Sleepyhead

NINE

When he woke up he was still angry. The previous night's amateur dramatics had been hugely disappointing. And where the hell was Thorne? At least it confirmed what he'd suspected for a while – that the rigorous, high-priority investigation had got precisely nowhere. Perhaps they'd have the car by now, or a slightly better description, but it was still painfully slow. There wasn't even a sniff of the number plate. It was stolen, of course, but come on! It was nearly a fortnight since he'd given them Helen's body to play with and they were still begging for the help of the general public.

Useless wankers.

Thorne. Nowhere to be seen when he should have been grabbing his bit of televisual glory. He hadn't believed for a second that Thorne had still been recovering. No, there was something afoot among the jolly coppers for sure. This was unforeseen but easily dealt with. If all that his thuggish theatrics and beautifully arch little note had done was cause the boys in blue to have some sort of queeny tantrum, then he'd just have to find another way to chivvy them along, wouldn't he?

It was about time anyway. Maniacs were supposed to speed up as the frenzy took hold, weren't they? They'd expect nothing less. He'd considered livening things up a little. Perhaps a gay man or an old person next time. No… that would be bound to confuse them and he didn't want them confused. All things considered, he was ready for another bash. Keen as mustard to try, try, try again. He'd tried kicking Thorne in the shins. It was time to aim for the heart.

Thorne looked around the pub. Businessmen in shirtsleeves using a basket of scampi or a microwaved chili con carne as an excuse to sink a couple of pints at lunchtime. It was probably as good a place as any. Informants didn't like to meet too close to home and as it was, of all the people upstairs in the Lamb and Flag, Thorne looked the most likely villain. He was comfortable with that. He knew he looked.., useful. It hadn't done him any harm by and large, though he would've liked to be taller. A surly Australian barman emptied the ashtray Thorne wasn't using. 'Are you eating, mate? We need the table.'

Thorne opened his wallet. 'I'll have another mineral water.' He made sure his identification was visible. With a tut the barman wiped the table and went to fetch Thorne's drink.

The Perrier was the one thing slightly at odds with the image he knew he was presenting, but the booze was, as yet, strictly confined to Little IKEA. Besides, he could do with getting straight back to work afterwards. He didn't think rolling in bladdered on his first day would go down too well.

The meeting with Frank Keable the day before hadn't been as prickly as he'd expected. Keable had wanted him to stay on the investigation, but for none of the right reasons. He talked about the integrity of the case, whatever that was, and how he could ill afford to lose an officer with Thorne's outstanding record. As far as the notes and the attack on Thorne, which Keable assured him was being viewed as an attempted murder, were concerned, Keable was predictably vague. He was adamant that this facet of the case would be monitored closely, but Thorne could sense a real fear on Keable's part that, were he to leave, Keable himself might become the object of the killer's bizarre attention.

Thorne knew that this was never going to happen. The simple truth was that, if Thorne left, Keable was terrified of the press getting hold of it and understandably he did not relish explaining to the detective superintendent why one of his senior officers was jumping ship. Thorne had told him to put it down to a clash with Tughan. Or him. Anything he liked.

Keable asked him to reconsider. Thorne had looked into the bored brown eyes of the Exmoor stag and stood his ground.

By lunchtime he'd been transferred back to the Serious Crime Group (West) out of Hendon, effective from nine o'clock the following morning.

He hoped things were a little clearer than when he'd left.

The Met was in a serious state of flux. Not only was it now under the direct auspices of the GLA and Mayor Livingstone, it was also undergoing major operational restructuring. NHS red tape was impressive, but it didn't even come close.

The old area system had gone. Five areas of London (NW, NE, SW, SE and Central), each with its own Major Incident Team (AMIT), which had in turn replaced the Area Major Incident Pools (AMIP's) and all now superseded by three Serious Crime Groups (East, West, South) encompassing all existing OCU's as well as the old Organised Crime Department, the Fraud Squad and the Firearms Unit.

The result? Hundreds of officers without a clue what was happening. Or indeed, why. The official line was that the new SCG's were supposed to be more proactive. The Met would no longer sit back and wait for crime to happen.

It was a good theory.

