Sleepyhead

S I X

'Where to, sir?'

'Muswell Hill, please.'

'No problem, sir. Where is that, please?'

Thorne sighed heavily as the simple journey from his flat in Kentish Town suddenly became an altogether trickier proposition. It was his own fault for calling a minicab. Why was he such a bloody cheapskate?

He was trying not to think about the case – this was a night off. He fooled himself for about as long as it took the cab to reach the end of his road. He would have loved to spend an evening without his curious calendar girls, but it was going to be hard, considering where he was going and who he was going to see. The subject of Jeremy Bishop might be strictly off limits with Anne Coburn. It was becoming clear that they were extremely close. Were they perhaps more than that? Thorne tried not to think about that possibility. Whatever, their relationship made things awkward in every sense, not least procedurally. Thorne hated the cliche+ of the instinctive copper as much as he hated the notion of the hardened one. But the instinctive copper was only a clich6 because, he knew, it contained a germ of truth. Hunches were nothing but trouble. If they were wrong they caused embarrassment, pain, guilt and more. But the hunches that were right were far worse. Policemen… good policemen, weren't born with these instincts. They developed them. After all, accountants were only good with numbers because they worked with them every day. Even an average copper could spot when someone was lying. A few developed a feel, a taste, a sense about people.

They were the unlucky ones.

'Here you go, sir.'

The minicab driver was thrusting a tattered A-Z at him. Christ on a bike, thought Thorne, do you want me to drive the bloody car for you?

'I don't need the A-Z. I'll give you directions. Straight up the Archway Road.'

'Right you are, sir. Which way is that?'

Thorne looked out of the window. Another warm late August evening and a T-shirted queue of eager Saturday night concert-goers was waiting to go into the Forum. As the cab drove past he strained his head to see the name of the band but only caught the word '… Maniacs'. Charming.

He now lived no more than half a mile from where he'd grown up. This had been his adolescent stamping ground. Kentish Town, Camden, Highgate. And Archway. He'd worked out of the station at Holloway for six months. He knew the road Helen Doyle had lived in. He'd drunk in the Marlborough Arms. He hoped she'd enjoyed herself that night…

Jeremy Bishop.

Yes, it had started as a strange familiarity, which he still couldn't fathom, but it had become more than that. In the few days since he'd first laid eyes on the man, his feelings had begun to bed themselves down on more solid foundations. Thorne had found out quickly why Bishop had smiled when he'd told him he was going to check out why he'd been bleeped the night that Alison had come in. He was amazed to find that the calls put out to bleep doctors were untraceable. There were no official records. The call could have been made from anywhere by all accounts. It was even possible to bleep yourself. None of the likely candidates could recall bleeping Bishop on the night that Alison Willetts came in. He'd spoken to the senior house officer, the registrar and the junior anaesthetist and their recollection of events that night was as fuzzy as Bishop had known it would be. He was certainly there when she was brought into A and E but his alibi, as far as when she was attacked and when she was dumped at the hospital, was not quite as solid as Anne Coburn had first thought.

He couldn't put any of it together yet, nowhere near, but there were other.., details.

The canvas of the area in which Helen Doyle had disappeared had started to yield results. She had been seen by at least three people after leaving the pub. One was a neighbour who knew her well. All the witnesses described seeing her talking to a man at the end of her road. She was described variously as 'looking happy', 'talking loudly' and 'seeming as if she was pissed'. The descriptions of the man varied a little but tallied in a number of areas: He was tall. He had short, graying hair and wore glasses. He was probably in his mid-to late-thirties. They thought he was Helen Doyle's new boyfriend. Her older man.

All the witnesses agreed on something else. Helen was drinking from a bottle of champagne. Now they knew how the drug was administered. So simple. So insidious. As the victims' capacity to resist had melted away they'd each felt.., what? Special? Sophisticated? Thorne sensed that the killer thought of himself in exactly those terms. The driver turned on his radio. An old song by the Eurhythmics. Thorne leaned forward quickly and told him to switch it off.

The cab turned right off the A1 towards Highgate Woods.

