Sleepyhead Page 23

  ‘No.’ His tone stopped the tail end of her laughter in its tracks. End of conversation.

  ‘It would be like wishing it dead.’

  Thorne arrived home fizzing and fidgety. There were people he needed to call. His dad. Hendricks. Anne, of course. But he felt too energised.

  It had happened as he’d stepped out of Kentish Town tube station and was wondering which lucky off-licence would have the benefit of his business on the way home. The conversation behind him had gone something like this.

  ‘Big Issue . . .’

  ‘Get a fucking job!’

  ‘This is my job, you arsehole!’

  And it had gone off.

  Thorne had stepped in a second or two after the first punches and kicks began to fly. Wincing as a stray punch caught him on the side of the head, he’d grabbed the get-a-job merchant round the neck and hauled him into a nearby doorway with more force than was strictly necessary. The Big Issue seller, having picked up the magazines scattered during the ruck, had moved in close to watch.

  Thorne had looked at him, ‘Piss off,’ then turned his attention back to the one who had a home. Drunk, of course, or maybe stoned. A student, Thorne reckoned, with blood from a split lip running on to his white button-down shirt.

  Thorne had held him against the door with a stiff arm at his throat and casually kneed the little tosser between the legs as he removed his badge from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pushed it into his face. ‘Have a guess what my job is.’

  Now, back at home, opening the first can of cheap lager, he wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t been around with a badge in his pocket and some aggression to offload.

  If one of them had been carrying a knife.

  These were typical murders. Ordinary killings, simple, banal and understandable. People dying because of anger or frustration or a basic lack of space. Dying for a grand cause or a stupid comment. Or a few pence.

  Wives and husbands killing with hammers and fists, or men being men with drink and knives, or drug-dealers holding guns as casually as combs.

  Thorne understood them, these deaths died in cities. He knew what they were about. Each made its own strange kind of sense.

  But not this. Not killing as a side-effect. Bodies as a by-­product of some sickfuckingmadness.

  He downed the last of the beer, pulled on his jacket, and within forty-five minutes he was standing in a street in Battersea, looking up at the shape that moved behind a light at a second floor window.

  He stood for nearly an hour, melting back into the shadows with each twitch of the curtains, real or imagined. Then he stepped back quickly into the anonymous darkness as Jeremy Bishop threw open the curtains and stood looking down at the street.

  Bishop stared hard at Thorne, or the place where Thorne was, seeing a shape, perhaps, but certainly no more. As Thorne returned the stare, he felt a glacial tremor run through every bone in his body as Bishop’s face suddenly changed.

  From this distance, Thorne could not be sure.

  It might have been a grimace.

  It might have been a smile.

  I know that I’ve made jokes before about the NHS and the lack of money and everything. I was taking the piss out of the blackboard when it first appeared, you know, compared with all the flashy stuff they’ve got in America.

  But this?

  Anne’s been telling me for a while that her and the occupational therapist are going to try to rig up a couple of devices so that I can read and watch TV. Obviously I’ve been gagging for it, and even more so since I’ve been back on this bastard ventilator. When a machine is doing your breathing for you, life can get sooo boring, darling! But I didn’t realise they literally meant ‘rig up’. Honestly, it’s spit and fucking earwax.

  They’ve screwed some sort of pivoting arm into the ceiling and the TV now hangs down from there so I’m staring up at the screen. Great. If I was in hospital in Fuckwit, Illinois, or wherever, I’d be able to control the volume and, crucially, change the bloody channel with my eyelid. Here, in good old London Town, on the good old National Health Service, those little details seem to have been overlooked. So I have to wait for a nurse to show up, and blink to indicate that I’d like her to turn over. She does exactly that and buggers off again. Leaving me staring at Supermarket Sweep or some moronic cookery programme until she puts her head round the door again twenty minutes later and I’m blinking my head off in an effort to get the football on.

  I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but this is heaven compared to my new reading arrangements.

  It’s based around a music-stand, I think, though there might be a bit of old coat-hanger stuck in there as well. All right, I’m exaggerating, but not much. I get raised up and this metal contraption is placed across my tits with little clamps that fold down to hold in place my book or magazine of choice. Good in theory. First, I’m hardly in a position to make complex requests on the book front. I’m racking my brains to think of books I might fancy reading with ­really short titles. Same with magazines, though I’m more or less sorted thanks to OK! and Hello!. Not too taxing on the eyelids. The problem is the same as with the telly, though. I’m hardly Brain of Britain, but even I can read a page of pretty much anything in twenty minutes, or however long it is until the nurse comes in again. I don’t expect them to come tearing in here every ninety seconds to turn my page for me but there must be something somebody can do.

  I can’t pay for anything, and I haven’t got family who can pay for anything or try to raise money, but even so . . .

  Everything’s fucking half-measures.

  Half-measures for half a person.

  SIXTEEN

  Thorne and Anne Coburn had spent most of the day in bed together. He’d been up once, for about half an hour. Just long enough to make a few pieces of toast, put on American Recordings by Johnny Cash and fetch the papers. The Observer for her (he read the sports section). The Mirror and the Screws for him (she read the supplements). He wasn’t planning to get up again until the pubs opened.

