Scaredy Cat

by Mark Billingham

  ‘If he believed me . . .’

  Holland realised that he’d been stroking her hair for a while. ‘Listen, what you said about me being proved right. I don’t give a toss about that, but maybe it’s enough of a warning for you to want to do something about it . . .’

  She burrowed her head deeper into his shoulder. She might have been nodding, but he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Sarah?’

  She whimpered. It sounded like there might be another attack of hysterics on the way. His hand stopped stroking her hair, grabbed a handful of it. ‘This might be the last chance you get, you know?’

  She raised her head and stared at him, with something strange in her bloodshot eyes which he couldn’t come close to reading. She looked up at him for maybe fifteen seconds. Challenging . . . apologising . . . accepting . . . saying something without words; something he would spend a long time afterwards trying to interpret.

  Then, in the early hours of the morning, with the first few drops of rain crashing onto the windscreen, he could say very little which didn’t sound pat and pointless. ‘I’ll be here to help you, if you try and change things . . .’

  He pulled her head gently back down on to his shoulder, and the two of them sat there, holding on to each other for all the wrong reasons.

  McEvoy needing to go through this but wanting him to go. Wanting to get inside, on her own, and turn on her computer.

  Holland shushing her like a child. Changing his position ever so slightly, moving his arm just a little to get a look at his watch.

  Mary from Rickmansworth: ‘He should never be let out. What about the life sentence the parents have been given? What about the parents of that little girl?’

  Alan from Leicester: ‘It isn’t about vengeance, Bob, it’s about justice. It’s just too soon.’

  A child jailed for the murder of a little girl now a grown man eligible for parole. The debate had raged eight months before, over the parole for the boys that killed Jamie Bulger. It was raging again. The phone-lines, as Bob kept reminding everybody, were red-hot . . .

  Susan from Bromley: ‘That boy should be kept in prison for his own good. If he comes out, someone will find him and kill him.’

  That one was his favourite. Let’s not talk about releasing our own demons back into society. Let’s not say we want them locked away for the rest of their lives because it makes us a bit less guilty about not protecting our children. Let’s pretend we’re concerned for the safety of the murdering bastards. Priceless.

  He weighed up the arguments, as he always did, and in the end, he was firmly with the majority on this contentious issue.

  The man should never be set free. Killing kiddies was evil.

  Caroline had gone to bed nice and early, and he’d had most of the evening to sit and think, and assure himself that he’d thought of everything.

  He’d considered abandoning the whole thing when Palmer had escaped. He thought about trying to find him, starting their little partnership up again. He bore him no ill will for weakening the last time, for turning against him. That was the way it went with characters like Martin. The fear could be harnessed, but it was sometimes a bit unpredictable.

  After due consideration, he’d decided to press on. Never still and never back. Palmer was part of his past now, let him flounder and drown. His future was far more exciting. It did give him a laugh though, Palmer escaping the way he did. Thorne was so arrogant. Thorne, who never suffered fools. Now he’d fucked up very badly.

  Now, Thorne was the fool.

  He poured himself another glass of wine. He wondered if McEvoy would fuck up. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she did – he’d be covered – but it would be disappointing after the effort he’d put in so far. On balance, he decided he had good reason to be optimistic.

  She was the perfect choice after all.

  The first time he’d met her, he’d recognised something. He’d seen a need, and not just the obvious one. He’d spotted the drug dependency immediately, of course: he’d seen it many times when he was on the street. It was probably the coke that had first put the idea in his head, but he quickly found out that McEvoy’s need ran far deeper.

  So, all being well, they would both get something out of it. He would know if he had made the right choice very soon, but if all did not go well, he had already decided that he would kill her later anyway.

  He leaned across to the radio and turned it up. Some idiot was wittering on about how it would be impossible for this boy to hide who he used to be, even if he was released. They’d said the same things about Venables and Thompson. They’d have to become different people; they’d need to hide their past from everyone. They’d have to lie, for ever, to close friends and future spouses. It wasn’t possible. Someone would find out, surely. How could you keep your past so secret?

  He smiled at that. He knew it could be done.

  Thorne pressed the Play button on the answering machine, and a day that had ended badly got even shittier.

  ‘Hello . . . Tom, it’s Eileen. Auntie Eileen, from Brighton . . . I hate these things. Listen, we need to have a chat about your dad. I’ve been in touch with him a fair bit, you know, since Christmas and, well . . . it’s not good. You wouldn’t really remember, but your grandad was the same . . . later on. Sometimes I think he forgets to eat anything. Anyway, I’ve been nagging him and he says he’s going to see the GP. I think he’ll probably get referred, you know, for proper tests, but anyway, give us a call and we can put our heads together. You should tell him yourself as well, make sure he keeps the appointment . . .’

  He hit the Stop button and went to put the kettle on.

  He banged down the mug on the worktop. It had been a week since the row with his dad. He should have called him back the next day, sorted it out. What was Eileen getting involved for anyway? She’d never been arsed before. Christ, they always came out of the woodwork when there was something to get worked up about. Busybodies like that loved a fucking crisis didn’t they?