'It's just off the Broadway, OK?'

'Broadway…'

Thorne caught the driver's look in the mirror. Apologetic yet not really giving a toss.

'If black-cab drivers do the Knowledge, what do you lot do?'

'Sorry, mate?'

'Doesn't matter.'

He'd waited a day before talking to Frank Keable. Stepping into the DCI's office he'd been thoroughly prepared to outline his suspicions – the details that pointed towards Bishop. Ten minutes later he'd walked out feeling like he'd just left Hendon.

'I have to be honest, Tom. No, he doesn't have a rock solid alibi but…'

'Not for any of the murders, sir. I checked with-'

'But all you've got is a lot Of stuff that, well, it doesn't rule him out, and what about the description? Two of the witnesses say he's early-to mid-thirties.'

'The height's right, Frank, and Bishop looks a lot younger than he is.'

It was at that point that Thorne had become aware that it was all starting to sound unconvincing. He decided to stop before he said something that might make him look vaguely desperate. 'And he's a doctor. And I don't really… like him very much…'

The same night he'd walked into his flat and heard a woman's voice coming from the living room.

'… at the office. God, I hate these things – sorry. Anyway, please give me a call, I'm very excited about it.'

He grinned. How could a woman who probed about in people's brains be so out of her depth with an answering machine?

He found it endearing, then knew that she'd think he was being patronising. He picked up.

'Tom?'

What was she asking? 'Is that Tom?' Or 'Is it OK if I call you Tom?' Either way his answer was the same.

'Yes. Hi…'

'This is Anne Coburn – sorry, I was just waffling away. I tried to get you at the office, I hope you don't mind.'

He'd written his home number on the back of the card he'd given her. He threw his coat on to the sofa and dragged the phone over to the chair. 'No, that's fine. I've just this second walked in the door. So, what are you excited about?'

'Sorry?'

'You said you were excited. I heard it on the machine as I was coming in.'

'Oh, right. It's Alison. I think she's really starting to communicate.'

He was bending to retrieve the half-empty bottle of wine by the side of the chair but instantly sat up again. 'What?

That's fantastic.'

'Listen, I do mean starting, and I have to say there are people who aren't quite as convinced as me that the movements aren't involuntary but I think you should see it.'

'Yes, of course…'

'He's killed another girl, hasn't he?'

Thorne leaned back in the chair. He wedged the phone between ear and shoulder and started to pour himself a hefty glass of wine. Had it made the papers? He hadn't seen anything. Even if it had, there was no link to the other killings. So how did she…?

Bishop. He'd obviously told her they'd been round. And just how much had she told him about the other killings?

He'd need to ask her about that, tactfully.

'Look, I understand if you don't want to discuss it. Tom?'

'No, I was just thinking about something. Yes. We've found another body.'

It was her turn to pause. 'I know I said that Alison wouldn't be giving you any statements and she won't, I mean not in any conventional sense, but perhaps… Listen, I don't want to raise any false hopes.'

'You think she might be able to respond to questions?'

'Not just yet, but I think so, yes. Simple ones. Yes and no. We could work out a system maybe. Sorry, I'm waffling again. Obviously we need to talk about it but I just wanted to let you know…'

'I'm glad you did.'

And then she invited him to dinner.

He proffered the plastic bag containing a butte of his favourite red wine as soon as she opened the door.

'Thanks, but there was no need.',

'Don't get excited, it's only a plastic bag.'

She laughed and stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek. Her perfume was lovely. She was wearing a rust coloured sleeveless top, cream linen trousers and training shoes. He was struck, not unpleasantly as it happened, by the fact that she was an inch or two taller than he was. He was used to that. He felt like he was going to enjoy himself. His good mood evaporated in an instant as he glanced over her shoulder and saw a man in the kitchen at the other end of the hall.

Jeremy Bishop was leaning against the worktop, opening a bottle of champagne.

Anne stepped aside to usher Thorne in and caught his look. 'Sorry,' she mouthed, shrugging.