  He’d woken, alone, several hours earlier with the image of Jeremy Bishop’s face looking down at him, captured in negative when he closed his eyes, as if he’d been staring too long at a lightbulb.

  He kept his eyes open and did some catching up. The phone lay on the small cupboard by the side of the bed and he propped a couple of pillows up against the headboard. One extremely comfy office. The call to his dad was surprisingly enjoyable. Jim Thorne hated Sundays, and his irascible commentary on everything from garden centres to ‘God-botherers’ had made Thorne laugh out loud several times. They’d agreed to have a night out the following week.

  Thorne had arranged to meet Phil Hendricks the day after next but this was a less enjoyable prospect. The pathologist had sounded distant and edgy. The call had taken less than a minute. Thorne wondered what Hendricks wanted to see him about. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with tickets for Spurs–Arsenal.

  Then he’d rung Anne.

  She’d been having breakfast with Rachel. The two of them were planning to spend the day together and she told Thorne she’d ring back. Within fifteen minutes she was on her way over. Rachel had not seemed too disappointed at the change of plan, and by the time she was climbing back into bed with her mobile phone, her mother was climbing into bed with Tom Thorne.

  After making up for lost time they’d dozed for a while but now, surrounded by discarded bits of newspaper, they lay in a bed dotted with toast crumbs and smelling of sex. And began to talk.

  It was a conversation of a very different nature from the one they’d had nearly a month earlier, on the night Thorne had gone round for dinner; the night he’d been attacked and drugged in his own home. Then, certainly as far as he had been concerned, there had been a lot of lying. There had been the lies implicit in the flirting and the lies
behind his questions about Jeremy Bishop.

  There was so much he hadn’t told her. So many lies by omission.

  Now they talked easily, and truthfully. Two people the wrong side of forty with little reason to puff up achievements or suck in stomachs. They spoke about David and Rachel and Jan and the Lecturer. Divorces with children versus divorces without. About her grade-seven piano and the work she’d done on her house and the cups she’d won for tennis before she went to university. About how much he hated poncy tea and brown bread, and how he’d been quite a useful footballer until he’d started putting on weight.

  About how often she’d saved a life and how many times he’d fired a gun.

  They talked about how utterly unsuited they were, and laughed, and then made love again.

  For a few hours on a damp Sunday afternoon at the fag-end of September, the case that had changed both their lives – that would twist and warp their lives, and those of others, even more before it was over – might not have existed.

  Then a woman picked up a phone in Edinburgh and changed everything.

  He’d enjoyed his Sundays in the past. They had been a vital part of the process. It had been the day when he’d selected several of his early ones. He’d watched Christine on a Sunday – she’d had friends round. And Susan – at home alone in front of an old film. Even after he’d stopped working in other houses, Sunday was still a day to take stock. To plan.

  Today, he didn’t like what he saw. It was all going to shit. He could feel himself on the edge of a depression that he knew would be crippling if he let it take hold.

  The days after Helen had been hard but he’d seen a light at the end of it all. The knowledge that success was possible. That the capacity to achieve success was within him.

  And the days after Alison. A happiness he hadn’t known before or since.

  Today he saw no light ahead. The doubt was taking hold of every part of him and starting to squeeze out the joy and the hope.

  It was more than just his own failure, of course. Thorne was failing as well, or at the very least not being allowed to succeed.

  Without Thorne there was really no point.

  All his channels of information were clear. The news, the rumour, the word. None of it good. He’d made it all so easy for them and they’d screwed it up. They’d missed every marker he’d left so carefully in their path.

  He sat and stared at the pristine white wall. Whatever happened, however it worked itself out, he would always have Alison. She would always be a testament to him and his work. The other part of it, the other half of it, might not work out exactly as planned but that was not his fault. That was the result of involving others. There were ways of achieving a similar end on his own.

  The punishment was not going to fit the crime, but he would see it meted out nevertheless.

  It wasn’t over, not yet, but he was starting to feel weary.

  Twelve days before, with Margaret Byrne’s body cooling where he’d left it and his car effortlessly trailing the night bus carrying Leonie Holden towards him, he’d felt bright and invincible. Today, he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to drag himself out of doors.

  Even though, later, he would have to.

  They were laughing about his taste in music. The track was ­‘Delia’s Gone’, which involved Johnny Cash tying his girlfriend to a chair and shooting her a couple of times, essentially because she was ‘devilish’. Thorne couldn’t see the problem.

  Then the phone rang. ‘Tom? It’s Sally Byrne.’

  Thorne laughed. ‘Hi, Sally. Elvis is fine. He’s destroying the place but he’s fine.’

  Anne, who hadn’t met the cat yet, threw him an odd look from the other side of the bed. He grinned at her over his shoulder, shaking his head. Don’t worry about it. She picked up a newspaper and snuggled down to read.

  ‘It’s not actually about the cat, Tom.’

