Sleepyhead tt-1

by Mark Billingham

  Mind you, once you've been fucked to this degree, a shag is neither here nor there, really, is it?

  THREE

  Thorne had been wrong about the summer: after a fortnight's holiday of its own, it had returned with a sticky vengeance, and the siren call of the launderette could no longer be ignored. He was horribly aware of the smell coming off him as he sat sweltering in Frank Keable's office. They were talking about lists.

  'We're concentrating on doctors currently on rotation in inner London, sir.'

  Frank Keable was only a year or two older than Thorne but looked fifty. This was more due to some genetic glitch than any kind of stress. The lads reckoned he must have started receding at about the same time he hit puberty, judging by the proximity of his hairline to the nape of his neck Whatever hormones he had left that stimulated hair growth had somehow been mistakenly rerouted to his eyebrows, which hovered above his bright blue eyes like great grey caterpillars. The eyebrows were highly expressive and gave him an air of wisdom that was, to put it kindly, fortunate. Nobody begrudged him this bit of luck – it was the least you could hope for when you looked like an overfed owl with alopecia.

  Keable put one of his caterpillars to good use, raising it questioningly. 'It might be best to look a bit further afield, Tom. We'd be covering our bases, should the worst happen. We're not short of manpower.'

  Thorne looked skeptical but Keable sounded confident.

  'It's a big case, Tom, you know that. If you need the bodies to widen things out a bit, I can swing it.'

  'Let's have them anyway, sir, it's an enormous list. But I'm sure he's local.'

  'The note?'

  Thorne felt again the heavy drops of rain that had crawled inside his shirt collar and trickled down between his shoulder-blades. He could still sense the polythene between his fingers and thumbs, as he'd read the killer's words while the water ran down into his eyes, like tears coming home.

  The killer had known where Alison was being treated. He was obviously following the case closely. Theirs as well as hers.

  'Yes, the note. And the locations. I think he'd want to be around to keep an eye on things.'

  To monitor his work.

  'Is it worth putting a watch on the hospital?'

  'With respect, sir, the place is crawling with doctors… I can't see the point at the minute.' His eyes drifted to the calendar on the dirty yellow wall – views of the West Country. Keable was originally from Bristol… The heat was making it hard to concentrate. Thorne undid another button on his shirt. Polyester. Not clever. 'Is there any chance of moving that fan round a bit?'

  'Oh, sorry, Tom.'

  Keable flicked a switch on his black desktop fan, which started to swing backwards and forwards, providing Thorne with a welcome blast of cold air every thirty seconds or so. Keable leaned back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks. 'You don't think we're going to crack this, do you, Tom?'

  Thorne closed his eyes as the fan swung back in his direction.

  'Tom, is this about the Calvert case?'

  Thorne looked at the calendar. Two weeks now since they'd found Alison, and they were nowhere. Two weeks of banging their heads against a wall, and getting nothing but headaches.

  Concern, or what passed for it, crept into Keable's voice. 'Cases like this, it's completely understandable…'

  'Don't be silly, Frank.'

  Keable leaned forward quickly. In charge. 'I'm not insensitive to… moods, Tom. This case has a taste to it. It's not in the run of things. Even I can sense it.'

  Thorne laughed. Old colleagues. 'Even you, Frank?'

  'I mean it, Tom.'

  'Calvert is ancient history.'

  'I hope so. I need you focused – and focused is not fixated.'

  Keable wasn't sure but he thought that Thorne nodded. He continued as if the exchange had never happened.

  'I think we'll make a case if we get him. We should be able to match up the note to the typewriter for a start.'

  Keable sighed and nodded. The old-fashioned typewriter was a bit of luck, a lot easier to identify than a laser printer, but still, they needed a suspect first. He'd been in the same position plenty of times. It was hard to sound enthusiastic about evidence which was only of any use when someone was in custody. The procedure had to be followed, but at the end of the day they had to catch him first. Keable knew that procedure was his strong point. He was a good facilitator. It was this self-awareness that had allowed him to leapfrog other officers, Thorne included. It also ensured that those officers didn't resent it. He recognised the talents of others and the lack of them in himself. He was a forger of team spirit. He was well liked. He helped where he could and left the job at the office at the end of the day. He slept well and had a happy marriage – unlike other officers. Thorne included. 'He'll make a mistake, Tom. When we get a hit on a drugs theft we can start narrowing things down a bit.'

