Sleepyhead tt-1 Read online

  But if it's going to help catch this bastard, I'm going to fucking well find out.

  EIGHTEEN

  12 February 1999. His mother died.

  3 September 1994. Jan left him for the first time. 18 June 1985. Calvert…

  As Thorne drove towards Camden this Tuesday lunchtime, he had no idea that the following day, 2 October 2000, would be another date to add to the list. Perhaps the most significant day of them all. Days that he would choose to forget, but that he would have little choice about remembering.

  Days that formed him. Long, long days. Painful days. Days that had taught him something about who he'd been up to that point, and dictated who he was going to be from that point on.

  What he was going to be.

  This day, the eve of it all, had not begun well and would only get worse. The ring had arrived from Edinburgh the night before and had gone straight to the forensic-science laboratory in Lambeth. Thorne was on the phone to Edgware Road first thing wanting an update on progress. There had been none, and was unlikely to be before the following day. All he'd received for his trouble had been another earful from Keable, who was getting very nervous. Jeremy Bishop had rung, demanding to know what was going on. James Bishop had done likewise. As yet, with Rebecca Bishop remaining silent, it looked as though Thorne and Holland had got away with the trip to Bristol. Thorne smiled to himself now, as he steered the car through Regent's Park, past the unfeasibly grand houses of diplomats and oil billionaires. He smiled at his cockiness with Keable, his bluff-calling, his fuck-you attitude with Tughan.

  He knew that he was on safe ground. All of it, the calls, the carpet fibres, the visits to Bishop's house, would be forgotten as soon as Thorne had got what he was after. As soon as he'd proved that Jeremy Bishop was a multiple killer.

  Then Keable would be too busy accepting the congratulations of the commander (who'd be smiling for the press and getting patted on the back by a thoroughly delighted commissioner) to worry about a few late-night phone calls. A slap on the wrist, perhaps. A word about procedure, probably. A warning about his methods at the very worst. As long as the vital evidence was collected cleanly, Thorne knew that he would get a conviction. He knew that the evidence was there. In Jeremy Bishop's house in Battersea. He just needed the warrant.

  Thorne had passed a wry dull morning in what a football manager (the one at Spurs was still clinging on to his job) would call a free role. In practice, this meant answering the phone a lot, handing bits of paper to Nick Tughan, and resisting the temptation to drive down to the forensics lab and oversee the examination of Bishop's wedding ring himself. Being part of this ponderous machine again was hugely frustrating, but he was happy to do whatever was necessary. And it wasn't going to be for long.

  In Camden, Thorne parked the car beneath the enormous Sainsbury's next to the canal. There was no charge for customers and buying a few cans of own-brand lager was a fair exchange for free parking in the middle of the day.

  He walked up past the old TV-am building where a crowd of youngsters was gawping at the recording of a show for MTV inside a tiny glass-fronted studio in the car park. He stopped and watched for a few minutes. T, he presenters, a girl and a boy, were young and good-looking, and for a second he thought they might be the young couple he'd seen in Waterlow Park a few days before. Ignoring the strange looks from the teenagers around him, he watched them for a while, jigging and posturing in dumb show behind the glass. Then he ambled away, supposing that he probably knew more about the music they were introducing than they did and headed towards Parkway where he was meeting Hendricks.

  The cafe was cheap and miserable, which Thorne far preferred to expensive and cheerful. It was a place where, over a number of years, the two of them had talked about work and football, while indulging their shared passion for fry-ups and stodgy puddings.

  When Thorne arrived Hendricks was already there, nursing a cup of tea and looking somewhat less than pleased to see him. Thorne had news that he knew would cheer the miserable bugger up. He signaled to the woman behind the counter for a tea and slid into the booth, picked up a menu and started to read it. Wanting to make it sound casual.

  'I think we've got him.' Hendricks looked up but without real interest. Thorne went on, 'I know we have, and as soon as we get the forensic tests done I can get a warrant and-'

  'Save it, will you?'

  Thorne put down the menu. What little appetite he had was vanishing rapidly.

