TT13 Time of Death

by Mark Billingham

  No, they didn’t. Simple as that.

  That was why the people who did these things were able to get away with it for so long; precisely because they behaved every bit as normally as everyone else. You could appear just as kindly as the village vicar and be a sexual predator. You could look like a central casting serial killer and be as harmless as an infant.

  Stephen Bates looked like … Stephen Bates. Not a killer, no, but probably not a choirboy either. Probably …

  Thorne was suddenly struck by a possibility he had not considered.

  What if Bates had been involved, but in league with somebody else? It would certainly explain the wealth of evidence against him. Perhaps he had taken the girls and his accomplice had disposed of the body. But that did not explain the cigarette butt with Bates’ DNA that had been found in the grave. Perhaps Bates’ partner was thinking on his feet and had been trying to stitch Bates up once he had been arrested.

  Or Stephen Bates was being stitched up by someone else entirely.

  Around him, the hall was emptying quickly, the majority of the audience needing to get their copy filed as fast as possible. Thorne stood and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. Up on the platform, Tim Cornish was chatting to the press liaison officer; nodding and puffing away on his e-cig as the banner was being disassembled behind him.

  Cornish turned and looked directly at Thorne. He smiled, showing plenty of teeth.

  Thorne smiled back.

  Play dead.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Once Carson and her colleagues had established that nobody was in any physical danger, they retreated to the kitchen, but Helen was certain that they could hear the shouting. She guessed that the crowd still gathered outside could hear it.

  ‘I want to see my kids. Where are they? I demand to see my fucking kids …’

  Linda just sat there while her ex-husband ranted, as though she were well used to it. Looking on from just inside the door of the living room, Helen wondered if the man’s prodigious temper might be one of the reasons he and Linda had split up in the first place. Watching him stomp around though, she thought the man’s anger began to seem a little theatrical, as though he were playing the part of the furious father. Perhaps giving a performance that could be easily overheard was exactly the point.

  ‘You can’t stop me seeing my own kids.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You got that?’

  ‘Who’s stopping you?’ Linda said.

  ‘Yeah, well you’d better not try.’ Wayne Smart leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He wore camouflage cargo pants and trainers; a green army jacket. Helen had no reason to believe he was ex-army, looking rather more like someone who fancied himself as a soldier. Someone who’d been turned down, perhaps. He was big enough, but a little bloated, with blond highlights and earrings in both ears. Helen had smelled booze on him as he’d pushed past her in the hallway.

  Something he and Linda had in common.

  Smart reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out cigarettes.

  ‘Not in here,’ Linda said. ‘This isn’t our place.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s.’ Smart lit his cigarette and sucked in fast. He jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. ‘Let one of your pet coppers come and arrest me if they want. There’s enough of them.’ He took another drag, then turned and stared at Helen. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘I’m another one,’ Helen said.

  ‘Yeah, well why don’t you piss off and join your mates? Me and my ex-wife have got things to talk about.’

  ‘She’s a friend,’ Linda said.

  ‘She’s what?’

  ‘An old friend.’

  Smart turned to look at Helen again.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Helen said.

  Smart studied her for a few seconds, genuinely curious, then shrugged and marched across to the window. He pulled a curtain aside and looked out. Helen was aware of the movement as the crowd shifted to look, of cameras flashing.

  ‘Shut that,’ she said.

  Smart did not move. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘Shut it, or I’ll nick you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t know, for having shit hair?’ Helen stepped further into the room. ‘Or I’m sure I can make breach of the peace stick.’

  Smart let the curtain fall back and turned round. He flicked cigarette ash on to the carpet. The anger had reappeared in his face, or been turned on again. ‘Where are Charli and Danny?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ Linda said.

  ‘Good.’ He walked across and sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘Go and get them.’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Why do you suddenly care so much now?’ Linda leaned forward. ‘How long since you’ve seen them, eighteen months? How long since you even bothered to call?’

  ‘Yeah, well it’s different now, isn’t it?’

  ‘What, you suddenly a model father, are you?’

  Smart stabbed a finger at her. ‘I’m a father who’s found out who his kids have been living with.’

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ Linda said.

  The finger continued stabbing the air. ‘So, don’t come all high and mighty about who’s a model this or model that, because you haven’t got a leg to stand on.’

  ‘Don’t …’

  ‘Because I’m not the one who chose to marry a kiddie-fiddler, am I? A child murderer, for God’s sake.’ He glanced across to bring Helen into the conversation. ‘Not that she was ever much of a mother to begin with. Not what you’d call “responsible”.’ He picked up the empty wine bottle from the table and dangled it between two fingers. ‘Still caning it, I see.’ He dropped his cigarette end into the bottle and banged it back down on to the table.

  ‘You finished?’ Helen asked.

  Smart turned to her again. Said, ‘Nowhere near.’ He sat back in the chair, as if he had lived in the house for years. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘She told you,’ Helen said.

  ‘Well, I’ve got no idea who you are and I’ve known her for the best part of twenty years, so you can’t be that bloody close.’ He seemed pleased that Helen did not have a quick response. ‘I tell you this for nothing though. However much of an old friend you think you are, I know her a damn sight better than you do.’