  Thorne leaned in close to the tan. 'I'd like to get over to Queen Square, if that's okay. It's been a while and I'd like to see how Alison's doing.'

  Keable nodded. This hadn't been his most successful attempt at one-on-one morale-building but, then, he hadn't expected a backslapping gabfest from Tom Thorne. He cleared his throat as Thorne stood up, walked to the door and then turned.

  'That note was spotless, Frank. It was the shortest forensic report I've ever seen. And he doesn't wash the bodies in a ritualistic way. He's just very, very careful.'

  Keable turned the fan back on himself. He was unsure exactly what Thorne expected him to say. 'I'd been wondering whether we should get the boys to chip in for some flowers or something. I mean, I thought about it but…'

  Thorne nodded.

  'Yes, sir, I know. It hardly seems worth it.'

  'These are really lovely. It was a very nice thought.' Anne Coburn finished arranging the flowers and closed the blinds in Alison's room. The sun was streaming in through the window, causing the girl's face to flush a little.

  'I meant to come in sooner, but…'

  She nodded, understanding. 'You could have written a note to say congratulations, though.'

  Thorne looked down at Alison and immediately understood. It was difficult to notice one less machine amid the confusion of life-preserving hardware. She was breathing. The breaths were shallow, almost tentative, but they were her own. Now a tube ran into a hole in her windpipe, covered with an oxygen mask.

  'She came off the ventilator last night and we performed the tracheostomy.'

  Thorne was impressed. 'Exciting night.'

  'Oh, it's non-stop excitement in here. We had a small flood a while ago. Have you ever seen nurses in wellies?'

  He grinned. 'I've seen the odd dodge video…'

  It was the first time he'd heard her laugh: it was filthy. Thorne nodded towards the flowers, which he'd picked up at a garage on the way in. They weren't quite as lovely as Anne Coburn had said. 'I felt like such an idiot last time, you know, whispering. If she can hear I thought she must be able to smell so…'

  'Oh, she'll smell these.'

  Suddenly Thorne was aware again of the stickiness beneath his arms. He turned to look at Alison. 'While we're on the subject.., sorry, Alison, I must really hum.' He was embarrassed at the silence where a response should have been. He hoped he could get used to talking to this woman with a tube in her neck and another up her nose. She was unable to clear her throat. She was unable to lift the hand that lay pale and heavy on the pink flowery quilt. She was.., unable. And yet, selfishly, Thorne hoped that she thought well of him, that she liked him. He wanted to talk to her. Even now he sensed that he would need to talk to her.

  'Just fill in the gaps yourself,' Coburn said. 'It's what I do. We have some cracking chats.'

  The door opened and an immaculately suited middle-aged man walked in with what at first glance appeared to be candy floss on his head.

  'Oh…' Thorne saw Coburn's features harden in an instant. 'David. I'm busy I'm afraid.'

  They stared at each other. She b
roke the uncomfortable, hostile silence. 'This is Detective Inspector Thorne. David Higgins.'

  The soon-to-be-ex-husband. The helpful pathologist.

  'Pleased to meet you.' Thorne held out a hand, which the immaculate suit shook without looking at him – or at Alison.

  'You did say that this would be a good time,' said the suit, half smiling.

  He was obviously trying hard to be pleasant for Thorne's benefit but clearly it did not come naturally. On further inspection the candy floss was in reality a teased up and hair sprayed dyed vanilla quaff-a ridiculous affectation in a man who was at least fifty-five: he looked as if he'd walked off the set of Dynasty.

  'Well, it would have been,' said Coburn frostily.

  'My fault, Mr. Higgins,' said Thorne. 'I didn't have an appointment.'

  Higgins moved towards the door, adjusting his tie.

