Sleepyhead tt-1

by Mark Billingham

  'That's a hell of a lot. We'd use anywhere up to five milligrams to sedate an average-sized adult. That's intravenously, of course.'

  She stood up and moved round the desk to see him out. As she walked to the door she glanced at the scrap of paper, which Thorne had not yet picked up, and stopped dead in her tracks.

  'Oh, God!' She reached for it just as Thorne did – he should never have let her see it, but a tussle would have been.., unseemly. What harm could it do? He opened the door. 'Is this man your.., match, Detective Inspector?' She moved back to her side of the desk and sat down heavily.

  'I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm sure you understand. I can't really-'

  'I know him,' she said. 'I know him extremely well.'

  Thorne hovered in the doorway. This was starting to get awkward. Procedure dictated that he leave straight away and send someone back to get a statement. He waited for her to continue.

  'Yes, he certainly worked in Leicester, but there's no way he'd have anything to do with stealing drugs.'

  'Doctor-'

  'And he's got something of a cast-iron alibi as far as Alison Willetts is concerned.'

  Thorne shut the door. He was listening.

  'Jeremy Bishop was the anaesthetist on call at the Royal London A and E the night Alison was brought in. He treated her. Do you remember? I told you I knew him. He told me about the Midazolam.'

  Thorne blinked slowly. Dead Susan. Dead Christine. Dead Madeleine.

  'Come on, Tommy, you must have something to go on?'

  He opened his eyes. She was shaking her head. She'd seen the date on the piece of paper. 'I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, but much as you dislike Detective Constable Holland…'

  Thorne opened his mouth and closed it again.

  '… it's a waste of time to send him to Leicester. The man you're looking for is certainly clever, but there's no guarantee he ever worked at Leicester Royal Infirmary.'

  Thorne dropped his bag and sat down again. 'Why am I starting to feel like Dr Watson?'

  'August the first is rotation day. Normally it would be a reasonable assumption that in order to steal a large quantity of drugs from a hospital you'd have to work there. Yes, hospital staff are overstretched and occasionally inefficient, but as far as dangerous drugs are concerned there is a procedure in place.'

  Thorne's favourite word again.

  'But on rotation day, things can get a bit lax. I've worked in hospitals where you could walk out pushing a bed and carrying a kidney machine on August the first. I'm sorry, but whoever took these drugs could have come from anywhere.'

  Susan. Christine. Madeleine. 'Something, 7bmmy. A lead. Something…'

  Thorne took out his phone to call Tughan back. It was Helen Doyle's first round of drinks, but already she was worrying about how much she'd spent. A few designer bottles and a couple of rum and Cokes and it was three times what she earned in an hour.

  Sod it. It was Nita's birthday and she didn't do this very often.

  She loaded the drinks on to a tray and looked across to where her mates were sitting at a corner table. She'd known three of them since school and the other two for almost that long. The pub wasn't busy and the few people in there were probably pissed off with the noise they were making. On cue the gang began to laugh, Jo's high-pitched cackle the loudest of all. Probably another one of Andrea's filthy jokes…

  Helen walked slowly back to the table, the other girls cheering when she put the tray down and diving on to their drinks as if they were the first of the night.

  'Didn't you get any crisps?'

  'Forgot, sorry…'

  'Dizzy bitch.'

  'Tell her the joke…'

  'How much fucking ice has he put in here?'

  Helen took a swig and looked at the label on the bottle. It didn't actually say what was in it. She'd got through plenty already. Hooch, Metz, Breezers. She was never really sure what she was drinking, what the booze was, but she liked the colours and she felt fashionable with the slim, cold bottle in her hand. Sophisticated. Nita drained half of her rum and Coke. Jo emptied the remains of a pint of lager and belched loudly.

  'What do you drink those for? It's like pop!'

  Helen felt herself blush. 'I like the taste.'

  'It's not supposed to taste nice, that's the point.'

  Nita and Linzi laughed. Helen shrugged and took another swig. Andrea nudged her. 'Like you know what!'

