From the Dead (2010)

by Mark Billingham

  'Maybe we both need to get out of the Job.'

  'What?'

  They had talked about it once before, their fantasy future. But that had been when there was a baby on the way.

  'Are you really going to sit there and tell me everything's fine?'

  'You're the one with all the opinions.'

  'That's part of the problem.'

  'Everyone has ups and downs, whatever, but you're talking like everything's fucked.'

  'I'm trying to be realistic.'

  'You're being ridiculous,' Thorne said. 'And melodramatic.'

  Louise shook her head and laughed, just once, exasperated. 'It's so typical.'

  'What is?' Thorne had been careful to say whatever was necessary, in whatever way was necessary, to keep Louise from losing her temper. Now, he was in danger of losing his own.

  She swallowed a mouthful of wine, still shaking her head. 'When it comes to work, you'll do whatever it takes to get the right result. You'll go the extra mile, take stupid risks. You'll push it. With other people, other people's lives and problems, you do what needs to be done without even thinking about it. But with your own life, our life, it's a different story.'

  'This isn't fair, Lou . . .'

  'With us, it's just about the path of least resistance, about doing as little as possible. It's like the Job's taken all the fight out of you or something, and when it comes to personal stuff, to this, you'd rather just bumble along and settle for a quiet life, no matter how bad it is.' She was sitting on the edge of the stool, her knees pressed against his shins. 'Well, I think you've got it arse about face. I reckon your priorities are wrong, and if you really give a toss about how things are going to work out between us, you need to think about what's more important. Decide what you want.' She emptied her glass, looked at him. 'Well?'

  Thorne stared at the carpet, wanting more than anything at that moment to turn off the music. To pull out the wannabe Dusty's tedious CD and smash it against the wall.

  The doorbell saved him the trouble.

  Louise swore and stood up, walked across to the CD player and turned it off. 'If that's the stupid cow from upstairs, she can piss off. There's no way that was loud enough to disturb her.' She looked at Thorne as though she were waiting for him to go and answer the door.

  'I'm not going,' he said. 'She's your bloody neighbour . . .'

  He switched off the film and faded up the lights with the same remote. He always got a buzz out of that. When the home cinema had been installed, he'd made sure it came with all the bells and whistles, and it had been worth every penny. He had all the big dishes, so he could watch Premiership football whenever he wanted, the BBC news, all that. But mostly he just watched films. He had quite a library now: war movies, Westerns and a full set of Laurel and Hardy; a decent porn collection that he and Candela dug into every now and again.

  Just to keep things interesting.

  He'd had it built down in the basement, so it was also the coolest room in the place. Most nights, when he wasn't out somewhere or entertaining, he ended up here, with the sound turned up good and loud, stretched out in shorts and a T-shirt until his eyes began to close. He would usually call it a night then, but sometimes he would nod off and wake up sweating at three or four in the morning, with the screen still bright and the speakers hissing. For a moment or two, he might not remember where he was.

  Which time, which country.

  Then, once he'd sorted himself out, he would pad slowly back through the villa to the kitchen, pick up a bottle of water from the fridge and go to bed. Happy enough, all things considered, at the way things had turned out.

  Until now . . .

  It was hassle he simply did not need, not to mention a lot of money he could have done without spending. The precautions he'd taken to make sure the situation could not seriously hurt him had not come cheap. The people he was using had to be paid decent money, on top of what he'd been shelling out every year anyway, just to keep his sources sweet.

  It wasn't all about the money, though. He'd earned the life he'd made for himself, and, bar a minor hiccup or two, until recently it had been relatively stress free. He wasn't getting any younger and he'd been counting on life staying the way it was until he went toes-up. Golf and boats and a spot of clubbing. Parties and shagging until he couldn't get it up any more and a bit of business every now and then, just for the mustard.

  Who wouldn't want that? Do whatever it took to protect it?

  He picked up the remote again, dimmed the lights and restarted the film.

  But he couldn't get his mind off that copper. The one who looked like he might enjoy a bit of digging . . .

  He looked at his watch. On the screen, Stan and Ollie lay asleep in bed, a feather floating back and forth between them as they snored in turn.

  The UK was one hour behind. Things should start happening soon enough.

  And with a bit of luck, that would be the end of it.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thorne had heard the voices and was already on his feet when Louise walked back into the living room with Anna Carpenter. Louise was smiling and saying something about a drink, but as soon as she caught Thorne's eye she stared good and hard. Said, 'Visitor.'

  'Right,' Thorne said.

  'I'll put the kettle on.'

  She walked towards the kitchen, her mouth set, the muscles working in her jaw. Thorne put a hand on her arm as she went past, hoped that her irritation was due to nothing more than having an important conversation interrupted.

