The Dying Hours

by Mark Billingham

  ‘How much longer?’ Yilmaz asked.

  Had she not been pushed for time, Kitson would have found something to arrest him for, just for the hell of it.

  ‘Only, that girl on the till is an idiot.’

  Kitson lifted up the jacket and began to look through the pockets.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Retired Detective Chief Inspector Ian Tully had asked Thorne to meet him in a car park behind Bromley Museum, a mile or so from where he lived. When Thorne arrived, ten minutes after the allotted time, Tully was leaning against a car and holding on to a boisterous golden retriever, straining at the end of a leash.

  ‘Sorry,’ Thorne said. ‘Traffic.’

  Tully nodded and said, ‘Stupid one-way system,’ though he looked far from happy at having been made to wait. ‘Right, come on then.’ He marched off across the car park towards some trees, heading for a gap between them that opened out on to Priory Gardens.

  ‘Thanks for making the time.’ Thorne quickened his pace a little to catch Tully up.

  ‘Sod all else to do.’ The dog strained even harder as they moved through the trees and Tully pulled him back. ‘Got to walk him anyway.’ He leaned down to unfasten the leash from the dog’s collar. ‘We can talk while I’m picking up dog-shit.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Thorne said.

  Tully was somewhere in his mid-to-late fifties, round-faced with a full head of grey hair. He looked like someone who might once have been very fit – ‘useful’ even, in the way that a lot of the Flying Squad boys were back then – but the muscle had turned to fat in the years since his retirement. A zip-up grey fleece was his only concession to a temperature which had dropped several degrees in the last hour or so, while Thorne shivered beneath his leather jacket.

  They watched the dog tear off across the grass, slow down and circle for a minute or two, then squat. They walked towards it, Tully pulling a plastic bag from the pocket of his fleece. ‘Terry Mercer isn’t a name I’ve heard in a while,’ he said.

  ‘Not one I’d ever heard,’ Thorne said. ‘Now he’s on my to-do list every bloody day.’

  ‘Didn’t know he was out.’

  ‘Yep, out and about.’ Thorne watched Tully bend to bag the dog’s waste while the retriever ran off to mooch in the long grass at the edge of the treeline. ‘Not sure where, though, that’s the problem.’

  Thorne spun him the same line he’d given Alison Macken and the two officers he’d spoken to earlier. Breach of licence, no contact, urgent need to trace, etc., etc.

  Tully started walking again. ‘Weird thing is I can remember that investigation really clearly,’ he said. ‘I mean, it was a pretty big one, obviously. Fairly straightforward too. Hardest bit was the Flying Squad working with the Murder boys, you know? Flying egos, more like, cocks being measured.’

  ‘I don’t think much has changed,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Trial was a piece of piss, though. We had eyewitnesses, ballistics, the lot. Never in any doubt, really.’

  ‘Nice easy one, then.’

  ‘Easy as they come, but Mercer didn’t see it that way. He thought he was going to get off all along. Never believed it would go against him, always cocky. He was not at all happy when the verdict came in, but how many of them ever are? He did a prison guard later on, didn’t he?’

  ‘I gather he calmed down a bit after that,’ Thorne said.

  They walked in silence for a while, past fenced-off ornamental gardens, a lake with ducks and geese; Tully calling the dog back every time it threatened to harass a passer-by or roll in something unmentionable.

  ‘Calm or not, you’re obviously very keen to find him. A bit keener than I might have expected, to be honest.’

  ‘Well, bearing in mind what he did,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Thirty years ago.’

  ‘We’ve still got to be sure he isn’t dangerous.’

  Tully turned and studied him. It was clear that Thorne’s words had failed to convince him of something.

  ‘I think he’s dangerous,’ Thorne said.

  A few yards further on, Tully said, ‘I think.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I think he’s dangerous. That’s what you said.’ Tully nodded and whistled for the dog. He smiled to himself, like he’d worked something out and had the evidence to prove it. ‘Usually we, isn’t it? We, the members of this team, we, the people running this investigation. Am I right?’

