Lazybones

FOURTEEN

Carol Chamberlain was three-quarters of a team of two. She had been assigned a research officer, but ex-Detective Sergeant Graham McKee was, to us a favourite phrase of her husband's, about as useful as a chocolate teapot. When he wasn't in the pub, he made it perfectly clear that he thought Carol should have been the one making coffee and phone calls, while he was out doing the interviews. A few years ago, she'd have had his undersized balls on a platter. Now she just got on with doing the job, his as well as her own. It might take a bit longer, but at least it would get done properly. She believed in that. She couldn't be sure yet, but if the case she was on now had been handled properly first time round, there might well have been no need for her to be doing anything at all.

The drive to Hastings hadn't taken her as long as she'd thought, but she'd left early to be on the safe side. Jack had got up with her, made her some breakfast while she got ready. She could see that he was unhappy that she was going out on a Sunday but he'd tried to make a joke of it.

'Bloody unsociable hours. Sunday gone for a burton. Now I know you're working for the police force again…'

She checked her make-up in the mirror before she got out of the car. Maybe she'd overdone the foundation a little but it was too late now. She was pleased with her hair, though; she'd run a rinse through it the night before to get rid of most of the grey. Jack had told her she looked great.

She walked up to the front door and knocked, telling herself to calm down, that she'd done this a thousand times, that there was no need to grip on to the handle of her briefcase as though it were stopping her from falling…

'Sheila? I'm Carol Chamberlain from AMRU. We spoke on the phone…'

Carol could see that the woman who answered the door was clearly not expecting someone who looked like her, rinse or no rinse. She had gained a stone in weight for each year that she'd been out of the force, and at a little over five feet tall she knew very well how it looked. Her hair could be as fashionable and artificially auburn as she wanted, but – whatever lies Jack might tell her – she could do little about, the rest of it. However sharp she felt, she knew that those thirty years on the job showed in her face. Some mornings she stared at herself in-the bathroom mirror. She looked into her dark, disappearing eyes. Saw currants sinking into cake mix…

The woman opened the front door a little wider. However disappointed or confused she might be, Carol hoped that good old British reserve would prevent Sheila Franklin saying anything about it.

'I'll put the kettle on,' she said eventually. In the kitchen, while tea was being made, they spoke about weather and traffic. Sheila Franklin wiped down surfaces and washed up teaspoons as she went. Settled a few minutes later in the small, simply furnished living room, her face crinkled into a frown of confusion.

'I'm sorry, but I thought you said that the cage was being reopened…'

Carol had said no such thing. 'I'm sorry if you were misled. I'm reexamining the case, and if it's considered worthwhile, it might be reopened.'

'I see…'

'How long were you and Alan married?'

Alan Franklin's widow was a tall, very thin woman whom Carol would have put in her mid-to late fifties. Not a great deal older than she was herself. Her hair was pulled back from a face dominated by green eyes that did not stay fixed on any one spot for more than a few seconds. From behind the rim of her teacup, her gaze darted around like a meerkat's as she answered Carol's questions. She'd met Franklin in 1983. He would have been in his late forties by then, ten years older than she was. He'd left his first wife and a job in Colchester a few years before that and moved to Hastings to start again. They'd met at work and married only a few months later.

'Alan was a fast worker,' she said, laughing. '. Very smooth, he was. Mind you, I didn't put up much of a struggle.'

As always, Carol had done her homework. She was up to speed with what very few background details there were. 'How did Alan's kids react? What would they have been then? Sixteen? Seventeen…?'

Sheila smiled, but there was something forced about it. 'Something like that. I'm not even sure how old they are now. In all the time we were married, I think I saw the boys once. Only one of them bothered to show his face at Alan's funeral…'

Carol nodded, like this was perfectly normal. 'What about the first wife?'

'I never met Celia. Never spoke to her on the phone. I'm not even sure that Alan ever did, to be honest, after they split up.'

'Right…'

Sheila leaned forward and put her cup and saucer down. 'I know it probably sounds odd, but that's Just the way it was. It was Alan's past…'

Carol tried not to let any reaction, any judgment of these people's lives, show on her face, but it was hard. She and Jack had married relatively late, and there were times when relations with his ex-wife were a little strained, but they were civil. They acknowledged each other. And Jack's daughter had always been a part of their lives.

'I did make an effort with the children,' Sheila said. 'For a while I tried to persuade Alan that he should see them, that he should try and build bridges. He was always a bit funny about it.'

