The Dying Hours

by Mark Billingham

  Not that he was ever up to much in the kitchen.

  Or anywhere else, come to that.

  He lays down his knife and fork. He can imagine her saying it…

  Tossing aside the tattered copy of the Sun that was lying on the table when he came in, he signals to the teenage girl behind the counter – what is she, Russian? – and indicates that he wants another mug of tea.

  ‘One pound fifty,’ she says.

  ‘A bit stronger this time,’ he says.

  It’s certainly pricey, eating out three times a day, a damn sight pricier than it used to be, but there’s enough money sloshing around so he’s not too bothered on that score. It’s good to get out and about now he’s got the chance and besides, the last thing he wants to do is impose more than he already has on the people putting him up by demanding to be fed. A bed for a few nights is enough of an ask as it is.

  Not that they wouldn’t be happy enough to do it. Whatever else has happened, he’s always been able to count on his friends. Or the people who might not think of themselves as his friends, but owe him a favour or two anyway. No sell-by date on that kind of thing and he doesn’t need to tell them to keep the fact they’ve got a houseguest to themselves.

  ‘Stay as long as you like,’ that’s what most of them say. Old times, all that. They’re trying to look like they mean it, but he doesn’t mind the fact that they really don’t. For obvious reasons he doesn’t want to stay anywhere for more than a day or two, plus he’s given himself a fair amount of running around to do if he wants to get things done properly.

  Work through his list.

  Funny, he thinks, the way people seem to drift and spread out. Families and friends. Going where the work is, most likely, or getting away from the stupid prices. Forced out, probably, some of them.

  London feels like a dozen different cities.

  The girl brings his tea across and lays it down without a word. The old bloke doing the cooking shouts something to her, in Russian or Polish or whatever it is, and she shouts back at him as she clears empty plates from an adjoining table. The tea’s still not strong enough, but he can’t be bothered to say anything.

  A lesson he’s learned. A fuss is what gets remembered.

  He stares down at what’s left of an obscenely large full English breakfast (£12.99 or free if you can finish it). He moves the tip of a finger through the bright smear of ketchup and thinks about the man in the bath. It’s odd, he thinks, how it’s that one he keeps coming back to, but it’s probably because that was the one where he really saw it. The life leaking out.

  He’s been thinking about that question ever since – the BIG one – and how strange it was that when he was sitting there watching it happen, it was pearly gates and angels and all that carry-on going round and round in his head. Bloody ridiculous really, when, given the circumstances… given everything that’s happened… he should probably have been thinking about the other place. The fiery furnace, whatever.

  Nonsense, all of it, he knows that… but still it’s odd that when he was thinking about what might come after, just wondering if there could be something, ‘heaven’ should even have come into it! He’s not an idiot. He knows that he’s never been ‘good’. Not even close. Even his nearest and dearest – back when he’d had any – would never have claimed that.

  He stands up and turns to let the girl behind the counter know he’s finished. He picks up his jacket and reaches for his wallet.

  He stares out of the steamed-up window at the blur of traffic moving past and thinks: Right, but what if not believing in it doesn’t rule you out? What if by any chance you turn out to be wrong and there’s more of an open-door policy than you thought there was? Forgive and forget, kind of thing. If that’s the case, then all this stuff he’s been thinking about isn’t so odd after all. Because maybe there’s a small part of him hoping that, when the time comes, he might… get away with it.

  He takes a twenty-pound note from his wallet.

  He remembers the list in the same pocket and decides that getting away with it is going to be a seriously tall order.

  He waves the note at the girl, shows her that he’s leaving it on the table and tells her she can keep the change.

  She mumbles something that doesn’t sound like a thank you.

  He calmly picks up his mug, still half-filled with piss-weak tea, and drops it on to the floor. The other customers turn at the noise of the mug smashing and he walks towards the door, deciding that if heaven and hell did exist, and if there were things that could determine whether you ended up going upstairs or downstairs, fucking politeness would be one of them.