  'Well?' Thorne stared at Hendricks. The pathologist looked at his tea, carried on stirring it. 'You've obviously got something to say?'

  Hendricks cleared his throat. He'd been rehearsing it.

  'Did it not occur to you, even for a second, that when that slimy gobsworth in the forensics lab called up your boss to tell him that a pathologist had just happened to stroll in carrying a plastic bag with carpet fibres in it -'

  'Phil, I was going to-'

  '-that he might also be calling my boss as well? Did that not occur to you?'

  'What happened?'

  'Deep shit is what happened. Because I was stupid enough to do you a favour. And you didn't even have the courtesy to pick up the fucking phone to see what was going on.'

  He'd meant to, more than once, and hadn't. 'I'm sorry, Phil, there was another killing and-'

  'I know there was. I aid the PM, remember? And considering what the two of us do for a living I hardly think a body is much of a fucking excuse, do you?'

  It wasn't, and Thorne knew it. Hendricks had every right to be angry, but to try to explain to him exactly what he'd been thinking.., feeling.., after Margaret Byrne's murder wouldn't have been easy.

  'So what happened?'

  'The wanker of a clinical director, who's been looking for an excuse anyway, 'cos I don't look like his idea of a pathologist, hauled me up in front of the chief executive and the personnel director.'

  'Fuck…'

  'Yeah, fuck is right. I was given a verbal warning about inappropriate behaviour and they're still talking about the fucking General Medical Council so don't try asking for any more favours, all right?'

  Thorne's tea arrived and he took it gratefully, but Hendricks had no intention of letting him off the hook.

  'You're completely self-obsessed, do you know that?'

  Thorne tried to laugh but nothing came out. 'I'm not talking about this case, I mean all the time. You've got no fucking idea what's going on around you, have you?'

  Thorne fixed a defiant smile on his face. 'Am I supposed to be answering these questions or is this a lecture?'

  'I couldn't give a toss, I'm just telling you. I'm probably the nearest thing to a friend you've got and we talk about luck all.' Thorne started to speak but Hendricks cut him off. 'Football and work. That's it. Talking shop or talking shit. We play pool and eat pizza and have a joke and talk about sweet fuck all.'

  Thorne decided he should fight his corner. 'Hang on a second. What about you? I spoke to you about Jan when we were splitting up, I know I did. You never confide in me about anything.'

  'What would be the point?'

  'You've never said a word about family, or girlfriends.'

  Hendricks laughed harshly. Thorne looked at him. 'What?'

  'I'm gay, you dickhead. Queer as fuck. OK?'

  For reasons he couldn't quite explain, Thorne blushed deeply.

  Half a minute passed. He looked up from his tea. 'Why the hell not tell me then? Worried I'd think you fancied me?'

  Hendricks laughed again but neither of them was finding anything funny. 'I couldn't tell you. Not… you. Everybody else knows.'

  'What? Why didn't they say something, then?'

  'Not at work: Hendricks's voice was raised. Thorne stared past him, ashamed, to the woman behind the counter who smiled at nothing in particular. 'I mean everybody I care about. My family, my real friends… Christ, it's fairly obvious to most people. What do I look like, for fuck's sake? You're so… shielded. You couldn't see it because it doesn't affect you. You've go
t blinkers on and I'm fucking sick of it!'

  Anne had slammed down the phone and smoked three cigarettes, one after the other. Now she felt nauseous as well as furious. She marched towards the coffee machine in main reception, going over and over it…

  She'd called Thorne on his mobile, and although she had no idea where he was or what he was doing, it was obviously putting him in an awful mood.

  Now he'd passed it on to her.

  They hadn't spoken since Sunday. She'd known then that something important was happening on the case and this feeling had distilled into something else when she'd seen him on the televised press conference. Something like dread.

  She could sense something coming. She could feel the chill, as if a vast shadow were beginning to creep over them. Over all of them – herself Thorne, Jeremy. She'd reached for the phone needing some reassurance, a tender word. She'd wanted to give those things to him too, knowing that he might need them.