  'This is obviously not a great time to be dropping in,' Anna said, trying to smile. She stood in the middle of the room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She had not taken off her coat or put down her bag.

  'How did you get this address?' Thorne took a step towards her.

  'Look, I'm sorry--'

  'And don't tell me it was your mate at the DVLA . . .'

  'Your chief superintendent,' Anna said.

  'What?'

  'He gave me his number last week and told me to call if I needed anything, so--'

  Thorne had already turned away and was moving towards the kitchen. He stuck his head around the door and told Louise not to bother with the coffee. When she opened her mouth to speak, he told her that he was sorry and that he would not be gone long. Then he lowered his voice and told her they could continue the conversation when he got back.

  He walked back into the living room and grabbed his leather jacket from the arm of a chair.

  Anna adjusted the strap of her shoulder-bag.

  'Let's go for a walk,' he said.

  Anna had to hurry a little to catch Thorne, then settled into step with him and did her best to keep up. 'Where are we going?'

  Thorne was unable to answer as he did not have the slightest idea.

  'OK, how about why?' She turned to look at him. 'I'm guessing you didn't want to shout at me in front of your girlfriend.'

  Again, Thorne said nothing, unwilling to think about his reasons for wanting to get out of the flat - wanting to get Anna out of the flat - for too long.

  'Sorry, I don't know her name,' Anna said.

  'Tell me about Jesmond.'

  As they walked, Anna told Thorne that his chief superintendent had called her the day after she had visited Thorne at Becke House. Jesmond had been extremely friendly, she said, and keen to let her know that he and his team would do whatever they could to assist her.

  'I'll bet he was keen,' Thorne said.

  Anna had been told she should not hesitate to contact him if there was any question she needed answering or anything he could do to help. She explained to Thorne that she had already been to his flat in Kentish Town earlier that night, and not knowing where else he might be, she had phoned Jesmond. He had called back a few minutes later and given her the address Thorne had signed out to for the evening. Anna said he'd been happy to help.

  Thorne swore and upped his pace.

  'I didn't know what else to do.'

  'Why
didn't you just call me?'

  'I needed to talk to you in person,' she said. 'There's some things I need to say . . .'

  Thorne looked at her properly for the first time since they had left the flat. He saw the colour in her cheeks as they passed beneath a street lamp and watched her hitch up the strap of her shoulder-bag to prevent it slipping. He slowed down a little.

  She puffed out her cheeks and nodded, grateful.

  'Go on then,' Thorne said.

  She took a few seconds, shrugged, took a few more, then said, 'Just . . . sorry, really. I said a few things in the bar that were probably out of order. I mean, obviously I was fuming, but that's no excuse. That stuff about you being a fuck-up . . . I don't know what I'm talking about, so . . .'

  Thorne stared ahead.

  'And mostly you've been really great, which makes it even worse. You didn't have to take me along to see Monahan, or Donna, and I know I was a pain in the arse.' She waited. They were now little more than strolling. 'You can contradict me, you know.'

  'I can, but I'm not going to.'

  'Anyway . . . sorry for that. And . . .'

  Thorne nodded. 'I said a few things I didn't necessarily mean as well, so . . .'

  'It's OK, I know what you were trying to do,' she said.

  'Good.'

  'But that's the thing. Because what I'm most sorry about is that I'm not going to listen to you.'

  Thorne stopped. 'What?'

  'I've thought about it and I've decided to see it through.' She saw that Thorne was desperate to speak, so answered the question she knew he was about to ask. 'Because I need to stick at this. If I just walk away whenever things get tough, it's like admitting I was stupid to all those people who thought I was mad to get involved with this kind of thing in the first place. So, sorry, and thanks for being concerned, but I'm not quitting. I've already spoken to Donna.'

  'Oh, for God's sake . . .' Thorne started walking again.

  They passed the Chelsea College of Art and Design and then turned left towards the river. As they walked past buildings similar to Louise's, Thorne glanced down into the windows of the basement flats, caught glimpses of people eating or watching TV.

  'I always do that too,' Anna said. 'There's always the possibility you might see someone naked.'

  They crossed the road at Millbank and headed down into Riverside Walk Gardens. The light shining up on to the centrepiece sculpture spilled across the park's braided grass terraces and glinted off a row of metal benches just shy of the embankment wall. Thorne walked across to one, the slats still damp from a downpour an hour or so before. Anna handed him a wad of tissues. Thorne smiled and began wiping away the moisture.

  'What?'

  'I was just thinking about you in the park the other day,' Thorne said. 'Giving that bloke the tissues.'

  They sat.

  'I don't back away from a row.' Anna shrugged. 'Always been my problem.'

  Thorne nodded, said, 'Alan Langford's not just some bloke letting his dog crap on a footpath.'

  'I know that.'

