Mark Billingham - Lazybones

'Are you going to?'

Thorne poured her a cup…

'Why me?' she said. 'Why did he pick me to order the wreath from?'

'I think he picked a name at random,' Thorne said. They'd found a tattered Yellow Pages in the cupboard beneath the bedside table. It had been covered in fingerprints. Thorne doubted any belonged to the killer. 'He just let his fingers do the walking.'

She pulled a face. 'I knew I shouldn't have stumped up for that bloody box-ad…'

Though she talked twice as much, and ten times as quickly as he did, Thorne still talked more, and more easily, in the hour or so that followed than he could remember doing to almost anybody for a long time. To any woman, certainly…

'When's the wedding?' Eve asked, as their plates were cleared away. Thorne was struck then by how much ground they'd covered and how quickly. 'A week today. God, I'd rather stick needles in my eyes…

'Do you not get on with your cousin?'

Thorne smiled at the waitress as she popped the bill down on the table. 'I barely know him. Probably wouldn't recognise him if he walked in here. Just family dos, you know…'

'Right. You choose your friends, but you can't choose your relatives.'

'Yours as bad as mine, then?' '

She brushed a few stray crumbs from the tabletop into her hand, emptied it on to the floor. 'Is he the same sort of age as you? Your cousin?'

'No, Eileen's a lot younger than my dad, and she had Trevor pretty late. He's still only early thirties, I think…'

'What are you?'

'How old, you mean?' She nodded. Thorne opened his wallet, dropped fifteen pounds on top of the bill. 'Forty-two. Forty-three in… fuck, in ten days.'

She clipped up a few stray hairs that had tumbled loose. 'I won't say that you don't look it, because that always sounds so false, but looking at you, I'd say that they were forty-three pretty interesting years.'

Thorne nodded. 'I'm not going to argue, but just so you know… I don't mind about the sounding-false thing.'

She smiled, put on a pair of small, almond-shaped sunglasses.

'Forty then. Late thirties at a push.'

Thorne stood up, pulling his leather jacket from the chair behind him. 'I'll settle for that…'

Back at the shop they swapped business cards, shook hands and stood together, a little awkwardly, in the doorway. Thorne looked around.

'Maybe I should get a plant or something…'

Eve bent down and picked up what looked like a miniature metal bucket. A cactus-like plant sprouted from a layer of smooth white pebbles. She handed it to him. 'Do you like this?'

Thorne was far from sure. 'What do I owe you?'

'Nothing. It's an early birthday present.'

He studied it from every angle. 'Right. Thanks…'

'It's an aloe vera plant.'

Thorne nodded. Over her shoulder, he could see Keith watching them closely from behind the counter. 'So I should be all right for shampoo…'

'There's a gel in the leaves, very good for cuts and scrapes.'

Thorne looked at the fierce-looking spikes growing along the edges of the plant's sword-shaped leaves. "That'll come in handy.'

They stepped out on to the pavement, the slight awkwardness returning. Thorne noticed a silver scooter parked by the side of the shop – one of the latest Vespa's, based on the classic design. He nodded towards it. 'Yours?'

She shook her head. 'God, no. That's Keith's.' She pointed to the other side of the road. 'That's me over there…'

Thorne looked across the road at the grubby white van behind which he'd parked the Mondeo. The name of the shop was painted on its side, in the same creeping-ivy design as was on the shop front.

'The name certainly fits,' he said.

She laughed. 'Right. Like being an undertaker called De'Ath. What else could I do? Flowers are the only thing I can think of that bloom

…'

Thorne could think of several other things, but he shook his head, not wanting to say anything that might spoil a nice afternoon. 'No, you're right,' he said.

Thinking…

Bruises. Tumours. Bloodstains…

For the fourth time in the last hour, Welch was answering the same stupid set of questions.

'Date of birth?'

Maybe the officers just passed the list between themselves. You'd have thought that at least one of them could have come up with something more interesting…

'Mother's maiden name?'

But no. Same tired old teasers designed to catch out the impostor. The process had gone unchanged for many years but these days they really weren't taking any chances. Not since the incident a couple of months earlier. A couple of Pakis in a prison up north had swapped places on release day and the silly bastards had let the wrong one out. Several screws had blown their pensions that day and, once the jungle drums had finished beating, given every con in the country a fucking good laugh…

'Do you have any tattoos?'

'Can I ask the audience?'

'You want to be a smartarse, Welch, we can start the whole thing over again…'

Welch smiled and answered the questions. He wasn't going to do anything silly at this stage of the game. Each door he walked through, each successfully completed series of questions, each tick on a chart took him one step further away from the centre of the place. One step closer to the final door.

Answering pointless questions and signing his name over and over. Taking receipt of his travel warrant and discharge grant. Taking back his property. The battered wallet, the wristwatch, the ring of yellow metal. Always 'yellow metal'. Never 'gold' in case the bastards lose it…

Then through another door and on to another screw, and all this one gets to say to him is 'goodbye'.

Welch walked away towards the gate. He moved slowly, savouring every step, seconds away from the moment when he would hear the clang of the heavy door behind him and feel the heat of the day on his face. And look up at a sun the colour of yellow metal.

For Thorne and Hendricks, a Saturday night in front of the television with beer and a takeaway curry was a regular pleasure. For nine months of the year there was football to watch, to argue about.

Tonight, the start of the new season still seven weeks away, they would probably watch a film. Or just sit through whatever was on until, a couple of cans in, they stopped really caring. Maybe they would just put some music on and talk.

It was nearly nine o'clock and the light was only just starting to fade. They walked down Kentish Town Road, away from the restaurant and back towards Thorne's place. Both wore jeans and a T-shirt though Thorne's were far and away) the baggier and less eye-catching. Hendricks carried a plastic bag, heavy with cans of lager, while Thorne took responsibility for the curry. The Bengal Lancer delivered, but it was a nice evening for a walk and there was the added attraction of a cold pint of Kingfisher while they'd waited, the smell coming from the kitchens sharpening the edges of their appetites.

'Why the rape?' Thorne asked suddenly.

Hendricks nodded. 'Right. Good move. Let's get the shoptalk out the way – you know, the rape and murder stuff-then we can relax and enjoy Casualty…'

Thorne ignored the sarcasm. 'Everything else, so well planned, so meticulously done. He takes no chances. He strips the bed even after he's killed Remfry on the floor. Takes everything away to make sure he leaves nothing of himself behind…'

'Nothing strange about not wanting to get caught.'

'No, but it was all so careful. Ritualised almost. Whether it happened before or after the murder, I don't see the rape as part of that. Maybe he just snapped at some point, lost it…'

'I can't see it, myself. The killer didn't just go mental and do it without thinking. He knew what he was doing. He wore a condom, so he was still wary, still in control…'