But you couldn't anticipate the likes of Jeremy Bishop. As the DI on Team 3 out of Beck House in Hendon, Thorne had landed on his feet. He'd worked with DCI Russell Brigstocke for six months at Serious Crime and he knew that, barring-anything major going down, Brigstocke wouldn't kick up a fuss should Thorne be unavailable from time to time.

Like since nine o'clock that morning.

'Kodak!'

If Thorne looked useful, the man in his early forties nodding and strolling over to join him was positively indispensable. Six feet four and built like a barn, with bleached blond hair, a nose-ring and, today, a bright yellow puffa jacket. But it wasn't all good news. Dennis Bethell's voice could start a fight at a hundred yards. It was a spilt pint waiting to happen.

'Can I get you one, Mr. Thorne?'

Thorne always smiled the first time he heard the incongruous, high-pitched squeak. Whoever was responsible for these things had screwed up big-time or else had a great sense of humour. Somewhere there was an extremely irate cartoon mouse who sounded like Frank Bruno. He pointed to his water. 'No, I'm fine.'

Bethell nodded for about ten seconds.

Thorne emptied his glass as the barman finally brought over a new one and took the money. Bethell, if anything, was even bigger than the last time he'd seen him.

'Steroids give you cancer, you know, Kodak.'

'Bollocks,' squeaked Bethell. 'They make you infertile. Anyway, this all right for you, Mr. Thorne? I know it's a bit busy, but coming up West is handy for me. I do a lot of business round here.'

'Course you do, Kodak…'

As porno merchants went, Dennis Bethell was among the least unpleasant. For twenty years Thorne had monitored his career with interest. He was purveyor of everything from soft-focus glamour snaps for car magazines to the more brightly lit and clinical stuff for those publications a little harder to reach. In the eighties his top quality cumshot work had been much in demand, and his occasional foray into blackmail had caused the abrupt termination of at least one prominent political career. Dennis was old school. In an age where hard-core videos were a tenner and any mug punter with a PC could watch dwarfs doing it with donkeys at the drop of a hat, or the click of a mouse, he was still a firm believer in the power, the truth, of the single still photograph. Deep down, Thorne admired the filthy piece of pond life.

'This boozer used to be the Bucket of Blood you know.'

Thorne did know. Two hundred and fifty years earlier this had been a brawler's pub. Whores and cutthroats doing business and slicing each other up for pennies while Hogarth sat in the corner jotting it all down and doing sketches. Thorne looked around him. He couldn't help but wonder if he might not have felt a little more at home.

'Business going well, then, is it?'

Bethell was lighting a Silk Cut. 'Oh, not too shabby. I've got a website, you know…'

'You're shattering all my illusions.'

'You've got to move with the times, haven't you? Have you seen the stuff that's out there?'

Thorne had. Plenty of it. 'And you think the stuff you do is any different?'

'I don't do anything with kids, Mr. Thorne, you know that. I won't be doing with that filth. Besides, my stuff's a bit more exclusive, I reckon. It's harder to get hold of.'

'Yeah. You've got to stand on tiptoe in the newsagent.'

Bethell looked uncomfortable. Stubbed out the fag long before it was finished. Lit another. 'Can we get this over with, Mr. Thorne?'

'Of course. I'm sorry to have kept you.'

'Listen, Mr. Thorne, I don't really hear a great deal these days. I've been getting this webcam thing off the ground and apart from that it's just the usual stuff with the models. I don't hang around as much as I did…'

The barman returned with Thorne's change. From the table behind him Thorne could hear muffled sniggering. He really hoped it wasn't aimed at the big man sitting opposite him.

Bethell mistook Thorne's silence for disappointment.

'There's a bit of drugs business I could put your way. These young girls are dropping Es and putting Charlie up their beaks like there's no tomorrow. They don't want to eat, see…'

More sniggering, and this time Bethell heard it too. Thorne turned round. Four media types. Short hair, square glasses and training shoes that probably cost more than his suit. They wouldn't look at him. He turned back round, lowering his voice as a cue for Bethell to do the same.

'I don't need information, Kodak.'

'Right.'

'I wish to avail myself of your high-quality professional services, which you will provide in return for me not sending Vice to go trampling through your darkroom.'