  FOUR

  There were perhaps thirty officers gathered in the briefing room for the 10.00 p.m. parade. Conversation died down quickly as the senior officers came in and took their seats. The start of the final night shift before a four-day break, and for Thorne it could not come quickly enough.

  Friday nights, though, were usually the worst of all.

  The PCs were sitting on plastic chairs that had small writing tables built into them, notebooks at the ready. The sergeants sat off to one side, save for one – the briefing officer – who worked at a computer in the corner, running the PowerPoint presentation that displayed on a large screen at the far end of the room. Ken ‘Two-Cats’ Pearson; balding with bad skin, harder than he looked and so-named after an occasion a few months earlier when he’d run over a cat in a patrol car. He’d dutifully driven back to check that the animal was dead and, on finding the poor creature still breathing by the side of the road, had put it out of its misery with his truncheon. Unfortunately, the moggy Pearson had run over was already dead, this one being another cat altogether who had been innocently napping in the sunshine.

  Everyone had a nickname – except Thorne, as far as he was aware – but this one had generated more mileage than most.

  Pearson got the nod from Thorne to begin the briefing and, within a few seconds, images of half a dozen individuals appeared on the screen. As usual, the miaowing began the moment Pearson opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Hilarious,’ he said.

  ‘Only time he’s ever had pussy twice in one day,’ somebody shouted.

  Thorne let the laughter die down a little before raising his hand to quiet everyone.

  ‘Right,’ Pearson said. ‘You all done?’

  The sergeant ran through details of the various individuals that patrols should be keeping a lookout for. Dates of birth and number plates were read out, along with several addresses where domestic disturbances had been recently reported or drug dealing suspected.

  Some officers jotted details down while others doodled. A few just stared at the photographs.

  When Pearson had finished, it was Thorne’s turn, but there was little he wanted to add. He told his team to be particularly watchful around the town centre and main shopping parade. He knew they would be extra vigilant on a Friday night anyway – when the pubs would be more crowded than usual as wage packets were pissed away – but he had been warned by his opposite number on the late shift that there was trouble brewing between a Tamil outfit operating in the area and one of the local gangs based around the Kidbourne estate. It was a boy from this same gang, the TTFN crew, who Thorne had charged with assault the previous night after getting smacked in the face.

  If such a gang was plying its trade in a leafier area of the city, where the hoodies came from John Lewis and the dealers had their car stereos tuned to Radio 4, the initials might have stood for Ta-Ta For Now. In Lewisham, they stood for something different.

  Tell The Filth Nothing.

  ‘That’s about it,’ Thorne said. ‘Hope it’s Q---- out there.’

  Not quiet. Nobody ever said that word for fear of tempting fate. A long-held superstition that could make an officer seriously unpopular if it was flouted.

  Finally, Thorne nodded towards Sergeant Christine Treasure, who called for hush before announcing the pairings for the shift and allocating the rest times.
She glanced over at Thorne. ‘Fancy coming out with me in the Fanny Magnet?’ There were groans, some whistles from the other officers. There was only one remotely flashy car waiting in the courtyard: a BMW used as the Area Car for high-speed pursuit. Treasure and Thorne were likely to end up in a clapped-out Ford Focus, but such was the sergeant’s sexuality and self-confidence that she firmly believed any car she was driving to be a Fanny Magnet.

  Thorne walked across to Treasure as the briefing broke up. ‘Give me half an hour, OK? I’ve got a few things to get sorted here.’

  Thorne closed the door of his office and took out his mobile.

  Ten thirty on a Friday night, he wasn’t too concerned that he’d be getting Phil Hendricks out of bed. All being well, his friend’s night would barely even have started. A pub or two first, then a club; somewhere to drink and dance and pull. Getting away from the dead for a few hours by celebrating life the best way he knew how. Looking for the next sexual partner, whose conquest he would memorialise with a new tattoo. Secretly hoping – Thorne knew – that each tattoo would be the last he ever needed.

  There was a good deal of background noise when Hendricks answered his phone. Raised voices, a song Thorne recognised. Shouting over the racket, Hendricks told Thorne he was in the Duke of Wellington in Hackney, that he would be heading into the West End later on. ‘It’s a nice pub,’ he said, ‘but the music’s awful. Why does everyone assume all gay men like Lady sodding Gaga?’