  ‘No,’ Linda said. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘She knows exactly what that pervert she married is like, and if she tells you any different, she’s full of shit.’

  ‘All right,’ Helen said.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else.’ Smart leaned towards Linda and, for the first time, Helen sensed anger that was genuine; simmering and dangerous, barely contained. ‘If I find out that bastard’s touched my kids, you’ll be the one I’m coming after.’

  Linda’s head dropped slowly.

  ‘Now I can arrest you for threatening behaviour as well,’ Helen said.

  ‘It was a promise,’ Smart said. He didn’t take his eyes off his ex-wife. ‘Not a threat.’ He let out a long breath and reached for his cigarettes again. ‘So, am I going to see my kids, or not?’

  ‘How do you know they want to see you?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t they want to see me?’ He tried to light his cigarette, shook the lighter. ‘I’m their father, aren’t I? I’m not the pervert.’

  ‘Linda?’

  ‘Yeah …’

  Helen told Wayne Smart to wait, asked Linda if she’d be all right for a few minutes. Linda nodded.

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’ Smart asked.

  Helen left without answering him, stepping out into the hall, careful to leave the living room door ajar. When she turned at the bottom of the stairs, she saw Charli and Danny looking down at her. They were sitting close together on the same stair, halfway up.

  Like pyjama-clad toddlers who’ve crept down in the middle of the night.

  FORTY

  It h
ad been a good choice, those woods where he’d left Jessica in the night. The perfect place for that last hour or so they had been together. He was happy she had gone to sleep somewhere peaceful. He shook his head, adjusted the thought. Happy that it was where she had been laid to rest.

  She had gone to sleep elsewhere, of course.

  Places like that – natural, green, quiet – still felt a little strange, even after all this time. So different to where he had grown up, the places he had worked in before. He watched the local kids sneaking off into those woods sometimes, bags clinking with bottles, pockets full of condoms, and he was jealous because he couldn’t help but wish that his first few times had been somewhere like that, under trees rather than flyovers. Birds and things that smelled nice. Moss on a girl’s back instead of brick dust.

  He remembered his first time, just like everyone else did. Forget that and you might as well cash in your chips. A week before his sixteenth birthday, a girl called Julia, who was a year younger than he was. They had been walking back to the bus from the cinema and it had been her idea to cut through a narrow alleyway. She’d known exactly what she was doing, of course she had, but it had been more than OK with him.

  In a stinking doorway, the clatter of heels on concrete somewhere nearby; the usual unzippings and fumblings. It had all been over pretty quickly, but the girl had been OK about it, he knew he was remembering that right.

  She’d been putting her lipstick back on and he’d asked her. She’d said ‘fine’ or ‘great’ or something.

  He remembered asking her.

  Obviously there would be people who thought what he was doing was because he felt inadequate; hating these girls deep down, because of being laughed at in the past or something. They could not have been wider of the mark. In fact, all the girls he’d ever been with had made a point of saying how well he’d treated them, how nicely. He’d asked all of them, more than once, and every girl had seemed happy. They’d all made it pretty clear that he was no slouch in the bedroom department either.

  He smiled. His hand dropped to his groin.

  Bedroom, bathroom, back seat, whatever.

  Obviously, he knew that girls like Jessica and Poppy were far more likely to be impressed with the things he could do, because most of them didn’t have a lot to compare it to. No, if anything, it was the women his own age who tended to be more judgemental. Seen it all, done it all, blah blah. There hadn’t been too many complaints, but surely there wasn’t a bloke walking around who didn’t recognise the occasional look of mild disappointment. Couldn’t be too many who hadn’t been told it didn’t matter, when they knew very well that it did.

  Younger girls were … kinder.

  And he was kind to them in return, at the end. He was quick about it.

  Poppy though. Sweet Pops …

  It wasn’t his fault, not entirely, he had miscalculated, that was all. He hadn’t thought things would get so hectic, and he probably should have done. No, he definitely should have done. The end, if it hadn’t come already, would be anything but kind and he was living with the pain of that every day. Like an ulcer or something. Like cancer …

  Cruelty did not sit easily.

  It was not who he was.

  FORTY-ONE

  Thorne guessed he was the only Spurs fan in the pub. He was certainly the only one watching the match who seemed upset about the fact that they were one down at home to Manchester City within fifteen minutes. He was starting to wish he hadn’t bothered coming. Wasn’t football supposed to be an escape from the stress and anguish of his job?

  All that pain and grief.

  Murder was a doddle in comparison …

  ‘Not your boys’ night by the look of it.’ Trevor Hare was collecting empty glasses.

  ‘Long way to go,’ Thorne said.

  They watched for half a minute. Thorne winced as his team’s leaky defence almost gifted a second goal to the visitors.

  ‘Steve Bates was sat where you are a week or two ago,’ Hare said. ‘Watching the match, same as you.’