'Perhaps he thought his ex-wife had turned them against him.'

'He never said so. The kids were more or less grown up anyway, and we did try briefly to have our own.' She began piling the tea things back on to the tray she had brought them through on. She took hold of the tray and stood up. 'I was nearly forty by then, and it never happened…'

Carol followed Sheila as she walked back towards the kitchen. 'Did Alan never talk about why he and Celia had divorced?'

'Not really. I think it was unpleasant.'

From what Carol was hearing, that was probably an understatement.

'Presumably there was alimony though? They must have communicated through solicitors?'

'For the last few years we didn't even know where they were living. The son who turned up at the funeral only knew Alan was dead because he saw it on the news.'

'I see…'

The cups and saucers were already being washed up. When Sheila turned from the sink, Carol saw her read something in her face. Maybe that judgement she'd been trying to hide…

'Look, it was always just Alan and me,' Sheila said. 'We were self sufficient. Anything that happened before didn't seem to matter. And I was the same, honestly. I never bothered with old boyfriends or what have you, and we never saw much of my family. Alan had no contact with the family he had before, because he had me.' She took a step towards Carol, who was standing in the doorway, water dipping from a teacup on to the lino. Her face seemed to soften as she spoke. 'That's what he always used to say. That I was his life now. What he had before hadn't worked out and so he didn't want to think about it. Alan was trying to get away from his old life…'

Carol nodded. 'Could I use your loo…?'

She leaned against the sink, letting the water run a while. She had never worked much on instinct, but in thirty years Carol Chamberlain had learned to give it breathing space. Back in 1996, Alan Franklin's murder had gone unsolved. Unsolved, largely because it had been seemingly motiveless.

She smelt the soap, began to wash her hands… It was at least possible that whatever Alan Franklin had been trying to escape from, here in this house with his new job and nice new wife, had finally caught up with him in that car park. Sheila Franklin was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

'Do you have any of Alan's old things?' Carol asked. 'I don't mean clothes or…'

'There's a couple of boxes in the loft. Papers and what have you, I think. Alan put them up there when we moved in.'

'Would you mind if I had a look?'

'God, no, not at all. Actually, you could do me a favour and take them with you.' Sheila looked past Carol, back up the stairs. She blinked slowly and a film appeared over her eyes. 'I could do with getting things tidy…'

It wasn't exactly a photo-fit, but then there wouldn't have been a lot of point…

Thorne had taken the picture out of his bag while the train was pulling out of King's Cross, laid it out on the table in front of him, stared at it for ten minutes.

The waiter from the card opposite Dodd's studio had made his statement the day after the body had been found. He'd described a motorcycle courier who'd been hanging around a few days before. He hadn't actually seen the man in the dark crash helmet and leathers go in through the door, or even go up to it. It was a hot afternoon. He'd had a lot of tables to look after…

A Wednesday, nearly a fortnight ago. Five days before they'd broken down the narrow, brown door and smelt a murder scene. So, Charlie Dodd had not been completely full of shit. The man to whom he had rented out his studio had worn a crash helmet. The lie, Thorne guessed, had been about not seeing the face underneath it. It was a lie that Charlie Dodd thought might make him a few quid and had ended up costing him a lot more.

At the noise of the buffet trolley squeaking down the carriage Thorne glanced up. Thameslink food would not be his Sunday morning breakfast of choice, but he was hungry. He felt in his pocket for change.

Dodd had probably felt totally safe as the man in the motorbike gear had strolled up the stairs in the middle of the afternoon. As likely as not, he'd felt in control, ready to squeeze the mug for whatever he could get. He'd had no idea of the kind of man he was dealing with. No witness from the Remfry or Welch killing had mentioned seeing anybody in a crash helmet, but all the same it needed to be checked out. On any given afternoon, Soho was thick with bikes, scooters and mopeds, delivering scripts and videos, sandwiches and sushi. It had taken the best part of two days to trace every courier who had been in the area on legitimate business and eliminate them. Two days dicking about to confirm what Thorne had known to be true from the moment the waiter had described what he'd seen.

The face behind that visor had belonged to the killer, and the black rucksack slung across his shoulder had contained a length of blue washing line.

'What can I get you, love?'

The trolley was at Thorne's table. He plumped for tea and a Kit Kat. He took the top off the cardboard cup, mopped up the inevitable spillage with his napkin and began to dunk the tea bag. He stared again at the picture he had begun to draw a few days earlier. diagnosed, his dad's other old friends tended not to be around quite as much. Victor was the only one who didn't seem to think he could catch it…

'What is?' Thorne said.

