Lazybones

NINE

That dreadful hiatus between arriving, and anything actually happening…

The cling-film, they were assured, would be coming off the buffet platters very shortly, and the DJ wouldn't be too long setting his gear up. Until then, there was a hundred and fifty quid behind the bar, so everybody could get a couple down them and toast the bride and groom one more time while they were waiting for the fun to start. Everyone could mingle…

Tragically, there weren't quite enough people in the rugby club bar for a significant hubbub to develop; there was no comforting blanket of noise for Thorne to hide under. He got a pint of bitter for his dad, half a Guinness for himself, and looked for the nearest corner. He sat sipping his beer and tried to summon up the necessary enthusiasm for Scotch eggs and pork pie and cold pasta salad. Raised his glass to anyone whose eye he caught and tried not to look too bored or miserable or, God forbid, in need of cheering up.

His father was certainly in no need of it. Jim Thorne sat on a chair at the bar holding court. Telling jokes to a couple of teenage boys who sniggered and sipped their shandies. Informing any woman who would listen that he had a memory like a goldfish, because he had that disease with the funny name. He'd forgotten, what was it called again? Asking With a twinkle to be forgiven if he'd slept with any of them and couldn't remember.

Thorne was delighted to see his dad on such good form. To see him enjoying himself. It was a huge relief after the phone call twenty-four hours earlier that had put paid to his evening with Eve Bloom… The large, stripped-pine table in the kitchen had been set for four. Thorne had yet to encounter anybody else. Eve turned from the cooker.

'In case you're wondering, they're in her room.' She spoke at the level of a stage whisper. 'Denise and Ben. I think they've had a row…'

Thorne was pouring wine into two of the glasses. He whispered back. 'Right. Was it a big one? Should I start clearing away a couple of these place settings…?'

Eve moved over to the table and picked up her wine. 'No chance. Ben won't let an argument get in the way of his dinner. Cheers.' She took a sip and carried the glass back across to where several large copper pans sat on the halogen hob. She nodded towards the door at the sound of footsteps and raised voices coming from elsewhere in the flat 'Those two enjoy a good row anyway. They're pretty violent, but usually short-lived…'

Thorne tried to sound casual. 'Violent?'

'I don't mean like that. Just a lot of shouting. Bit of throwing stuff, but never anything breakable…'

Thorne glanced across at her. She was busy at the cooker again, her back to him. He stared at the nape of her neck. At her shoulder blades, brown against the cream linen of her top.

'I'm more of a seether myself,' she said.

'I'll watch out for that.'

'Don't worry, you'll know it when it happens…'

Thorne looked around the kitchen. A couple of framed black and white film posters. Chrome kettle, toaster and blender. A big, expensive-looking fridge. It looked like the shop was doing pretty good business, though he couldn't be sure which things were Eve's and which belonged to her flatmate. He guessed that the vast array of herbs in terracotta pots were probably down to Eve, as were the scribbled Latin names of what Thorne presumed to be flowers on the enormous blackboard that dominated one wall. He was pleased to see his own name and mobile-phone number, scrawled in the bottom left hand corner.

'So, what are they arguing about? Your friends. Nothing serious…?'

She turned, licking her fingers. 'Keith. Remember? The guy that helps me out on a Saturday. He was here when Ben arrived. Ben reckons he's got a bit of a thing for Denise, and Denise told him not to be such an idiot…'

Thorne remembered the way Keith had looked at him when he was talking to Eve in the shop. Maybe Denise wasn't the only one he had a bit of a thing for…

'What do you think?' he asked. 'About Keith and Denise…'

A door squeaked and slammed and a moment later the door to the kitchen was pushed open by a slim, fair-haired woman. She was barefoot, wearing baggy, combat-style shorts and a man's black vest. She marched up behind Eve and gave her backside a healthy tweak.

'That smells fucking gorgeous!'

She turned and beamed at Thorne. Her hair was a little shorter and a shade lighter than Eve's. Though she seemed slight, the vest she was wearing showed off well-defined arms and shoulders. Her delicate features sharpened as an enormous smile pushed up cheekbones you could slice bacon on.

'Hello, you're Tom, aren't you? I'm Denise.' She all but ran across the kitchen, grabbed his outstretched hand and flopped down in a chair on the other side of the table. 'So, Tom? Thomas? Which?' She reached for the wine bottle and began pouring herself a very large glass.

