Sleepyhead tt-1 Page 11

  She reached over for her Walkman and swept her long brown hair behind her ears before putting on the headphones. The Manic Street Preachers would take her mind off the fight with her mother. It was so stupid the whole thing. It had started with the usual argument about the bloody results. So what if her grades for IT and chemistry were not what they'd been expecting? She wasn't doing any science subjects in the sixth form anyway. They'd knocked that around for a while and got on each other's nerves and then she'd started on about her 'privacy'. Her right to have a life! Jesus Christ…

  Maybe she and her mum should stop pretending they were mates in that wanky Ab Fab middle-class way. If that was what her mother wanted, that suited her just fine. She'd only been talking to her dad, for fuck's sake. It wasn't like she'd been told not to.

  On TV a flabby sound engineer was trying to get some session-singer's bra off. Or maybe he was her manager. He was ugly and she had saggy old tits.

  She quite liked the copper, actually, and didn't give a toss if her mum wanted to shag his brains out, but now all of a sudden her mum was moving the goalposts. Certain things were 'her business' and she was allowed to have a private life. It was obvious that the flabby bloke wasn't going to get out. She picked up the remote, flicked off the TV and lay there in the dark trying not to cry. The volume on her Walkman was turned up as high as it would go. The noise would send her to sleep eventually and the row would be forgotten in the morning.

  It didn't really matter anyway. Her mum could have her secrets if she wanted.

  Rachel had plenty of her own.

  It sounds as if Anne gave that tit of a husband as good as she got by the lift. She's definitely well shot of him. I wish I could tell her to stop pissing about and make a move on that chunky copper. They've done dinner, now she should go for it, no question. Especially now some hurter's smacked him over the head. Get 'em while their resistance is low. Give him one while he's still dizzy.

  I've always been good at getting people together. It was me who got Paul to go and chat Carol up. I wonder if they're back from their honeymoon yet. Presumably not or they'd have been in.

  We had a really good laugh, actually, me and Anne. Well, she had a good laugh and I just thought about laughing. It's fucking freaky to tell you the honest truth. When I'm half out of it, which is most of the time (did I mention that the drugs in here are fantastic?) I imagine that all the nurses are actually inside me instead of outside in the real world. I try and pretend that they're like these little munchkins running about inside my body and doing all the things that my brain tells them to do. Sweet little mobile body parts. Nursey to open my eyes. Nursey to wipe away the sweat. Nursey to scratch an itchy tit (well, once I've mastered telling them it's itchy). Remember the Numskulls in that old comic? A funny bunch of dwarfs that lived inside this bloke's head. I think "hungry" and this little thing in a blue uniform with a stiff Cap and an upside down watch comes and sticks something yummy in my feeding tube. I think 'pissant', Bob's your uncle, the next little slave empties my catheter. Well, fuck it, you've got to get through the day.

  That's another thing. I've got no bloody idea what time of day it is. Anne makes a point of telling me but ten minutes after she's gone I'm confused again. There's a lot of dizziness as well ('No change there, then; the girls at the nursery would say). I wonder how all the kids are doing? Some of them will have moved up into the next room. A new lot for Daniel to start biting. I really miss them.

  I wonder if I could still get pregnant?

  EIGHT

  Hendricks had arrived laden down with cheap lager and by nine fifteen the pair of them were having trouble staying awake. The reconstruction would be shown in ten minutes. Hendricks, who was far too opinionated for his own good, ranted all the way through the news, while Thorne worked his way quietly through another can of beer and wondered why he hadn't called Anne Coburn.

  Of course, he knew full well why he hadn't called her. The real question was how much longer he could maintain the pretence of integrity. Of actually having any. His resolve was crumbling, can by can.

  The most formal of contact, the most banal conversation would, he knew, be tainted by what he wasn't telling her. What he was choosing carefully and deliberately not to tell her. Of course, he was right on a procedural level not to involve her,-he knew that. Well done him. But he wanted to see her. He wanted to tell he all sorts of things. So… options.