  Thorne looked at him. Was the landlord telling him in case he fancied moving to another table? Was he about to start another of those ‘you think you know people’ routines Thorne was getting so tired of?

  ‘Won’t be so relaxed now, will he?’

  ‘I seriously doubt it,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Why not tell them though?’ Hare shook his head. ‘I don’t get that at all. He’s going down anyway, right? So why not put that poor girl’s parents out of their misery and just say where she is?’

  Thorne stared into his glass and decided against offering up his best guess.

  Because he doesn’t know.

  Instead, he said, ‘I’m amazed you haven’t had the press on at you. Ex-copper running the killer’s local, bang up their street.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I have,’ Hare said. ‘And I told them where they could stick their blood money an’ all.’ He walked towards the bar, spoke over his shoulder. ‘I never liked them when I was on the job …’

  Thorne turned his attention back to the game.

  He ordered a cheese sandwich and chips at half time and had barely finished eating it when Spurs went two down five minutes after the restart. He swore and pushed his plate away. It wasn’t hard to imagine what a passionate Arsenal fan would have to say.

  He didn’t have to.

  ‘Only ever been one decent team in London, mate.’

  Thorne looked up to see Phil Hendricks grinning at him.

  ‘Whichever one of us supports a shit team gets the drinks in,’ Hendricks said. ‘Oh, wait, that’s you.’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Nice.’ Hendricks seemed delighted to see his friend so lost for words. He told Thorne to shove up and squeezed in next to him. ‘You’re not the only one who needs a holiday, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, but … work?’

  ‘I just got my squashy banker out of the way, switched things around with a couple of colleagues and jumped in the car. I’m pretty senior, you know, I can do that sort of stuff.’

  ‘But you hate the countryside as much as I do,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Just one more in a long line of sacrifices I’ve made for you.’ The smile faltered a little; the space between them suddenly charged by the memory of what had happened on Bardsey Island. Hendricks made the necessary effort to lift the mood. ‘Listen, you don’t have to say how pleased you are to see me, you know. I mean you’re welcome to shed a tear if you want, I shan’t be embarrassed.’

  ‘Course I am. Just a bit gobsmacked at you showing up.’

  ‘You said you wanted my help.’

  ‘An email would have done it.’

  ‘I work better on the ground, mate.’ Hendricks smacked his lips theatrically. ‘Actually, I work a damn sight better with a drink in front of me, but as your wallet’s obviously welded shut, same as always, I’d better go and get them in.’ He slid out and on to his feet.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Ah … haven’t quite thought that far ahead.’

  ‘How well do you work after a night on a park bench?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

  Thorne told Hendricks that he’d call Helen, see if her friend Paula was able to squeeze another guest in. ‘Obviously, I’m not bothered either way, but Helen will be pleased to see you,’ Thorne said. ‘She’s not been herself.’

  Hendricks took off his jacket, tossed it at Thorne. ‘Yeah, you said.’

  ‘She’s starting to get on my tits, frankly.’

  ‘I thought that was my job.’

  As Thorne took out his phone and dialled, he watched Hendricks find a space at the bar and immediately begin talking to a man with slicked back hair and a leather jacket. Hendricks turned to look at Thorne over the man’s shoulder and widened his eyes. Thorne shook his head.

  Mouthed: Slag.

&nb
sp; Helen did sound pleased to hear that Hendricks had shown up out of the blue, but didn’t say much beyond that. She told Thorne she would talk to Paula and volunteered to collect them both from the pub later on. ‘I know you’ll be making a night of it,’ she said.

  Hendricks laid drinks and crisps on the table and sat down. ‘Might not need that bed at Helen’s mate’s after all,’ he said. He slurped the foam from his pint. ‘Is Leather Boy looking?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Thorne asked. ‘Everybody’s looking.’

  Hendricks’ haircut was as brutal as usual. His scalp was the one part of his body (as far as Thorne was aware) that the pathologist had yet to tattoo, but it would certainly have been visible through the stubble. He was wearing a T-shirt with a diagram of human ribs on the front; cap-sleeved to emphasise the extravagant patterns of ink on his arms and tight enough to show the outlines of the nipple rings. There was plenty of other metal on show, through ears, nose and lips.

  Thorne would not want to be stuck behind Hendricks in the queue at airport security, but, as always, he enjoyed the reaction to his friend’s appearance.

  ‘They don’t like your sort round ’ere,’ he whispered.

  Hendricks was staring towards the bar. ‘I think some of them do,’ he said.

  They watched the match for another ten minutes, but City seemed content to sit on their lead and Spurs seemed happy to let them.

  ‘So, who burns half a body?’ Hendricks asked. He might just as well have been asking Thorne to pass the cheese and onion.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s the only interesting bit in what you told me. The rest of it’s not actually that exciting.’

  ‘Exciting enough for you to come all the way here.’

  ‘I’ve got a very dull life.’

  ‘The body wasn’t there long enough,’ Thorne said. ‘I think that’s pretty bloody interesting.’

  ‘Long enough for what? And don’t give me all that crap about dogs again. It could have been there a few days, surely.’