As Thorne removed his leather jacket and made approving noises about the original coving, he was wondering what she meant. Sorry? She couldn't possibly have any idea what he really thought about Bishop, so what was she sorry for? As he walked towards the kitchen he came to the heartening conclusion that she was sorry they weren't going to be alone. Bishop held out a hand, smiling at him. Thorne smiled back. Sorry? Thinking about it, he wasn't sure that he was sorry at all.

'Perfect timing, Detective Inspector.' Bishop offered him a glass of champagne. Thorne felt a chill pass through him as he took it. Bishop looked thoroughly at home, moving easily around a kitchen with which he was obviously familiar. He wore pressed chinos and a collarless shirt. Silk by the look of it. He probably called it a blouse. Thorne felt instantly overdressed in his tie, and instinctively reached up to undo the top button of his shirt, which he definitely called a shirt.

Bishop drained his glass. 'Has the hernia been giving you any more trouble?'

'Sorry?'

'It came to me just after you and your constable left. Come on – don't tell me it hasn't been driving you mad as well. Your hernia op last year… I was your gas man.'

Without waiting for a response – he would have been waiting for some time – he turned to Anne. 'I've given your sauce a stir, Jimmy, and I'm off to the loo.' He handed Anne his glass and moved past Thorne towards the stairs. They stood in silence until they heard the bathroom door close.

'Is this awkward for you, Tom? Tell me if it is.'

'Why should it be?'

'I didn't invite him.'

Some good news. Thorne smiled graciously. 'It's fine.'

'I had no idea he was coming. He just dropped by and it would have been rude not to ask him to stay. I know you've questioned him, which is bloody ridiculous…'

Thorne took a sip of champagne. It wasn't a drink he was fond of.

'So?'

'So what?'

'So is it awkward?'

Awkward was putting it mildly. Thorne couldn't recall the last time he'd had a cosy dinner with a prime suspect. He remembered the scene in Keable's office. Make that his prime suspect.

Still, it might be interesting. He already knew the basic facts. The two children, the wife who'd died. But there was no question that it would be valuable to get another… slant on things. Anne was looking intently at him. He hadn't answered her question. So he asked one instead:

'Jimmy?'

'A nickname from med-school days. James Coburn. You know, The Magnificent Seven. He was the one with the knives.'

'Right. Was he any good with scalpels?'

She laughed. 'Whatever misguided reasons you had to question Jeremy, I can fully understand that this might be putting you in a compromising position, but there are two very good reasons why you should stay and have dinner.'

Thorne had no intention of going anywhere, but was perfectly happy to let her persuade him. 'One, I would very much like it if you did, and two, I make the finest spaghetti carbonara in North London.'

Dinner was fantastic. It was certainly the best meal Thorne had eaten in a while, but that was to damn it with faint praise. That his eating habits had become a trifle sloppy had been brought home to him on receipt of his BT family and friends list. They might just as well have sent an embossed calling card saying, 'You Sad Bastard'. Thorne's ten most frequently dialed numbers had not exactly been what he'd call kith and kin. He could only hope and pray that he didn't win the holiday. Two weeks in Lanzarote with the manager of the Bengal Lancer and a posse of spotty pizza-delivery boys on mopeds was hardly a prospect that appealed.

'I hope my grilling proved useful, Detective Inspector.'

The way Bishop emphasised Thorne's rank, he might have been reading the cast list of an am-dram whodunit. His evident glee at the situation told Thorne that he was more than willing to play his part but Anne was quick to discourage his interest in the case.

'Come on, Jeremy, I'm sure Tom doesn't want to talk about it. He probably can't, even if he wanted to.'

This was fine with Thorne. He had no need to talk about the case. He wanted to let Bishop talk, and once the boundaries had been established he wasn't disappointed. Bishop was full of stories. He seemed permanently amused, not only at his own patter but at the peculiarity of their cosy little threesome. Again, fine with Thorne. The anaesthetist dominated the conversation, occasionally making an effort to engage the policeman in trite chitchat.

'Where do you live, then, Tom?'

'Kentish Town. Ryland Road.'

'Not my side of London. Nice?'

Thorne nodded. No, not particularly.