  He could continue to see her and simply not talk about the case. Or about Alison. Or about how he felt every hour of the day.., but he really wouldn't be giving very much of himself in return for what he needed from her, would he? Or he could tell her the truth. If, however, he confided in her that he thought her oldest friend was a multiple murderer then the relationship might well get off to an iffy start. If he told her that her medical school chum – and former lover, let's not forget that – was a sociopathic killer then she was hardly going to see him as a prime candidate for getting into her pants, was she?

  From the sofa Hendricks let out a long, contented belch. There was nothing like alcohol for bringing out the northern bloke in the southern professional. Or the testosterone fuelled lad in the tired old man.

  And now he'd have to deal with this…

  It was not a programme he usually watched. He couldn't deny that it often provided useful leads and bumped up the arrest rates. At work they called it Grass Up Your Neighbour and it was truly astonishing how many people were only too pleased to do just that. It was the reconstructions that bothered him, and the grainy CCTV footage. He couldn't help but find the whole concept vaguely hilarious. It was usually about the time the orange coloured presenter talked about 'anything that's jogged your memory' that Thorne stopped paying attention. The city, after all, was chock-a-block with members of the public happily toddling about having completely forgotten that they'd been caught in the middle of a vicious armed robbery a fortnight earlier. That sort of thing can easily slip your mind…

  They always saved the reconstructions for the really nasty ones. He knew it was down to the tight budgets in both policing and television but there was still something so… last gasp about it all. There was a mawkishness to the whole process which made him uncomfortable. Every 'Sleep well', each 'Don't have nightmares' seemed desperately forced. One minute they'd be showing you your neighbour being battered, raped, murdered, and the next they were reassuring you that crimes such as this were'extremely rare'. The false security of wonderfully malleable crime figures.

  Sleep well, if you're a statistician.

  Despite the taste, sensitivity and sombre tones it was still television. It was still, at bottom, entertainment or, at its very best, journalism, and it niggled him.

  He thought about those police photographers getting Helen Doyle into focus.

  'Here we go…' Hendricks sat up and grabbed the remote. The presenter and the specially selected media friendly officers outlined the menu of mayhem on offer for the next forty minutes. Backhand was up first. After a photogenic female DI had looked into the camera and assured him that attacks by complete strangers were very, very rare, Thorne was taken inside the Marlborough Arms. He watched a young actress sitting with a group of girls, laughing. He watched her go to the bar and buy a round of drinks as the voiceover informed the viewer exactly who she was and what she was doing there and hinted darkly at what was about to happen to her. He watched as the young actress picked up her coat and walked towards the door with several other girls.

  And he saw Helen Doyle step out on to the Holloway Road, say goodbye to her friends and stroll away to meet the man who would murder her. He saw the colour reappear in her face and the leaves fall from her hair. Beneath her blouse and skirt he knew that the scar from Hendricks's Y-shaped incision had faded and that her young skin was smooth again and smelling of talcum powder. His throat tightened as the blood pumped around the pallid, crumpled legs that carried Helen Doyle down past Whittington Park towards a house where her parents were waiting for her. Now Helen is lau
ghing and talking to a man and swigging from a bottle of champagne. The man is tall with graying hair. He is in his mid-thirties. Could he be a little older? Now Helen is starting to get a little wobbly. She all but falls into a dark-coloured car, which moves away to an unknown location where its driver will quietly, and with great skill, rob Helen Doyle and all those that love her of everything she is.

  Then there was Nick Tughan at his most user-friendly. Thorne couldn't deny that he came across well. The jacket and tie were sober. That lilting voice sounded good, no question. The appeal for information was simple and heartfelt. Make a difference and come forward. For Helen. For Helen's family. The operations-room number was given out, and it was on to a series of armed robberies in the West Midlands. Thorne closed his eyes.

  ' What d'you reckon, Tommy?'

  ' We'll have to wait and see what the calls bring in:

  'No… I mean.., was I pretty, Tommy? Tell me. Did I look all right?'

  ' Yes, love. You were gorgeous.'

  'Tughan's got a touch of the Wogan about him, if you ask me.'

