TT13 Time of Death

by Mark Billingham

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Not best pleased, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Oh, I can.’

  ‘Once he’d finished shouting the odds, he made it pretty clear that he was the first person I should call. You know, if we got a result.’

  ‘Wanker made out like he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘Yeah, well I can promise you, he is.’

  ‘What’s he going to do with the information when he gets it, anyway?’

  ‘What’s your mate Tom going to do with it?’

  Hendricks sat up a little. ‘Is this going to be a problem for you? I mean with all the consulting jobs?’

  Liam was shaking his head.

  ‘You’re not going to lose any work over it, right?’

  ‘Long as I tell Cornish first, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I was worried you’d be pissed off,’ Liam said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘It is what it is.’ Hendricks shrugged. ‘Not sure Tom’s going to be too chuffed, but what can you do?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Let me make it up to you …’

  ‘There’s no need, honest.’ Then Hendricks saw that welcome grin again and watched Liam raise the duvet above his head and duck down beneath it.

  Hendricks lay back and said, ‘I’ve forgotten about it already.’

  SIXTY-SIX

  It was a greasy spoon Thorne had not come across so far, tucked away between a builder’s yard and a dental surgery, a couple of streets behind the market square. It didn’t appear to have a name, but probably because it didn’t need one. In the steamed-up windows were laminated pictures of the delights available within that almost certainly fell foul of the Trade Descriptions Act, but only someone without a sense of smell would need the help.

  Whenever people talked about favourite smells, it was usually something airy-fairy like freshly cut grass or sea air. New books, for pity’s sake …

  Thorne had started slavering when he was still a street away.

  It was small, no more than half a dozen tables which were all taken, and Thorne spotted Bob Patterson straight away. He recognised the occupant of the adjacent table too; the chef-cum-poet from the Magpie’s Nest, with whom the farmer seemed to be chatting happily. Patterson still had a plateful, but it looked as though Shelley was about done. He reached for his jacket and tossed a few scraps of bacon rind to Patterson’s dog, which was lying beneath the farmer’s table.

  They both nodded at Thorne as he passed on his way to the counter. He ordered the full English and took a mug of strong tea back to Patterson’s table, taking care not to kick the dog as he sat down.

  ‘Surprised she’s allowed in,’ Thorne said.

  ‘They all know her in here.’ Patterson dropped a morsel of his own and nodded towards the man behind the counter who was watching, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Me and the owner have a good relationship.’

  ‘You supply the bacon?’

  Patterson looked horrified. ‘I hope you’re joking. This is mass-produced, factory shit.’ He pushed a piece of it into his mouth. ‘I’ve got a mate who gets them cheap eggs.’

  Shelley stood up. He said, ‘I’m just off, but …’

  ‘Checking out the competition?’ Thorne looked around. ‘I mean, I presume they’re open for lunch.’

  Shelley scoffed. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Had you down as the muesli type.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Fruit, maybe.’

  The chef smiled thinly and lifted up a shoulder bag; battered, brown leather. Thorne guessed there was a notebook full of meaningless poetry in there, maybe a novel he could take out at an opportune moment. ‘Decent bit of grease doesn’t hurt once in a while though, does it? Oh …’ He reached for the tabloid next to his empty plate and held it towards Thorne. ‘You seen this?’

  Thorne looked at the picture, the headline. They were enough for the time being. He went back to his tea.

  ‘Talk about putting the cat among the pigeons,’ Shelley said. When it became clear that Thorne had no intention of responding, he dropped the paper on to Patterson’s table, then leaned down one final time to scratch the dog’s ears before he left.

  ‘Arrogant arsehole,’ Patterson said.

  Thorne glanced up from his tea. ‘Looked like you were best mates when I came in.’

  ‘Just making conversation.’

  ‘You don’t still think he nicked your pig, do you?’

  Patterson stared at him, a triangle of fried bread dripping from his fork. ‘Course I bloody don’t.’ He popped the bread into his mouth and carried on. ‘Because whoever took that pig had no intention of eating it, did they?’

  Thorne’s food arrived and he got stuck in. He had put half of it away, almost managing to catch up with Patterson, before either of them spoke again.

  ‘He had a point though, didn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him. Cut-price bloody Shakespeare.’ The farmer waved his fork in the direction of the door and then stabbed at the newspaper. ‘Changes things a bit, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Course you have. We’re not all stupid round here, you know?’

  ‘Never thought you were.’

  ‘You’re involved.’ The farmer looked towards the paper again. ‘With that girl, with all of it.’

  Glancing around, Thorne could see that several other customers were reading the same newspaper. He thought about the Harleys; another set of parents whose lives had suddenly been turned upside down. And he thought about a different girl and the things she had endured to protect her little sister.

  ‘I never intended to be,’ he said.

  Patterson smiled, showing yellowing teeth, a sliver of tomato caught on the bottom set. ‘You get caught up, don’t you? When it’s your job. Something about pigs, I’m interested, I can’t help myself. Same for someone like you, I’m guessing. With murder.’

