Lazybones

TWENTY-SEVEN

Not a very long time before, on a freezing night when weather and loneliness had seemed meant for each other, Thorne had dialed a number he had copied from a postcard in a newsagent's window. He'd driven round to a basement flat in 'Tufnell Park, handed over a few notes, and watched a fat, pink hand toss him off. He'd heard the woman's less-than-convincing groans and entreaties, the jangle of the charm bracelet that bounced on her wrist as she worked. He'd heard his own breath, and the low, desperate grunt as he finished. Then he'd driven home and gone to bed, where he'd done it again himself for twenty-five quid less…

Now, Thorne moved around his office, willing away the last knockings of a muggy Saturday and remembering his hands-on adventure in vice with even less pleasure than he'd felt at the time. It was a measure of how low he had felt then. Of how much he was looking forward to his evening with Eve Bloom.

He would leave Becke House feeling as positive as he had in a long time. Things had moved quickly. The few days since the woman – who might or might not be Sarah Foley – had elbowed her way to the right part of Thorne's brain and to the forefront of his investigation had yielded encouraging results.

They'd re-interviewed Howard Southern's ex-girlfriend, confirmed her story about the other woman, and quickly managed to turn up several characters claiming to have seen Southern with a woman in the days leading up to his murder. Descriptions were predictably vague and contradictory, 'slim' and 'fair-haired' being the only adjectives that turned up more than once. A barmaid told how she'd seen the woman drag Southern away into a dark corner, where she was all over him, but like she wanted him all to herself'. An e-fit had been produced, but it was flatter and even more anonymous than such things normally were. The woman was no more there – on flyers and posters and front pages – than she was in the photos she had sent the men who were to be killed.

Still, it was progress…

Another line of inquiry involved the possibility that the woman did more than just woo the victims and lure them to their deaths. Though Thorne himself was dubious, it had at least to be considered that she had been present when they were killed.

They had gone back to the hotels in Slough and Roehampton, to the doss-house in Paddington, and asked questions. Nothing exciting had turned up when CGTV footage was looked at again, but that was hardly surprising. If Mark Foley had known where the cameras were, then so would she. A woman who'd been working on reception at the Greenwood Hotel on the night Ian Welch was killed did remember seeing a blond woman hanging around. She'd thought the woman must have been with the party in the bar, but didn't see her talking to anyone. The receptionist thought she was 'funny looking'… Thorne was not sure what role the woman had played. He wondered exactly what they would charge her with when they did find her.

'Conspiracy to commit' was probably favourite. Yes, she might have turned up at the hotels, may even have answered the hotel-room doors to the victims, while Mark Foley stood hidden, tightening the length of washing line around his fingers…

Beyond that…?

If this woman was Sarah Foley, Thorne could not imagine her watching. He could not imagine her brother being watched, as he brutally raped another man…

It was dark, unnatural thoughts such as this one, which Thorne determined, at least for a night, to dismiss from his mind, as he moved through the Incident Room, saying his goodbyes. The doors opened as he reached the lift. Without breaking stride, Thorne walked in and turned to press the button. After a few seconds he watched the room, the desks, the case disappear before his eyes as the doors closed…

Thorne stepped from the lift and headed towards the car park, all the time thinking about what he was going to wear later on. He reckoned he'd have about half an hour after he got home before Eve was due. Maybe a bit more, if the traffic was as light as it should be. The BMW cruised up to the barrier, then, fifteen seconds later, moved under it and out on to the road. A Carter Family compilation was selected, and the volume turned up. He wondered what music he should put on later. Would Eve run screaming from the place as soon as she knew about the country stuff?.

He was such a daft old sod. Why had he buggered about? Why the fuck had he even subconsciously been putting this off?. Thorne was still ludicrously excited by the car, by the shape and the feel and the sound of it. He put his foot down, enjoying the noise of the engine, smiling for several reasons as he accelerated towards the North Circular, and home.

Picking up speed…

Holland drove across Lambeth Bridge, no more than ten minutes from home. He remembered crossing the river further east, on Saturday night exactly a week before. Pissed and talking nonsense in Thorne's new car.

He thought about the look on Sophie's face when she'd found him later on the bathroom floor. He'd raised his head from the cool porcelain of the toilet and seen nothing he felt comfortable with. What he'd seen on her face was worry, carved in deep, and with the strange clarity that only alcohol can bring, Holland knew that it wasn't for him. For the first time, he saw that she was concerned for herself, and for the baby she was carrying. Concerned that in choosing him as the father of her child, she'd fucked up big time… The hangover had worn off a damn sight faster than the guilt. Holland decided that he'd do his bit to make tonight a good one. He'd stop off and pick up a nice bottle of wine for them to have with dinner, to finish off afterwards, spread out in front of the TV. Sophie still enjoyed the odd glass of wine. It was supposed to be good for her, though before the pregnancy, she would certainly not have stopped at just the one glass. She'd have happily put away a bottle, while Holland watched as her cheeks began to flush, and waited, never knowing whether she'd become soppy or spiky. Either was fine by him. She'd tale the piss and start to tease, or else she'd wrap herself around him and talk about the future, and either way they'd usually end up making love. Before the pregnancy…

There was a row of shops just past the Imperial War Museum: a Turkish grocer's, a paper shop and an off-licence. As Holland pulled over to the kerb, he began to ache with the realisation that it was getting hard to remember what things were like before Sophie became pregnant.

The good things, anyway.

It never took him very long to get ready.