  'I didn't. And you're pissed. Now, much as I hate to sully my expensive Scandinavian sofa bed with Goober scum such as yourself, you're welcome to stay.'

  Hendricks was already clambering to his feet and reaching for his leather jacket. A half-empty can of lager was kicked across the room in the process.

  'Sorry…'

  'Gloomy bastard. Try and make it to the tube in one piece, will you?'

  Hendricks waved and pulled a face as he walked past the front window. Thorne mopped up the spilt lager with kitchen towel, stuck on a George Jones CD and settled back in his chair. He was glad Hendricks had gone. He wanted to sit on his own and wait for Holland's call. Anne turned off the television and moved around the room, switching off the lamps. Thorne had told her about the champagne, about how the killer had drugged that poor girl. And Alison. Seeing it acted out in the places where it had happened had been chilling. Somehow she felt a connection with Helen Doyle, and through her she suddenly felt connected to Alison in a different way. She knew that she was being fanciful, dramatic even, but she knew she wanted to give Alison her life back for more than just professional reasons. She wanted the man who had attacked her and who had killed those other girls to have failed. She wanted to be the reason he failed. She stood in the darkened living room and wondered why Thorne hadn't been on the programme. Perhaps he hadn't fully recovered yet. He'd seemed on the mend when she'd seen him in hospital, but maybe he shouldn't have checked himself out so quickly. He was pig-headed, but perhaps he was soft-headed as well. She thought about calling him, but she knew it would be a long call. She needed to get some sleep.

  Brushing her teeth, she thought about David and pictured him being knocked over by the lift doors. The image made it easy for her to check her laughter lines in the mirror as she rubbed in night cream. She turned off the bathroom light and saw Tom Thorne in the shadows, sitting on the edge of the bed in the hospital ward and staring across the room, a million miles away.

  She'd call him tomorrow at work and suggest a drink. As she went into her bedroom she heard the muffled chirp of the mobile from Rachel's room next door. She heard her daughter mumble a hello before pushing her door firmly shut. Anne was annoyed, but didn't want to challenge her about it. Not so soon after that stupid argument. All the same, she had to be up early for school in the morning.

  It was a ridiculous time for her friends to be calling. Holland called just after eleven thirty. Caller ID told Thorne that he was using his mobile. 'A lot of people saw her walking down the main road. One bloke rang up to tell us that she was singing when she walked past him.'

  She'd been happy walking home. Was that a good thing?

  'What was she singing?'

  'Sir?'

  'I can't remember, Tommy. Robbie Williams, maybe…'

  'What about the killer?'

  'Well, obviously there were fewer witnesses once she'd turned off the Holloway Road, but we've had a couple come forward. Nothing really new on a description. Three people rang to say that they thought the car might be a Volvo… Can you hear me?'

  'Has Keable gone home yet?'

  'Yeah, he left a couple of hours ago. Sir?'

  Thorne grunted. Was it too late to ring?

  'One other thing. We think the killer might have called.'

  Thorne had thought it was possible, but it still took the breath out of him. 'Who took the call?'

  'Janet Noble. We had the usual load of nutters, but she said this bloke sounded pretty convincing. She was a bit upset, to tell you the truth.'

  'Go on.'

  'A deepish voice, well spoken…'

  Thorne knew what he sounded like. 'What did he say?'

  'He said he was better-looking than the actor, that Helen Doyle was a lot plainer and that it was a far better brand of champagne.'

  Of course. He'd care about details like that.

  'And he asked where you were.'

  'What did Noble tell him?'

  'She said you'd been taken ill, sir.'

  Thorne knew how well that would have gone down. If he'd believed it.

  'Thanks, Holland, I'll catch up with you tomorrow…'

  'Goodnight, then, sir. '

  '… and thanks for that CD by the way. I never got a chance to…'

  'That's all right. Is it any good?'

  He felt a twinge of guilt. Kenny Rogers' Greatest Hits lay in a box at the bottom of his wardrobe along with a collection of battered paperback books and a self-assembly bathroom cabinet that had go the better of him. He was planning to take it to the charity shop at the weekend.

