Sleepyhead

by Mark Billingham

  The next comedian was a woman. She was gentler and did a really funny song about men being crap in bed to start off.

  Rachel took a sip from her half of lager and smiled at him, feeling a little light-headed. He smiled back and squeezed her hand. When he’d let go she slid her arm between his back and the chair.

  She was as happy as she could ever remember being.

  She rested her hand on his waist . . . the audience laughed . . . he had on a really nice linen shirt which he wore out of his trousers . . . the audience groaned at a corny line . . . he always wore gorgeous clothes . . . the woman on stage started another song . . . Rachel wanted to touch his skin . . . a drunk at the other side of the room started to cheer and clap . . . she moved her hand under his shirt and her fingers crept round to stroke the flesh of his stomach . . .

  Then he screamed.

  In that split second when everything fell apart, and he was standing up, and her drink was in her lap, and the woman on the stage was pointing at them, it seemed to Rachel that he had screamed. Christ, he had. He’d bellowed. As if he’d been scalded . . .

  His face was a mask and she reached up to grab his arm, but he called her a stupid little bitch and grabbed for his coat and he was away, moving quickly away, pushing between the tables and knocking over empty chairs.

  And the woman on the stage was laughing and saying something to him as he marched out, and he turned and shouted and told her to fuck off, and people in the audience started to boo, and he looked like he wanted to hurt them.

  He crashed out through the door, and she could feel the beer soaking through her thin skirt, and the eyes of everyone in the room burning into her. The door slammed shut with a bang, and the woman on the stage leaned in close to her microphone and put a hand over her eyes to stare into the lights and beyond, to where Rachel was sitting and wishing she was dead.

  ‘Bit of a domestic, love?’

  A few people in the audience laughed. And Rachel began to cry.

  Holland was listening to the sports round-up on Radio 5 Live for the third time in as many hours, when headlights swept across his rear-view mirror and he turned to see Jeremy Bishop pulling up outside his house.

  Thorne had called at around six and Sophie was not best pleased. She’d known immediately that it was Thorne. She knew everything immediately. She’d have been pissed off at his having to go out anyway but Thorne, as far as she was concerned, represented an unhealthy future for him in the force. A future he should run from at all costs. A future without promotion, without stability, without certainty.

  By implication, without her.

  He couldn’t argue with her. Everything she said made complete sense. But they were words from beyond the grave. His father’s words. Sophie was mouthing the sentiments of a man he had loved but had never admired.

  It was hard not to admire Tom Thorne.

  He couldn’t argue with Sophie, so he didn’t bother. He left the house in silence and conducted the argument with her in his head as he drove to Battersea and sat waiting. In truth, he was arguing with himself as well.

  Thorne was clutching at straws, of course he was. Jeremy Bishop, who, Holland knew, had been at work in the Royal London hospital at the time, had dropped a ring in Maggie Byrne’s bedroom as he was murdering her. Right. Looked at rationally, these were the ravings of a man popularly thought by many of his colleagues to have gone over the edge. But there’d been something in Thorne’s voice. Yes, desperation possibly, but more than that. An excitement, a zeal, a passion that had Holland reaching for his coat and wondering what he was going to say to Sophie before he’d put down the phone.

  He stepped out of the car and crossed the road.

  Bishop, who had just locked the Volvo and was about to head towards his front door, saw Holland coming. He sighed theatrically and leaned back against the car, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers.

  Holland was ready with an apologetic shrug and all the appropriate phrases. Just a few more questions. Investigating a fresh lead. Grateful for all your help and co-operation. As he approached he could see that Bishop remembered him. He didn’t care. He had his badge in his right hand with the other politely outstretched. ‘Detective Constable Holland, sir.’

  Bishop pushed himself away from the car and took a step towards him. ‘Yes, I know. How’s your girlfriend’s hand?’ The tone impatient, the smile saying he knew it was bollocks.

  Holland was thrown, but only for a second. ‘Fine.’

  ‘How long is this going to take?’

  It wasn’t going to take very long at all. As Bishop had started speaking, he had proffered his left hand in return for Holland’s. They’d shaken, and with a quick downward glance, Holland had got what he’d come for. What Thorne had sent him for.

  No wedding ring.

  I’ve been reading a lot. The same page usually, over and over again, but what the hell? Early on, there was a bit of a scramble to find some interesting reading matter and while they were looking, to sort of test out their new-fangled device, the occupational therapist gave me some official hospital literature to read.

  Yawn . . .

  Well, that’s what I thought until I started reading. Fascinating stuff. This is a quote, and I can remember it very accurately having stared at it for twenty minutes: ‘The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, incorporating the Institute of Neuro­logy, is a unique resource for teaching, training and research in neurology and the neurosciences. The work of academic staff and their research is closely integrated with the hospital’s care of its patients.’

  Well, that all seems clear enough to me. The ‘care’ bit is very much an afterthought, you know, tagged on at the end when somebody remembered that it was supposed to be a hospital. The rest seems to be all about research and training and, frankly, they can just fuck right off.

  I’m a patient. Trust me, I’d really rather not be here at all, but if I am then my job description is ‘patient’, mate. I’m nobody’s resource. Nobody’s fucking teaching aid.