Bethell thought for a moment or three. 'You want me to take some photos?'

'Simple black and white portrait from as close as you can get. The subject will be unaware that he is being photographed.'

Bethell was hardly inconspicuous, but Thorne knew that the man had a great deal of experience in maintaining a low profile. In a parallel universe he might have been a highly paid paparazzo.

'No sweat, Mr. Thorne, I've got this blinding new three hundred mil Nikon zoom.'

Thorne leaned in close. 'Listen, Bethell, this is a piece of piss, all right? A simple head shot. Coming out of his house, getting into his car, it doesn't matter. Should be simple for you. No beds. No animals. No drugged-up teenage girls.'

He thought about Helen Doyle, sitting in the pub, laughing.

'I never did anything like that, Tommy. Strictly a Bacardi Breezer girl…'

He gave Bethell the address and finished his drink while the photographer enthused a little more about lenses before lumbering off towards the gents'. As he went, Bethell gave the quartet on the table behind them a good hard look.

Thorne felt pretty sure that Bethell would do a decent job for him. It wasn't just because he'd make his life hell if he didn't, he could sense that the man would take pride in the work. Not for the first time Thorne thought about how much better he functioned with professional criminals. It was a game he was good at. Even the really nasty bastards he had squared up against in his eighteen months on the Flying Squad weren't hard to figure out. Some he caught and some he didn't, but he never had to waste his time wondering why they were doing it. Money, usually. Sex, occasionally. Because they couldn't be arsed doing anything else, often. But the rules of the game were simple: stop them doing it and let somebody else work out why afterwards.

Bishop and those like him were not playing by the same rules. Thorne knew that if he was going to catch Jeremy Bishop he'd have precious little help. He knew that he had to take things carefully, a step at a time. Bethell was the first step, but after that he'd be making it up as he went along. Whatever this new game was, Bishop had a distinct advantage. Thorne was certain that the 'why' was important. The 'why' was probably crucial. But this was where he was up against it.

Thorne didn't give a shit about 'why'.

When Bethell arrived back at the table Thorne stood up and started putting on his coat. 'Are we sorted, then?'

Bethell picked up his cigarettes. 'Yeah. No point me asking how soon you want these photos, is there?'

'Not really, no.'

The laughter from behind them told Thorne that he really should get out, straight away. Bethell was already taking a step towards them.

'Something funny?'

The biggest of the four stood up and stared at Bethell through designer glasses. It was not an aggressive move so much as a reflexive one, but it didn't really matter to Bethell. The thick finger he prodded into the man's chest must have felt like a battering ram. 'Something about how highly I speak of you, was it? Go on, tell me.' Square Glasses moved to swat away the finger; Short Hair moved to protect his friend and it went off.

As Bethell swung a fist bristling with signet rings into Square Glasses' face, Thorne stepped forward and backhanded his friend across the mouth. He fell backwards across the table, the expensive training shoes sending bottles and glasses flying in all directions. It was now two on two and all over very quickly. The third man reached for a large metal ashtray but Thorne was on him in a second, bringing his forehead down across the bridge of the man's nose as casually as if he were bending to tie a shoelace.

It was only as the fourth man backed away in such a hurry as to knock a plate of vividly orange chicken tikka massala into a young woman's lap, that the screaming began in earnest. As the Australian barman hovered nervously, a fearsome-looking landlady with vanilla-coloured hair and a broken pool cue marched from behind the bar.

'Right. Call the police.'

The barman pointed an accusing finger at Thorne.

'They're already here.'

Thorne rubbed his forehead and looked around. Three men lying, kneeling, crawling across a wooden floor glittering with broken glass, blood splashing on to designer combat trousers, the horrified yet excited faces of two dozen onlookers…

He guessed that it was not the right time to mention to the landlady that Hogarth would probably have approved.

Ten minutes later Thorne and Bethell were on the pavement outside the Garrick Club. The landlady had taken a bit of mollifying and those with smashed teeth and shattered noses were predictably aggrieved until Thorne dropped the word 'cocaine' into the conversation and everything was hastily forgiven and forgotten. Bethell placed an unwelcome hand on Thorne's shoulder.