  Thorne made no comment. Musically, she was not exactly his cup of tea either, but he wouldn’t kick her out of bed for Waylon Jennings.

  ‘I need a favour,’ he said.

  Hendricks told him to hang on while he found somewhere quieter. The music got louder for a few seconds and Thorne heard Hendricks ask someone to get him another beer. Beer to kick things off, then shots later on at Heaven or G-A-Y, and maybe one or two other substances that Thorne preferred not to know about.

  ‘Right,’ Hendricks said, eventually. ‘Go on…’

  ‘Like I said, a favour.’

  ‘Come on, hurry up. I’m freezing my tits off out here.’

  ‘PMs on an elderly couple,’ Thorne said. ‘Lewisham hospital, I’m guessing. Probably done earlier today, maybe tomorrow if things are backed up. It would be great if you could get a quick look at the reports for me, let me know the headlines.’

  ‘These are homicides, are they?’

  ‘Can you or can’t you?’

  ‘Not being funny, mate, but couldn’t you do this yourself?’ Hendricks asked. ‘I mean they haven’t taken your warrant card away just yet, have they?’

  ‘Only a matter of time,’ Thorne said. He could easily have requested a copy of the PM reports on John and Margaret Cooper, but he knew that coming from an inspector outside CID, especially the one who had already signed the deaths off as suicide, such a request might well be a… talking point. As far as Thorne was concerned, the fewer people talking about him, about this, the better. ‘Look, I’m asking you.’

  Hendricks let out a theatrical sigh. Said, ‘Yeah, all right. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Thorne gave him the names. Told him to have a good night.

  ‘That’s one you owe me,’ Hendricks said. ‘Another one.’

  There was a knock on the door and Christine Treasure marched in without waiting to be invited. Thorne watched as she dropped into the chair opposite him, tossed her cap on the desk and began casually rummaging around for reading material. She looked up and nodded, as though giving Thorne her blessing to finish his call.

  Thorne nodded back, mouthed a sarcastic ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Listen, thanks, mate,’ Thorne said. His voice was a little lower than it had been before the sergeant had waltzed in. ‘Give me a shout when you’ve had a chance to look through the… you know.’ He glanced up, saw that Treasure appeared to be paying no attention to what he was saying. ‘The paperwork.’

  When Thorne had finished the call, he got up and walked across to the grubby mini-fridge in the corner. He pulled out a carton of milk and sniffed it, then checked the kettle for water. ‘You want one?’

  Treasure shook her head. ‘You all right?’

  Kettle in hand, Thorne turned and looked at her. Treasure was the ‘bolshy’ sergeant whom Helen had mentioned that morning. Thorne knew the famously filthy temper was usually only unleashed upon those who deserved it and suspected that, beneath all the bluster, she was actually rather more delicate than she wanted to let on. She disguised this ‘sensitive’ side brilliantly, with language that would make Malcolm Tucker blush, genuine enthusiasm when it came to breaking wind, and being what Hendricks would have called a ‘full-on’ lesbian; never reticent when it came to letting anyone – fellow officers included – know who she would like to sleep with and exactly what she would do with them if she had the chance. While secretly being more than a little frightened of her, Thorne liked Treasure’s attitude. At twenty-seven she was a far better copper than many he knew with nearly thirty years on the job and, despite the fact that the patrol car could get a little… rank after an hour or two, she was always his first choice when it came to pairing up.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  Treasure’s bleached-blonde hair was cut very short at the sides. She ran fingers through the longer hair on top, teased it into spikes. ‘Heard you had a run-in with a couple of suits last night.’

  ‘God’s sake,’ Thorne said, quietly. Woodley or one of the others mouthing off. Not that he could really blame them. He had guessed that the locker room would be full of it. He put the kettle down and switched it on. ‘Just the usual handbags.’

  ‘That’s what they do,’ Treasure said. ‘You should know that better than anybody.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Come on, you saying you were any different when you were one of them?’