He didn't dress up in anything special. There were no pointless rituals, no periods of intense mental preparation, none of that rubbish.

He thought about what he was doing, of course he did. He was sensible, he went over it all, but that took no more time than it did to pack his bag.

There wasn't very much to carry. Nothing that wouldn't fit into a small rucksack. Previously, with the ones in the hotel rooms, he'd taken something bigger, a bag he could stuff the sheets and bedclothes into. That wouldn't be necessary this time.

The gloves, the hood, the weapons…

He'd already sharpened the knife, then used it to cut off a length from the reel of washing line. He coiled it up and stuffed it into a pocket at the front of the black, leather rucksack. It was funny, the things people carried around with them in bags. Who knew what secrets, what glimpses into people's lives, might come tumbling out if you could empty their backpacks and briefcases, their plastic sports bags and canvas holdalls? For sure, you'd need to sift through a mountain of files and folders, of newspapers, and sandwiches in cling-film, before you found anything of interest. A ransom note or a blackmail demand. Perhaps the odd dirty mag or pair of handcuffs. Then, if you were luck), you might find the one bag in ten thousand or a thousand or less that contained a gun, or a bloodstained hammer or a severed finger…

You'd almost certainly be surprised if it was a woman's handbag. He smiled as the last thing went in, and he fastened the strap. Anybody rooting through the bag he was packing would probably just be very embarrassed.

Thorne stood staring at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his wardrobe door. He was trying to decide whether to stick with the plain white shirt or go back to the blue denim when the doorbell made his mind up for him.

On the way to the door, he nudged the volume of the music down just a little. He'd decided, after much soul-searching, that George Jones would suit any mood that might be required. He had some of the quirky, fifties songs lined up for now, but was ready to bring out the Billy Sherill stuff from two decades later when the time came. There was surely no more romantic song ever recorded than 'He Stopped Loving Her Today'…

Eve marched into the centre of the room, cast a quick eye over the place, then over Thorne. 'You look very summery,' she said. She was wearing a simple, brown cotton dress that buttoned up the front. 'So do you,' Thorne said. He looked down at his white shirt. 'I thought about wearing a tie…'

She took a step towards him. 'God, we're not going anywhere posh, are we?'

'No…'

'Good. I like the shirt open-necked anyway…'

They kissed, their hands growing busier with every few seconds that passed. As Thorne's fingers engaged with the second button on her dress, Eve broke off and stepped away, smiling. 'Now, I don't necessarily think that wild, gymnastic shagging on a full stomach is a good idea,' she said. 'But I could eat something, and I'd definitely like a drink…'

Thorne laughed. 'Right, is it a bit warm to eat curry?'

'Curry's good any time.'

'There's a fantastic Indian round the corner.'

'Sounds perfect.'

'Or there's any number of great places in Islington or Camden. Loads of nice restaurants in Crouch End. You haven't been in my new car yet…'

Eve walked across to the window, fastening her buttons. 'Let's go local. It won't be fair if only one of us has had a drink.'

'No argument from me. Let me grab a jacket…'

'Don't bother, we're not going anywhere just yet.'

'No?'

Eve turned from the window, raising her hands to adjust the clips in her hair. Her breasts pushed against the front of her dress, and Thorne could see the redness where she'd shaved under her arms. 'I've got something in the van,' she said. 'I'll need a hand bringing it in.'

It wasn't until Holland looked at the clock on the dash that he realised it had been ten minutes since he'd pulled up outside the flat It was just after seven o'clock.

Ten minutes and more of sitting, clutching the plastic bag with the wine inside it, unable to get out of the car. It was a few minutes after that, when Holland stared, confused for a moment at the small, dark patches appearing on his trousers, and realised that he was crying. He lifted his head and squeezed his eyes shut, the next breath a sigh which caught in his throat and became a sob.

Then a series of them, like punches to the heart. For want of anything else, he wrapped his forearms around the bag, the wine bottle between his face and the steering wheel as his head dropped slowly forward. Hi felt the pressure of the bottle through the bag, cold against his cheek, and then, within a few minutes, the bag began to grow warm and slippery with tears, each desperate gasp between sobs sucking the clammy plastic into his mouth… Like the puking wretch he'd been seven days before, Holland could do nothing but let it come, and wait for it to finish. He cried for himself, and for Sophie, and for the child that would be theirs in five weeks. He wept, guilty and sorry and stupid and scared. The tears whose sting was sharpest though, that were squeezed out faster and bigger than most, were those he shed in anger at the spineless, selfish tosser he knew he had become.

When it was over, Holland lifted his sticky face up just enough to slide a sleeve across it, like a child. He sat, sniffing and staring up at the flat Before, a general confusion and some pathetic, nameless fear had been twin hands pressing him down into his seat, preventing him from going inside. Now, although there was nothing vague about the shame he was feeling, like a welt across his gut, it was equally effective.

He couldn't go inside, not yet.

Holland looked down at his briefcase in the passenger footwell. He knew that even if he took work upstairs, tried to get straight into it, the first smile from Sophie would be enough to set him off again. Maybe he could just drive around…

He reached down and grabbed the case, rummaged inside until he found the sheet of paper he was looking for. He cleared his throat as he took out his phone and dialed the number. Even so, when it was answered, the first word or two he spoke sounded choked and heavy.

'Mrs. Noble, it's Dave Holland here again. I know it's an odd time, but I was wondering if now might be a good time to pop over and pick up those photos…?'