  'Is that it on in the background? Sir?'

  Dave Holland clipped his phone to his belt, said goodbye to the officers still taking calls and waited for the lift. He'd known this sort of thing might happen, especially with Thorne, but none of it was making his life any easier. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but you would have had to be stupid not to see that lines were being drawn. He knew what Sophie would tell him to do. Keeping your head down hadn't done the likes of Keable or Tughan any harm over the years, had it?

  Or his father.

  No harm. Just a nice little pension and some stories and not an ounce of anything like satisfaction in thirty-five years. He'd spoken proudly about 'keeping his nose clean' right up until the day he'd keeled over, stone dead at sixty. Tom Thorne had never kept his head down in his life. Perhaps he was just.., losing it. He'd been on the beer when Holland had called, no question about it. As the ambulance had taken him away from his flat four days earlier, delirious, and Holland had done his best to clear up, he realised that Thorne didn't consider himself better than anyone else. Not Keable or Tughan or ex-Detective Sergeant Brian Holland, four years dead. He was just a different sort of copper. A different sort of man. Maybe the sort of man whose approval meant something. If Holland could get that and still play it safe, then maybe that would be the way to go.

  He took out his phone again. If Sophie was still up he'd grab them a curry on the way home. He let it ring four times and hung up. Finally the lift arrived and he stepped inside, knowing deep down-that, in the coming days and weeks, playing it safe would not really be an option.

  'Frank?'

  'What is it, Tom?'

  'Bishop drives a Volvo.'

  'Right…'

  'A dark blue Volvo sedan. I didn't put it in my initial report but there was one parked outside his house.'

  'It's in Nick Tughan's report.'

  'Tughan knew?'

  'I told you, he's already looked into all that.'

  'All that!'

  'Can we talk about this in the morning?'

  'And the calls tonight don't make a difference?'

  'It's one more thing in the plus column, but there are still too many minuses.'

  'You've spent too long talking to Tughan…'

  'Goodnight, Thorne…'

  'I'm making a formal request to be taken off this case, sir.
'

  'We'll definitely talk about this in the morning…'

  'Anne? It's Tom Thorne. Sorry, did I…?'

  'Hello?'

  'I'll call you tomorrow.'

  'It's OK – funny, I was angry about Rachel being on the phone a minute ago. Is it a minute ago? I must have gone out like a light.'

  'Rachel's on the phone? I'm-'

  'On her mobile. Hate the whole idea of it, really, but…'

  'It's a safety thing."

  'Umm.'

  'I was just wondering about Alison, really.., and obviously how are you?'

  'Alison's… hang on, let's get sat up. That's better… Alison's making progress, slowly. I don't want to bring the occupational therapist back just yet, but things are moving. And I'm fine.., thanks.'

  'I'd like to see her. To see how she's getting on. You said about her communicating more.'

  'She is, but it's just not.., reliable, I suppose. I'm putting together a system, which will probably be a complete disaster but anyway… How's the head?'

  'So, what do you think? Can I come in and see you?'

  'Her or me? You said-'

  'Sorry?'

  'Both of us… yep. What about Friday?'

  'Fine.'

  'I'm up to my eyes in it at the minute.'

  'I know… That's great. I'm sorry for ringing so late. I've had.., just…'

  'A couple of drinks?'

  'I've had all sorts of things.'

  'Sounds interesting.'

  'Not really. I'll let you get back to sleep…'

  Past midnight. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair with an unpronounceable Swedish name and rearranging his life. Or screwing it up completely. Why did he only ever feel like he was achieving anything if he was pissing someone else off?. He was the loudmouth in the pub quiz shouting at the question master until he's proved wrong. He was the irate driver effing and blinding until the other driver points to the sign showing who has right of way. He was the stupid copper who couldn't conceive of being wrong. The idiot whose feelings were written all over his face. That face sent messages. It whispered, 'You're making a mistake.' It murmured, 'I'm right.' It screamed, 'I know.' It had got backs up for as long as he could remember. It had alienated colleagues and wound up superior officers.