Sleepyhead

ELEVEN

He got on to the tube at Waterloo. Eight stops, direct, on the Bakerloo line. The carriage was absolutely packed, just the way he liked it. Sometimes he needed to let two or three trains go and wait for the right one. There was no point in squeezing on when the carriage was empty of interest. He watched as the train roared into the station, ignoring his fellow travelers as they inched towards the edge of the platform. He scanned each carriage as it moved past him, making his choice.

It might take a few stops before he'd got to where he needed to be but he moved easily through the crowd of commuters. He enjoyed the build-up. He loved negotiating that sweaty knot of pent-up anger and rustling newspapers to get himself into the right position.

It didn't usually take long to find her.

Today she was tall, only an inch or two shorter than he was. She had dark hair in a bob,. and glasses through which she tried to take in as much of her copy of The Beach as she could under the circumstances. There was always the danger, of course, that she might get off the train before he did. Before he'd had a chance to get close to her. So many of them got off at Oxford Circus or Baker Street. He wasn't too disappointed when that happened. There was always tomorrow. The rush-hour was wonderfully predictable. He made his first contact as the train stopped at Piccadilly Circus. That wonderful jolt as the train came to a standstill. Thirty seconds later he would get another chance when they pulled away again. He was behind this one. Sometimes he liked to be face to face. To see their expression as he half looked away or shrugged apologetically. And he loved the breasts, of course. But this was his favourite. He liked the feel of their behinds against his groin. He could place a sweaty hand in the small of their backs to steady himself. He could smell their hair. Best of all, he could turn and look at the person behind him if he needed to, starting a small wave of accusatory looks and sighs as his excitement mounted.

She'd washed her hair this morning. He wondered whether she'd had sex last night. If she'd showered she would have washed the smell away, which was a shame, but he loved the smell of her hair all the same. And a hint of something else at the nape of her neck. The train slowed and came to a halt in the tunnel between Oxford Circus and Regent's Park. Another lovely little push. With the train motionless, he thought for a minute about what he had to do today. An interview this morning. He enjoyed those. He liked to run things. He could read people well, he knew that. But they could never read him. The train moved off again with a useful jerk. Only four stops to go. Perhaps one more before the big one. She was looking intently at her book, but he knew she was thinking about him. Despising him. That was fine. Let her think it was over. Let her relax, thinking he'd moved or got off without her seeing. She wouldn't want to look over her shoulder to check. He'd wait until they left. Marylebone.

The train moved towards his final destination. He was sure that she'd felt every inch of him that time. It was a second, no more, but he'd felt the crack in her buttocks, the cotton of her long black skirt against the polyester of his work trousers. He'd felt her tense up.

Only once had one of them confronted him. She'd moved away and stepped off the train before turning back and screaming at him. Other passengers looked, but he smiled indulgently and held up his hands and let himself get lost in the mile of others getting on the train. Only once. They were pretty good odds. Of course, if it ever came to it, he had a pretty good defence up his sleeve.

This was his favourite moment. One last good one and then away. In that second or two before the doors opened he leaned against her and took everything in. The feeling of his erection against her arse, his face against the back of her head. The intimacy was breathtaking. They might have been lovers, curling up together in bed at night, the sheets damp and smelly…

Then off and pushing through the crowd towards the door. As he sidled past her he saw her glance up from her book. Close up she was far from gorgeous but he didn't care. The tension in her face and the heat in his groin were all that really mattered. It was only a game, after all. It was part of the hustle-bustle, wasn't it? He smiled and thought the same thing he always did after such a lovely start to the working day: So don't live in London, love. Doing up the buttons of his jacket to hide the tiny bulge, Nick Tughan stepped off the train at Edgware Road, and turning his mind towards the day ahead, began moving quickly towards the escalator.

Anne had left early saying she needed to get home before Rachel was awake and Thorne had slept until well after nine. He'd phoned Brigstocke to say he'd be in late. Not that he had anything planned – he was waiting on Holland: He was just plain knackered.

He was enjoying his fourth piece of toast and looking forward to the rare, illicit thrill of Richard and Judy when the doorbell rang.

He recognised James Bishop straight away from Kodak's photo. Bethell's appraisal had been about right, he thought: grungy was the word. He was tall and skinny, wearing a long dark coat over T-shirt, jeans and grubby training shoes. What looked like very short, bleached blond hair was hidden beneath a black pork-pie hat, and he carried a dirty green bag slung across one shoulder.

'Are you Thorne?'

The same well-modulated tones as his father, despite the sad attempt at the oafish London accent, and the same chiseled features, albeit camouflaged by several days of light stubbly fuzz. It was like looking at Dr Jeremy Bishop as a student.

'Yes, I am, James.' That put the cocky little sod on the back foot. Thorne couldn't help smirking. 'Could I ask how you got my address?'