  And all she'd got was a diatribe. He'd told her, no… he'd ordered her to stay away from Jeremy Bishop. He assured her it was for her own protection, not that he really believed that she'd be in any physical danger. It was just… best. Best, he'd said. He explained how he'd tried to keep off the whole subject until now to spare her feelings and to avoid a possible conflict of interests, but now things were coming to a head so he'd decided to get everything out in the open.

  Bollocks!

  He'd avoided the subject until he'd got into her knickers and now he was laying down the law. She was having none of it and had told him so in no uncertain terms. The coffee machine was repeatedly rejecting a twenty pence piece. She carried on putting in the coin, picking it out and putting it in again.

  Things had got pretty heated, especially when she'd heard the tell-tale sound of a can being opened. Wherever he was, he was drinking. This, bearing in mind the supposed gravity of what he was telling her – the seriousness of the situation he was trying to make her aware of annoyed her beyond belief. How fucking dare he?

  Then he'd asked her if she could come over tonight. She smashed the heel of her hand against the front of the coffee machine…

  It was then that she'd hung up.

  Giving up on the coffee, Anne turned and walked back towards the ITU. She had a good mind to go round to Jeremy's tonight. She wouldn't, of course. She'd spend the evening at home with Rachel, if she was in, and drink too much wine and watch something mind-numbing on television, and wonder what Tom Thorne was doing.

  And try to keep warm as the shadow grew larger. The last time he'd stood on this spot, his face had been hidden and his fist wrapped around the end of an iron bar. Today he had an altogether more subtle message to deliver. He'd rung several times to ensure that the flat was empty, having taken care to withhold his number. He'd smiled each time he'd punched in 141. It was, of course, a trick that Thorne must himself have been familiar with. Things could not have been going better. The excitement of the procedure, the surge he felt rushing through him, had been replaced by something else, now that he'd admitted to himself that he might never enjoy another success. A different kind of enjoyment, fuelled by a very different purpose.

  The enjoyment of the game with Thorne.

  The game had been a part of it all from the beginning. A vital part of it. It had gone cheek by jowl with – he smiled – his more hands-on work. It had complemented it, cast a light upon it, put it beautifully into context. And he had played the game extremely well.

  As he moved towards the front door, he wondered if, secretly, Thorne was enjoying it too. He suspected he probably was. There was something in the man's eyes. He looked around casually and knocked on the door. Just a man of the world paying a visit to a friend. Nobody in? A note would do the trick…

  He removed a gloved hand from his trouser pocket and reached into his jacket for the envelope. Yes, a different kind of enjoyment. It was not wrapping fingers around a pulsing artery, but he enjoyed its.., delicacy nevertheless. Popping open a letterbox provided a different kind of thrill from that he garnered when feeling an ordinary life float away under his touch. But, in context, a thrill nevertheless. The end of the game was in sight.

  One way or another, this will all be over soon… He was enjoying it so much, it was almost a shame to let Thorne win.

  The car park was starting to empty. Thorne decided it was time to leave. He'd now been sitting in his car for over four hours, during which time he'd drunk six cans of supermarket-strength lager.

  He'd never felt more sober.

  After his meeting with Phil Hendricks he'd wandered back towards the car in something of a daze. He'd popped into the supermarket to pick up the beer, read the paper, and then sat, listening to the radio, drinking, and mulling over what his friend had said. Friend? Had he got any friends?

  He knew that Hendricks was right. Everything he'd said was spot on. So he'd thought about it for a while, let one can of beer quickly become four, then turned a bad day into a fucking awful one by deciding to ring Anne.

  Where had the caution of the day before gone? He'd decided then that it was probably wise to steer clear of any confrontation until the case had broken. So why, in God's name, had he rung her and told her to stay away from Bishop?

  There had been something almost boastful about it.

  Some part of him had wanted to flaunt this.., victory. It was becoming about something more than cracking a case and stopping a killer. It was starting to feel like defeating a killer. Like besting a rival. He'd as good as picked up the phone and said, 'Stand back, this isn't going to be pretty.'