'Thanks for that, Mr. Thorne. Laying into those wankers, that was good of you.'

Thorne could feel the headache starting to kick in. 'I didn't do it for you.'

He stuck out an arm to hail a cab.

And it wasn't them I was laying into…

They waited for Alison's boyfriend to leave before they wheeled in the blackboard. Bishop thought that Anne was being a trifle over-sensitive. After all, she'd kept him well appraised of Alison's progress, hadn't she? He'd hardly be expecting her to sit up and start singing.

Anne just wanted to wait a little before she got Tim involved. If all went well then she'd want to bring him in. He'd need to work with Alison himself anyway. She just needed to know that the basic framework was right. Once they were up and running it would be second nature to all of them. She felt that not understanding exactly what her responses signified would give him a skewed idea of Alison's condition.

If he wasn't thinking it already, he would be sure he'd lost her.

The wheels squeaked as the orderly moved the black board into position at the foot of the bed. Optimistic as she was, Anne could sense the enormity of the task that lay ahead of her. Alison was twenty-four. This was her first day at kindergarten.

'I wonder what my patients would think if I suggested anaesthetizing them with a lump hammer?' Bishop sipped his coffee and stared at the blackboard.

Anne said nothing. It was hardly state of the art, but at this stage it was adequate. She took off her coat and put on her glasses. She picked up the remote control hooked over the head of the bed and pressed a button. With a deep, resonant hum, the bed began to move and Alison was raised up until she was virtually sitting.

'Alison, I've got Dr Bishop with me this afternoon. You might remember him. He treated you the night you were brought in.' She turned to look at Bishop. He was studying the lines of letters, drawn in chalk.

Anne moved up to the top of the bed and took Alison's hand. 'Right, let's see if we can speed things up a bit. Can you see the blackboard, Alison?'

Alison's right eyelid crinkled immediately. She half shut the eye then opened it. Then, five seconds later, a blink.

Anne squeezed her hand.

'Good. A to Z in two lines and I've listed a few other things along the bottom. Later on we can increase the list as I get better at this but for now just the basics. "Tired","in pain", "hungry", "thirsty", "nauseous", You'll have to bear with me, I'm afraid, until we get used to the speed of your responses. I know it'll be frustrating at first, but I think it's going to be worth it. OK, Alison?'

The vein on Alison's forehead was standing out. "Ten seconds. A blink."

Anne moved round to the other side of the bed and closed the blind. 'Right, let's just make things as comfortable as possible for you. Can you get the lights, Jeremy?'

Bishop moved to the door and turned out the lights. The room was in semi-darkness. From her pocket Anne produced what looked like a large fountain pen as she moved to the blackboard.

'Right, Alison, this is a laser pointer. It should make it easier to define the letters for you and it makes me feel a little bit less like I'm giving a military briefing. Let's just start at the bottom, make sure you're feeling all right.' She moved the laser pointer until the dot of light lay directly below 'in pain'. 'Don't bother with no if you're not. Just yes if any of them apply.'

Slowly she moved the pointer along the bottom row of words, highlighting each one for nearly a minute. As she waited Anne looked intently at Alison. She could hear the drone of the traffic outside. There was no reaction. She glanced across at Bishop. He nodded.

'Right, let's have a crack at this, shall we?' She began to move the pointer. Bishop removed a small pad from his top pocket and sat holding a pencil, waiting. Anne held the pointer under each letter for nearly a minute but after the first five or six she began to speed up a little. P… Q… R…S.

A blink.

Anne wanted to cheer. 'S. OK…'

She reached the end of the alphabet without any further reaction.

Bishop cleared his throat. 'It's a shame there aren't more words in alphabetical order, Jimmy.'

Anne turned to face him, the light from the pointer passing across his chest like the laser dot on a sniper's rifle. He was busily scribbling. 'Almost…'

'Almost what?' She could feel herself starting to get snappy.

'Almost is one. A word where the letters occur in alphabetical order. And billowy. Aegilops is actually the longest, which, amazingly enough, is an ulcer in part of the eye, though I can't see her bringing that up.' He smiled. 'Back to the beginning, I think.'

