Mark Billingham - Lazybones

The face behind that visor had belonged to the killer, and the black rucksack slung across his shoulder had contained a length of blue washing line.

'What can I get you, love?'

The trolley was at Thorne's table. He plumped for tea and a Kit Kat. He took the top off the cardboard cup, mopped up the inevitable spillage with his napkin and began to dunk the tea bag. He stared again at the picture he had begun to draw a few days earlier. diagnosed, his dad's other old friends tended not to be around quite as much. Victor was the only one who didn't seem to think he could catch it…

'What is?' Thorne said.

His father held up his pint, pleased as punch. 'This. "No beer". Number three, coming after "no going in the kitchen" and "no going out alone". My list of stupid rules, you know?'

Thorne nodded. He knew…

'No booze.' Jim Thorne cleared his throat, lowered his voice, tried to sound like a DJ. 'Straight in at number three in the Alzheimer's Hit Parade…' Thorne and Victor laughed. Thorne's father began to hum the theme to Top of the Pops, then stopped suddenly and looked across at Victor, his face creasing with panic. 'Who are the top three chart acts of all time? In terms of weeks on the chart, I mean…'

Victor leaned forward, the mood suddenly urgent. 'Elvis… Cliff Richard…'

'Obviously, yeah,' Jim said, agitated. 'It's the third one I can't bloody think of. Christ, I know this…'

Thorne tried to help. 'The Beatles…?'

With the perfect timing of a music-hall double act, his dad and Victor looked at each other, then at Thorne, before answering simultaneously,

'No…'

Thorne could see his father beginning to sweat, to breathe heavily. The fact that he was wearing two sweaters was not helping. 'I can see his bloody face. You know, bloke who fancies other blokes.' He began to raise his voice. 'Christ, he plays the… the thing with keys on, black and white keys…'

'Piano,' Thorne said. His father often spoke like this, when the right word wouldn't come. The thing you put in your mouth to clean your teeth with. Bacon and.., those things that come out of a chicken. Victor thumped his fist on the table triumphantly. 'Elton John,' he said.

'I know,' Jim said. 'I fucking know…' He began stabbing at the chips on his plate, one alter the other, looking as if he might weep at any moment.

I'll get some more drinks in,' Thorne said quickly. 'If you're going to break one of your rules, you might as well really break the bugger…'

Victor drained his pint, handed Thorne the empty glass. 'Course, your dad might not have Alzheimer's at all…'

Thorne shot him a look. This kind of discussion was pointless, though Victor was, strictly speaking, correct. Alzheimer's could not be, could never be confirmed. They were 90 percent sure, though, which was about as good.., or bad, as it got.

'Same again, Victor…?'

'Are you listening, Jim?' Victor said. 'You can't be certain it's Alzheimer's…'

Thorne put a hand on Victor's arm. 'Victor…'

Then Victor shot him a look, and Thorne suddenly saw what was happening. He saw that he was trampling all over the feed to one of his dad's favourite lines. He felt sick with shame… His father put down his knife and fork, picked up his cue. 'That's right, Vic. The consultant told me that the only way they can be sure is to perform a post-mortem. I said, "No, thank you very much. I don't think I'm too keen on one of those just yet!"'

Victor and his father were still laughing loudly as Thorne stood at the bar waiting to get served…

The 'middle stage' of the dementia was how it had been described to him. It all sounded a bit vague, but Thorne figured that as long as there was another stage to go, things would be all right for a while longer. As long as the bad jokes outnumbered the moments of terror and despair, he would try not to be too worried. Just briefly, for a minute or two, Carol had wondered about what she was doing, had thought about swapping places with her husband. She was a middle-aged woman, for heaven's sake! She ought to be inside like Jack, curled up on the sofa in front of Heartbeat instead of wrapped up in an anorak, rummaging through filthy cardboard boxes in their freezing garage,

That had been before she'd got into it. As soon as she began to delve into all that was left of Alan Franklin's past – his first past – she'd stopped feeling the cold. She'd rediscovered that bizarre and exciting feeling of looking for something, getting after it, without having the foggiest bloody idea of exactly what 'it' was.

All around her, in front rooms and kitchens on her quiet little road in Worthing, women her age were doing crosswords, or losing themselves in crappy romances or pouring breakfast cereal into bowls ready for the morning…

Carol pulled a pile of dusty, blank paper out of one of the boxes, swept away the grime with the side of her hand. She wouldn't have swapped places with any one of those women… There was lots of paper in both boxes; reams of the stuff in a variety of sizes, once presumably white, but now yellowed and slightly damp. There were envelopes too, and smaller packages of file cards, sticky labels and rusted staples. Franklin had met Sheila while working for an insurance firm in Hastings, but had clearly wanted to hold on to a few odd souvenirs of the working life he'd had before. None of the other stuff would have caused pulses to quicken at the Antiques Roadshow: a couple of unused Letts diaries from 1975 and 1976; a bunch of keys on a Ford Escort key ring; plates and teacups wrapped up in old newspaper; a couple of Polaroid's inside a manila envelope – two boys; one a baby, the other a toddler, and later the same two as a pair of gawky, unsmiling teenagers.

Carol unwrapped the dry newspaper from around what turned out to be a large silver tankard. She laid it to one side and smoothed out the crumpled page on the garage floor. It was from a local paper. She looked at the date – presumably the day Franklin had walked out on, or been thrown out by, his wife. Not a great deal seemed to have happened in Colchester that day: a small protest about a proposed ring road; a leisure centre reopening after a refit; a smash-and-grab at the jeweller's on the High Street…

Carol smiled at a phrase she hadn't heard for many years. Smash and-grab. Not much more than twenty years ago and even the crimes seemed more innocent somehow…

She picked up the tankard which, after a closer look, she could see was silver-plated. In spite of the newspaper, it had blackened slightly on one side but she could make out an engraving. She held it up to the light from the bare bulb, and read:

From the boys at Baxters, May 1976.

Welcome back.

Have one to celebrate or more than one to forget the whole thing, Carol thought about ringing Sheila Franklin, but knew instinctively that she wouldn't be a great deal of help. Her husband had not shared his past with her. Maybe he went up into the loft once in a while and peered at it, or perhaps he was trying to forget it himself. Either way, Carol was pretty sure that she would have to work it out on her own. She'd start tomorrow. It couldn't be that hard. She'd get that lazy bastard McKee to make a few calls.

Wincing, Carol hauled herself up from where she'd been kneeling on the floor. She'd put a cushion down on the concrete but her knees still felt very sore. She switched off the garage light and stood for a few seconds in the darkness before going inside.

Wondering what Alan Franklin had cause to celebrate back in 1976. And what he might have wanted to forget…

On the twenty-five-minute train journey back from St. Albans, Thorne had the entire carriage to himself.

He reached into his bag for his CD Walkman and a couple of discs. He opened up an album by a band called Lambchop – a birthday present from Phil Hendricks which, until he'd shelled out three hundred quid in Tower Records, had been the only CD he'd owned for a day or two after the burglary. It was 'alt. country', Hendricks had told him. Apparently, Thorne needed to move with the times a little… Thorne pressed PLAY, let it come and thought about the curious goodbye he and the old man had shared.