  Thorne began to sit up slowly. He could feel the smallest of sensations, a tingle, a burning, an excitement, building between his shoulder-blades. ‘I’m listening, Sally.’

  ‘It’s just something a bit odd and I probably should have spoken to the Irish officer. What’s his name?’

  ‘Tughan.’ Go on . . .

  ‘Well, I’ve been going through Mum’s things, you know sorting stuff out for the charity shop or whatever, and I was looking through her jewellery and I found a man’s ring.’

  Thorne was already out of bed and wandering into the living room, trying to pull on a dressing-gown.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Sorry. Which jewellery are we talking about?’

  ‘This is what I’m saying, it’s the stuff you lot took away. The scene-of-crime people. They let me have it all back after the funeral, said they didn’t need it any more. I don’t know where they found this ring, on the floor with the rest of the stuff, I suppose, and they obviously thought it belonged to my mum, but it doesn’t.’

  ‘It’s definitely a man’s?’

  ‘Definitely. It’s plain gold. Looks like a wedding ring.’

  ‘Not your dad’s?’

  ‘Are you kidding? That bastard would never have worn a wedding ring. Might have spoiled his chances of pulling.’

  Thorne was starting to miss what Sally Byrne was saying. A melody was pouring into his brain and filling every corner of it. A classical melody. Mournful and haunting. He couldn’t remember what it was called. Something German. But he could remember where he’d heard it. And he could remember a rhythm, a tempo, marked out by the clicking of a wedding ring against a gearstick.

  ‘I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing, Tom, but . . .’

  When Thorne came back into the bedroom a few minutes later, Anne knew in a heartbeat that something had changed. He was trying to sound casual. He asked if she wanted tea.

  She got up and began to dress.

  Whatever it was that had actually happened wasn’t important. She knew that murder and suspicion were back in the room with them and she needed to leave. They moved around each other awkwardly now, embarrassed, and they froze for half a second as each caught the other’s reflection in the long wardrobe mirror.

  Thorne saw something like accusation and hated himself for wanting her to leave so that he could ring Dave Holland.

  Anne saw the excitement that was running through Thorne like voltage.

  She saw a hunger in him.

  She saw the face of Jeremy Bishop and the dark sadness that had settled around his eyes as he’d whispered to her.

  ‘People have secrets, Anne.’

  They sat at a table towards the back of the room, not in total darkness but close to it. It seemed to be the way he wanted it. He’d led her to the table, avoiding the empty seats near the stage. It was probably a good idea ­considering that they didn’t want to get picked on and she was under-age.

  Rachel looked around. She wasn’t the only one.

  Actually she had had no trouble in getting away with it. The club was dimly lit and the woman on the door had barely looked up from her cashbox when the two of them had come in. She’d spent a long time on her makeup. She’d even stood beneath the lights at the bar and bought them both a drink, staring at herself in the mirror that ran along the back wall behind the optics. She looked eighteen easily. Twenty, probably.

  This small comedy club below a pub in Crouch End was, he’d told her, one of his favourite places. It was a mixed audience. Nobody cared what you looked like or how old you were. It wasn’t exactly the Comedy Store, but you could see some of the same comedians that you were likely to see at the bigger clubs without having to struggle into the West End.

  Rachel had liked the sound of it straight away and asked him if he’d take her. He told her about another night at the same club when they did what were called try-out shows or open spots. He came to those as of
ten as he could, if he wasn’t working. A dozen or more hopefuls would get up and do a couple of minutes. None of them was any good. It was clearly just therapy for most of them, but it was riveting to watch. Like a car accident. Watching them struggle, watching them ‘die’, was an amazing experience, he assured her.

  The comedian on the tiny stage was a sneering Scotsman with red hair and a loud suit who shouted a lot and swore too much. He talked about sex in graphic detail and Rachel sat blushing in the darkness. She looked out of the corner of her eye at the man next to her so that she could laugh when he did. She didn’t want to seem young, or stupid, or unsophisticated.

  He was enjoying himself, she could tell. He’d seemed a little tense when he’d picked her up outside the Green Man, but now he looked more relaxed. She watched him far more than she watched what was happening on stage. He stared, engrossed, at the comedian, or at other members of the audience. He was a ferocious watcher, critical and unblinking. She loved that about him. She loved how he lived every moment to its fullest, taking everything in and savouring it. She loved his intensity, his refusal to compromise.

  The comedian was telling some joke about his parents and Rachel thought about her mother. Anne had been in a strange mood when she’d come home – from the policeman’s place, Rachel guessed. It had definitely been him who’d phoned that morning. Probably at it all day, the pair of them.

  She thought quite a lot about Thorne fucking her mother.

  She thought quite a lot about fucking.

  There had been a bit of an atmosphere when she’d announced that she was going out, but her mother had hardly been in a position to say anything after the way she’d changed their plans earlier.

  Around her people started to applaud and she joined in. The compère was coming back on again to introduce another act. He said that there’d be an interval afterwards. She wondered if they’d go out for a meal when the show had finished; there were loads of great restaurants within walking distance. Then they could sit in his car for a while before he drove her home.