Anne felt stupid for not having considered this. Perhaps there was a more efficient way of laying out the letters. She'd have to work on it later. A second pass added H, O and R.

Anne tried to help. 'Short? Alison… short?'

Alison blinked. Anne waited. Alison blinked again. Back to the beginning.

On the third pass Alison blinked as the laser pointer reached M. Anne looked across at Bishop, who was scribbling in his notebook. He stood up, smiling, and moved towards the bed. 'I think she's being a bit over-eager. She's blinking in advance of some Of the letters in case she misses them.'

Anne looked at him. There was a hint of impatience when she spoke. 'And?'

'If the S is a T and we go one letter on from the M…'

Anne thought for a moment, worked it out, and blushed. Bishop smiled mischievously at her. 'She's asking how our friend the detective inspector is. If I were you I'd add a question mark to the board.' He was standing at the head of the bed. He looked down at Alison. 'And you might want to draw a smiley face on there somewhere as well. There's a definite twinkle in that eye.'

Anne picked up a piece of chalk, a little irritated. Perhaps she shouldn't have asked Jeremy to come along. She'd wanted a colleague who was also a friend to back her up and he'd been only too glad to help, but fond as she was of him, he could be awfully smug. She began to write on the blackboard. 'I'm glad all that time doing The Times crossword hasn't been wasted, Jeremy…'

Bishop wasn't listening. He was leaning down, his face close to Alison's. 'Do you remember me, Alison?'

A blink.

'From when you were admitted?'

Nothing. Then, a blink.

Bishop nodded. His voice was low and eminently soothing.

'That's good. Now what about before, Alison? Can you remember anything from before?'

A blink.

Anne turned back from the board.

Another one.

Bishop walked back towards Anne, shaking his head. He held out the notepad to her with a grin. Around the single word THORNE he'd drawn a heart with an arrow through it. Anne snatched it from him with part-mock, part-genuine annoyance and moved to open the curtains.

'Mr. Thorne is very well, thank you, Alison. I'm frankly disturbed that my private life is of such immediate concern to you.' She walked to the bed and looked down. Alison's eyes were still locked on the blackboard. 'Not that I should expect a great deal else from a shameless Geordie hussy with a one-track mind!' She put her hand gently on the girl's shoulder. Her smile was huge and just for Alison. She turned to look at Bishop, who was staring at the blackboard and smiling at something. She felt sorry for being irritated with him. 'Do you want to pop over for something to eat later?'

He answered without turning round. 'Sorry, Jimmy, I have a date.'

She moved to join him, her eyes wide at the prospect of intrigue. 'Sounds mysterious?'

'Not really.'

'Suit yourself. I'll get it out of you later, though, you know I will. What's so funny anyway?'

Bishop was snorting as he stared at the letters on the blackboard. Anne stared at him, still smiling. 'What?'

'Remember that night in your flat twenty-odd years ago?'

'No…'

'Raising the dead, me, you and David. And that girl from Leeds, what was her name?'

'Oh, God, that was freaky.'

'No, it wasn't. David was moving the glass.'

Anne pretended to shudder but felt a genuine chill at the memory. She turned to include Alison, pointing at the blackboard. 'He thinks this looks like a Ouija board.'

The smile on Bishop's face died a little, as he muttered to himself, 'Might just as well be.'

Thorne picked up the Backhand contact list from the kitchen table and walked through to the living room to call Dave Holland. The Bill was on with the sound turned down. As good a situation comedy as ITV would ever have.

'Hello…'

Holland's girlfriend. Christ, what was her name?

'Oh, hi, is that Sophie?'

'Who's this?'

'Oh, sorry, it's Tom Thorne, I work with Dave. Is he around?'

He heard the distortion in sound as she put her hand over the phone. He couldn't make out what she was saying. As Holland came to the phone he could hear the television being turned down.

'Holland, it's DI Thorne…' Best not to be too matey. 'I hope I'm not keeping you from your homework.'

'Sorry, sir?'

' The Bill – I heard it in the background. It's not real, you know.'

Holland laughed. 'Yeah, but that one they all take the piss out of is an awful lot like DI Tughan.'

