TT13 Time of Death

by Mark Billingham

  She swung her legs off the bed, tugged down the polo shirt she was wearing over jeans.

  ‘Sorry.’ Sweeney was still wearing his dressing gown.

  You should have waited until I asked you to come in, then, Helen thought. ‘It’s OK, I was just reading,’ she said.

  ‘Just thought you might want to know … there’s stuff on the TV. That schoolgirl Bates was supposedly banging.’ He saw Helen’s reaction. ‘Sorry. Having a relationship with.’

  ‘I’m not really interested, to be honest.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sweeney looked a little crestfallen. He shifted his weight from one slippered foot to the other. ‘I thought you would be.’

  ‘I saw the paper,’ Helen said. ‘There won’t be anything new on the TV.’

  ‘You’re Linda’s mate though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Sweeney nodded slowly. ‘A bit of a turn-up, don’t you think?’ He leaned against the door jamb. ‘This girl, I mean.’

  Helen looked at him. The dressing gown was gaping at the top. Black hairs curled against the pale fat of his chest. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said.

  She left it ten minutes and, as she’d hoped, by the time she walked into the sitting room, the news channel had moved on to a report about flood clean-up operations. The damage had been far worse in the south-west and parts of Wales than it had been locally.

  Sweeney was in his armchair, a can of beer nestled in his lap.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working later?’ Helen asked.

  ‘It’s only the one can.’

  She could smell the fags on him from several feet away. ‘It’s one can too much when you drive for a living.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s like I said last night. You lot are never off duty.’

  ‘I’m off duty right now,’ Helen said. ‘It’s just friendly advice.’ She sat down on the sofa and concentrated on the television. Now it was a sports round-up, but she pretended to be engrossed. She was wondering what Thorne was doing.

  ‘You think they’ll release him now?’ Sweeney asked. ‘Bates.’

  ‘Not because of the girl.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Alibis from spouses, partners, whatever. They really need to be checked out and even then …’

  ‘Some other reason, then?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘“Not because of the girl”, you said. Sounds like there might be another reason.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Helen said.

  Sweeney smiled and swigged. ‘I reckon you’re not as off duty as you say you are.’

  ‘You can reckon all you like.’

  Another smile, another swig. ‘I noticed you were keeping very quiet last night,’ Sweeney said. ‘When Paula was talking about the bugs and all that, how it was important. You just sat there like a shop dummy, never made a peep.’ He was watching her. She kept her eyes on the screen. ‘I mean it was obvious you knew something.’

  Helen’s mobile buzzed. She looked and saw a text from Thorne.

  on my way back to polesford hope you’re feeling ok.

  ‘Didn’t want to say anything with your other half around, that it?’

  Helen typed a reply while Sweeney talked.

  Come and pick me up …

  ‘Maybe he wouldn’t have liked it if you’d let something slip, given you what for later on. Don’t worry, I get it.’

  … We can go for a drink or something …

  ‘Some couples are like that, aren’t they?’

  … Get an early dinner x

  Sweeney leaned forward. ‘He’s not here now though, is he?’

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Thorne put his foot down.

  He had felt a rush of excitement on receiving the message from Helen, at having a good reason for going back. It had not been exaggeration when he had told Hendricks he had no idea where this new DNA evidence would lead. Other than straight into a brick wall, of course.

  Now, Thorne knew beyond reasonable doubt that Stephen Bates was not the man they were looking for, but in truth he was no closer to identifying the man actually responsible for the murder of Jessica Toms. He knew who the killer wasn’t, but that wouldn’t cut much ice with the likes of Tim Cornish and it wouldn’t help save Poppy Johnston.

  If she was still alive to save.

  His desire to get back to Polesford – and Helen – as quickly as possible, was soon compromised by Friday afternoon traffic on the M42. To compound his frustration, it seemed to be moving fast enough in the other direction. Perhaps somebody was trying to tell him something.

  He put a CD on, a compilation he’d made. Johnny singing about the darkness he saw, then Hank sounding like there was something even blacker inside him. The traffic crawled past a junction while Thorne tried and failed to decide if he’d be better coming off the motorway; tried and failed to gain any comfort from the fact that those officially working on the inquiry would be feeling every bit as frustrated as he was.

  Despite the fact that they had misread the evidence, and in Cornish’s case refused to accept the possibility that they might have done so, Thorne knew they had gone about things the same way that any other team would have done.

  They had simply run out of options.

  In a town the size of Polesford, an obvious step would have been to take DNA samples from every man of a suitable age, but without anything to match those samples to, it was a pointless exercise. In burning the body of Jessica Toms, eliminating any traces of his own DNA had not been the killer’s main objective, but it had certainly been a very useful side-effect. It had become clear that they were looking for someone with at least a basic knowledge of forensic procedure. That, whatever was driving him, the man who had taken Jessica and Poppy was far from stupid. Unless – like so many Thorne had come across – he made a careless mistake, he would remain free to kill again; in Polesford, or more likely somewhere else, once the investigation had run out of steam and the media circus had upped sticks and moved on.