  It was proprietorial.

  He wanted her to know how good he was. How right he'd been.

  She told him she thought he was pathetic. Fucking pathetic.

  He'd hurled his phone into the back of the car, turned up the radio and polished off the last two cans. Now it was dark outside. The supermarket would be closing soon. The security guard who patrolled the underground car park was starting to give him decidedly dirty looks and mutter into his radio.

  Thorne realised that he was starving. Six cans of lager was all that had passed his lips since breakfast. He knew he should leave the car where it was and head for the tube. He was only one stop away from home. Christ, he could walk home in about ten minutes.

  Thorne started the engine, pulled out of the car park and pointed the Mondeo south, away from home, and towards the centre of town.

  Nobody could say I wasn't comfortable. That's the word hospitals always use, isn't it? When you ring up to ask after someone. They're "comfortable'. Like they're lying there on feather pillows being massaged or something. Well, I'm certainly comfortable with my state-of-the-art mattress and my remote-control bed and my telly and my magazine holder. Comfortable.

  And all I really want to do is scream until my throat is raw. I want to scream and yell and, maybe it's asking a bit much, but I'd like to punch somebody in the face as hard as I can and smash a few things up as well, if that's all right. Break things. Mirrors. Glass things. Feel blood on my knuckles, anything… Do I sound frustrated? Well, I am. Frustrated. So. FUCKING. FRUSTRATED!

  There's stuff I want to say, to talk about and I've got less chance of doing it now than I had even a week ago. Now that I'm wired up to this superannuated fucking accordion again. Since I found out why I'm the way I am, since I was told that somebody planned this, I've been trying to remember. Trying so hard to remember. Something that might help. Anything that might help them get the bastard. Now there's some stuff in my head that I know isn't a dream or anything I've imagined. I don't know whether it will help. It'll help me for sure.

  It's memory and it's fighting to come out.

  Memory about what happened after the hen party. It's not so much pictures as words. Actually, not even words. It's sounds. I'm hearing words but it's like they're being spoken to me under water. They're distorted and I can't quite make them out but I can guess the sense of them. I can make out the tone. Soon I'm going to work out exactly what the words
are. They're the words he said while he was doing it. The man who put me in here.

  NINETEEN

  A quarter to midnight and Tower Records was heaving. Dozens of late-night shoppers mingled with those who were just there to listen to the music or read the magazines or kill time.

  The young man behind the till didn't even look up.

  'Yeah can 'elp you?'

  'Yes, I'd like to pay for these, please,' said Thorne, 'and there's a Waylon Jennings import I'd like to order.'

  James Bishop reddened furiously. 'What the fuck do you want? I shouldn't even be talking to you.'

  Thorne dumped three CDs on to the counter in front of Bishop and fumbled for his wallet. He stared at Bishop until, with a face clouded by resentment, he began picking up the CDs, removing the security tags and running them through the till. He wouldn't look at Thorne, but instead glanced nervously towards his colleagues, thrusting the CDs clumsily into a plastic bag, trying to get it all over as quickly as possible.

  Thorne leaned on the counter, waving his credit card.

  'What's the matter? Don't want your workmates knowing you've got a friend who buys Kris Kristofferson albums? I did want to get the new Fatboy Slim single but you've sold out.'

  Bishop took the credit card, swiped it, and glared at Thorne. 'You're not my friend. You're just a wanker!'

  'I don't suppose it's worth asking for the staff discount?'

  'Fuck you.'

  Thorne shook his head sadly. 'I knew I should have gone to Our Price…'

  An assistant with a silver spike through his lower lip ambled over. 'Is everything all right, Jim?'

  Bishop thrust the plastic bag at Thorne. 'It's fine.' He looked over Thorne's shoulder to the girl waiting behind him. 'Yeah can 'elp you?'

  Thorne didn't move. 'When does your shift finish?'

  The girl behind him tutted impatiently. Bishop looked at him with a defiant half-smile. He glanced at the enormous blue G-Shock on his wrist. 'Fifteen minutes. And?'