'Tom's fine…'

She leaned across the table and spoke as though they were old friends. 'Eve's been going on at nauseating length about you, do you know that?' Her voice was surprisingly deep and a little theatrical. Thorne couldn't think of anything to say. Took a sip of wine instead.

'Bloody full of it, she is. I'm guessing that the only reason she is resolutely refusing to turn around from the oven, at this very moment, is that she's gone bright red…'

'Shut your face,' Eve said, laughing and without turning round. Denise swallowed a mouthful of wine, gave Thorne another massive smile. 'So, in the flesh,' she said. 'A man who catches murderers.'

Thorne needed to relax after the morning he'd spent: in Soho. Now, he was starting to enjoy himself. This woman was clearly as mad as a hatter but likeable enough.

'Right at this very minute, I'm a man who isn't catching them…'

'We all have off days, 'Tom. Tomorrow you'll probably catch a bagful.'

'I'll settle for just the one…'

'Right.' She raised her glass as if in a toast. 'A really good one.'

Thorne leaned back on his chair and glanced across at Eve. As if she sensed him looking, she turned, caught his eye and smiled. Thorne turned back to Denise. 'What about you? What do you do?' He stared at the tiny, glittering stud in her nose, thinking, Actress, poet, performance artist…

She rolled her eyes. 'God, IT. Sorry. Dull as fuck, I'm afraid.'

'Well…'

'Don't bother, I can see your eyes glazing over already. Bloody hell, how d'you think I feel? All day surrounded by Lord of the Rings readers, making jokes about floppy this and hard that. PCs going down on them…'

At the cooker, Eve laughed. Thorne knew straight away that she was thinking the same thing that he was. 'I know,' he said. 'Where I work, having a PC go down on you means a very different thing…'

When the man whom Thorne presumed to be Ben strolled into the kitchen, it was Denise who stopped laughing first. He walked over, leaned against the worktop next to where Eve was cooking and began chewing a fingernail. He tilted his chin towards Thorne. 'Hiya…'

Thorne nodded back. 'Hi. Are you Ben?'

Denise spoke pointedly over the noise of the wine slugging into her glass. 'Oh yes, he's Ben.' Ben looked none too pleased at the horribly fake smile she gave him as she spat out his name. Eve lobbed a tea-towel at her. 'All right you two, stop it.' She leaned across and kissed Ben on the cheek. 'This'll be ready in about five minutes…'

Ben moved across to the fridge, opened it and took out a can of lager. He turned to Thorne, held it up. 'Want one?'

Thorne lifted his glass of wine. 'No, thanks…'

Ben moved round behind his girlfriend and sat next to Thorne. He was tall and well built, with fair, wavy hair, a gingerish goatee beard and neatly trimmed, pointed sideburns. Although in his thirties, and clearly fifteen years too old for it, he was wearing what Thorne guessed was skateboarding gear. He stuck out a hand, introduced himself. 'Ben Jameson…'

Thorne did the same, suddenly feeling a little awkward, and some what overdressed in his chinos and black M amp; S polo shirt…

'I'm starving,' Ben said.

Eve carried four plates across to the table. 'Good. There's loads…'

For half a minute there was only the sound of china and glassware clinking. Of cutlery scraping against dishes, and chairs against the quarry-tiled floor as the meal was dished up.

'This looks amazing,' Thorne said.

Nods and grunting from Denise and Ben, a smile from Eve and then silence. Thorne turned to his right. 'You in IT as well, Ben?'

'Sorry?'

'I wondered if the two of you had met up at work…?'

'God, no. I'm a filmmaker.'

'Right. Anything I might have seen?'

'Only if you watch a lot of corporate training videos,' Denise said. Thorne could feel his foot pressing against something underneath the table. He pushed, hoping it was Eve's foot. She looked up at him. ..

'Yeah, that's what I'm doing at the moment,' Ben said. He drummed his fork against the edge of his plate. 'But I've got some stuff of my own I'm trying to get off the ground as well.'

Denise reached across and laid a hand across Ben's, stilling the movement of the fork. Her tone was blatantly patronising. 'That's right, darling. Course you have…'

Ben pushed his pasta around a little, spoke without looking up from the plate. 'So, what's new at your place, then, Den? Any riveting system crashes? Any interesting computer viruses to tell us about…?'