  ‘Yeah, I was,’ Thorne said. It was the question he had been asking himself on a regular basis since his transfer. Now that the highly polished black boot was on the other foot. He tried to make his answer as convincing as possible. ‘I was.’

  Treasure shrugged. Whether or not she believed him, it clearly didn’t matter to her either way. ‘You need to get past it though, because it’s going to happen again. It’s going to happen a lot.’

  Thorne turned back to the fridge and picked up a stained teaspoon.

  ‘Come on though, isn’t this better?’

  ‘Better?’ Thorne spooned instant coffee into his mug. Stood over the kettle as it began to grumble.

  ‘Were you really any happier before?’ Treasure asked. ‘Sitting watching CCTV footage for hours on end? Talking to the wankers at mobile phone companies? I mean, that’s what most of the suits do all day, isn’t it?’ She picked up her cap, spun it round a finger. ‘We’re getting something different every ten minutes. We’re getting a bit of variety. God knows what we’ll run into tonight, could be anything, and that’s what makes it so bloody exciting. I’m actually buzzing on the way to work, d’you know that? Seriously, I can’t bloody wait. It’s like when you know you’re going to get your end away.’

  Thorne poured hot water into his mug then turned around to look at her.

  ‘You really prefer poncing around in a suit? Doing endless paperwork and getting screwed over by the CPS?’

  ‘It’s not always like that,’ Thorne said.

  Blinking away a gallery of killers and their victims.

  A girl in a coma, a man running towards a bridge, a brother and sister laughing as they take something out of a bag.

  The faces he still woke seeing sometimes.

  ‘You want to swan about, being a dick like those two last night?’ It was clear from Thorne’s silence, the look on his face, that this was not something he really wanted to talk about, so Treasure shrugged and changed the subject. She pointed to her eye, then to his. Said, ‘That’s looking good.’

  Thorne said, ‘Yeah, not bad,’ and touched his finger to the bruise below his eye that had
swelled up and turned purple while he’d slept. An almost perfect half-moon.

  ‘It’s quite sexy, actually.’

  ‘You on the turn, Christine?’

  ‘You wish,’ Treasure said. She jumped up and fixed her cap on. ‘Come on. Let’s get among them, shall we?’

  Thorne raised his mug. ‘Hang on—’

  ‘Leave it,’ she said. ‘We’ll stop off at the BP, get some decent stuff.’ The petrol station was a regular port of call on the night shift as it gave out free Wild Bean coffee to police officers. A small reduction in the profits of British Petroleum in exchange for the presence of uniformed coppers on their forecourt every half an hour or so.

  ‘Yeah, all right.’ Thorne put his mug down and gathered up his cap and raincoat. The radio chatter had already begun to get interesting. A group of young Tamils gathering near St Saviour’s church. ‘Promise me you’ve not been eating sprouts today.’

  ‘You’re perfectly safe, sir,’ Treasure said. She waited for Thorne in the doorway and, as he walked past her, she put a hand on his sleeve. ‘That suicide last night. Those two idiots playing “whose cock’s the biggest?” You really need to let it go.’

  FIVE

  As usual, there was half an hour’s paperwork to be done at the end of the shift. Thorne had to prepare the handover sheet, and add a line or two before signing off on reports of the more serious incidents. Thankfully, there had been fewer than might have been expected. A stabbing outside a club, a late-night grocer robbed at knifepoint, a fight in the Jolly Farmers between a group of less than jolly scaffolders, several of whom had taken scaff bars into the pub with them just in case. As a result of the heavy police presence in the town centre, the Tamil and TTFN boys had restricted themselves to no more than serious eyeballing and verbal abuse. Nastier stuff was coming, but mercifully it had not taken place on Thorne’s final night shift of the rotation.

  As soon as he was done, Thorne changed out of his uniform and stuffed the bits he was taking home into a plastic bag. He took his leather jacket from his locker and put it on. In the courtyard, dropping the bag into the boot of his car, he exchanged a few words with one or two of the lads as they left. They all agreed how much they were looking forward to four days off.