Sleepyhead Page 8

Thorne spoke only once, to tell Holland that they weren’t going back to the office just yet. Without opening his eyes he told him to turn right and drive along the river towards White­chapel. They were going to call in at the Royal London Hospital first, to see just how cast-iron this alibi of Jeremy Bishop’s really was.

  Just call me the Amazing Performing Eyelid Woman! Only I can’t sodding well perform, can I?

  I went out with this actor once. He told me about a recurring dream where he was onstage ready to do his luvvie bit and then all the words just tumbled out of his head like water running really fast down the plughole. That’s what it felt like when Anne was asking me to blink. Christ, I wanted to blink for her. No . . . I wanted to blink for me. I can do it, I know I can. I’ve been doing it all the fucking time when there’s nobody there and I’ve been blinking when Anne’s asked me to before. She asked me if I was in pain and I blinked once for yes. One blink. A fraction of a movement in one poxy eye and I felt like I’d just won the lottery, shagged Mel Gibson and been given a year’s supply of chocolate.

  Actually, I felt like I’d just run the London Marathon. A couple of blinks and I’m knackered. But when that therapist was watching I couldn’t do it.

  I was screaming at my eyelids inside my head. It felt like the signal went out from my brain. But slowly. It was like some dodgy old Lada beetling along the circuits, or whatever they’re called. Neuro-highways or whatever. It was on the right road and then it just got stuck at roadworks somewhere. Like it lost interest. I know I can do it but I haven’t got any control over it. When I’m not trying I’m blinking away like some nutter, but when I want to I’m as good as dead.

  If blinking’s all I’ve got left, I’m going to be the greatest fucking blinker you’ve ever seen. Stick with me, Anne. There’s so much I want to tell you. I’ll be blinking for England, I swear.

  I could feel the disappointment in her voice. I wanted to cry. But I can’t even do that . . .

  SIX

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘Muswell Hill, please.’

  ‘No problem, sir. Where is that, please?’

  Thorne sighed heavily as the simple journey from his flat in Kentish Town suddenly became an altogether trickier proposition. It was his own fault for calling a minicab. Why was he such a bloody cheapskate?

  He was trying not to think about the case – this was a night off. He fooled himself for about as long as it took the cab to reach the end of his road. He would have loved to spend an evening without his curious calendar girls, but it was going to be hard, considering where he was going and who he was going to see. The subject of Jeremy Bishop might be strictly off limits with Anne Coburn. It was becoming clear that they were extremely close. Were they perhaps more than that? Thorne tried not to think about that possibility. Whatever, their relationship made things awkward in every sense, not least procedurally.

  Thorne hated the cliché of the instinctive copper as much as he hated the notion of the hardened one. But the instinctive copper was only a cliché because, he knew, it contained a germ of truth. Hunches were nothing but trouble. If they were wrong they caused embarrassment, pain, guilt and more. But the hunches that were right were far worse. Policemen . . . good policemen, weren’t born with these instincts. They developed them. After all, accountants were only good with numbers because they worked with them every day. Even an average copper could spot when someone was lying. A few developed a feel, a taste, a sense about people.

  They were the unlucky ones.

  ‘Here you go, sir.’

  The minicab driver was thrusting a tattered A–Z at him. Christ on a bike, thought Thorne, do you want me to drive the bloody car for you?

  ‘I don’t need the A–Z. I’ll give you directions. Straight up the Archway Road.’

  ‘Right you are, sir. Which way is that?’

  Thorne looked out of the window. Another warm late-August evening and a T-shirted queue of eager Saturday night concert-goers was waiting to go into the Forum. As the cab drove past he strained his head to see the name of the band but only caught the word ‘. . . Maniacs’. Charming.

  He now lived no more than half a mile from where he’d grown up. This had been his adolescent stamping ground. Kentish Town, Camden, Highgate. And Archway. He’d worked out of the station at Holloway for six months. He knew the road Helen Doyle had lived in. He’d drunk in the Marlborough Arms. He hoped she’d enjoyed herself that night . . .

