TT13 Time of Death

by Mark Billingham

  ‘You coming with us then, detective?’ Thorne turned to see the PC he had spoken to in the pub the night before; the one he had been so rude to on his first day. The officer was wearing walking boots and wet-weather gear together with an expression that suggested he was rather pleased with himself. ‘Fancy getting your hands dirty?’

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But I need to be at the press conference.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.’

  Thorne studied him. ‘You got something to say to me?’

  ‘Just thinking you might want to hear what Poppy Johnston’s mum and dad have got to say.’

  ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because it might make you rethink some of that sympathy for the bastard that took their daughter.’

  ‘I’ve got no sympathy for whoever took their daughter.’

  The search team began to head out. The PC stood his ground, while colleagues and members of the public pushed past him, funnelling through the main doors and out on to the street.

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ the PC said. ‘I mean, sympathy’s not what you expect, is it?’

  ‘Depends who it’s for.’

  ‘Not from someone on the job.’

  Thorne started to see where this was going.

  ‘I mean, you wouldn’t have sympathy, I don’t know … for someone who’d cost a prison officer his life. You know, just as an example. I’m damn sure I wouldn’t.’

  Thorne stared down at the officer’s walking boots, well-worn brown leather, red laces. He was very hot suddenly as he struggled to think of something to say. By the time he’d managed to string enough invective together, the PC was moving away; falling in with his colleagues and leaving the hall without a backward glance.

  Thorne muttered the words anyway.

  He walked slowly to the far end of the hall, weaving between the men and women who were putting out the chairs in nice, neat rows. He stood and watched as two officers at the back of the platform carefully erected the banner bearing the logo of the Warwickshire police: a bear and a ragged staff.

  You know, just as an example …

  Thorne had not been particularly surprised at the PC’s reaction. He had clocked the looks he was getting from the moment he set foot in the hall. He could easily imagine the laugh that Cornish and his cronies were enjoying at Nuneaton station.

  A major result and to top it all, just look at that know-it-all wanker from the Met splashed all over the front page. All those skeletons rattling out of his closet. Icing on the cake.

  When Thorne’s phone rang a few minutes later and he saw the caller’s name, he wondered simply what had taken him so long.

  He was not given the chance to ask the question.

  ‘Well done!’ DCI Russell Brigstocke got straight to the point, as usual. ‘What’s next? You going to get your tits out on page three?’

  ‘Thought you read the grown-up papers,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Couldn’t bloody avoid it, could I?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘It’s up on the noticeboard, for Pete’s sake.’

  ‘Before you kick off, none of this is my doing, all right?’

  ‘It never is, is it?’

  ‘I’m just here keeping Helen company.’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re doing. I read it in the paper, remember.’

  ‘What could I do?’

  ‘You could avoid sodding journalists for a start.’

  ‘You want me to start punching photographers, like some arsey film star?’

  ‘I want you to be doing what you told me you’d be doing. Eating cream cakes or looking at castles or something.’

  ‘This wasn’t what I had in mind either.’

  ‘You should have known they’d go digging,’ Brigstocke said. ‘Snuffling for dirt like pigs looking for truffles. Where you’re concerned, the dirt isn’t very hard to find, is it?’

  ‘There’s nothing in there I can’t defend,’ Thorne said. ‘Nothing you can’t defend either.’ He stood aside as two officers carried a table past. ‘Right, Russell?’

  Brigstocke took a few seconds. Said, ‘Look, I’m not getting into that now.’ His voice was indistinct suddenly and Thorne guessed that he was eating. ‘I’ve been talking to Warwickshire.’

  ‘What, the whole county?’

  ‘Can you hear me laughing, Tom?’

  Thorne said nothing.

  ‘I suppose that wasn’t your fault either, marching in there like the big “I am” and pissing everybody off.’

  It gave Thorne some small degree of satisfaction to learn that his instincts about Tim ‘keep in touch’ Cornish had been right. The sort of copper he was. A flash suit and a winning smile; unwilling to call you a twat to your face then picking the phone up to bitch to his superiors the minute you’ve gone. ‘He said I could look at the file. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘Why would you even ask?’

  ‘There’s not exactly a lot to do round here.’

  ‘You need to shut up now, and stop being a smartarse, OK?’

  Thorne listened.

  ‘I mean … for God’s sake, you’re telling me you’re just there to keep Helen company, so why are you sticking your nose in where it isn’t wanted—?’

  ‘What’s the harm?’

  ‘Where someone’s very likely to cut it off, and you know what, I don’t think I’d blame them.’

  ‘This Bates thing isn’t solid,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Oh, I know.’ There was more chewing. ‘Some crap about dogs and bodies, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t care.’

  ‘Not even if they’ve got the wrong man in custody.’

  ‘Not even then.’