  Thorne asked himself if he would be satisfied, knowing that he had at the very least proved a man’s innocence. It sounded as though Helen’s relationship with Linda Bates had about run its course, and if that was the case, he and Helen would probably be leaving sooner rather than later. Would getting Stephen Bates off the hook be enough?

  Thorne knew very well that it would not.

  For all the killers he had put away, it was the ones he had failed to catch who kept sleep at bay now and again or nudged him awake in the early hours. Then there were those he had caught and failed to hold on to.

  He thought about a man called Stuart Nicklin. Wherever he was and whatever he was calling himself now, Thorne knew their paths would cross again, that Nicklin would make sure of it. It was something no sane individual would look forward to.

  After forty minutes of stop-start, the traffic finally began to move a little more freely. If it stayed that way, he could be back with Helen before the CD had finished.

  He put his foot down again.

  Driving through Polesford on his way to collect Helen, Thorne saw a small group of teenagers gathered in the semi-dark outside a shop. They were banging on the window, shouting at someone inside. He slowed, then when the driver behind began sounding his horn, he pulled on to the pavement and flicked on his hazards. He had wondered if the boys he and Helen had confronted the previous night were among those doing the shouting, but quickly saw that they weren’t. If anything, these kids were even younger, boys and girls. Watching one of them kicking at the door, Thorne realised they were standing outside the milkshake bar he had walked past on his first day in town.

  He watched as a young woman came out of the shop to confront them. He lowered his window and heard her tell them to piss off, that she would call the police if they didn’t. After hurling a few final insults, the group wandered away, exchanging back-slaps and high-fives, and as the woman walked back into the milkshake bar, Thorne could finally see who it was they had been abusing; the
solitary customer, her back to the window, hunched over a table near the counter.

  Thorne parked on a side street and walked back.

  When he knocked on the lighted window, the woman behind the counter pointed to the CLOSED sign. He shook his head and banged again, gestured towards the figure at the table. Aurora Harley turned to look at him and said something to the owner. Though she looked far from happy about it, the woman walked across and let Thorne in.

  ‘Any trouble, I’m calling the police,’ she said.

  Thorne sat down, but Aurora Harley did not look at him. He stared at her hands, the bracelets around the thin wrists, the chipped nail polish. He thought about reaching across to take one, but decided against it. He nodded towards the woman who had reluctantly let him in. ‘She doesn’t look like someone you’d want to mess with,’ he said.

  ‘Friend of my mum’s.’ She finally looked up at him. Her eyes were red, blotted liner snaking down one cheek. She hunched her shoulders still further, her chin disappearing inside the silver jacket Thorne had recognised from across the road. ‘Probably the only one they’ve got left.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Thorne said.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not like you didn’t warn me what it might be like.’

  ‘I should never have suggested it.’

  She looked up again, attempted a smile. ‘Well, I got a bit of dosh, like you said. I mean, probably won’t be enough so we can all move or anything.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Thorne said.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘There’ll be another story, a bigger story. There always is.’

  The smile had been clinging on, but now it slipped completely and the tears came again. She said, ‘They put dog shit through my mum and dad’s letterbox this morning.’

  Thorne became aware that they were being watched by the woman behind the counter. He looked across, gave a small nod that he hoped would suggest empathy and understanding but got only a look of contempt in return. Even if she didn’t know it had been Thorne’s suggestion that had led to all this, the woman had clearly decided he was responsible.

  We threw her to the wolves.

  Thorne fished a serviette from the chrome dispenser and passed it across. Aurora pressed it to her face, then added it to the small collection of used ones scattered around her half-drunk milkshake. She summoned a smile again and shook her head. ‘All I did was tell the truth. How can people hate you so much for telling the truth?’

  ‘They don’t hate you,’ Thorne said. ‘They just need a target, that’s all. A scapegoat makes them feel better about their own shit lives. They need a witch to burn.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I hope it doesn’t come to that.’ The girl laughed, and Thorne laughed with her. He glanced across again. The woman at the counter was still scowling. She finally looked away from him to switch on another lamp near the till, the daylight all but gone.

  ‘It will get better,’ he said. ‘You just need to keep your head down.’

  ‘What about Steve?’ she asked. ‘Are they going to let him go?’

  ‘I hope so. I mean they should, but …’

  ‘What’s so unfair is that nobody seems to care that I’m upset too. I’m grieving about Jess as much as anyone.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew her,’ Thorne said.

  ‘She was one of my best mates.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ Thorne did not know why he was surprised. Why it had never occurred to him that, being the same age, the girls might have known one another.

  ‘We went through primary school together, got chucked out of girl guides at the same time.’ Finally the smile looked settled. ‘We got our tattoos done together, the same design and everything. A dolphin …’

  Thorne could not recall any mention of a tattoo in the postmortem report he had seen on Jessica Toms. Then again, there had been precious little skin left. ‘Where did you have them done?’