Bishop was a witty and entertaining raconteur – probably. Thorne did his best to laugh in all the right places, although he felt clumsy and cack-handed as he watched his fellow diners twirl spaghetti with professional deftness and delicacy.

'… and the two old dears were sat talking about the beef crisis and how they were going to exercise their rights as consumers and stick it to the French.'

'Politics in A and E?' Anne turned to Thorne. 'It's usually non-stop babble about football or soap operas or "I know it's a nasty cut but he's never hit me before, honest."'

'But get ready for the killer…' Bishop drained his wine glass, letting them wait for the punch line. 'I heard them saying how they were going to boycott French fries!'

Thorne smiled. Bishop raised his eyebrows at Anne and they both giggled before saying as one, 'NFN!'

Stifling her laugh, Anne leaned across to Thorne.

'Normal For Norfolk.'

Thorne smiled. 'Right. Stupid or inbred.' Bishop nodded. Thorne shrugged. I'm just a copper. Thick as shit, me.

Anne was still giggling. They'd already polished off two bottles of wine and hadn't finished the pasta yet.

'Somewhere there's a doctor with too much time on his hands thinking up these jokes. There's loads of them, not very nice usually.'

'Come on, Jimmy, they're just a bit of fun. I bet Tom's had to deal with a few JP Frogs in his time, haven't you, Tom?'

'Oh, almost certainly. That would be…?' Thorne raised his eyebrows.

'Just Plain Fucking Run Out of Gas,' Anne explained.

'When a patient is going to die. I hate that one…' She poured herself another glass of wine and leaned back in her chair, retiring momentarily as Bishop warmed to his theme.

'Jimmy gets a bit touchy and squeamish at some of the more ghoulish jokes that get us through the day. Seriously though, some of the shorthand is actually a useful way to communicate quickly with a colleague.'

'And keep the patients in the dark at the same time?'

Bishop pushed up his glasses with the knuckle of his index finger. Thorne noticed that his fingernails were beautifully manicured. 'Absolutely right. Another of Jimmy's pet hates, but by far the best way if you ask me. What's the point of telling them things they aren't going to understand? If you do tell them and they do understand, chances are it's only going to frighten the life out of them.'

Anne began to clear away the plates.

'So better a patient who's in the dark than a JP FROG?'

Bishop raised his glass to Thorne in mock salute. 'But that's not the best one. I get to deal with a lot of JP Frogs, but Jimmy, specialising as she does in lost causes, is very much the patron saint of Bundy's.' He grinned, showing every one of his perfect teeth. 'Totally Fucked But Unfortunately Not Dead Yet.'

Thorne could hear Anne in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. He remembered the smug look on Bishop's face as he'd put the coffee cups in his dishwasher a few days before. He wore the same expression now. Thorne grinned back at him. 'So what about Alison Willetts? Is she a IF BUNDY?'

Thorne saw at once that if he'd thought this would throw Bishop then he was seriously underestimating him. The doctor's reaction was clearly one of undisguised amusement. He raised his eyebrows and shouted through to the kitchen. 'Oh, Christ, Jimmy, I think I'm outnumbered.'

He turned back to Thorne and suddenly there was a glimmer of steel behind the flippancy. 'Come on, Tom, is the moral indignation that was positively dripping from that last comment really meant to suggest that you care about your.., victims, any more than we care about our patients? That we're just unfeeling monsters while the CID is full of sensitive souls like your good self?.' 'Christ, Tommy, what a smug bastard…'

Susan, Maddy, Christine. And Helen…

'I'm not suggesting anything. It just seemed a bit harsh, that's all.'

'It's a job, Tom. Not a very nice one at times and, yes, it's quite well paid after you've slogged your guts out training for seven years then spent a few more kissing enough arses to get to a decent level.' That certainly rang a bell.

'We're paid to treat, we're not paid to care. The simple truth is that the NHS can't afford to care, in any sense of the word.'

Anne put an enormous plate of cheesecake in the centre of the table. 'M and S, I'm afraid. Great with pasta. Crap at puddings.' She went back through to the kitchen leaving Bishop to start divvying it up.