  ‘Let’s have a look at this poor young woman here, utterly buggered thanks to brainstem trauma. Can you try and blink for us, dear?’

  No thanks.

  All right, I’m being a bit over the top but when I first read that I was really upset. I lay awake all night wondering if anybody here was making any effort at all to help me get better.

  I’m still wondering.

  Am I more use to them the way I am?

  SEVENTEEN

  Keable and Tughan had questions ready, and Thorne had plenty of answers. First, there was the small matter of another complaint from Jeremy Bishop.

  ‘He claims there was somebody watching his house on Saturday evening.’ Keable looked at Thorne.

  Thorne shrugged and turned to Holland innocently. ‘Did he say anything about this to you last night?’

  Tughan spoke before Holland had a chance to answer. ‘You are on such thin ice, Thorne.’

  Thorne smiled. He was feeling elated and no amount of sniping from Nick Tughan was going to alter his mood. One day soon they would have it all out. For now, he was best ignored.

  Tughan was seated in a chair against the wall beneath the calendar, and Holland stood with his back to the door. The office felt crowded. Thorne placed both hands on Keable’s desk and leaned down to him. ‘So what are we going to do, Frank?’

  Keable slid his chair away from the desk, retreating. He held up a hand. ‘First we’re going to think about what we’ve really got here. How on earth can she be sure the ring isn’t her mother’s?’

  ‘She’s sure.’

  Tughan snorted. ‘She lives in Edinburgh, she never saw her mother, for fuck’s sake. The ring could be anyone’s. Who knows how many men she had round there?’

  Holland spoke quietly. ‘I don’t think Margaret
Byrne had any men. Sir.’

  Tughan turned round and glared. Holland refused to look away.

  ‘SOC got no prints off the body . . .’

  Thorne slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘If SOC hadn’t fucked up and catalogued a vital piece of evidence as one of the victim’s possessions we wouldn’t even be here. This would be over by now.’

  ‘No prints on the body, Tom. The killer wore gloves, so how the hell does he lose a ring?’

  Thorne took a deep breath. Answer the question. Nice and calm. ‘I think he put the gloves on once she was unconscious. Surgical gloves. He put them on to handle the scalpel. To make his incision. The ring could have come off anytime before then. There was obviously some sort of struggle.’

  Keable looked over at Tughan, who shook his head. ‘What does Bishop say?’

  Holland stepped forward, placed a hand on the back of ­Tughan’s chair. Spoke over his head. ‘He claims to have lost it a few weeks ago.’

  Tughan was still shaking his head. Not having any of it. ‘How do you “lose” a wedding ring?’ He began twisting his own. ‘I couldn’t get this fucker off even if I wanted to.’

  Holland had answers as well as Thorne. ‘His comes off quite easily, he told me. He takes it off at work. Takes all his jewellery off. Claims somebody took it out of his locker.’

  Keable seized on this. ‘Anything else taken?’

  ‘His wallet and a watch. A Tag Heuer.’

  ‘Did he report it?’

  ‘No point. He says stuff goes missing from lockers all the time.’

  Thorne’s eyes flicked from one face to the other. Holland was doing well. Keable would not go for this without facts. He needed a weight of facts in support, and Holland was supplying them.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Nearly three weeks ago. The eleventh.’

  Keable nodded. ‘The day before Margaret Byrne was killed.’

  Thorne said nothing. The day he’d conned the lift into town. Bishop had been wearing the ring then. Letting Keable make the decision. It was important he felt that it was his. He was still nodding.

  ‘What do you want, Tom?’

  ‘I want a warrant.’

  Tughan stood quickly, his chair shooting back behind him. Keable raised a hand. ‘Let’s get this ring down here first, and over to the forensic boys. We’ll talk about warrants if and when. Nick, get on the phone to Lothian and Borders. I want it driven down here. Understand?’

  Tughan was first out of the door. Holland held it open for him. As Thorne went to follow, Keable stopped him. ‘There’s a press conference scheduled for midday, Tom. I’d like you on the platform, please.’

  Keable’s tone implied that he would brook no arguments. He wasn’t going to get any. The adrenaline was pumping round Thorne’s body. He was high as a kite. He’d have happily agreed to appear on Stars In Their Eyes.

  Thorne . . .

  Walking into the operations room. Avoiding eye-contact with nobody. Acknowledging the kind words and approving looks. Putting a hand on Dave Holland’s arm and savouring the smile he gets in return. Relishing the scowl on the face of Nick Tughan as the Irishman runs fingers through his thin blond hair and grabs at the phone.

  And enjoying the relief in the voices of the girls.

  ‘It’s going to be over soon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tommy? Is this it?’

  ‘You going to get him, Tommy?’

  ‘Get the fucker . . .’

  Christine, Madeleine, Susan. And Helen at the end. Spitting out enough hope for all of them. It was a hope he was no longer afraid of dashing.

  Yes, I’m going to get him. Very soon.

  And somewhere in the background, the laughter of Leonie Holden.

  He watched it twice. He watched it on each edition of the lunchtime news, BBC and ITV. Both times he was entranced. Both times he laughed out loud, and applauded at the end.