  There was a groan. Jo stuck two fingers down her throat. Helen knew what they were talking about, but part of her wished they wouldn't. Sex was pretty much all Andrea ever talked about.

  'Tell us how big his cock was again, Jo.'

  The stripper gram had been Andrea's idea and Nita had seemed to like it. Helen thought he was really fit, all covered in oil, and he made her go very red, but the poem about Nita hadn't been that good. She could tell that he'd been as embarrassed as her when Jo grabbed his crotch, and for a second he'd looked really upset. Then he'd smiled and grabbed his clothes from off the floor while everybody whistled and cheered. Helen had whistled and cheered too, but she wished she'd been a bit more pissed.

  'Big enough!'

  'More than a mouthful's a waste.'

  Helen leaned across to Linzi. 'How's work?'

  She was probably closest to Linzi, but they hadn't spoken properly all night.

  'Shit. I'm going to chuck it in… do some temping or something.'

  'Right.'

  Helen loved her job. The money was poor, but the people were nice and even though she had to give her mum and dad a bit, it was still cheap living at home. She couldn't see the sense in moving out, not until she met someone. What was the point in renting a gritty flat like Jo or Nita? Andrea still lived at home anyway. God knows where she was having all that sex she was always on about…

  'Let Me Entertain You' came on the jukebox. It was one of her favourite songs. She nodded her head to the rhythm and sang the words quietly to herself. She remembered a fifth-form disco, and a boy with an earring and sad brown eyes and cider on his breath. When the chorus came, the rest of the girls joined in and Helen shut up. The bell rang and the barman shouted something incomprehensible. Andrea and Jo were all for another round. Helen grinned but she knew she should be getting back. She would feel bad in the morning and her dad would be waiting up for her. She was starting to feel woozy and knew that she should have gone home and had her tea before she came out. She could have changed too. She felt frumpy and self-conscious in her black work skirt and sensible blouse. She'd grab a bag of chips on the way home. And a piece of fish for her dad.

  Andrea stood up and announced that they'd all put in for one more. Helen cheered along with the rest of them, drained the bottle and reached into her purse for a couple of pound coins.

  Thorne sat with his eyes shut listening to Johnny Cash. He rolled his head around on his neck, enjoying every crack of cartilage. Now the Man in Black with the dark, dangerous voice was insisting that he was going to break out of his rusty cage. Thorne opened his eyes and looked around at his neat, comfortable flat – not a cage, exactly, but he knew what Johnny was talking about.

  The one-bedroom garden flat was undeniably small, but easily maintained and close enough to the busy Kentish Town Road to ensure that he never ran out of milk or tea. Or wine. The couple in the flat upstairs were quiet and never bothered him. He'd lived here less than six months after finally selling the house in Highbury, but he already knew every inch of the place. He'd furnished the entire flat during one wretched Sunday at IKEA, spent the next three weeks putting the stuff together and the succeeding four months wishing he hadn't bothered.

  He couldn't say he'd been unhappy since Jan had left.

  Christ, they'd been divorced for three years and she'd been gone nearly five, but still, everything just felt.., out of kilter. He'd thought that moving out of the house they'd shared and into this bright new flat would change things. He'd been optimistic. However close to him the objects around him were, he had no real.., connection to
any of them. It was functional. He could be out of his chair and in his bed in a matter of seconds but the bed was too new and, tragically, as yet unchristened.

  He felt like a faceless businessman in a numberless hotel room.

  Perhaps it would have been better if Jan had gone because of the job. He'd seen it often enough and it was the stuff of interminable TV cop shows – copper's wife can't stand playing second fiddle to the job, blah, blah, blah. Jan had never been an ordinary copper's wife and she'd left for her own reasons. The only job involved in the whole messy business was the one she'd been on every Wednesday afternoon with the lecturer from her creative-writing course. Until he'd caught them at it. In the middle of the day with the curtains drawn.