  Jeremy Bishop.

  Yes, it had started as a strange familiarity, which he still couldn’t­ fathom, but it had become more than that. In the few days since he’d first laid eyes on the man, his feelings had begun to bed themselves down on more solid foundations.

  Thorne had found out quickly why Bishop had smiled when he’d told him he was going to check out why he’d been bleeped the night that Alison had come in. He was amazed to find that the calls put out to bleep doctors were untraceable. There were no official records. The call could have been made from anywhere by all accounts. It was even possible to bleep yourself. None of the likely candidates could recall bleeping Bishop on the night that Alison Willetts came in. He’d spoken to the senior house officer, the registrar and the junior anaesthetist and their recollection of events that night was as fuzzy as Bishop had known it would be. He was certainly there when she was brought into A and E but his alibi, as far as when she was attacked and when she was dumped at the hospital, was not quite as solid as Anne Coburn had first thought.

  He couldn’t put any of it together yet, nowhere near, but there were other . . . details.

  The canvas of the area in which Helen Doyle had disappeared had started to yield results. She had been seen by at least three people after leaving the pub. One was a neighbour who knew her well. All the witnesses described seeing her talking to a man at the end of her road. She was described variously as ‘looking happy’, ‘talking loudly’ and ‘seeming as if she was pissed’. The descriptions of the man varied a little but tallied in a number of areas. He was tall. He had short, greying hair and wore glasses. He was probably in his mid- to late-thirties. They thought he was Helen Doyle’s new boyfriend. Her older man.

  All the witnesses agreed on something else. Helen was drinking from a bottle of champagne. Now they knew how the drug was administered. So simple. So insidious. As the victims’ capacity to resist had melted away they’d each felt . . . what? Special? Sophisticated? Thorne sensed that the killer thought of himself in exactly those terms.

  The driver turned on his radio. An old song by the Eurythmics. Thorne leaned forward quickly and told him to switch it off.

  The cab turned right off the A1 towards Highgate Woods.

  ‘It’s just off the Broadway, OK?’

  ‘Broadway . . .’

  Thorne caught the driver’s look in the mirror. Apologetic yet not really giving a toss.

  ‘If black-cab drivers do the Knowledge, what do you lot do?’

  ‘Sorry, mate?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  He’d waited a day before talking to Frank Keable. Stepping into the DCI’s office he’d been thoroughly prepared to outline his suspicions – the details that pointed towards Bishop. Ten minutes later he’d walked out feeling like he’d just left Hendon.

  ‘I have to be honest, Tom. No, he doesn’t have a rock solid alibi but . . .’

  ‘Not for any of the murders, sir. I checked with—’

  ‘But all you’ve got is a lot of stuff that, well, it doesn’t rule him out, and what about the description? Two of the witnesses say he’s early- to mid-thirties.’

  ‘The height’s right, Frank, and Bishop looks a lot younger than he is.’

  It was at that point that Thorne had become aware that it was all starting to sound unconvincing. He decided to stop before he said something that might make him look vaguely desperate. ‘And
he’s a doctor! And I don’t really . . . like him very much . . .’

  The same night he’d walked into his flat and heard a woman’s voice coming from the living room.

  ‘. . . at the office. God, I hate these things – sorry. Anyway, please give me a call, I’m very excited about it.’

  He grinned. How could a woman who probed about in people’s brains be so out of her depth with an answering-machine? He found it endearing, then knew that she’d think he was being patronising. He picked up.

  ‘Tom?’

  What was she asking? ‘Is that Tom?’ Or ‘Is it OK if I call you Tom?’ Either way his answer was the same.

  ‘Yes. Hi . . .’

  ‘This is Anne Coburn – sorry, I was just waffling away. I tried to get you at the office, I hope you don’t mind.’

  He’d written his home number on the back of the card he’d given her. He threw his coat on to the sofa and dragged the phone over to the chair. ‘No, that’s fine. I’ve just this second walked in the door. So, what are you excited about?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said you were excited. I heard it on the machine as I was coming in.’

