Sleepyhead tt-1 Read online

  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 jewelry 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-fib 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 toda3 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 w
orse. 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 wrong. ld 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 wanted 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. Anne would be looking for someone to blame. It was probably best, then, to avoid confrontation for a while. To stay out of the line of fire. It still might all turn to shit anyway. He'd known plenty of cases, a lot more straightforward than this one, where a result had slipped away from them at the last minute. A fuck-up or, God forbid, a legal technicality was waiting around every corner to bury cocksure detective inspectors. Thorne wasn't counting any chickens. However, he was buoyant enough to be here in the first place, stepping into the lift and wondering exactly how he was going to explain everything. Because it wasn't Anne he had come to see anyway.

  Going into Alison's room was a shock. Anne hadn't told him she was back on a ventilator, even though he'd known how susceptible she would always be to infection. The room was noisier again, more cluttered, but the girl at the centre of it still drew his eye and his heart as she had done from the first time he'd seen her. She'd had her hair cut since the last time he'd been here. That was the day he'd brought Bishop's photo in, just before he'd been told about the 'anonymous' accusations and things had spiraled out of control.

  Everything was under control again now.

  He moved slowly towards the bed, walking past the blackboard, now folded away and lying against the wall covered in a white sheet. Had Alison heard him come in?

  Page 197

  He knew how limited her field of vision was and didn't want to make her jump.

  He caught himself. Jump? Silly bastard. He knew so little about what her life was like. What it had become. He'd promised himself he'd look into it and hadn't. He'd heard about people who'd had amputations and could still feel the limbs that had gone. Was it like that for Alison?

  Could she still feel or even imagine she was feeling what it was like to jump or run or kick or kiss?

  He stopped at the end of the bed where he knew she could see him. Her eyeball skittered back and forth for a few seconds. She blinked.

  Hello.

  He moved to the side of the bed, reaching for the plastic orange chair and looking around the room, casually, as if he were just another visitor fumbling for a suitable bedside pleasantry. He could see no flowers anywhere. There was nothing to do but begin talking.

  'Hello, Alison. I hope you don't mind me just turning up but there are a few things I wanted to explain. Because nobody else has, really, and I think you have a right to know. Dr Coburn will have given you all the medical stuff.., the medical side of things, but I wanted to try and tell you what happened to you. After you left the club that night. Obviously we don't really know how much you remember. Probably nothing.'

  He helped himself to a much-needed drink from the water jug on the bedside table. He wondered why there was a water jug when Alison couldn't drink.

  'Exactly what happened between you leaving the nightclub and getting home is guesswork, really, but it doesn't matter. You can tell us about where you met the man with the champagne when you get off this ventilator and get a bit better, but we know that he came into your house, and that the drug in the champagne would have been taking effect, and that there'd have been nothing you could do when he… put his hands on you.'

  There was a loud crash from the corridor outside. He saw Alison react. A momentary tension in the skin around the eyes. Sounds were obviously so important. He just needed to get to it now. Stop pissing about. He'd told parents how their children had died. Why should this be so difficult?

  'Anyway, Alison, here's the thing. You didn't survive. I mean.., yes, of course you did, but that was actually what he wanted.'

  He patted the edge of the bed, cast an eye towards the machines, the monitors, the tubes, and back to Alison's face.

  'This… is what he wanted, what he was trying to achieve.

  'It sounds mad, I know it does, and that's because it is. He wasn't trying to kill you. He might easily have killed you because what he did to you is actually incredibly difficult. He's tried before and since, and not been successful… and other women have died. So…'

  So what? Thorne wondered whether he should ever have started this. What should he tell her now? How lucky she'd been?

  'That's it. I won't tell you that you were fortunate not to die. That's really something only you can.., have feelings about. But you were strong enough.., not to die, so I'm sure you're strong enough to get yourself out of here.

  'I have no idea why he did this, Alison. I wish I could tell you I did. I c
ould make something up, but the truth is I haven't got a bloody clue.

  'I can tell you one thing, though, and I suppose that's why I've come if I'm honest. He's going to tell me why he did it very soon. I want you to know that. Very soon. He's going to look me in the eye and tell me.'

  He took her hand. Squeezed.

  'Then I'm going to put the fucker in prison for the rest of his life.'

  Really? I see. Well, thanks for popping by and dropping that little snippet into the conversation.

  He did this to me deliberately. Wants me like this. Wired up, fucked up.

  Right…

  It's hard to take news any other way than calmly when you're like this. My reactions always tend to look a bit similar. On the outside anyway. I might seem a bit placid. Anybody looking at me would be thinking, Ooh, didn't she take it well?

  Inside's another matter.

  Raging. Understanding what it means when your blood boils, because I can feel it bubbling. I can feel it moving through my veins like lava. Because I know now. I know for certain. I'd sort of worked it out anyway.

  I've been thinking it had to be something like that.

  Something fucking twisted.

  I've had a lot of time to think about it and you don't have to be a genius to work out that something strange was going on. There wasn't a mark on me.

  There was nothing sexual. Anne told me.

  I thought early on that maybe he was trying to break my neck but there wasn't even a bruise. I reckon it's really quite easy to kill somebody if you want to and I've been wondering why he didn't want to.

  Trying to work out what he did want.

  So I'm the one he got right? I'm a living and almost breathing testament to this bloke's.., skill?

  While other women died.

  Hearing the blood sizzle and hiss through the arteries. Steam coming off my skin.

  Thorne sounded pretty confident about getting him. Something in his voice made me think that whoever did this is going to be sorry when Thorne gets hold of him. Said he was going to make him tell him why he'd done it. I'm not sure that knowing why's going to make me feel better, really. Getting him will, though. Thorne said he didn't know how much I could remember. Neither do I.