'I always tell students that they have a choice. They can think of the patients as John or Elsie or Bob or whatever and lose what little sleep they get…'

Thorne held out his plate for a slice of cheesecake.

'Or…?'

'Or they can be good doctors and treat bodies. Dead or alive, they're bodies.'

What had Thorne said earlier to Keable?

'Are you going to let him get away with this shit, Tommy?'

'I'm not sure what I'm going to do. Why don't you help me?

Is it him? Is he the one?'

The one question they never answer.

Thorne started to eat. 'So, what do most of your students decide?'

Bishop shrugged and took a mouthful. He chuckled.

'There's another one.'

'What?'

'CID. Another acronym.'

Thorne smiled at Anne as she sat back down and helped herself to a slice. Bishop grunted, demanding the attention of the audience. He'd obviously come up with something wonderful. Thorne turned to him and waited. Get ready for the killer…

'Coppers In Disarray?'

Bishop was the first to leave. He'd shaken Thorne's hand and.., had he winked? Anne led him into the hall to get his jacket, leaving Thorne on the sofa with a glass of wine listening to them saying their goodbyes. Their obvious intimacy disturbed him in every way he could think of. The next part of the evening, whatever that was, would have to be handled very carefully. Their voices were lowered, but there was no mistaking Bishop's low hum of contentment as he kissed Anne goodbye. Thorne wondered how witty and garrulous he'd be with a detective constable's fist halfway down his throat. He wondered how smug he'd be in an airless interview room. He wondered what he'd have to do to get him into one.

He heard the front door shut and took a deep breath. Now he wanted to be alone with Anne and not just because of what she could tell him about Bishop.

She came back into the living room to find Thorne staring into space with a huge smile on his face. 'What's so funny?' Thorne shrugged. He didn't want to get off on the wrong foot by telling her that he'd just come up with his own little acronym for Jeremy Bishop. A highly appropriate one as it happened. GAS.

Guilty As Sin.

'Where's Rachel this evening? Have you locked her in her room with a Spice Girls video?'

'She's out celebrating her GCSE results.'

'God, of course, it was today.' The papers had been full of it. The increase in pass levels. The ever-widening gap between girls and boys. The Six-year-old with an A* in math. 'Celebrating? She must have done well?'

Anne shrugged. 'Pretty well, I suppose. She could maybe have tried harder in one or two subjects, but we were pretty pleased.'

Thorne nodded, smiling. 'Hmm… pushy mother.'

She laughed, flopping into the armchair opposite him and picking up her glass of wine. Thorne leaned forward to refill his own glass.

'Tell me about Jeremy's wife.'

She sighed heavily. 'Are you asking me as a policeman?'

'As a friend,' he lied.

It was a good few seconds before she answered. 'Sarah was a close friend. I'd known them both at medical school. I'm godmother to their kids, which is why I'm sure that your interest in him is a complete waste of time and I don't want to harp on about this, but it's starting to feel a bit… insulting actually.'

Thorne did not want to lie to her, but he did anyway.

'It's just routine, Anne.'

She kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet up underneath her. 'Sarah was killed ten years ago.., you must know all this.'

'I know the basic facts.'

'It was a horrible time. He's never really got over it. I know he seems a bit.., assured, but they were very happy and he's never been interested in anyone else.'

'Not even you?'

She blushed. 'Well, at least I know that this isn't an official question.'

'Completely unofficial and horribly nosy, I know, but I did wonder…'

'We were together once, a long time ago when we were both students.'

'And not since? Sorry…'

'My husband thought so, if that makes you feel a little less nosy. David always had a thing about Jeremy, but it was really just professional rivalry, which he liked to tart up as something else.'

Like his hair, thought Thorne.

He'd tried to pace himself and Anne had drunk far more than he had, but he was definitely starting to feel a little lightheaded.

'What do his kids do?'

James, twenty-four, and Rebecca, twenty-six, another doctor. These facts and many others filling three pages of a notebook in his desk drawer.

'Rebecca's in orthopedics. She works in Bristol.'

Thorne nodded, interested. Tell me something I don't know.