'Yeah. You told my dad which road you lived in… I've knocked on virtually every door in the street.'

You should have just asked him, James. He knows exactly where I live.

'I see. Woken up many of my neighbours?'

Bishop smiled. 'A couple. A very tasty housewife asked me in for a cup of tea.'

'We're pretty friendly round here. Fancy a bit of toast?'

Thorne turned from the front door and strolled back into his flat. There was a pause before he heard the young man close the outer door, and another before he shut the door to the flat and came sloping into the living room.

'Not bothered about the toast, but I wouldn't mind a coffee…'

Thorne went into the kitchen and watched as his visitor hovered in the middle of the living room. 'James is it, then?

Or Jim?'

'James.'

Right, thought Thorne, spooning the coffee into a mug. Jim to your trendy mates but James when you're trying to borrow money off Daddy. He carried the coffee through and handed the mug to him. 'So?'

Bishop looked disarmed. Evidently, this wasn't how he'd wanted things to go. He tried to sound as dangerous as he could, which wasn't very. 'I want you to leave my old man alone.'

Thorne sat down on the arm of the sofa. 'I see. What is it you think I'm doing exactly?'

'Why are you hassling him?'

'Hassling?'

'There was a bloke taking photos outside his house the other day, then when you turn up with some bollocks about scrounging a lift you tell him it was probably reporters. He might have fallen for that, but I think it's crap. What were you doing there anyway?'

'I'm a policeman, James, I can go pretty much wherever I want.'

Bishop was starting to enjoy himself a little. That made two of them. He took a step towards the mantelpiece then turned to Thorne, smiling. 'Shouldn't you call me "sir"?'

Thorne returned the smile with interest. 'If this conversation formed part of an investigation then perhaps I might, yes. But it doesn't, we're in my flat and you're drinking my fucking coffee.'

Bishop's hands tightened around his mug. Wondering what to say next. Thorne saved him the trouble. 'I think your father's overreacting somewhat.'

'He doesn't even know I'm here.'

Right. No. Course not.

'He got these phone calls.'

'When?'

'Last night. In the middle of the night. Four or five, one after the other. He phoned me up in a right panic.'

'What sort of phone calls?'

'You tell me.'

The cockiness had started to return. He needed slapping down harder. 'Listen, I questioned your father as part of an investigation that I'm no longer even part of, all right?' As Bishop's mouth fell open, Thorne felt a twinge of something approaching sympathy. 'Now tell me about the phone calls.'

'Like I said, in the middle of the night. He could hear somebody there. Whoever it was had withheld their number and that was it. One after the other. He's upset no, he's frightened. He's fucking shit-scared.'

I seriously doubt it.

'So what are you going to do about it?' Bishop was starting to sound genuinely angry.

'I'll tell you what I told him about the photographer. I'll look into it. That's the best I can do.'

'Are you seeing Anne Coburn?'

It was Thorne's turn to be genuinely angry. 'Behave yourself, James…'

'Seeing as you're off the investigation it could be that, though, couldn't it?'

'What?' Thorne took a deep breath. Trying not to lose it, knowing it was the father, not the son, he needed to save it for.

'If you and Anne were.., you know.., it would be a reason to get at my father.'

Thorne stood up and moved towards Bishop. He saw the slightest flinch, but only shook his head and reached for the empty coffee cup.

'As far as I can remember, Dr Coburn, as your godmother, was responsible for your spiritual well-being. Looking at you, she's obviously failed miserably but that is, I believe, where your relationship with her ends. You probably got a silver christening spoon and the odd birthday present, but who she's sleeping with is not part of the deal.'

Bishop nodded, impressed. Then he broke into a grin.

'So you are, then?'

Thorne smiled as he carried the empty mugs through to the kitchen. 'What do you do, James, when you're not worrying about your father?'

Bishop moved aimlessly around the living room. He stopped to study the pile of CDs.. 'I always worry about my father. We're very close. Are you and yours not, then?'

Thorne grimaced. 'Well?'

'I move about a lot. Bit of writing. Tried being an actor. Anything that pays the rent, I suppose.'

Thorne was starting to feel that he understood this young man. Not that he understood many of them any more. This one wasn't quite the good-for-nothing he'd thought Anne had described. Beneath the attempts at nonconformity there was almost certainly an inherited conventionality, which he was trying desperately to escape. Which was why he was trying to escape. He was misguided for sure, but essentially harmless. James Bishop had no idea of the poisonous gene pool in which he was splashing around. He could piss in the water as much as he liked, but in all the ways that didn't matter, the poor sod was his father's son.

'Did you study?'

'I wasted a couple of years at college, yeah. I'm not the ivory-tower type.'