Thorne took his first mouthful, caught Eve's eye. She smiled and gave a small shrug. He glanced across at Denise and Ben who were looking anywhere but at each other. The row might be officially over, but they were clearly intent on scoring a few points off each other.

'Right.' Eve folded her arms. 'If you two don't kiss and make up, you can luck off next door and ring out for pizza. Fair enough?'

First Denise and then Ben raised their eyes to Eve, who was doing her best to look serious. The antipathy between the couple seemed to melt away in the face of her mock-annoyance, the two quickly shaking heads and nuzzling necks and saying sorry for being stupid. Thorne watched all three clutching hands – apologising without embarrassment to him and to each other – and he was struck by the dynamic between these people who were clearly great friends, by the warmth and strength of it.

He smiled, waving away their apologies. Impressed by them, and envious…

When his phone rang, Denise leaned forward, seeming genuinely excited. 'This could be the first of those murderers, Tom…'

Something tightened inside Thorne when he saw the name come up on the phone's display. For a second he thought about leaving the room to take the call, maybe even pretending it was work. He decided he was being over-dramatic, mouthed 'sorry', and answered the phone.

'This is bad, Tom. Very bad. I've been getting my things ready for tomorrow. Ready for the trip. Laying it all out on the bed, trying to choose and there's a problem with this blue suit…'

Thorne listened, watching Eve and her friends pretending not to, as his father moved from panic to complete hysteria at frightening speed. When all he could hear down the phone was sobbing, Thorne pushed back his chair, dropped his eyes to the floor and stepped away from the table.

'Dad, listen, I'll be there first thing in the morning, like I said I would.' He moved across to the kitchen window, stared out across London Fields. The light at the top of Canary Wharf winked back at him as he stood, wondering if Eve and the others could hear the crying, and trying to decide what to do.

Eve stood and moved across to him. She put a hand on his arm.

'It's all right, Dad,' Thorne said. 'Look, I'll have to go home first, all right? To get my stuff and pick up the hire car. Calm down, OK? I'll be there as soon as I can…'

The snotty cow behind the reception desk looked at Welch like she thought he was going to nick something. Like he was a piece of shit that one of those businessmen laughing loudly in the bar had brought in on their shoes. It wasn't like it was the fucking Ritz either…

'I rang a couple of days ago to book,' Welch said. The receptionist stared at her computer screen, plastered on a smile that was fake and frosty at the same time. 'So you did,' she said. 'Just the one night, is it?'

Welch felt like reaching across the desk and slapping her. He had half a mind to ask for the manager, to demand the level of service and fucking courtesy to which he was entitled. 'Yeah, one night. I get breakfast, don't I?'

The girl didn't look up. 'Yes, sir, breakfast is included in your room rate.'

Welch suddenly wondered what would happen if there were two of them coming down in the morning. He didn't know if she would want to stay for breakfast. He thought about asking, decided to leave it.

'I won't keep you a second, sir…'

While the receptionist punched her keypad, Welch stared around the lobby. The plants were plastic. The grey carpet looked like it would take your skin off if you fell on it. There was a sign next to the desk which said The Greenwood Hotel, Slough, Welcomes Thompson Mouldings Ltd…

'There we go, sir. If you could just fill that in.' She slid the booking form across to him. He had to think for a few seconds before he could remember the address of the hostel. 'I'll need an imprint of a credit card. Nothing will be charged to it, but…'

'No need. I'm paying cash.' He signed the form and reached into the pocket of his jacket for the roll of tenners.

'That's fine, sir…'

Welch took out the money. He had a card he could have used if he'd felt like it, but he wanted her to see the cash. He slipped off the elastic band, started counting it out. The hostel was fucking horrendous, but being released NFA – having No Fixed Abode – did have its advantages. The discharge grant was more than double what you'd get normally.

'No payment in advance, sir. You settle the bill when you check out.'

She placed a key card on top of the pile of cash and pushed the lot back towards him. 'Room 313. Third floor.'

He grabbed his money, tried not to shout. 'I do bloody well know. I know what you're supposed to do, all right?'

The receptionist reddened and turned away from him.