His father held up his pint, pleased as punch. 'This. "No beer". Number three, coming after "no going in the kitchen" and "no going out alone". My list of stupid rules, you know?'

Thorne nodded. He knew…

'No booze.' Jim Thorne cleared his throat, lowered his voice, tried to sound like a DJ. 'Straight in at number three in the Alzheimer's Hit Parade…' Thorne and Victor laughed. Thorne's father began to hum the theme to Top of the Pops, then stopped suddenly and looked across at Victor, his face creasing with panic. 'Who are the top three chart acts of all time? In terms of weeks on the chart, I mean…'

Victor leaned forward, the mood suddenly urgent. 'Elvis… Cliff Richard…'

'Obviously, yeah,' Jim said, agitated. 'It's the third one I can't bloody think of. Christ, I know this…'

Thorne tried to help. 'The Beatles…?'

With the perfect timing of a music-hall double act, his dad and Victor looked at each other, then at Thorne, before answering simultaneously,

'No…'

Thorne could see his father beginning to sweat, to breathe heavily. The fact that he was wearing two sweaters was not helping. 'I can see his bloody face. You know, bloke who fancies other blokes.' He began to raise his voice. 'Christ, he plays the… the thing with keys on, black and white keys…'

'Piano,' Thorne said. His father often spoke like this, when the right word wouldn't come. The thing you put in your mouth to clean your teeth with. Bacon and.., those things that come out of a chicken. Victor thumped his fist on the table triumphantly. 'Elton John,' he said.

'I know,' Jim said. 'I fucking know…' He began stabbing at the chips on his plate, one alter the other, looking as if he might weep at any moment.

I'll get some more drinks in,' Thorne said quickly. 'If you're going to break one of your rules, you might as well really break the bugger…'

Victor drained his pint, handed Thorne the empty glass. 'Course, your dad might not have Alzheimer's at all…'

Thorne shot him a look. This kind of discussion was pointless, though Victor was, strictly speaking, correct. Alzheimer's could not be, could never be confirmed. They were 90 percent sure, though, which was about as good.., or bad, as it got.

'Same again, Victor…?'

'Are you listening, Jim?' Victor said. 'You can't be certain it's Alzheimer's…'

Thorne put a hand on Victor's arm. 'Victor…'

Then Victor shot him a look, and Thorne suddenly saw what was happening. He saw that he was trampling all over the feed to one of his dad's favourite lines. He felt sick with shame… His father put down his knife and fork, picked up his cue. 'That's right, Vic. The consultant told me that the only way they can be sure is to perform a post-mortem. I said, "No, thank you very much. I don't think I'm too keen on one of those just yet!"'

Victor and his father were still laughing loudly as Thorne stood at the bar waiting to get served…

The 'middle stage' of the dementia was how it had been described to him. It all sounded a bit vague, but Thorne figured that as long as there was another stage to go, things would be all right for a while longer. As long as the bad jokes outnumbered the moments of terror and despair, he would try not to be too worried. Just briefly, for a minute or two, Carol had wondered about what she was doing, had thought about swapping places with her husband. She was a middle-aged woman, for heaven's sake! She ought to be inside like Jack, curled up on the sofa in front of Heartbeat instead of wrapped up in an anorak, rummaging through filthy cardboard boxes in their freezing garage,

That had been before she'd got into it. As soon as she began to delve into all that was left of Alan Franklin's past – his first past – she'd stopped feeling the cold. She'd rediscovered that bizarre and exciting feeling of looking for something, getting after it, without having the foggiest bloody idea of exactly what 'it' was.

All around her, in front rooms and kitchens on her quiet little road in Worthing, women her age were doing crosswords, or losing themselves in crappy romances or pouring breakfast cereal into bowls ready for the morning…

Carol pulled a pile of dusty, blank paper out of one of the boxes, swept away the grime with the side of her hand. She wouldn't have swapped places with any one of those women… There was lots of paper in both boxes; reams of the stuff in a variety of sizes, once presumably white, but now yellowed and slightly damp. There were envelopes too, and smaller packages of file cards, sticky labels and rusted staples. Franklin had met Sheila while working for an insurance firm in Hastings, but had clearly wanted to hold on to a few odd souvenirs of the working life he'd had before. None of the other stuff would have caused pulses to quicken at the Antiques Roadshow: a couple of unused Letts diaries from 1975 and 1976; a bunch of keys on a Ford Escort key ring; plates and teacups wrapped up in old newspaper; a couple of Polaroid's inside a manila envelope – two boys; one a baby, the other a toddler, and later the same two as a pair of gawky, unsmiling teenagers.