  'Well, I'd better make sure I have an appointment in future, then. I'll call you later, Anne, and we can arrange one.' He closed the door soundlessly behind him. There was a muffled exchange outside and the door was opened again by a nurse. It was time for Alison's bed bath.

  Anne Coburn turned to him. 'What do you usually do for lunch?'

  They sat in the back of a small sandwich bar on Southampton Row. Ham and Brie on a baguette and a mineral water. A cheese and tomato sandwich and a coffee. Two busy professionals.

  'What are Alison's chances of regaining any significant…?'

  'Nil, I'm afraid. I suppose it depends a little on your definition of "significant" but we have to be realistic. There have been documented cases of patients regaining enough movement to operate a sophisticated wheelchair. They're doing a lot of work in the States with computers operated by headsticks, but realistically it's a bleak prognosis.'

  'Wasn't there somebody in France who dictated an entire book with an eyelash or something?'

  ' The Diving Bell and the Butterfly – you should read it. But it's pretty much a one-off. Alison's gaze reacts to voices and she seems to have retained the ability to blink, but whether she has any real control over it is hard to say at the moment. I can't see her giving you a statement just yet.'

  'That wasn't the reason I asked about… It wasn't the only reason.' Thorne took an enormous bite of his sandwich. Anne had done most of the talking but had already finished hers. She looked at him, narrowing her eyes, her voice conspiratorial. 'Well, you've been privy to my disastrous domestic situation. What about yours?' She took a sip of mineral water and watched him chew, her eyebrows arched theatrically. She laughed as, twice, he tried to answer and, twice, had to resume his efforts to swallow the sandwich.

  Finally: 'What – you mean is it disastrous?'

  'No. Just… is there one?'

  Thorne could not get a fix on this woman at all. A vicious temper, a filthy laugh, and a direct lie of questioning. There seemed little point in going round the houses.

  'I've moved effortlessly from "disastrous" to just plain "bleak".'

  'Is that the normal progression?'

  'I think so. Sometimes there's a short period of "pitiful" but not always.'

  'Oh, well, I'll look forward to that.'

  Thorne watched as she reached into her bag for a cigarette. She held up the packet. 'Do you mind?'

  Thorne said no, and she lit up. He stared as she blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, way from him. It had been a long time since his last cigarette.

  'More doctors smoke than you'd imagine. And a surprising number of oncologists. I'm amazed that more of us aren't smack heads to be honest. Do you not, then?'

  Thorne shook his head. 'A policeman who doesn't smoke. You must like a drink, then?'

  He smiled. 'I thought you worked too many hours to watch television.'

  She groaned with pleasure as she took a long drag. Thorne spoke slowly but was still smiling when he answered the question. 'I like more than one…'

  'Glad to hear it.'

  'But that's pretty much it, as far as the clich6s go. I'm not religious, I hate opera, and I can't finish a crossword to save my life.'

  'You must be driven, then? Or haunted? Is that the word?'

  Thorne tried to hold the smile in place and even managed to produce a chuckle of sorts as he turned away and looked towards the counter. When he'd caught the eye of the woman at the till he held up his coffee cup, signaling for another. He turned back as Anne was stubbing out her cigarette. She exhaled, enjoying it, running elegant fingers through her silver hair.

  When he'd caught the eye of the woman at the till he held up his coffee cup, signaling for another.

  'So, does "desperate" and "bleak" involve children?'

  Thorne turned back round. 'No. You?'

  Her smile was huge and as contagious as smallpox.

  'One. Rachel. Sixteen and big trouble.'

  Sixteen? Thorne raised his eyebrows. 'Do women still get upset if you ask how old they are?'

  She plonked an elbow on the table and leaned her chin on the palm of her hand, trying her best to look severe.

  'This one does.'

  'Sorry.' Thorne tried his best to look contrite. 'How much do you weigh?'

  She laughed loudly. Not filthy, positively salacious. Thorne laughed too, and grinned at the waitress as his second cup of coffee arrived. It had barely touched the table when Coburn's bleeper went off. She looked at it, stubbed out her cigarette and grabbed her bag from the floor. 'I might not be a smack head, but I do an awful lot of indigestion tablets.'