  Candles by the bed, for Christ's sake…

  Jan said later that she never understood why Thorne hadn't hit him. He never told her. Even as the scrawny bastard had leaped from the bed, his cock flapping, scrabbling for his glasses, Thorne knew that he wasn't going to hurt him. As he let the pain wash over him, he knew that, reeling and raw as he was, he couldn't bear to hear her scream, see the flash of hatred in her eyes, watch her rushing to comfort the little smartarse as he sat slumped against the wardrobe, moaning and trying to stop the blood. A few weeks later he'd waited outside the college and followed him. Into shops. Chatting with students on the street. Home to a small flat in Islington with multicoloured bicycles chained up outside and posters in the window. That had been enough for him. That simple knowing. You're mine if l ever decide to come and get you.

  But after a while even that seemed shameful. He'd let it go. Now it was the stuff of late nights and red wine and singers with dark, dangerous voices.

  Yes, he'd brought the job home – especially after Calvert, when things had slipped away from him for a time – but they'd got married far too young. That was all, really. Perhaps if they'd had kids…

  Thorne scanned the TV pages of the Standard. Tuesday night and bugger all on. Even worse, Sky had shown the Spurs-Bradford game at eight o'clock. He'd forgotten all about it. At home against Bradford – should be three points in the bag. Teletext, the football fan's best friend, gave him the bad news.

  She was slumped, her back against his legs, buttocks pressing down on her heels and knuckles lying against the polished wooden floorboards. He stood behind her, both hands on the back of her neck, readying himself. He glanced around the room. Everything was in place. The equipment laid out within easy reach.

  Her mouth fell open and a wet gurgling noise came out. He tightened his grip, ever so slightly, on her neck. There was really no point in trying to talk and, besides, he'd heard quite enough from her already.

  An hour and a half earlier, he'd watched as the group of girls had begun to thin out. A couple had wandered off towards the tube and a couple more to the bus stop. One tottered off down the Holloway Road. Local, he guessed. Perhaps she'd like to join him for a drink. He'd taken a left turn and driven the car round the block, emerging on to the main road twenty yards or so ahead of her: He'd waited at the junction until she was a few feet away then got out of the car.

  'Excuse me… sorry.., but I seem to be horribly lost.'

  Slurring the words ever so slightly. Just the right side of pissed. And so well-spoken.

  'Where are you trying to get to?'

  Wary. Quite right too. But nothing to worry about here. Just a tipsy hooray lost on the wrong side of the Archway roundabout. Taking off his glasses, looking like he's having trouble focusing…

  'Hampstead… sorry.., had a bit too much… Shouldn't be driving, tell you the truth.'

  'That's OK, mate. Hammered meself as it goes…'

  'Been clubbing?'

  'No, just in the pub – mate's birthday.., really brilliant.'

  Good. He was glad she was happy. All the more to want to live for. So…

  'I don't suppose you fancy a nightcap?' Reaching through the car window and producing it with a flourish.

  'Blimey, what are you celebrating?'

  Christ, what was it with these gifts and a bottle of fizz?

  Like a hypnotist's gold watch.

  Just pinched it from a party.' Then the giggle. 'One for the road?'

  About half an hour. Thirty minutes of meaningless semi-literate yammering until she'd started to go. She was full of herself. Nita's boyfriend… Linzi's problems at work.., a couple of dirty jokes. He'd smiled and nodded and laughed, and tried to imagine how he could possibly have been less interested. Then the nodding-dog head and the sitcom slurring, and it was time for the innocuous looking man to tip his paralytic girlfriend into the back of his car and take her back to his place.

  Then he'd made the phone call, and put her in position. And now Helen wasn't quite so gobby.

  Again the gurgling, from somewhere deep down and desperate.

  'Ssh, Helen, just relax. It won't take long.'

  He positioned his thumbs, one at either side of the bony bump at the base of the skull and felt for the muscle, talking her through it… 'Feel these two pieces of muscle, Helen?'

  She groaned.

  'The sternocleidomastoid. I know, stupidly long word, don't worry. These muscles reach all the way down to your collar-bone. Now what I'm after is underneath…' He gasped as he found it. 'There.'

  Slowly he wrapped his fingers, one at a time around the carotid artery and began to press.