  ‘So you don’t want me to tell you?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a toss if you think Jack the Ripper killed that girl,’ Brigstocke said, ‘and Shergar helped him bury the body. Not when I’m the mug getting it in the neck from the Chief Superintendent of Warwickshire Constabulary because I can’t control my officers.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m serious, Tom.’ And Brigstocke’s voice, low suddenly and heavy with threat, left Thorne in little doubt that he meant it.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘This is the kind of thing people lose jobs over. Especially people like you.’ There was a pause. ‘Tom?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stay out of the local boys’ way, got it?’

  Thorne grunted a ‘yes’.

  ‘And if you can persuade Helen, I’d suggest the pair of you piss off back to the Cotswolds at the first opportunity.’

  Thorne looked up at the banner, now fully erected behind a long table; the logo a foot high against the white canvas. He pictured the bear in an expensive suit, puffing on an e-cigarette, turning to show its teeth before snapping.

  Thorne remembered reading somewhere that if you were attacked by a particular sort of bear, the best thing to do was run. There was another sort, however, where that was exactly the wrong thing to do; when the best strategy was to play dead.

  He could never remember which was which.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘I just don’t understand why you lied, that’s all.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you want to tell me where you were?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’ The truth was that Helen did not understand either. Not completely.

  She was alone in the living room. Linda had gone upstairs to spend some time with the kids and Carson and the rest of them were gossiping in the kitchen. She said ‘sorry’ again to fill the silence. She had known this conversation with her father was coming from the moment she had seen the front page of the newspaper.

  ‘I probably wouldn’t have known you were there at all, but one of the neighbours came round with the paper.’

  Helen gritted her teeth. ‘Good of them.’

  ‘They thought I’d want to know, you know.’r />
  ‘I was going to call.’

  ‘I mean I’ve been following it on the news, obviously.’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘We talked about it before you went, didn’t we? When the first girl went missing.’

  ‘Yeah …’ Helen remembered several conversations about the events in Polesford. Each time her father had insisted that ‘nothing like that’ would have happened back when he was living there. She wondered if rose-tinted spectacles got handed out to people on the same day they qualified for a free bus pass.

  ‘Nasty business.’

  ‘Can I talk to Alfie?’

  ‘He’s asleep, love.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I thought I’d worn him out in the park, but he was still full of beans when we got back. Hang on, let me turn the telly down a bit …’

  There was a clatter as the phone was laid down. Helen moved to the window, looked out through a gap in the curtains at the crowd outside. A man was shouting something at one of the officers.

  ‘Right then. Maybe you can call back later, before he goes to bed.’

  ‘Yeah, I will,’ Helen said. ‘Thanks again for having him.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I feel bad though.’

  ‘I’m just a bit thrown by this business of you being in Polesford, that’s all. Polesford of all places, and not telling me.’

  ‘I know,’ Helen said. She flopped down on the sofa. ‘I went to see Mum.’ She listened to her father breathing. ‘Tom came with me. It was nice.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  Helen felt a rush of guilt at changing the subject, the way she’d changed it. ‘We took some flowers.’

  ‘See, I’d never have known that, would I? You not telling me you were there.’

  ‘I would have said eventually.’

  ‘I must be going senile, because I still don’t understand.’

  The shouting outside was getting louder.

  ‘Everything that’s going on here,’ Helen said. ‘I just didn’t want you to worry.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What you do. I worry every day, love.’

  There was a loud banging on the front door and Helen heard footsteps moving quickly down the hall from the kitchen. Her father asked what the noise was and she told him that she would need to call him back.

  She hung up, relieved.

  Helen saw Linda coming a little nervously down the stairs and got to the front door just as Carson was opening it to an equally nervous-looking PC. Behind him, Helen could see two of his colleagues at the end of the front garden, fighting to restrain a well-built man who was shouting about his rights and knowing them.

  ‘What?’ Carson snapped.

  ‘This bloke,’ the officer said. He pointed, just as one of the struggling PCs took a firmer hold of the man and asked him if he was trying to get nicked. ‘He reckons he’s Linda Bates’ ex-husband.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  There seemed little reason for the handwritten name cards that had been placed in front of Michael and Annette Johnston. It was not hard to work out who they were. Though they were as smartly dressed as the two police officers and the press liaison officer with whom they shared the platform, they were the only ones staring down at the table. The two whose hands were joined. They were the ones that everyone else in the room was looking at, as Assistant Chief Constable Harris spoke words almost certainly written for him by the woman standing at the side of the platform.

  ‘As most of you will know already, Stephen Bates, the man we believe to be responsible for the murder of Jessica Toms, is now on remand awaiting trial. While I commend Detective Inspector Cornish and his team for their excellent work on this tragic case, we must not lose sight of the fact that there is an inquiry still ongoing that continues to demand our full attention …’

  Thorne was sitting towards the back of the hall. He had been at plenty of these things before and seen similar speeches made countless times. The words may have been different on each occasion, but the rhythms were much the same. The same pauses, the moments when the officer looked up, towards the cameras. Thorne remained convinced that Cornish and his team had done a job that was anything but excellent, but he couldn’t fault Harris’ performance. Serious, sincere; nothing inappropriately upbeat, despite having cleared up a murder so quickly. Thorne still thought the man’s hat was a little too big for him.