  Hungry as he was, Thorne pushed the black pudding to one side. ‘You said you had some information.’

  ‘Well, let’s just say I’ve been putting things together.’ Patterson tapped the side of his head. ‘Not very difficult, not once people started hearing things and talking about them. That’s how I found out my pig wasn’t stolen to make bacon sandwiches.’

  Thorne grunted, ate.

  ‘The pig’s important, I know that much.’ The farmer leaned forward. ‘Important to whoever it was took those girls. Killed one of them.’

  ‘Like you said, I’m involved.’ Thorne was trying to hide his impatience. ‘Bearing that in mind, I’m sorry to say that so far, none of this was exactly worth getting out of bed for.’

  Patterson’s shrug suggested that he didn’t really care, that he had better to come. ‘So, obviously you know that this fella Bates is not the one, right? That the police have ballsed it up and the real killer’s still knocking around somewhere.’

  Thorne nodded again. That was always going to be the problem with deliberately leaking bits of information in the hope it would spread. Eventually you would be the one being told things you already knew. ‘You said you had something to tell me about the man who stole your pig.’ Thorne dropped his voice. ‘The real killer.’

  Patterson laid his knife and fork down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Well, I know he was on foot, for a start.’ He waited for a reaction then nodded down at his dog. ‘She barks at people she doesn’t know … well you’ve seen, haven’t you? But she’s not psychic, is she? She makes the din of the bloody devil if there’s any car coming towards the place, and she didn’t make a squeak that night. So, I reckon he parked up somewhere and walked the rest of the way. Probably stuck the piglet in a sack, something like that, then carried it back to the car.’ He nodded, pleased with himself. ‘Oh yeah, he certainly planned it all out.’ There was a hint of ‘you’re welcome’ in the look he gave Thorne before he went back to his breakfast. ‘So … do
with that what you will.’

  Thorne watched the farmer mop up what was left on his plate with a limp slice of toast and controlled the urge to tell him that his dog had probably worked as much out weeks ago. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Right, well I can’t hang around here gassing all day.’ Patterson pushed back his chair. ‘Things to do.’ He stood and nodded to the man behind the counter, then turned for the door without saying goodbye, the dog at his heels.

  Behind him, Thorne could hear the owner shouting orders through to the kitchen. He watched the farmer leave, thinking that even if being busy meant filling cardboard boxes with yellowing magazines, at least the old man had plans. Thorne had left the house with the distinct impression that Helen was happy to be left alone, and he had no idea what he was going to do with himself.

  I’m not ill, Tom …

  He remembered the expression on Helen’s face; one that he had never seen before, that perhaps she would not recognise herself. Her mouth twisted in pain, or rage, or determination. Perhaps a mixture of all three. Her eyes wide and bloodshot, fixed on a spot somewhere on the far wall of that bedroom, as someone on an unsteady boat might focus on the horizon to avoid being sick.

  Now, Helen needed time and space and he would give her as much of both as was necessary.

  He looked at his watch. It was still only ten past eight.

  Thorne ordered more tea and reached for the paper.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Helen pulled a spare dressing gown of Paula’s over knickers and an old T-shirt and went downstairs. The house was a lot warmer than it had been when Tom had left, but it wasn’t doing her any favours. She had managed to get another couple of hours’ sleep, but she still felt listless and heavy; deadened, as though she was moving underwater.

  She picked up the newspaper from the front door and carried it into the kitchen.

  She made herself coffee; two spoonfuls from the jar and only a dash of milk. She needed it, needed something before she felt able to read beyond the front page. She briefly considered searching through the kitchen cupboards for spirits, then thought about Linda and changed her mind.

  MURDER SUSPECT’S TEEN GIRLFRIEND. A picture of Aurora Harley in school uniform.

  She felt suddenly sick looking at the picture again. A memory, triggered. The coffee kept the nausea at bay and energised her, though that might just as easily have been the anger that began to crackle through her as she read the story.

  It was clear that Aurora Harley had spoken to the newspaper, might even have supplied the photograph, but she was not the one telling the story. Quotes had been carefully selected and placed to suit the angle being vigorously pushed. Helen was hardly surprised, but that didn’t keep the anger in check. It didn’t stop her wishing she’d smacked that journalist in the pub when she’d had the chance.

  That same smug face staring out above this morning’s byline.

  Helen could imagine the woman’s reaction when Aurora Harley had come bowling along in her squishy, silver jacket. Eyes wide and a fat smudge of crimson blusher beneath those delicate cheekbones.

  I just think she deserves a chance to tell her side of the story …

  The bitch would not have been able to write the cheque quickly enough.

  While keeping on just the right side of the law, the paper had clearly decided that continued pandering to the lynch mob was good for business and that Stephen Bates was guilty as charged. It stood to reason that, whatever his teenage girlfriend might have to say, she was living proof that he was the scumbag most right-minded people thought him to be. Surely, her very existence was only going to be one more weapon in the prosecution’s already well-stocked armoury.

  The glee was just about disguised, even as those doing the reporting revelled in their disgust.