Carol unwrapped the dry newspaper from around what turned out to be a large silver tankard. She laid it to one side and smoothed out the crumpled page on the garage floor. It was from a local paper. She looked at the date – presumably the day Franklin had walked out on, or been thrown out by, his wife. Not a great deal seemed to have happened in Colchester that day: a small protest about a proposed ring road; a leisure centre reopening after a refit; a smash-and-grab at the jeweller's on the High Street…

Carol smiled at a phrase she hadn't heard for many years. Smash and-grab. Not much more than twenty years ago and even the crimes seemed more innocent somehow…

She picked up the tankard which, after a closer look, she could see was silver-plated. In spite of the newspaper, it had blackened slightly on one side but she could make out an engraving. She held it up to the light from the bare bulb, and read:

From the boys at Baxters, May 1976.

Welcome back.

Have one to celebrate or more than one to forget the whole thing, Carol thought about ringing Sheila Franklin, but knew instinctively that she wouldn't be a great deal of help. Her husband had not shared his past with her. Maybe he went up into the loft once in a while and peered at it, or perhaps he was trying to forget it himself. Either way, Carol was pretty sure that she would have to work it out on her own. She'd start tomorrow. It couldn't be that hard. She'd get that lazy bastard McKee to make a few calls.

Wincing, Carol hauled herself up from where she'd been kneeling on the floor. She'd put a cushion down on the concrete but her knees still felt very sore. She switched off the garage light and stood for a few seconds in the darkness before going inside.

Wondering what Alan Franklin had cause to celebrate back in 1976. And what he might have wanted to forget…

On the twenty-five-minute train journey back from St. Albans, Thorne had the entire carriage to himself.

He reached into his bag for his CD Walkman and a couple of discs. He opened up an album by a band called Lambchop – a birthday present from Phil Hendricks which, until he'd shelled out three hundred quid in Tower Records, had been the only CD he'd owned for a day or two after the burglary. It was 'alt. country', Hendricks had told him. Apparently, Thorne needed to move with the times a little… Thorne pressed PLAY, let it come and thought about the curious goodbye he and the old man had shared.

Half an hour after Victor had left and whatever tea was still in the pot had gone stone cold, Thorne and his father had stood together on the doorstep. Both, for very different reasons, trying to find the right thing to say.

Jim Thorne had never been one for tactile displays of affection. Occasionally a handshake, but not today. Instead, with a twinkle in his eye, he had leaned in close and, as if imparting a great pearl of wisdom, told Thorne that 'Three Steps to Heaven' by Eddy Cochrane had been number one in the hit parade on the day he'd been born. Thorne kicked off his shoes, put his feet up. on the seat opposite. What his father had said, what he'd remembered, was, he supposed, touching in its own way…

The music in his headphones was slow, and lush and strange. Thorne couldn't make head or tail of the lyrics and there were horns, for crying out loud. Not Ring of Fire-style Tijuana trumpets, or mariachi, but proper horns, like you'd hear on a soul record… Thorne ejected the Lambchop CD, put it back into its jewel case. Another time, perhaps. He put on Steve Earle's 'Train a Comin" and closed his eyes.

Soul was all well and good, but there were times when guts sounded a whole lot better.

It was stupidly easy.

He never ceased to be amazed at how pathetic these animals were. How simple it was to lead them by the nose. By the nose between their legs… It was less than a week since the first casual remarks had been exchanged and already he could start thinking specifically about when and where Southern was going to be killed. It had been such a piece of piss that he half regretted all that effort with the others. The months of planning, the buildup, the letters. It might have been just as easy to wait until after they'd been released and collar them in a bar somewhere. Just smile and say hello. People like that, like Southern, didn't need subtlety. Fuckers didn't understand it, wouldn't recognise it. Using their cocks like blunt instruments…

He'd won Southern's trust quickly, and now that he had it, the rest-was fairly straightforward. Times and places. Arrangements. It was all about trust, about getting it and keeping it. The gaining of trust was something he was good at. People gave it to him all the time, like a gift, without him needing to ask for it.

By contrast, he never, ever gave it. Not any more. He knew very well what could happen if you did.