  They had reached the treeline at the far end, but rather than turn and head back the way they had come, Tully waited. It was clear to Thorne that the man was still a pretty decent detective, one who had quickly seen through Thorne’s half-truths and, watching him calmly feeding his dog a couple of chews, he decided there was no harm in telling the truth. Tully was no longer a copper after all, no longer playing by the rules, presuming that he ever had. On top of which, something in his attitude told Thorne that this was not someone with any great love for the powers that be; someone who might have at least some sympathy for the way Thorne was doing things.

  Tully tossed a chew in the air and the dog jumped for it.

  ‘I know that Terry Mercer’s dangerous,’ Thorne said. ‘Because he’s killed at least five people since he was released. All people involved in that nice easy trial you were telling me about.’

  The dog ran off into the trees, and Tully let him go.

  Walking back towards the car, Tully told Thorne all about his retirement six years earlier. Even then, it had no longer been compulsory for those with thirty years’ service. For some though, getting out still made sense. The pension would not get any bigger and those who had joined the force at eighteen or nineteen were still young enough to start new careers. The fact was, however, that the brass wanted them to go; the ones who went willingly and those who would have preferred to stay on. This, together with a policy of taking on fewer new recruits, got them some way towards reaching their targets as far as making the necessary cuts went.

  Whether they were still ‘working together for a safer London’ was a different matter entirely.

  ‘So they encouraged you to leave?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Pushed me out,’ Tully said. ‘Simple as that. All they had to do was take away anything resembling the job I was used to doing to the point where I wouldn’t have a lot of choice.’

  Thorne said nothing. It sounded very familiar.

  ‘I was working on Serious and Organised by then and I ended up being the mug who did the organising. Writing up the operations they’d given to detectives twenty years younger than me. I might as well have been making the bloody tea, so I told them to stick it. I felt like a hero… for about five minutes, because I’d done exactly what they wanted.’

  ‘They’re good at that,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I was an idiot.’ Tully sounded bitter, and evidently believed he had reason to be. He was clearly a good copper, but Thorne could tell that he was also one of those unfortunate ones who were lost without a warrant card.

  Job-pissed, job or not.

  ‘So what are you up to now?’ Thorne asked.

  Tully looked as if he had something foul-tasting in his mouth. He swallowed. ‘I walk, I try and read, watch far too much television. I listen to the sound of my brain cells dying off. It’s non-stop excitement.’

  ‘You married? Kids?’

  ‘Never got round to it.’ He looked at his feet as he trudged across the damp grass. ‘Come on, you know what the Job can be like.’

  Thorne said that he did, but in his experience, those whose every relationship foundered on the rocks of police work were actually few and far between. Those who blamed an inability to settle on the pressures of the Job were common enough of course. Thorne’s own marriage had failed, but that was a long time ago and he’d had plenty of relationships since.

  Some better than others, but still.

  ‘Yeah, it’s difficult,’ he said.

  As they arrived back at the car park, Tully stopped. ‘Listen, if you need any help…’

  �
�Oh,’ Thorne said. The dog was jumping up at him, pawing mud across his jeans. ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I might be out of the loop officially, but I’ve still got plenty of contacts, you know what I mean? Plenty of favours I can call in.’ Tully pressed a button on his remote and the boot of his car opened slowly. The dog ran across and jumped in without being told. ‘From what you’ve told me, it sounds like you could do with all the help you can get.’

  ‘It’s not the reason I wanted to meet up.’

  ‘All the same, it’s a genuine offer.’ Tully stared at his foot moving back and forth across the gravel. ‘Tell you the truth, you’d be the one doing me a favour.’

  ‘I actually came to warn you,’ Thorne said. ‘Bearing in mind what Mercer’s doing, you know, it might be a good idea to watch out for yourself.’