  ‘It’s stupid,’ says the petite teen. ‘How could he have kidnapped anybody when he was with me?’ Aurora Harley shakes her head and holds her hands out in an effort to look genuinely bewildered. Perhaps it is a gesture she has learned from one of her parents. Her mother is currently claiming disability benefit and her father is a labourer who, at thirty-nine, is only a few years older than the man his daughter now claims to have been sleeping with.

  On the next page, Linda’s ex-husband was keen to get in on the act and give his reaction to the Aurora Harley revelations. This time, Wayne Smart was pictured with his children as toddlers; Charli with front teeth missing and Danny grinning on Smart’s shoulders. The perfect father.

  ‘Even if Bates didn’t do it, this news makes me even more determined that he shouldn’t be allowed near my kids ever again, my daughter especially.’

  Even if Bates didn’t do it. It was the first time Helen had seen even the smallest degree of doubt expressed in print. Perhaps it was a good sign.

  She pushed the paper away, turned it over so she wouldn’t have to look at that front page again. She stared out across the fields and downed the rest of her coffee.

  In her school uniform, for God’s sake …

  ‘Morning.’

  Helen jumped, then turned. She laughed nervously and apologised. She had not heard Jason Sweeney come in.

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ Sweeney held up his hands. ‘Didn’t mean to—’

  ‘I didn’t think there was anyone else in the house,’ Helen said.

  He walked across and flicked the kettle on. ‘Not working until tonight.’

  ‘Oh, right. Don’t you usually sleep in if you’re working late?’

  ‘Yeah, usually.’ Sweeney was wearing the same ratty dressing gown Helen had seen before. It was sprouting loose threads and one of the belt-loops had come away. She found herself wondering if he was wearing anything underneath. ‘Just woke up for some reason and couldn’t get off again.’

  ‘Sorry, I hope that wasn’t me.’ When Sweeney turned to get milk from the fridge, Helen quickly drew her own dressing gown tighter across her chest, despite having a T-shirt underneath.

  ‘Why don’t I do us some breakfast?’ Sweeney asked.

  ‘It’s OK, thanks. I’m fine with coffee.’

  ‘I do a mean scrambled eggs. Got some tomatoes somewhere as well.’ He bent and began rummaging in the compartment at the bottom of the fridge.

  ‘I don’t normally bother with breakfast,’ Helen said.

  Sweeney laid the box of eggs on the worktop, the tomatoes he’d managed to locate. ‘You’ve got to have breakfast.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘It sets you up for the day, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Like I say—’

  ‘What are you doing with yourself today, anyway?’

  ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Thought you’d be over at Linda Bates’ by now.’

  ‘I’ll probably go later.’

  ‘I can give you a lift if you like.’

  ‘Right. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Tom already gone out, has he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Early bird then, like Paula …’

  Helen was thrilled to hear her mobile buzzing in the pocket of her dressing gown. She was already standing as she took it out and saw who was calling. She gestured with the phone, excusing herself as she walked towards the door, and Sweeney shrugged his understanding. She waited until she was out in the hall before she answered it.

  ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘No, I’ve been up a while.’

  ‘Did you get back to sleep?’

  ‘For a bit.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Tell me about the farmer,’ Helen said.

  ‘Waste of time,’ Thorne said. There was a pause. ‘Decent fry-up though.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  Another pause, longer this time. ‘Did you see the paper?’

  ‘I was just reading it.’

  ‘Not a surprise.’

  Helen said, ‘We threw her to the wolves.’

  ‘Well … you didn’t do anything,’ Thorne said. �
��I was the one who told her she could talk to the press.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who said it.’

  Helen waited. She could hear Sweeney moving around in the kitchen, humming to himself. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘She knew what she was getting into. I did tell her.’

  ‘She’s a kid.’

  ‘She was fine with it,’ Thorne said. ‘I told her what they were like. She was keen on the money.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m sure I can amuse myself.’

  ‘OK …’

  ‘I’ll call you in a bit.’

  ‘You don’t have to, honestly.’

  ‘Or you call me. When you’re … ready or whatever.’

  ‘It’s fine, Tom. Call if you want to.’

  There was just the crackle on the line for a few seconds. Then Thorne said, ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it.’

  Helen ended the call and turned to find Sweeney watching her from the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  Helen slipped the phone back into her pocket and stepped towards the stairs. ‘I’m just going to go up. Have a shower and get dressed.’

  ‘What about your breakfast?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m not really hungry.’

  Sweeney said, ‘I’ve already started making you some.’

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  ‘How come you and Mum aren’t talking to each other?’

  Charli looked at her brother. ‘What?’

  ‘You had a row or something?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Charli said.

  They were downstairs in the sitting room. Danny was sprawled in the armchair and Charli had her legs pulled up beneath her on the sofa, a small brown cushion hugged close to her chest. Danny scowled at the TV remote as though its failure to get more than the basic channels on the television was an unforgivable act of betrayal. With limited choice in the matter, he sat watching Bargain Hunt, shaking his head and sucking his teeth.

  ‘Like just now,’ Danny said. ‘Outside the bathroom.’

  ‘What?’