Thorne came back into the living room and picked up his jacket. 'Tower Records type, though?'

'Oh, yeah…' Bishop self-consciously fingered the T-shirt that carried the shop's logo. 'I'm working there at the moment.'

Thorne gestured towards the hallway. It was time to go. Bishop moved quickly towards the front door, in no hurry to hang about.

'Well, maybe I'll see you in there,' said Thorne. 'What's your country section like?'

Bishop laughed. 'Fuck should I know?'

Thorne opened the front door. It was starting to rain.

'Stupid question. What – you more into ambient?

Trance? Speed-garage? Could you get me a discount on the new Groove rider twelve-inch?'

Bishop looked at him.

Thorne pulled the door shut. 'You've had quite a few surprises this morning, haven't you?'

Margaret Byrne lived on the ground floor of a small terraced house in Tulse Hill. She was not what Holland and Tughan had been expecting. A plain and prematurely grey-haired woman, she was probably in her late forties and considerably overweight. Tughan could not conceal his surprise as she peered round her front door at them, one foot held in place against the jamb to prevent a large ginger cat escaping. Once the IDs, which she'd asked to see, had been produced, she. was happy to invite them in. She insisted on making them tea, leaving Tughan and Holland to negotiate a route round at least three more large cats before arriving at comfortable chairs in her front room. Holland was thinking it, but it was Tughan that said it.

'This place fucking stinks,' he hissed, before adding drily, 'No wonder he changed his mind and pissed off.'

After the tea, and a good selection of biscuits, had appeared, Holland sat back, as he'd been instructed to do, and let Tughan run things.

'So you live alone then, Margaret?'

She pulled a face. 'I hate Margaret. Can we stick to Maggie?'

Holland smiled, thinking, Go on, don't make it easy for him.

'Sorry. Maggie…'

'My husband left a couple of years ago. Don't know why I call him that, he could never be arsed to marry me, but anyway…'

'No children?'

She wrapped her grey cardigan tight across her chest.

'Got a daughter. She's twenty-three, lives in Edinburgh, and I haven't got the first idea where her father is.'

She took another biscuit and began stroking the black and-white cat that had jumped on to her lap. She muttered to it softly and it settled down. Holland thought she was a bit like his mum. He hadn't seen her for ages. Maybe he'd talk to Sophie about asking her down to stay for a bit.

'Right, tell us about the man with the champagne, Maggie.'

'Didn't you write it down when I phoned up?'

Holland smiled. Tughan didn't.

'We just need a few more details, that's all.'

'Well, it was about eight o'clock, I think. I answered the door and this bloke was standing there waving a bottle about. He asked me if this was where Jenny was having a party?'

'Have you got a neighbour called Jenny?'

'I don't think so. He said he was sure he'd got the right address and we had a bit of a laugh about something or other and he started being a bit naughty, you know, saying how it was a shame to waste a bottle of champagne. He was flirting… I think he was a bit tipsy.'

'You said when you called that you could give us a very good description.'

'Did I? Oh, bloody hell. Right, well he was tall, definitely over six feet, glasses, and very well dressed. He had a very nice suit on, you know, expensive…'

'Colour?'

'Blue, I think. Dark blue.'

Holland was jotting it all down and keeping his mouth shut like a good boy.

'Go on, Maggie.'

'He had short, grayish hair…'

'Grayish?'

'Yeah, you know, not silver, just graying, but he wasn't that old, I don't think. Well, not as old as me at any rate.'

'How old?'

'Thirty-six… thirty-seven? I've always been rubbish at that. Well, I think most people are, aren't they?' She turned and looked at Holland. 'How old d'you reckon I am?'

Holland could feel the colour coming to his cheeks. Why the hell had she asked him? 'Oh… I don't know… Thirty-nine?'

She smiled, acknowledging the kindness of the lie. 'I'm forty-three, and I know I look older.'

Tughan, anxious to get back on track, cleared his throat. The cat, startled, shot off Margaret Byrne's lap and flew out of the door. This, in turn, made Tughan jump, which Holland would later remember as the only amusing thing about the entire interview.

'What did he sound like? Did he have an accent?'

'Pretty posh, I'd say. A nice voice.., and, you know, very good-looking. He was handsome.'

'So you invited him in?'

She brushed more cat hair than there was from her skirt. 'Well, I think he was dropping hints. Like I said, he was waving this bottle around.' She looked at Tughan and held eye-contact. 'Yes. I invited him in.'

Tughan smiled thinly. 'Why?'

Holland was starting to feel uncomfortable. This woman could help them. She might well be the only person who could help them. Why she had invited the man who might have killed her into her home was information they didn't need now. This woman wasn't mad or desperate or sex-starved, for Christ's sake. Loneliness was not a crime, much as Tughan seemed to be enjoying touching the tender spot of it. She hadn't answered him anyway. He let it go.