'James, well, he's done all manner of things over the last few years. He's been a bit unlucky, if I'm being kind.'

'And if you're being unkind?'

'Well, he does sponge off his dad a little. Jeremy's a bit of a soft touch. They're very close. James was in the car when the-they had the accident. He was a bit screwed up about it for a while.' She blew out a long, slow breath. 'I haven't talked about this for ages…'

Suddenly Thorne felt terrible. He wanted to hug her, but instead volunteered to make another cup of coffee. They both stood up at the same time.

'Black or…?'

'Listen, Tom, I've got to say this.' Thorne thought she was starting to sound a bit pissed. 'I don't know what you think about Jeremy, I don't know why you had to go and question him… I dread to think, actually, but whatever it is I wish you'd stop wasting your time. This is one of my oldest friends we're talking about, and I know he likes to play the hard-bitten, cynical doctor but it's just a party piece. I've heard it hundreds of times. He cares very much about his patients. He's very interested in Alison's progress…'

Alison. The one person they were supposed to talk about and hadn't.

'I meant to have a word with you about that, actually. You know we're trying to keep some things out of the papers?'

Her face darkened. 'Am I about to get told off?.' She wasn't remotely pissed.

'He seems to know a lot about the case and I just wondered if…'

She took a step towards him – not afraid of a fight.

'He knows a lot about the medical case, yes. We've spoken about Alison regularly and obviously he knows about the other attacks because that has a direct bearing on things.'

'Sorry, Anne, I didn't mean-'

'He's a colleague whose advice I value and whose discretion you can count on. I'd say take my word for it, but obviously there wouldn't be much point.'

She stared at him, his first reminder since that morning in the lecture theatre of just how scary she could look. Evidently he didn't have quite the same capacity to intimidate her. Something in his face, he had no idea what, suddenly seemed to amuse her and her expression softened.

'Well, what's it been? A few weeks? And we're already on to our second major row. It doesn't bode well, does it?'

Thorne smiled. This was highly encouraging. 'Well, I'd actually categorise the first one as more of a bollocking, if you want to be accurate.'

'Are you going to get that coffee or what?'

As he filled the mugs from the cafeteria, she shouted through to him from the living room, 'I'll stick some music on. Classical? No, let me try and guess what you're into…'

Thorne added the milk and thought, never in a million years. He shouted back, 'Just put whatever you want on… I'm easy.' As he walked back in with the coffee, he almost laughed out loud as she turned round brandishing a well-worn and wonderfully vinyl copy of Electric Ladyland.

As the taxi – a black one, he wasn't going to make that mistake again – ferried him back towards Kentish Town, the evening's conversation rattled around in his head like coins in an envelope. He could remember every word of it. Bishop had been laughing at him.

The cab drove down the Archway Road towards Suicide Bridge and he looked away as they passed Queens Wood. He pictured the fox moving swiftly and silently through the trees towards its earth. A rabbit still twitching in its jaws, trailing blood across leaves and fallen branches as the vixen carries its prey home. A litter of eager cubs tearing their supper to pieces – ripping away pale chunks of Helen Doyle's flesh while their mother stands frozen, watching for danger…

Thorne stared hard at shop fronts as they flashed past. Bed shop, bookshop, delicatessen, massage parlour. He shut his eyes. Sad, soggy men and cold, brittle women, together for a few minutes that both would try later to forget. Not a pleasant image but.., a better one. For now. He knew that Helen and Alison and the rest of it would be with him again in the morning, lurking inside his hangover, but for now he wanted to think about Anne. Their kiss on the doorstep had felt like the beginning of something and that, together with the reliably pleasant sensation of being moderately off his face, made him feel as good as he had in a long time.

He decided that, late as it was, he'd ring his dad when he got in. It was ridiculous. He was forty. But he wanted to tell him about this woman he'd met – this woman with a teenage daughter, for God's sake. Rachel had arrived back just as he was leaving. He'd said a swift hello before making a quick escape once the inevitable argument started about how late she'd got back.