  ‘Our sympathies are with Jessica’s family of course, but all our efforts must now be concentrated on finding Poppy Johnston, who remains missing.’ Harris looked along the table. Poppy Johnston’s father glanced up briefly. ‘So … Poppy’s parents, Michael and Annette, are going to make a short statement, after which I will be happy to take a few questions.’ The ACC cleared his throat, straightened his papers.

  Tim Cornish leaned towards Poppy Johnston’s mother and whispered something. She nodded and Cornish laid a hand on her arm.

  Michael Johnston unfolded a piece of paper. He took out a pair of glasses, looked down and read. ‘Stephen Bates has persistently refused to tell police where our daughter is.’ His voice cracked a little. Cornish pushed a glass of water towards him, but he didn’t take it. ‘So … today we’re appealing to anyone who might know anything that might help us find Poppy to please come forward. Anything at all. If anyone saw anything or has heard anything, please call the incident room, night or day. It doesn’t matter what it is, just call. You don’t have to give your name.’ He folded the piece of paper again. ‘We just want to find her.’ Now, he reached for the water.

  ‘Please,’ Annette Johnston said. She had no piece of paper to read from, and something about the way she spoke up suddenly made Thorne wonder if she had come intending to speak at all. ‘Somebody must know something.’ She leaned forward, found a camera. ‘If by any chance you’re watching this, Pops, we’re trying our best to bring you home.’ She tensed, and it was hard to tell if she was squeezing her husband’s hand or he was squeezing hers. ‘We love you so much …’

  Cornish said, ‘OK,’ and laid a hand on the woman’s arm again. Chairs scraped noisily against the floor as they stood, one by one, and Cornish helped the couple to the edge of the platform. From there, a uniformed officer walked them towards a small door in the corner of the hall; cameras flashing as though they were walking a red carpet.

  Assistant Chief Constable Harris waited for Cornish to return to his seat, then nodded out towards the phalanx of journalists.

  ‘Do you believe that Poppy Johnston is still alive?’

  Heads turned, all well aware that the Johnstons had not quite left the hall yet. Annette Johnston spun around and her mouth fell open. She scanned the room for the source of the question, but the man responsible had already lowered his hand. There was one more explosion of flashes before she turned away and was ushered through the door.

  The following morning’s front page.

  ‘We are keeping an open mind,’ Harris said, eventually. ‘Our priority is to find her, but yes, until we learn otherwise, we remain hopeful.’

  ‘Even though Bates must have killed Jessica Toms almost immediately?’

  Clearly the press knew as much about the state of the body as they did about everything else. Based on that, the journalist’s question was couched around the only explanation possible.

  The very explanation that was troubling Thorne so much.

  ‘As I said, we remain hopeful.’

  A hand was raised within a few feet of where Thorne was sitting, and when the eyes of those on the platform were cast in his direction, Thorne imagined getting to his feet to ask a question of his own.

  If Stephen Bates is guilty of murdering Jessica Toms, are you not concerned by the fact that her body was not discovered for at least two days? Despite having conducted extensive searches of an area that is usually crawling with dog-walkers?

  Harris answered the question that had actually been asked. Something about how Bates had behaved in
custody. It prompted others.

  ‘Poppy’s father said that Bates has refused to say anything about where Poppy is.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘But has he admitted taking her?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that.’

  ‘Has he admitted killing Jessica Toms?’

  ‘I’m afraid that, as of now, I can’t comment on matters that may directly affect the prosecution.’

  There were several more questions along the same lines and all were met with much the same response. Then proceedings were wrapped up fairly quickly. The press liaison officer gave the nod and Harris made a closing statement.

  As before, he thanked the people of Polesford for their continued support. He said how grateful he and everyone else was to the media for showing sensitivity. He urged the journalists present to focus on the hunt for Poppy and not to dwell on matters that were unimportant, or at best ‘peripheral to the case’. Thorne saw Cornish glance in his direction and could not help wondering if the comment had been aimed at him.

  What else could Harris have been talking about?

  He could imagine Helen telling him that he was being paranoid. There were plenty of other angles for the press to explore, after all, every bit as peripheral as the presence of a newsworthy Met officer. Thorne knew the kind of stories the papers would be shelling out cash for.

  I sat next to Stephen Bates at school.

  Stephen Bates gave me a funny look at a bus stop once.

  There was definitely something about him I never liked.

  Those were the stories that angered Thorne the most. The neighbours or old schoolfriends crawling out of the woodwork, queuing up to pocket a fee and point out that they always knew there was something dodgy about Killer X or Rapist Y.