The joke told Thorne a great deal. Holland knew the way things stood. As it happened, Thorne also knew which character he was talking about – he was spot on. He had seriously underestimated this young man. 'Listen, obviously you know I'm back at Hendon now, but I'd still be interested in any developments on the case. Who's come in, by the way?'

'Roger Brewer. Scottish bloke – seems nice enough.'

Thorne hadn't heard of him. probably just as well. 'So, you know, anything comes up…

'I'll let you know straight away, sir.'

'Anything and everything, Holland… please.'

Rachel looked at her watch. He was only five minutes late but she didn't want to miss the trailers. She thought about the nutter who'd sat behind her on the bus from Muswell Hill and decided she'd get a cab back. She checked her purse. If she paid for her own ticket she'd need to ask him to lend her the money. Mum would be happier with a taxi anyway, although she'd wonder why Claire's dad hadn't given her a lift. He usually did after she'd been round there for the evening. Maybe she could say his car was in the garage. But she might see him driving around. Or talk to Claire's mother on the phone. She decided it was probably easier to ask the cab to stop somewhere away from the house. Too many lies weren't a good idea. She wasn't very good at it and she didn't like lying to her mum anyway. She'd just have to pray her mum didn't run into Claire in the next few days.

She was starting to get cold. She did up another button on her denim jacket and stared at the corner of the street, willing him to appear.

She wasn't really lying about him, after all. She just wasn't telling. There'd only be a row and it would be a damn sight bigger than the one they'd had the other night. These fucking tests that she didn't want to take were the problem. It was so unfair that the time when you started to get serious with people was the same time you had so-called important exams.

Were the two of them serious? It felt like it. They hadn't slept together yet, but not because she hadn't wanted to. It was him. He didn't seem in any hurry. He was obviously waiting for the right time. He was being nice and sensitive because he'd obviously already done it and she hadn't, and he didn't want her to feel like he was putting her under any pressure if she didn't want to…

Rachel knew that this would be the big thing with her mother. His experience. The thing that would send her mum ballistic…

Her hand flew to her hair as she saw him coming round the corner. He waved and started to jog towards her. He was really fit. In good condition. Claire would be so jealous. But Mum would not be impressed at all.

Not with him being so much older.

A blackboard! For fuck's sake. Anne brought in a brochure one day with these computers that they were developing in America that you can work with your eyelid or something. They can virtually tell what you're thinking, like something in a film. I've got a mobile phone which predicts what letters you're going to type in when you're sending somebody a text message. Bloody useful, actually, when your spelling is as bad as mine. That cost PS29.99 as far as I can remember. And I get a poxy blackboard. Everyone goes on about the cuts in the NHS but this is really taking the piss, isn't it?

And there I was thinking that maybe they might be able to fix up some system so I could read or watch the telly. Nothing too fancy, just a few mirrors and stuff so that I wouldn't have to lie here all day staring at the piece of plaster that's about to fall off the manky grey ceiling up there. Well, there's no chance of that, I suppose. All these machines are probably on their last legs as well. The big one on the left is definitely making a few dodgy noises. I hope they give the nurses enough change to feed the meter. I wouldn't want to pop off in the middle of the night because somebody didn't have a fifty-pence piece. I know this isn't Anne's fault and I know that you only ever think about these things when you're on the receiving end of it and everything. But still…

I was pretty chuffed with myself actually, when it came down to all the alphabet business. We just need to Sort out a system so I can tell Anne to go back instead of forward. Otherwise it's sodding interminable. I'm sure she'll work it out.

That doctor she had with her was a right clever sod, mind you, working out that I'd blinked too early. I just had to gorier it. If I'd waited and then not been able to blink in time and missed the letter I really wanted, the whole thing would have been cocked up. Id've ended up spelling out the Czechoslovakian for chemist or something.

I suppose I should be grateful to that doctor if he was the one who sorted me out when I first came in. I do remember his face looking down at me. I remember him telling me to wake up, but I just drifted away. Before that I can only remember bits and pieces. Bits and pieces of a voice. Not the words. Not yet. Just the sound. Smooth and gentle like Dr Bishop. And there I was, worried that my mobile phone was going to give me cancer…