He wanted to tell his dad that 'maybe', with a large dollop of 'perhaps' and a decent helping of 'forget it, never in a million years', one of them might not be spending quite so much time alone any more.

He added a two-pound tip to the six-pound fare and headed up the front path, grinning like an idiot. It was always a risky business for cabbies, wasn't it, picking up pissed punters? A healthy tip or vomit in the back of the cab? That was the gamble. Well, one had just got lucky. Thorne was humming 'All Along The Watchtower' as he put the key in the lock, and was only vaguely aware of the dark figure that emerged from the shadows and ran up the path behind him. He turned just as an animalistic grunt escaped from the mouth behind the balaclava and the arm came down. He felt instantly sick as a bulb blew inside his head.

And suddenly it was much later.

The objects in his living room were at the bottom of a swimming-pool. The stereo, the armchair, the half-empty wine bottle shimmered and wobbled in front of him. He tried desperately to focus, to get a little balance, but all his worldly goods remained upside down and stubbornly unfamiliar. He looked up. The ceiling inched towards him. He summoned every ounce of strength to roll himself over, face down on the carpet and vomit. Then he slept. A voice woke him. Hoarse and abrasive. ' You look rough, Tom. Come on, mate…'

He raised his head and the room was full of people. Madeleine, Susan and Christine sat in a line on the sofa. Their legs were neatly crossed. Secretaries waiting for a job interview. Not one of them would look at him. To one side Helen Doyle stood staring at the floor and chewing nervously at a hangnail. Huddled into the single armchair were three young girls. Their hair was neatly brushed and their white nightdresses were crisply laundered. The smallest girl, about five years old, smiled at him but her elder sister pulled her fiercely to her breast like a mother. A hand reached towards him and dragged him to his knees. His head pounded. His throat was caked in bile. He licked his lips and tasted the crusty vomit around his mouth.

'Up you come, Tom, there's a good lad. Now, eyes wide open. Nice and bright:

He squinted at the figure leaning against the mantelpiece. Francis Calvert raised a hand in greeting. 'Hello, Detective Constable.' The dirty blond hair, yellowed by cigarette smoke, was thinner now, but the smile was the same. Warm, welcoming and utterly terrifying. He had far too many teeth, all of them decayed. 'It's been ages, Tom. I'd ask how you were doing but I can see… Bit of a session, was it?'

He tried to speak but his tongue was dead and heavy. It lay in his mouth like a rotting fish.

Calvert stepped towards him, flicking his cigarette towards the carpet and producing the gun in one horribly swift movement. Thorne looked frantically round at the girls on the armchair. They were gone.

At least he was to be spared that.

Knowing what would inevitably follow, he turned his attention back to Calvert, his head swinging round on his hunched shoulders with the ponderous weight of a wrecking ball. Calvert grinned at him, those rotten teeth bared as he clattered them theatrically against the barrel of the gun. He tried to look away but his head was yanked upwards by the hair, forcing him to watch.

'Ringside seat this time, Tom. All in glorious Technicolor. I hope that's not a new suit…'

He tried to close his eyes but his eyelids were like tarpaulins, heavy with rain.

The explosion was deafening. He watched as the back of Calvert's head attached itself to the wall and began a slow, messy descent like some comical, slimy child's toy. He moved an arm to wipe away the hot tears that stung his cheeks. His hand came away red, the bits of brain between his fingers. As he slumped towards the floor he was vaguely aware of Helen moving across to join the others on the sofa and lead them in a round of polite but sincere applause.

It was like being horribly drunk and massively hung-over at the same time. He knew he mustn't drift off again. The faces were still jumping around in his head like pictures in a child's flick book, but( the speed was decreasing. The equilibrium had almost returned but the pain was beyond belief.

He was alone, he was himself, and he was crawling across the puke-ridden carpet, inch by agonising inch. He had no idea what time it was. There was no light coming through the window. Late night or early morning. His fingers grasped at the nylon fibres of the cheap shag pile. He took a deep breath. Gritting his teeth and failing to stifle a cry of agony, he willed his knees to shuffle another few inches across the vast and merciless eight feet of carpet that separated him from the telephone.