Welch picked up the plastic bag that contained a toothbrush, condoms, clean pants and socks for the morning. He thought about joining the gang from Thompson Mouldings in the bar, having a quick one. On second thoughts, he'd go straight to the room, maybe have a shower, try to enjoy every single minute of it… Grinning at nobody in particular, he walked towards the lift. This was stuff that only went on at family weddings. That Thorne knew could never happen anywhere else: an old woman, seventy if she was a day, dancing awkwardly in the corner with a small boy; two women in their forties shouting at each other across the table, raising their voices so that their comments about the food/dress/service could be heard above the Madonna/Oasis/George Michael; small children sliding on their knees across the polished dance floor, while smaller ones screamed or struggled to stay awake in spite of the loud music.

Some related by blood, for ever, and some for only an hour or two. Eyeing each other up and staring each other out. A fuck or a fight not much more than a look or a lager away…

Twenty minutes since the happy couple had taken to the floor to dance the first dance to 'Lady in Red', and Thorne hadn't moved from his seat in the corner. From there he could watch what was happening in the main hall and keep an eye on his old man. He looked across. His father was no longer sitting at the bar. Thorne got up, ordered himself another Guinness, and while he was waiting for it to settle, wandered through into the main hall. He passed people he knew not well or not at all, their faces coloured by the DJ's piss-poor lighting rig – red then green then blue. At the far end of the hall, Thorne looked to his right and through the archway that led to another, smaller room, he could see his father shuffling along the buffet table, muttering to himself, piling food he would never eat on to a paper plate…

'Go easy, Dad. How many chicken legs can one man eat?'

'Mind your own fucking business…'

'It's too much.., look, get your hand underneath it…'

'Shit…'

The flimsy cardboard folding, unable to sustain so much food. The plate collapsing in on itself. The mattress sagging beneath the weight of the dead man…

Thorne was suddenly angry with his father, at having to play nursemaid. Then angrier still at knowing that if he were at home there would be luck all happening, the leads dried up, the new angles nonexistent. There was no reason for him to be missed.

He bent to pick up the food that had spilled on to the floor, thought better of it, and kicked it under the table.

The room was absolutely fucking huge. Or perhaps it just seemed huge. He knew that his sense of perspective was still a little skewed. Christ, having a crap without company felt like luxury… It was all Welch could do to stop himself running into the bathroom for a wank. That had been exactly what he'd done when Jane had got in touch with him at the hostel. Grabbed one of her photographs and thrown one off the wrist, hardly able to believe what she was suggesting. He'd been gobsmacked, how had she known where he was? He didn't bloody care, mind you, he'd been fucking delighted. He hadn't thought he'd hear from her again. He'd presumed she was one of those silly tarts that got off on writing to cons while they were inside, but would run a mile once they got out. He'd been so sure that he'd actually chucked away the letters she'd sent him in prison when he got out. He kept the photos, obviously. No way was he getting rid of them… He pulled out the one photo of Jane that he'd brought with him. God, she looked gorgeous. He dreamed that perhaps she would bring the hood with her, maybe even the handcuffs. He'd secretly brought the picture along in the hope that they could try to recreate it. He'd spent such a long time imagining what she looked like underneath the hood, or with her face lifted up out of the shadow and now, when he was about to see her, the truth was that he didn't care. He knew what her body was like, that she would surrender it to him, allow him to take it. Besides, when it came to it, he'd always been a firm believer in not looking at the mantelpiece when you were poking the fire.

Welch let out a long, slow breath. Looked at his watch. He stroked himself through his trousers, unsure that he'd be able to contain himself if she didn't get a bloody shift on…

Somebody knocked at the door. Three times. Softly. On the way back to the bar, his father out of harm's way, Thorne had been collared by his Auntie Eileen who asked if he was having a good time, and would he mind having a quick word with one of her nephews who was thinking of joining the police force? Thorne thought that he'd rather wash a corpse and said that yes, of course he would, and pushed his way back towards where he hoped his drink would still be waiting…

He downed a third of the pint in one and as it went down, he watched as hard glances were exchanged on the other side of the b. Some cousin or other and the bride's mate, looking like they fancied it. Thorne decided that even if they started punching seven shades of shit out of each other right there and then, he wasn't going to raise a finger. He realised that he was wrong about this stuff only happening at family weddings. With the possible exception of the disco, you could get it all at family funerals as well. The key word was family, that first syllable stretched out and said with a metaphorical jab of the finger, if you were a character on East Enders, or a mockney TV celebrity, or from a particular part of South-east London.