  Tully laughed. ‘I’m not going to lose any sleep over Terry Mercer.’ He patted his chest. ‘Anyway, these days I’m grateful for anything that gets this beating a bit faster.’ He walked round his car towards the driver’s-side door, shouted over the roof. ‘Think about what I said.’

  Thorne was already thinking about it.

  Having an ex-cop with plenty of friends on board might not be a bad idea and at the very least it would take a bit of the pressure off Holland and Kitson. As far as needing all the help he could get went, Thorne wasn’t going to argue, and the offer of providing some was obviously sincere, desperate, even.

  As things stood, bagging dog-shit was clearly the most useful thing ex-DCI Ian Tully did all day.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  As soon as Thorne walked through the door, he heard voices from the kitchen, and the first person he saw on entering was Helen’s sister Jenny, who looked up at him from her place at the kitchen table. She smiled and said hello without a great deal of enthusiasm.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Thorne said.

  He had completely forgotten she was coming over and dinner was already well under way.

  The man sitting opposite Jenny turned to look at him, at the same moment that Helen walked over from the fridge with more wine and beer. She introduced Jenny’s husband, Tim, then went back to the fridge and got a beer for Thorne. Tim stood up and walked across to shake hands as Thorne threw his jacket on to a chair.

  ‘All right, mate?’ he said.

  Helen sat down and poured herself some wine. ‘I just got you some Singapore fried rice and that squid thing you like.’

  ‘That’s perfect.’

  ‘It’s in the oven.’

  Thorne said, ‘Thanks,’ and went to get his dinner, stooping to kiss Helen as he passed, hoping that she could not taste the burger he’d stopped off for on his way home from Bromley.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again. He scooped the food from its cartons on to a plate that had been warming alongside them in the oven. ‘It’s just been a pig today and I didn’t get a chance to call.’ He looked over towards Jenny and Tim. ‘An officer was seriously injured on duty and I had a ton of paperwork to do just for that, so…’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Helen said. ‘We’ve not long started, have we?’

  Tim shook his head and Jenny neatly forked in a mouthful of whatever she was eating.

  Thorne walked back over to the table and sat down. He caught Helen’s eye and she smiled, seemingly unconcerned that he was late. He wondered if she realised that he’d forgotten completely. If she did, she was hiding her annoyance very well. ‘This looks good,’ he said.

  Tim washed down a handful of prawn crackers with a mouthful of beer and said, ‘What kind of injury?’

  Thorne looked at him.

  ‘This officer.’

  ‘Oh… an American pit bull terrier took a very decent chunk out of one of my constable’s legs.’ He looked at Helen. ‘Nina Woodley.’

  ‘She OK?’ Helen asked.

  ‘She’s not going to be playing table tennis for a while.’

  ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to keep a dangerous dog,’ Tim said. ‘Is it like a status thing?’

  ‘No such thing as a dangerous dog,’ Jenny said. ‘Only dangerous owners.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Tim said.

  Helen reached across for more food. ‘That’s what the gun lobby always come out with whenever some child gets shot accidentally.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Like it’s not the guns that are the problem.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing at all,’ Jenny said.

  Thorne knew that the relationship between Helen and her sister could occasionally be fractious. She resented Jenny’s repeated interference, the unwanted advice, especially about childcare. He could sense an argument brewing. ‘Anyway, loads of forms to fill in,’ he said. ‘So that’s why I couldn’t get away.’

  ‘Goes with the job though, doesn’t it?’ Jenny said.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Stupid hours, not knowing what you’ll be doing from one day to the next. It was the same thing when Helen was with Paul.’ She looked at Helen. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  Helen grunted, glanced over at Thorne.

  He said, ‘It’s certainly not nine to five.’

  Jenny was still looking at Helen; somewhere between pity and condescension. ‘Hardly saw each other a lot of the time.’

  ‘Who wants nine to five anyway?’ Helen said.

  Thorne could see that Helen was irritated. She had told him on several occasions that her sister had not had a good word to say about her former partner while they were together, but that her attitude had miraculously changed since his death.