  That KFC he’d picked up on the way home had been a mistake. He was starting to feel a little sick.

  Proper tests? What did that mean . . . ?

  He looked at his watch. It was far too late to call his dad now. He tore at the milk carton roughly enough to spill milk everywhere. Fuck it, the tea would only keep him awake anyway. Wasn’t there supposed to be more caffeine in tea than coffee?

  He stomped back into the living room and sat there in silence, cradling his phone.

  Who was he kidding? If he slept at all it would be a miracle. The adrenaline that had rushed through his bloodstream in the hotel room earlier was still around, looking for something to do. The feelings that had taken hold of him, knocked him around a little, as he’d looked down at Jason Alderton, had gone back to wherever it was they hid most of the time, but he was still feeling bruised.

  And McEvoy . . .

  What the hell had all that been about? He’d need to talk to Brigstocke about it in the morning. Maxwell would probably write it up in his report, but Thorne knew it would be good if he could get in first. He hadn’t a clue what he was going to tell Brigstocke though. Probably the same bollocks McEvoy had given him . . .

  He’d need to talk to Holland as well.

  He looked at his watch. Only five minutes later than the last time he looked.

  He let it ring three times, hung up, dialled again. It rang for a very long time.

  ‘Palmer?’

  ‘I was asleep . . .’

  ‘Give me an address.’

  ‘What . . . ?’

  ‘Give me the address where you are, and I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Thorne hadn’t expected it to be that easy, but he was still genuinely annoyed. ‘Why don’t we just get this over with, Palmer? You’re not so
meone who escapes. You’re not even someone who runs. You’re just a fuck-up, you’re just weak.’

  There was a pause long enough for Thorne to get up and move through to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed. Then Palmer spoke again.

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘So what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  He wasn’t the only one. Thorne stared up at the ceiling and asked himself why an escaped killer was the only person he could think of ringing at half past midnight. There was no need to answer the question of course – it was bollocks. He was tired and thinking all sorts of strange shit. Holland wouldn’t have minded, he was probably still up anyway. Hendricks as well. He could have called Hendricks . . .

  ‘Is there any news on Stuart?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘Worried he might find you before we do, Martin?’

  ‘No . . . just, you know, any news?’

  Thorne grunted. ‘Only if you’ve got some.’

  ‘Sorry . . . I don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘Except that he might be a policeman.’

  ‘I did say, before, that it was just a feeling. It was nothing I can back up with anything. I’ve never lied to you, Inspector Thorne.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be impressed with that, am I? Supposed to think that counts for something?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You’ve stabbed one young woman, strangled another . . .’

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘But deep down you’re pretty honest!’

  ‘I’m sorry if I don’t fit into a convenient pigeonhole for you.’

  ‘Bollocks . . . shut up. That’s crap.’

  Thorne could hear the distant rhythms of an argument from somewhere down the street. A man and a woman. He couldn’t tell if they were getting closer or moving further away.

  ‘You aren’t the only one who would like to know,’ Palmer said. ‘What I am.’

  ‘Don’t make any mistake about this, Palmer, I know what you are . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry if I got you into any trouble . . .’

  ‘And stop fucking apologising. It’s pathetic.’

  Thorne needed more of his painkillers. He took a deep breath and swung his legs off the bed, the undigested chicken rising up his throat.

  ‘Inspector Thorne . . . ?’

  He stood and walked slowly across to the wardrobe. He kicked open the door, stared at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of it.

  ‘Jesus Christ . . .’ He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  ‘Inspector Thorne . . . ?’

  The swollen distorted face looked back at him and reminded him of what he was supposed to be. It asked him, politely but firmly, what the fuck he thought he was doing.

  ‘Are you all right, Inspector Thorne?’

  Then the explosion of rage. The one that ran in the family.

  ‘Don’t talk to me. Not like that, do you understand? Not are you all right? Not sorry . . .’

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘Talk to me like a murderer.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Thorne arrived at work feeling hollow, certain that little would happen during the day that could fill the empty space.

  The sleep following his conversation with Martin Palmer had been surprisingly deep – a welcome side effect of the painkillers. This time, the animal had worked longer and harder at the space beneath the door. Digging down, forcing its snout into the gap. This time, behind the door, Karen McMahon had not been there to take Charlie Garner’s hand.

  The day ahead would, Thorne knew, be almost surreal considering the state of the case.

  The hunt for Palmer was going nowhere.

  The hunt for Nicklin was going backwards.

  Thorne and the team would probably spend the day celebrating . . .

  A bottle or two and a backslap or three to put the lid on last night’s result at the hotel. A session of whistling in the dark that would only be interrupted – right after lunch, according to his Regulation 7 notice – by Thorne’s initial meeting with officers from the DPS.

  A day when nothing was going to happen. A day when everything was going to be settled . . .