Thorne looked across. He guessed that the trouble would kick off a little later. In the car park, maybe.

It was events like these, he thought, births, marriages and deaths, that saw the undercurrents rise to the surface and become unstable. Bubbling up and swirling in eddies of beer and Bacardi. Sentimentality, aggression, envy, suspicion, avarice.

History. The ties that bind, twisted…

This was the stuff that was reserved for those closest to us, that was hidden away from strangers, even when that was exactly what most of your family were.

Thorne saw a lad, sixteen or seventeen, walking across the bar towards him. This was probably the nephew in search of careers advice. On second thoughts, Thorne was in just the mood to give him some…

He might start with a few statistics. Such as the number of murders committed by persons unknown to the victim, and how tiny they were compared to those committed by persons to whom the victim was actually related. He would tell the boy that when it came to families, to the tensions within them and the acts carried out in their name, he should never, ever be surprised. He would tell the stupid, eager young sod that families were dangerous.

That they were capable of anything.

When the man had come through the door, Welch could see straight away that he was in trouble.

There was a look on the man's face that Welch recognised, that he'd spent years in prison trying to avoid. It was the look he'd seen often on the faces of ordinary, honest-to-goodness murderers and armed robbers. The same look of contempt, of threat, that Caldicott must have seen down in that laundry room before they flash-fried his face…

Welch thought that perhaps he should have struggled more, but there was little he could do. The man was far stronger than he was. The years inside had toughened him up mentally but his body had gone soft and flabby. Too much time reading and not nearly enough in the gym…

Welch spent his last moments thinking that pain was so much worse when you were unable to fight it, when you could not protest its presence…

The scream in his throat was stopped by whatever had been thrown around his neck and pressed back into a strangled, bubbling hiss. His body, too, could do nothing. It drew itself instinctively from the agony, but each jerk away from the tearing, from the stabbing, just tightened the grip of the line that was crushing the breath out of him. Welch pushed his head down towards the carpet, feeling the line bite further into his neck, his teeth deeper into his tongue. He strained against the hands that dragged his neck back, contorting himself, his body fetal in the seconds before death.

I'm dying like a baby, Welch thought, his eyes wide but seeing nothing inside the hood, a softer, blacker darkness beginning finally to come over him…

Thorne had just put his father to bed. He was walking across the corridor to his own room when the phone rang. He let it ring until he was inside the room.

'You're up late…'

'Great, isn't it?' Eve said. 'Lie-in tomorrow. So, how was the wedding?'

'Perfect. Dull speeches, shit food and a fight.'

'What about the actual wedding…?' 'Oh that? Yeah, that was OK…'

She laughed. Thorne sat on the bed, wedged the phone between shoulder and chin and started to take his shoes off. 'Listen, I'm really sorry about last night…'

'Don't be silly. How's your dad?'

'You know, annoying. Mind you, he was annoying before…'

Thorne thought he could hear the sound of traffic at the other end of the line. He guessed Eve was out somewhere, but thought better of asking where. 'Seriously though, sorry about rushing off. Did the food get eaten?'

'Don't worry, it will…'

'Sorry…'

'It's fine, there would have been tons left anyway. I'd made loads and Denise eats sod all, so I wouldn't worry about it.'

Thorne began to unbutton his shirt. 'Say thanks to her and Ben for the entertainment, by the way…'

'Good, wasn't it? I think I broke it up too early though. Another minute, and I'm sure we'd have seen a glass of wine thrown in someone's face…'

'Next time.'

She yawned loudly. 'God, sorry…'

'I'll let you get to bed,' he said. He was imagining her in the back of a cab, pulling up outside her flat

'Sleep well, Tom.'

Thorne lay back down on his bed. 'Listen, you know that scale of one to ten? Can I move up to an eight…?'

Thorne's phone rang again eight hours later. Its insistent chirrup pulled him up from the depths of a deep sleep. Dragged him from a dream where he was tryin to stop a man bleeding to death. Each time he put his finger over a hole, another would appear, as if he were Chaplin trying to plug a leak. Just when it seemed he had all the wounds covered, the blood began to spurt from a number of holes in him…

'You'd better get back, sir,' Holland said.

'Tell me…'

'The killer's ordered another wreath…'