  ‘Oh, right. It’s Alison. I think she’s really starting to communicate.’

  He was bending to retrieve the half-empty bottle of wine by the side of the chair but instantly sat up again. ‘What? That’s fantastic.’

  ‘Listen, I do mean starting, and I have to say there are people who aren’t quite as convinced as me that the ­movements aren’t involuntary but I think you should see it.’

  ‘Yes, of course . . .’

  ‘He’s killed another girl, hasn’t he?’

  Thorne leaned back in the chair. He wedged the phone between ear and shoulder and started to pour himself a hefty glass of wine. Had it made the papers? He hadn’t seen anything. Even if it had, there was no link to the other killings. So how did she . . .?

  Bishop. He’d obviously told her they’d been round. And just how much had she told him about the other killings? He’d need to ask her about that, tactfully.

  ‘Look, I understand if you don’t want to discuss it. Tom?’

  ‘No, I was just thinking about something. Yes. We’ve found another body.’

  It was her turn to pause. ‘I know I said that Alison wouldn’t be giving you any statements and she won’t, I mean not in any conventional sense, but perhaps . . . Listen, I don’t want to raise any false hopes.’

  ‘You think she might be able to respond to questions?’

  ‘Not just yet, but I think so, yes. Simple ones. Yes and no. We could work out a system maybe. Sorry, I’m waffling again. Obviously we need to talk about it but I just wanted to let you know . . .’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  And then she invited him to dinner.

  He proffered the plastic bag containing a bottle of his favourite red wine as soon as she opened the door.

  ‘Thanks, but there was no need.’

  ‘Don’t get excited, it’s only a plastic bag.’

  She laughed and stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek. Her perfume was lovely. She was wearing a rust-coloured sleeveless top, cream linen trousers and training shoes. He was struck, not unpleasantly as it happened, by the fact that she was an inch or two taller than he was. He was used to that. He felt like he was going to enjoy himself. His good mood evaporated in an instant as he glanced over her shoulder and saw a man in the kitchen at the other end of the hall.

  Jeremy Bishop was leaning against the worktop, opening a bottle of champagne.

  Anne stepped aside to usher Thorne in and caught his look. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, shrugging.

  As Thorne removed his leather jacket and made approving noises about the original coving, he was wondering what she meant. Sorry? She couldn’t possibly have any idea what he ­really thought about Bishop, so what was she sorry for? As he walked towards the kitchen he came to the heartening conclusion that she was sorry they weren’t going to be alone. Bishop held out a hand, smiling at him. Thorne smiled back. Sorry? Thinking about it, he wasn’t sure that he was sorry at all.

  ‘Perfect timing, Detective Inspector.’ Bishop offered him a glass of champagne. Thorne felt a chill pass through him as he took it. Bishop looked thoroughly at home, moving easily around a kitchen with which he was obviously familiar. He wore pressed chinos and a collarless shirt. Silk by the look of it. He probably called it a blouse. Thorne felt instantly overdressed in his tie, and instinctively reached up to undo the top button of his shirt, which he definitely called a shirt.

  Bishop drained his glass. ‘Has the hernia been giving you any more trouble?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It came to me just after you and your constable left. Come on – don’t tell me it hasn’t been driving you mad as well. Your hernia op last year . . . I was your gas man.’ Without waiting for a response – he would have been waiting for some time – he turned to Anne. ‘I’ve given your sauce a stir, Jimmy, and I’m off to the loo.’ He handed Anne his glass and moved past Thorne towards the stairs.

  They stood in silence until they heard the bathroom door close.

  ‘Is this awkward for you, Tom? Tell me if it is.’

  ‘Why should it be?’

  ‘I didn’t invite him.’

  Some good news. Thorne smiled graciously. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I had no idea he was coming. He just dropped by and it would have been rude not to ask him to stay. I know you’ve questioned him, which is bloody ridiculous . . .’

  Thorne took a sip of champagne. It wasn’t a drink he was fond of.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So is it awkward?’