  ‘A place in Tamworth.’

  ‘No, I meant where.’

  Aurora giggled, reddening, and leaned towards the straw in her milkshake. ‘Well, nowhere I can show you, put it that way.’

  She slurped at her shake, and Thorne blinked …

  … and it was as quick and simple as remembering where he had left his keys.

  He knew who had killed Jessica Toms.

  ‘You all right?’

  He must have said something to Aurora Harley after that. Goodbye or take care or whatever.

  I need to go ….

  But thinking back later on, those moments remained missing, and Thorne could remember nothing but the sound of his feet against the pavement and the rattle in his chest as he ran.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  If there had been a piano playing when Thorne rushed into the bar of the Magpie’s Nest, it would certainly have stopped. That’s how it felt as the small group of regulars in there turned to look at him, for those few long seconds before they went back to their drinks and conversations.

  Some old Roxy Music song on the jukebox.

  Trevor Hare grinned at him from behind the bar. He said, ‘Someone looks like they need a drink? Pint, is it?’

  Thorne stared, still trying to decide the best way to play it. There was one more thing he wanted to check. He said, ‘Pint would be great,’ then turned and wandered across to the back wall.

  He walked up to a table, and, ignoring the complaints of the couple sitting there, leaned right across it to get a good look at one particular stuffed fish. The carp, caught at Pretty Pigs Pool. He checked the date on the plaque; the same one he had seen several times in a file at Nuneaton police station.

  When he turned round again, Trevor Hare had gone.

  Thorne rushed to the bar, just as Hare’s wife appeared behind it, wiping her hands. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your husband.’ Thorne moved quickly to the hatch in the bar and lifted the flap. Hare’s wife moved to block his way.

  ‘You can’t—’

  Thorne pushed her aside and ran through into the storeroom. There were boxes of glasses and bar snacks piled floor to ceiling, barrels, bottles and cleaning equipment. He tore through into a narrow hallway, then quickly up a carpeted stairway that he presumed led to the living area above the pub. It only took a matter of seconds to ascertain that all the rooms were empty.

  He took the stairs back down three at a time and burst out through the back door into a delivery area. Breathless, helpless, he stood and looked up and down the unlit alleyway. It was deserted. He could hear Trevor Hare’s wife shouting somewhere behind him, and above that, the noise of a car accelerating away from somewhere nearby.

  He reached for his phone.

  Ignoring the stares of the customers, the swearing from the landlord’s wife, Thorne ran back through the bar and out of the front door. He was already dialling by the time he reached the pavement.

  ‘Where are you?’ Helen asked. ‘I thought you were coming—’

  ‘It’s Trevor Hare,’ Thorne said. He was watching every car that passed, leaning down to stare at each driver. ‘The landlord of the Magpie’s Nest. He’s the killer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s gone, that’s the important thing.’ Thorne was still breathing heavily, struggling to get it all out quickly. ‘He knows I’ve sussed him and so he’s gone. He took a car …’

  ‘OK, calm down. We’ll find out the reg and they’ll get him.’

  ‘That’s no good.’ Thorne was shouting. ‘Look, I’ve got nothing, not really, it’s all circumstantial. I know it’s him, and I can explain why, but right now there’s nothing that’s going to put him away. There’s only one person who can do that … she’s the only real evidence.’ A motorbike roared past. Thorne waited for the noise to die down. ‘He’s gone for Poppy.’

  Helen said nothing for a few seconds, then Thorne heard her breath catch.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He knew Peter Harley,
’ she said.

  ‘Hare?’

  ‘Remember him talking to Aurora in the pub? He was asking after her grandfather, telling her to say hello to him.’

  Thorne remembered. Hare smiling, pouring the girl a drink.

  ‘Maybe they were more than friends,’ Helen said. ‘Maybe they … compared notes.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘The place Harley took us,’ Helen said. Another sharp intake of breath. ‘Jesus, Hare actually mentioned it, the first night we were here.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s a disused pumping station.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper and Thorne strained to listen. ‘Rubble, more or less. But there’s a room underneath, what’s left of the underground workings.’

  ‘How far, Helen?’

  ‘It’s on the edge of the woods, just beyond that fishing pool we went to.’

  ‘Pretty Pigs Pool?’

  ‘Yes …’

  Thorne knew that Helen was right. He began running towards his car. ‘I think I can find it.’

  ‘No, I know the quickest way,’ Helen said. ‘Wait there and I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘He’s got a good start on us.’

  Thorne heard Helen talking to someone, but could not make out what was being said over the sound of his own ragged breaths.

  ‘We can take Jason’s four-by-four,’ she said.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  She’s not Poppy any more.

  Poppy has never felt any of these things; the pain, the howling hunger, the strange and simple desire to be gone for ever. Never screamed until she thought her guts would burst or kicked out at things that were trying to feed on her. Poppy Johnston has never felt as if she were floating above her own body, never imagined damp to be silk or darkness to be sunshine, and never laughed because she believed she was going to die.