  Thorne lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. 'I'll walk you back.'

  On the way towards Queen Square things became oddly formal again. Small-talk about Indian summers gave way to an awkward silence before they were half-way there.

  When they reached her office, Thorne hovered in the doorway. He felt like he should go, but she held up her hand to stop him as. she made a quick call. The bleep had not been urgent.

  'So how is the investigation going?'

  Thorne stepped into the office and closed the door. He had thought this was coming over lunch. His capacity to bullshit members of the public had once been endless, but he spent so much of his time exercising that particular skill on superior officers that he couldn't be bothered trying it on with those who had no axe to grind.

  'It's a… bleak prognosis.'

  She smiled.

  'Every day there's some stupid story in the paper about armed robbers tunneling into the shop next door to the building society or burglars falling asleep in houses they've broken into, but the simple fact is that most people who break the law give serious thought to not getting done for it. With murderers, you've got a chance if it's domestic, or when there's sex involved.'

  She leaned back in her chair and took a sip from a glass of water.

  Thorne watched her. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to make a speech.'

  'No, I'm interested, really.'

  'Any sort of sexual compulsion can make people sloppy. They take chances and eventually they slip up. I just can't see this bloke slipping up. Whatever's been driving him isn't sexual.'

  Her eyes were suddenly flat and cold. 'Isn't it?'

  'Not physically. He's perverse.., but he's-'

  'What he's doing is grotesque.'

  There was a matter-of-factness about the statement that Thorne had no argument with. What shook him was her use of the present tense. There were those who thought or hoped (and, by Christ, he hoped) that perhaps there'd be no need for new pictures on the wall. But he knew better. Whatever mission this man thought he was on, whatever it was he hoped to achieve, he was actually stalking women and killing them in their own homes. And he was enjoying himself. Thorne could feel himself start to redden.

  'There's no conventional pattern to this. The ages of the victims seem unimportant to him, as long as they're available. He just picks these women out and when he doesn't get what he wants he just leaves them. Shiny and scrubbed and slumped in a chair or lying on a kitchen floor for their loved ones to stumble across. Nobody sees
anything. Nobody knows anything.'

  'Except Alison.'

  The awkward silence descended again, more stifling than the air trapped inside the tiny office. Thorne felt the retort of his outburst bouncing off the walls like a sluggish bullet. There was none of the usual irritation when his mobile phone rang. He grabbed for it gratefully. DI Nick Tughan ran the Backhand office: an organiser and collator of information, another embracer of procedure. His smooth Dublin brogue could calm or persuade senior officers. Unlike Frank Keable, though, Tughan had the self-awareness of a tree-stump and little time for characters like Tom Thorne. The way the operation had been going up to now meant that it was very much his show and he ran it with an unflappable efficiency. He never lost his temper.

  'We've got a fairly major Midazolam theft. Two years ago, Leicester Royal Infirmary, five grams missing.'

  Thorne reached across the desk for a piece of paper and a pen. Anne pushed a pad towards him. He began to scribble down the details. Maybe there had been a slip-up, after all.

  'Right, let's send Holland up to Leicester, get all the details, and we'll need a list of everyone on rotation from, say, ninety-seven onwards.'

  'Ninety-six onwards. Already sorted it. It's been faxed through.'

  Tughan was well ahead of him and thoroughly enjoying it. Thorne knew what he would have done next. 'Obvious question then.., any matches?'

  'A couple in the South-East and half a dozen in London. But there's an interesting one. Works at the Royal London.'

  Interesting was right. Anne Coburn had spotted it straight away. Working on the assumption that Alison had been attacked in her home, then why the Royal London?

  Why not the nearest hospital? Thorne took down the name, kept the compulsory, if distasteful, backslapping brief and hung up.

  'Sounded like good news.' She didn't apologise for eavesdropping.

  Thorne was starting to like her more and more. He stood up and reached for his jacket. 'Let's hope so. Five grams of Midazolam. Is that a lot?'