  Awkward was putting it mildly. Thorne couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a cosy dinner with a prime suspect.

  He remembered the scene in Keable’s office. Make that his prime suspect.

  Still, it might be interesting. He already knew the basic facts. The two children, the wife who’d died. But there was no question that it would be valuable to get another . . . slant on things. Anne was looking intently at him. He hadn’t answered her question. So he asked one instead: ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘A nickname from med-school days. James Coburn. You know, The Magnificent Seven. He was the one with the knives.’

  ‘Right. Was he any good with scalpels?’

  She laughed. ‘Whatever misguided reasons you had to question Jeremy, I can fully understand that this might be putting you in a compromising position, but there are two very good reasons why you should stay and have dinner.’ Thorne had no intention of going anywhere, but was perfectly happy to let her persuade him. ‘One, I would very much like it if you did, and two, I make the finest spaghetti carbonara in North London.’

  Dinner was fantastic. It was certainly the best meal Thorne had eaten in a while, but that was to damn it with faint praise. That his eating habits had become a trifle sloppy had been brought home to him on receipt of his BT family and friends list. They might just as well have sent an embossed calling card saying, ‘You Sad Bastard’. Thorne’s ten most frequently dialled numbers had not exactly been what he’d call kith and kin. He could only hope and pray that he didn’t win the holiday. Two weeks in Lanzarote with the manager of the Bengal Lancer and a posse of spotty pizza-delivery boys on mopeds was hardly a prospect that appealed.

  ‘I hope my grilling proved useful, Detective Inspector.’ The way Bishop emphasised Thorne’s rank, he might have been reading the cast list of an am-dram whodunnit. His evident glee at the situation told Thorne that he was more than willing to play his part but Anne was quick to discourage his interest in the case.

  ‘Come on, Jeremy, I’m sure Tom doesn’t want to talk about it. He probably can’t, even if he wanted to.’

  This
was fine with Thorne. He had no need to talk about the case. He wanted to let Bishop talk, and once the boundaries had been established he wasn’t disappointed. Bishop was full of stor­ies. He seemed permanently amused, not only at his own patter but at the peculiarity of their cosy little threesome. Again, fine with Thorne. The anaesthetist dominated the conversation, occasionally making an effort to engage the policeman in trite chit-chat.

  ‘Where do you live, then, Tom?’

  ‘Kentish Town. Ryland Road.’

  ‘Not my side of London. Nice?’

  Thorne nodded. No, not particularly.

  Bishop was a witty and entertaining raconteur – probably. Thorne did his best to laugh in all the right places, although he felt clumsy and cack-handed as he watched his fellow diners twirl spaghetti with professional deftness and delicacy.

  ‘. . . and the two old dears were sat talking about the beef crisis and how they were going to exercise their rights as consumers and stick it to the French.’

  ‘Politics in A and E?’ Anne turned to Thorne. ‘It’s usually non-stop babble about football or soap operas or “I know it’s a nasty cut but he’s never hit me before, honest.”’

  ‘But get ready for the killer . . .’ Bishop drained his wine glass, letting them wait for the punchline. ‘I heard them saying how they were going to boycott French fries!’

  Thorne smiled. Bishop raised his eyebrows at Anne and they both giggled before saying as one, ‘NFN!’

  Stifling her laugh, Anne leaned across to Thorne. ‘Normal For Norfolk.’

  Thorne smiled. ‘Right. Stupid or inbred.’ Bishop nodded. Thorne shrugged. I’m just a copper. Thick as shit, me.

  Anne was still giggling. They’d already polished off two bottles of wine and hadn’t finished the pasta yet. ‘Somewhere there’s a doctor with too much time on his hands thinking up these jokes. There’s loads of them, not very nice usually.’

  ‘Come on, Jimmy, they’re just a bit of fun. I bet Tom’s had to deal with a few JP FROGs in his time, haven’t you, Tom?’

  ‘Oh, almost certainly. That would be . . .?’ Thorne raised his eyebrows.