Sleepyhead Page 12

  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 laughing and talking to a man and swigging from a bottle of champagne. The man is tall with greying 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 sofabed with Gooner 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 . . .’

  ‘Clumsy 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 got 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.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘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 questionmaster 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.

  It had told Francis Calvert to kill children.

  There was one can of beer left. He put his favourite track from the George Jones album back on and turned it up. Jones’s duet with Elvis Costello . . .

  ‘There’s a stranger in the house no one will ever see . . . but everybody says he looks like me.’

  He’d have to play it carefully with Keable. However much he discredited Thorne’s theories about Jeremy Bishop, Keable knew that the killer and Thorne had a connection. That first note had been written before Thorne had even met Bishop. There was a link. The killer wanted Thorne close. So, whatever Thorne did, he knew that Keable would be watching. The truth was that Thorne didn’t really know what he was going to do and, more disturbingly, he had no idea what Bishop was going to do either. How would he react to Thorne leaving the case? Would he be . . . insulted? Would he do something to demand the attention he thought he deserved?

  Thorne tried not to think about those things that might make him bitterly regret what he had chosen to do. He told himself that he’d been given very little choice. They wouldn’t listen. Worse, they were judging him. Putting it down to Calvert. Fifteen years, and still he was tainted, any instinct called an obsession. Every observation, every thought weighed up and judged and found wanting.

  He couldn’t bear that judgement any longer. He didn’t need the judgement of the living.

  He was being judged every day by the dead.

  He needed to be outside an operation that was stifling him. He had to get out and make things happen. While he dicked about following leads and smiling the right smiles, Jeremy Bishop was making a fool of him.

  It was time to turn things round.

  He had to go to bed. The following morning was not going to be pleasant and he’d need to be as sharp as he could be. But he still needed to make one more call. He got up and went to the mantel
piece for his address book. He couldn’t remember the numbers of many pornographers offhand.

  I’m glad Anne’s spending more time with me again. I’d sort of started thinking that she’d moved on a bit, that the novelty had maybe worn off. I wouldn’t have blamed her, but I can’t believe she’s got many like me. She told me her workload had built up and that the administrator was an arsehole, so fair enough. Mind you, if I don’t start making some progress I might find myself out on my ear. Somebody’s bound to need the bed.

  We’ve pretty much got ‘yes’ and ‘no’ sussed, and ‘in pain’ is one of my specialities but blinking is hardly Esperanto. One for yes and two for no is all very well in theory but it’s the control that’s letting me down. And the gaps between the blinks are all over the shop. I try to blink twice but it’s hard for Anne to know if I’m saying ‘no’ or saying ‘yes, yes’. There’s a lot of ‘Is that a yes, Alison? No? Is that a no, then?’ We’re like a pair of comical foreigners on Benny Hill. This chicken is rubbery! Dad used to piss himself at that. Mum was never much for comedy shows, but he loved it. Maybe the old sod just fancied the women in bikinis. I caught Mum watching one of the videos a couple of weeks after my dad died. She must have got it out of the video shop. I was doing my NVQs, I think, and I came back from college early one day. She was sitting there watching this sad old fat bloke chasing these dolly-birds round and round a garden and crying her eyes out.

  Tim had better buck up his sodding ideas as well. He just sits there holding my hand. I know he can’t come much in the daytime because of work but he should make more of an effort in the evenings. I don’t know anything. He doesn’t tell me. What’s happening on Brookside? Is he still playing football on Sundays? Has he put that shower curtain up yet? If Dad was here he’d kick him up the arse.

  He’s stupid, really, because the weight’s dropping off me and if everything else is knackered then there’s every chance I might actually have stopped ageing! I’ll be walking out of here a slim and sexy shadow of my former self. There’s one very tasty male nurse. Probably gay, but fit as fuck. If Tim’s not careful I might have to start looking elsewhere.