  A woman jogged past, red-faced and panting, an iPod strapped to her belt.

  'Who's she kidding?' Anna asked.

  'Jesmond's just trying to keep you sweet, by the way.' Thorne turned to look at her. 'You need to know that. He's shitting himself in case you decide to go to the papers, tell someone how we screwed up the original inquiry.'

  'Why would I do that?'

  'He tends not to let common sense get in his way. Same as someone else I can think of.'

  'Am I going to get another lecture now?'

  Thorne took a few seconds, let the flash of anger and impatience fade a little. 'Is this about proving something to your mother? This refusal to do the sensible thing.'

  'No.' Anna looked away, watched the jogger run on the spot for a few seconds before turning and heading back the way she had come. 'Well, not just that.'

  'You don't need to prove anything.'

  'I know.'

  'To yourself or your mother. Or me.'

  'It's about feeling something. Making a difference or whatever. God, why do I always sound so wanky when I'm talking to you?'

  'Look, I'm not going to tell you that you're wrong - or stupid - for wanting any of that. It's probably what I wanted, once upon a time.'

  She looked at him. 'You told me you weren't . . . hardened. The other day, when--'

  'I'm not,' Thorne said. 'Not that.'

  Anna waited.

  Thorne decided to try another tack. 'OK, forget how dangerous all this is. Forget that Langford has already had three people killed. At least three. Forget that he's clearly willing to do whatever it takes to hold on to the life he's carved out for himself. I've told you all that until I'm blue in the face and it's obviously not working.'

  Anna smiled. 'Fine. I've forgotten it already.'

  Thorne looked hard at her. Made sure she knew he was serious. 'Listen, whether you're trying to catch men who are cheating on their wives or trying to find Donna Langford's daughter, you're slopping around in other people's misery and you can't just wash it off. Do you understand?'

  She nodded.

  'When there's a murder, when there's someone out there I need to find, I have to switch off. I'm disgusted by it, by what's been done, but I can't afford to have feelings towards whoever it is I'm trying to catch. I can't afford to hate the person I'm after. I mean, I don't love him either, but I have to at least try and understand him. So I can get him. Afterwards, it's different . . .' His voice had dropped and he could see Anna straining to hear above the wind blowing across the water. He cleared his throat. 'Afterwards, in the interview room, across the courtroom or whatever, I'm . . . hateful.' He saw the confusion on Anna's face and shook his head. 'That's not the right word. I'm not sure if there is a word. I'm . . . full of hate . . .'

  He wrapped his fingers tight around the edge of the bench, then moved them away when he felt the small clods of dried chewing gum underneath.

  'There's a man called Adam Chambers. The case I was working on before.'

  'I know,' Anna said. 'I read up on it.'

  Thorne nodded. 'So. Just the thought of him out there, or Langford, or a dozen others who are walking around because they got lucky or someone screwed up. I imagine them sitting in the pub, watching TV like the people in those flats we passed, sleeping. I remember the things they did and I'm full of it. Full to the fucking brim with hate.' He conjured a half-smile, then an unconvincing laugh to go with it. 'And I hate it.'

  They both stared ahead for half a minute, legs stretched out in front of them, hands pushed into jacket pockets. The temperature was dropping and there was more rain in the air.

  'Look, I'm not saying I want to be your shadow or anything,' Anna said.

  'That's a relief.'

  She moved a little closer to him. 'Seriously, I'm not expecting an access-all-areas pass and a promise that I can be there when you make an arrest.'

  'Good, because you wouldn't get it.'

  'Just keep me informed, OK?'

  Thorne turned to her. He could see that this was as big a concession as she was prepared to make.

  'I'd rather hear what's going on from you than from Jesmond.'

  'Fair enough,' Thorne said.

  'I've got a feeling I wouldn't get the full story from your boss. He sounds a bit slimy.'

  Thorne said, 'More than a bit,' and looked out at the river. In one way at least she showed remarkably good judgement. But he still felt uneasy about the situation.

  Perhaps he was just unused to giving so much of himself away.

  He stared at the shifting, black water, at the lights moving slowly in both directions under Vauxhall Bridge, and for the second time that day, he wondered if life would be easier aboard one of those boats. He could turn his face to the wind and empty his mind of all this. The notion was just as incongruous as it had been earlier, staring down from the briefing room at SOCA, not least because Thorne was anything but a natural when it came to the wa
ter. He had first learned that as an eight-year-old on a mackerel-fishing trip with his father, when he had thrown up ten minutes out of Brixham harbour. Since then, anything but a millpond would have his guts churning, make him crave solid earth beneath his feet. Yet he still loved the idea of boats, of drifting away on one, however disappointing the reality always proved to be.

  Like so many other things in his life, it was a good idea on paper.