  He was in a much better mood anyway. Things were looking up and the despondency of the day before – it had been a dreadful day – had evaporated with one small snippet of news. It was a little overdue, but more than welcome. He still had no great urge to try the procedure again, but it seemed as if things might work out as planned after all.

  Commander Sincere, Detective Chief Inspector Eyebrows . . . and Tom Thorne. He’d cheered when Thorne had been introduced, finally, to the nation. So everything was hunky-dory again, was it? Tom was back on the team.

  The commander spoke about ‘new leads’ and ‘exciting new avenues of investigation’. And about time too! That said, they were still keen to hear from anyone who could supply even a partial number-plate on the blue Volvo, and they were still showing that bloody awful e-fit, courtesy of some blind passer-by on the night he’d taken Helen Doyle.

  Margaret Byrne would have come up with something far more accurate . . .

  Then Commander Sincere introduced the officer who was going to ‘make a direct appeal to the man responsible for these terrible killings’. The camera moved along to Thorne. He looked a little nervous. Distracted.

  He wondered how Thorne would perform on camera. He must have done this sort of thing before, he was bound to be good at it. The Irishman had been smooth but he guessed that Thorne would bring something else to it. Power, perhaps. Something fuelled by a genuine rage.

  Of course he would. Thorne was a man after his own heart.

  He wasn’t disappointed. There was nothing written down; no need for notes. Thorne looked straight into the camera and spoke calmly, but with precision and strength.

  He shuffled his chair forward, his face only inches from the television screen, his mouth open. It was as if Thorne was speaking straight to him.

  Which of course he was.

  ‘It’s still not too late. You can just stop all of this now. I can’t promise anything but if you come forward now, if you come forward today, then your case is going to be viewed that much more favourably.

  ‘None of us can even begin to guess why you’ve chosen to do these things. Perhaps you feel that you have no choice. You will get the chance to explain all this if you stop the killing now.

  ‘You know, of course, that we will use any means at our disposal to stop you. Any means at all. I can’t guarantee that this will not result in injury of some sort to yourself. Or worse. We do not want to see anybody else hurt and that includes you. You can believe that or not. It’s your choice.

  ‘So just stop and think. Right now. Think for a minute. Whatever point you’re trying to make, consider it made. Then pick up the phone.

  ‘Let’s end this madness. Now. Come forward today and hand yourself over to me . . . to us, and people will be there to help you.’

  Then Thorne leaned in towards the camera, his face filling the screen.

  ‘One way or another, this will all be over soon.’

  Rachel had forgiven him almost instantly.

  He’d called first thing and had sounded so upset about what he’d done. He knew his behaviour had been unforgivable and would completely understand if she wanted to end it.

  That was the last thing she wanted to do.

  His apology made her feel strangely powerful. It was as if there’d been a sudden shift. He could have just walked away but he hadn’t. He’d wanted her forgiveness, and once she’d given it, she sensed that their relationship had moved on to a different footing.

  He’d explained that things at work hadn’t been going too well. There were a couple of people he was clashing with and it had all got on top of him. Obviously that didn’t excuse what he’d done or anything, but he wanted her to know that he’d been under a lot of stress, that was all. She asked why he hadn’t told her. She wanted to share things like that with him. She wanted to share everything with him. She could have helped. He told her that he wa
nted to share everything with her and that one day soon he would.

  She felt her mouth go dry. She knew that he was talking about sex.

  He’d asked if it had been very bad after he’d stormed out of the comedy club. She told him that the woman comedian had picked on her for a bit but then it had been the interval and she’d sneaked out. They laughed, wondering what the rest of the audience would have been saying about them. He said he’d buy her a new skirt to replace the one that got covered in beer. He told her he’d buy her lots of things.

  They’d dallied over saying goodbye, but eventually Rachel said that she really had to go. She told him she’d call him later and that she loved him and they hung up at the same time.

  And then she’d carried on getting ready for school.

  Anne was in a meeting and would be for the next couple of hours. Thorne was not unhappy about it. He’d asked at Reception and now he walked towards the lifts, breathing a sigh of relief. If he had run into her it would have been fine. He’d have handled it and so would she, but it was probably best to leave it a day or two.

  He hoped that it would all be over by then.

  The day before, after the call from Sally Byrne, they hadn’t been able to talk about anything. Once an arrest had been made, once the arrest had been made, they would be able to talk about it all. It wouldn’t be easy for Anne but he would be there to help her through it.

  If she still wanted him.

  He’d seen it lots of times with those who’d been close to killers. He remembered how hard it had been for Calvert’s mother and father, though that had been very different.

  It was a kind of death and there would be a proper mourning to be done. Anne would need to grieve for the friend she’d lost. She would be losing him in many ways, and she’d need to grieve for all of them. This was without the guilt she was bound to feel, and the shame at having been his friend in the first place, and the guilt she would feel because of the shame.

  In all probability, she would also be the first port of call for his children and would need to comfort them and deal with their feelings. Then she would have the press to deal with. If they couldn’t hound a killer, they would hound a killer’s friends. None of it was going to be easy.