rather have vouchers and download stuff for themselves. All the decent stuff was on their phones, but those had been taken away too.
Time of Death Page 8