'What happened then?'

'Like I said on the phone, this was the funny part. He opened the champagne – I remember being disappointed because there wasn't a pop – and I said I'd go and get some glasses. He said great and he was just going to make a quick phone call.'

Tughan looked at Holland then back at Margaret. 'You didn't mention that when you called.'

'Didn't I? Well, he did.'

Tughan sat forward in his chair. 'He made a call from here? From your phone?'

'No. Just as I was going off to the kitchen I saw him take out one of those horrible little mobile things. I hate them, don't you? Always beeping and playing daft tunes when you're sitting on a train.'

'And you were in the kitchen?'

'And I was in the kitchen, and I'd just got the glasses down and given them a wipe out because they were a bit dirty, and I heard the front door slam. I came back out and he'd buggered off. I opened the front door but I couldn't see him. I heard a car pull away up the road, but I didn't really see it.'

Tughan nodded. Holland had finished writing. Margaret Byrne looked quickly from one to the other.

'You reckon he was the bloke who killed that girl up in Holloway, then?'

Tughan said nothing. He stood up and threw Holland a look, telling him to do the same. 'If we send a car for you tomorrow could you come down to Edgware Road and work with one of our computer artists?'

She nodded, and picked up a passing cat as she got to her feet.

When they reached the front door Tughan stopped and looked at her. She smiled nervously at him.

'Why did you wait so long before reporting this matter?'

Tughan said. 'I mean, you even waited for four days after the reconstruction went out on TV.'

She pulled the cat close to her neck. Holland stepped forward, putting a hand a little too forcefully on Tughan's shoulder.

'We'd better get going. Thanks for all your help.'

The gratitude in her eyes was obvious. She took hold of his sleeve. 'Was it him?'

Tughan was already on his way to the car. Holland watched him deactivate the alarm, climb in and slam the door. He turned back to her. 'I think you were very lucky, Maggie.'

She smiled and gripped his sleeve a little fighter as her eyes began to fill with tears. 'It would be the first time…'

I'm in a much better mood now. I don't mean generally, that's still up and down. Tim said l was moody before and he's probably right. But now, in here, I can be a right bitch. I think that's fair enough, though. I think I deserve a medal for the few nice moods I do have. anyway…

Eve in here there's always something that can cheer you up. It's not exactly Carry On Doctor but there's laughs to be had if you look for them. Sick ones, usually, but you can't be too fussy. There's this nurse, Martina, who's taken it upon herself to make sure I look pretty all the time. Under normal circumstances, of course, I'd tell her that you can't improve on perfection, but granted, she's got a job on her hands. To be honest, I think she's doing it to get a break from the catheter and arse work, which is hardly brimming with job satisfaction, is it? At first I didn't mind when she was trimming my hair and cutting my toenails but she's started getting a bit ambitious. I think she's a failed beauty therapist or something. She painted my nails the other day and the colour was fucking revolting and yesterday afternoon she decided that a bit of lippy might cheer me up. Putting lipstick on somebody else is like trying to have a wank with your left hand. Forget it. I looked like a clown in a coma, or a tit in a trance, as my Nan used to say. I think she was trying to make me look like one of those hideous women who work on the makeup counters in department stores – you know, the ones who spend all day surrounded by cosmetics and haven't got a fucking clue how to put them on.

Here's a tip. Don't use a trowel. I always want to creep up behind them and shout, 'Mirror! Use a mirror!'

I didn't plan what happened this morning, I swear, but I quite wish I had. Obviously some of the other nurses had noticed that Martina was spending all her time tatting me up instead of doing any of the dirty work and she got lumbered with cleaning out my breathing tube. I can fully understand not wanting to do it, it's bloody foul. So Martina is supposed to pull it out and clean out all the muck or something so it doesn't get blocked. Imagine somebody was waggling, a tube around in your mouth. Well, it's pretty much the same when it's straight into your neck. You'd want to cough, wouldn't you?

Coughing isn't one of my best things, these days, but I must have been saving it up. There's Martina trying to be all efficient and [just let one go. I couldn't help it. I coughed out of my neck, for Christ's sake.

Like I said, it wasn't on purpose and she didn't help by screaming the place down, but this enormous lump of phlegmy glop just splattered on to her forehead.

I hope she might stay away for a bit now. Or maybe just stick to the rear-end stuff. At least you know what's coming at you. Come on, though, pearl nail polish?

Everything's moving along on the blink front. Another small complication is that sometimes I screw things up by blinking just because my brain thinks it's high time I did. Same reason you do. That doesn't help. I'm spelling away, then I suddenly throw in an X or a J for no good reason. Like suddenly shouting,

'Bollocks," in the middle of a conversation. It's like Newcastle on a Saturday night.