  He closed his eyes and mentally counted off the seconds. Two minutes would do it. He felt something like a shudder run through her body and up through the thin surgical gloves into his fingers. He nodded respectfully, admiring the Herculean effort that even so tiny a movement must have taken.

  He began to think about her body and about how he might have touched it. She was his to do with as he pleased. He could have slipped his hands from her head and slid them straight down the front of her and beneath her shirt in a second. He could turn her round and penetrate her mouth, pushing himself across her teeth. But he wouldn't. He'd thought about it with the others too, but this was not about sex.

  After considering such things at length he'd decided that his was a normal and healthy impulse. Wouldn't any man feel the same things with a woman at his mercy? So easily available? Of course. But it was not a good idea. He did not want them.., classifying this as a sex crime. That would be easy, would throw them too far off the scent. And he knew all about DNA.

  A growl came from somewhere deep in Helen's throat.

  She could feel everything, was aware of everything and still she fought it.

  'Not long now… Please be quiet.'

  He became aware of a drumming noise and, without moving his head, glanced down to where her fingers were beating spastically against the floorboards. Adrenaline staging a hopeless rearguard action against the drug. She might make it, he thought, she wants to live so much. One minute forty-five seconds. His fingers locked in position, he leaned down, his lips on her ear, whispering: 'Night-night,…'

  She stopped breathing.

  Now was the critical time. His movements needed to be swift and precise. He eased the pressure on the artery and pushed her head roughly forward until chin was touching chest. He let it rest there for a few seconds before whipping it back the same way so that he was staring down at her face. Her eyes were open, her jaw slack, spittle running down her chin. He dismissed the urge to kiss her and moved her head back into the central position. Back into neutral. Then he took a firm grip and entwined his fingers in her long brown hair before twisting the head back over the left shoulder. And holding it.

  Then the right shoulder. Each twist splitting the inside of the vertebral artery. Now it was up to her. He laid her down gently and placed her body in the recovery position. He was sweating heavily. He reached for a glass of cold water and sat down on the chair to watch her. To wait for her to breathe.

  His mind was empty, as he focused, unblinking, on her face and chest. The breaths would be short and shallow, and he watched and willed the smallest movement. Every few seconds he leaned
forward and felt for a pulse. Helen's body was unmoving.

  He reached for the bag and mask. It was time to intervene. Ten minutes of frantic squeezing, shouting at her:

  'Come on, Helen, help me!' Screaming into her face. 'I need you to be strong.'

  She wasn't strong enough.

  He slumped back into the chair, out of breath. He looked down at the lifeless body. A button was missing from her shirt. He looked across at the plain black shoes, neatly placed one next to the other by her side. The small pile of jewelry in a stainless-steel dish next to them.

  Cheap bracelets and big, ugly earrings.

  He mourned her and hated her.

  He needed to move. Now it was just about disposal. Quick and easy.

  He began to strip her.

  Thorne picked up the bottle of red wine from the side of his chair and poured another glass. Maybe forty-year-old men were better off on their own in neat, comfortable but small flats. Forty-year-old men with bad habits, more mood swings than Glenn Miller and twenty-odd years off the market had very little say in the matter. A taste for country-and-western hardly helped.

  Johnny was singing about memories. Thorne made a mental note to programme the CD player to skip this track next time. Had Frank been right when he'd asked if the Calvert case was still part of the equation?

  The one fresh and tender corpse…

  Fifteen years was too long to be lugging this baggage around. It wasn't his anyway. Fie couldn't recall how it had " been passed on to him. He'd only been twenty-five. Those far above him had carried the can, as it was their job so to do. He'd never had the chance to take the honourable way out. Would he have done it anyway?

  One man, released…

  He'd had no say in letting Calvert go after the interview. The fourth interview. What happened in that corridor and later, in that house, seemed like things he'd read about like everybody else. Had he really felt that Calvert was the one? Or was that a detail his imagination had penciled in later, in the light of what he had seen that Monday morning? Once everything started to come out, his part in it all was largely forgotten anyway. Four girls, deceased…