  ‘Well some people just aren’t cut out for it, are they?’ Jenny said.

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘Paul certainly wasn’t.’

  Another look from Helen, the smallest roll of the eyes. Now Thorne understood what she had been talking about. Jenny had actually bowed her head just a fraction and spoken the name with something like reverence; as though Paul’s death had sanctified him.

  ‘You a fishing man?’ Tim asked, from nowhere.

  Thorne looked at him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Can’t say that I am.’

  ‘You should give it a try. A couple of hours in the fresh air, nice and relaxing, just you and the water. Best thing in the world for dealing with stress.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll give it a go,’ Thorne said, hoping he’d faked a sufficient degree of interest.

  ‘Yeah, definitely. I mean there can’t be too many things more stressful than your job, can there? We know all about being a detective from Helen.’

  ‘Tom’s not a detective,’ Jenny said.

  Thorne looked at her.

  She widened her eyes, a picture of innocence. ‘Sorry, have I got that wrong?’

  ‘Well, even so,’ Tim said, spearing a pork ball. ‘Still a stressful business, isn’t it? I mean look at today, that business with the dog.’

  When Thorne’s mobile rang, he almost shouted with relief. Right then, he would have happily excused himself for someone trying to sell him insurance, but seeing the name on the caller ID he had to control the urge to rush from the room.

  ‘Sorry, I need to take this,’ he said.

  He answered his phone on the way to the bedroom and once the door was closed behind him, he quickly told Yvonne Kitson he was free to talk.

  Kitson said, ‘Got the chief superintendent round for dinner then?’

  ‘Worse,’ Thorne said.

  She told Thorne about her visit to the flat where George Jeffers had been staying and what she had found in the pockets of the jacket he had left behind. ‘A few receipts… nothing to get excited about. His free bus pass and a business card I think you might be interested in.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Thorne was certainly interested, struggling to control his excitement as he walked back into the kitchen to rejoin the others. It did not look as though he had been missed.

  Helen asked if everything was all right and he told her tha
t it was.

  ‘He’s definitely a sparky little so-and-so,’ Tim said.

  They were talking about kids; about Jenny’s two and about Alfie. Jenny said how well both her boys were doing at school, how bright each of them was in very different ways. Helen did not bother trying to compete in the parenting stakes. Instead, she took care to mention that Thorne had picked Alfie up from school the day before and that he was starting to get upset if Thorne was not there when he woke up in the morning.

  ‘Really?’ Jenny said, sounding less than thrilled.

  Thorne smiled at Helen as he spoke. ‘Apparently.’

  Fifteen minutes later, when Helen began clearing the plates away, Thorne still had half his food left. Helen asked if he wanted her to put the leftovers in the fridge. Thorne pushed his fork half-heartedly through what was left of his rice and said, ‘I’m not feeling too clever, actually.’

  ‘That squid looked a bit iffy to me,’ Tim said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Jenny was helping to clear the table. ‘It wouldn’t happen that quickly.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Tim said.

  ‘Maybe it was the sandwich I had at lunch.’ Thorne stood up and rubbed his stomach. ‘But I definitely don’t feel too good.’

  ‘Do you want me to get you something?’ Helen asked. ‘I could nip to the late-night chemist.’

  Jenny dumped the plates on to the worktop. ‘It’s probably just an overnight thing.’

  ‘I might just call it a night,’ Thorne said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Tim said, turning as Thorne moved past him. ‘Listen, we should go and get a beer some time and don’t forget about the fishing, yeah?’

  Thorne said that he wouldn’t forget and, after apologising to Helen for leaving her with all the clearing away to do, he headed towards the bedroom.

  He lay in the dark, listening to the muted conversation, the only laughter coming from Tim, almost certainly at one of his own jokes. Half an hour after he had got into bed, Thorne heard the goodnights being said and the front door finally closing. A few moments later, Helen put her head round the door.