  Tom Thorne was not the only one arriving at work, and in the head of the man who used to be Stuart Nicklin, a clock was ticking.

  Thorne’s assessment of how the day would pan out was pretty much bang on. The only thing he hadn’t foreseen was quite how early the party was going to start. The word had gone out: a bit of a drink at lunch-time to toast a job well done. Morale, however, was not exactly through the roof anywhere in Serious Crime. Not among Team 3, not among the team that had taken over the hotel killings, nowhere. A couple of pints in the pub at lunch-time would certainly be welcomed, but there was always going to be a need to push the boat out a little further than that.

  The first bottle of scotch had appeared before the morning cups of tea and coffee were finished.

  Thorne and Brigstocke watched from their office as paper cups were filled and the stories that had filtered back about the events the previous night were exaggerated and passed around.

  ‘It’s a bit early isn’t it?’ Thorne asked.

  Brigstocke raised his eyebrows theatrically. ‘Bugger me, are you feeling all right, Tom? Maybe that smack in the face did more damage than we realised.’

  Thorne said nothing. Looking out, he noticed that Holland was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t joining in the celebrations.

  Brigstocke shrugged. ‘I think we need this to tell you the truth. As long as it stays controlled, it’s no problem. As long as nobody’s too shit-faced when Jesmond pops over to bask in his bit of reflected glory . . .’

  The volume of noise from the incident room dropped. It was clear which bit of the hotel story was being repeated.

  ‘I spoke to McEvoy first thing this morning,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘Half-asleep. Embarrassed about what happened. Said she was fine to come in, but I’ve told her to leave it until the end of the week. What do you think?’

  Thorne nodded; that sounded about right. ‘She’s got some personal stuff to sort out.’

  ‘With Holland?’

  Thorne wasn’t surprised that Brigstocke had noticed ­something – he always had a good handle on the relationships between the members of his team. ‘Holland says not,’ Thorne said.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world. Shift one of them across to Belgravia or the West End . . .’

  ‘Make it McEvoy.’

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘No, not really.’ Not really. Nothing beyond a loyalty to Dave Holland, and a slight unease about Sarah McEvoy. Nothing he could even name, beyond a vague suspicion he had no intention of voicing.

  ‘Anyway,’ Brigstocke said, ‘if Holland says not . . .’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Hello . . . your best mate’s here.’

  Thorne watched as Steve Norman strolled into the incident room, a slim leather bag slung across one shoulder. He greeted the officers like old friends and held up a hand to gently turn down the offer of a drink.

  ‘What’s he doing here? Doesn’t he have his own office?’

  ‘I think he’s one of those that likes to feel part of the team, you know?’

  ‘Oh fuck . . .’

  Norman was on his way towards the office. There was nowhere to hide.

  ‘Hi, guys. Just stopped in to say well done for last night. More work for me . . . but that’s the nature of the beast, I suppose. Right . . . I’ll no doubt see you for a quick one at lunch-time, but I’d better be off. On the move a lot today, loads to do . . .’

  He patted his shoulder bag as he turned to leave. Tho
rne realised that it contained a laptop computer. Norman was clearly one of those that liked to remind others just how important he was. Just how very busy. He probably used it a lot on the train.

  ‘Tosser,’ Thorne muttered as Norman closed the door behind him.

  ‘I think DCI Lickwood said he might stick his head in later on, just to say hello and have one on our team’s tab.’ Brigstocke grinned at Thorne’s expression. ‘Thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘So no chance of trying to catch any murderers today, then?’

  ‘Come on, Tom. People will be coming and going all day, and we had a good result last night. It’s the first one for a while.’

  Thorne didn’t need reminding.

  ‘Business as usual, of course,’ Brigstocke said. ‘But with a good feeling round the place for a change. A positive atmosphere. Don’t you remember what it was like, last day of term?’

  Thorne knew what Brigstocke meant, but it still felt wrong somehow. He walked out of the door, grumbling.

  ‘I’ll fetch the party hats . . .’

  Then the desk got him.

  Thorne swore loudly and kicked at the offending corner – the ball of screwed-up paper he’d taped to it long gone. As he rubbed his thigh, he decided that while the rest of the place was celebrating the end of term, he was going to do something useful. He shouted to no-one in particular:

  ‘Right, get me a fucking saw . . .’

  A couple of regulars sat up at the bar, nursing grudges and pints, moaning to the landlord and throwing dirty looks over their shoulders, but the place belonged to Serious Crime. There were a hundred or more officers and civilian staff crammed in to the back bar. Though it was officially just a lunch-time thing, Thorne was pretty sure, based on the morning, that there wasn’t going to be a fat lot of work done in the afternoon.

  ‘Fancy a drink, big boy?’

  Thorne actually started slightly. Despite the noise and the crush, he’d actually drifted away for a moment, thinking about the generations either side of himself. Young boys and old men . . .

  ‘Only you’ve been stood here with that half for twenty minutes,’ Hendricks said. ‘Wishing you were somewhere else.’