Mark Billingham - Lazybones

'Jesus, have you finished?'

'Do it and feel nothing. See something and take it, because all that matters is what you might be able to get for it. Feel fuck all…'

'You're wasting your…"

'Feel luck all. Then see how you feel when one day one of your mates needs some cash and puts his foot through your mother's window. Size-nine Nikes tramping around your mum's living room, and going through her drawers. And maybe your mate's a little bit wired, a little bit over the edge, and maybe your mother's lying there in bed at the time…'

'It's because you're a copper.'

Thorne stopped, took a breath and waited.

'That's why I took a shit on your bed, all right?'

It made sense. Thorne wasn't so poor a detective that he hadn't considered the possibility that his flat had been targeted. That was the problem with Neighbourhood Watch. You didn't always know which neighbours were watching…

'How did you know?' Thorne asked.

'I didn't, not before I got in there. There was a photo that had fallen down behind one of your speakers. You, in your fucking PC Plod outfit…'

Mullen leaned back and folded his arms as Thorne had done. He looked at him, as he might look at a stereo or a VCR, evaluating it, working out whether it was worth taking.

'Your hair was darker then,' Mullen said. 'And you weren't such a fat cunt.'

Thorne nodded. He remembered the photo, had wondered where it had gone. It wasn't a picture he was hugely fond of, but still, Mullen's response when he'd seen it a few weeks earlier had been a bit harsh.

'So, you take one look at an old photo and decide to use my bed as a crapper, that about right?'

Mullen grinned, starting to enjoy himself. His teeth were browning where they met the gums. 'Yeah, more or less…'

'You cocky little strip of piss…'

Thorne's movement, and the scrape of his chair across the floor, caused Mullen to jerk back and stiffen, momentarily defensive. He appeared to recover his confidence just as quickly.

'Look, it was nothing personal.'

'And it won't be personal when I come round there, knock you over and shit in your mouth, fair enough? I'm a copper and you're a burglar. Right, Noel? Clearly there's certain things we have to do. '

Mullen's expression was closer to pity than boredom. 'You're not going to do anything.'

Other than strike a few poses to try to make himself feel better, there was nothing that Thorne could do. He wondered if the old man he'd seen sitting opposite Darren Ellis had felt as useless.

'Are you sorry, Noel?'

'Am I what?'

'Sorry. Are you sorry?'

'Yeah. I'm sorry I got fucking caught.'

Thorne's smile was genuine. A certain warped faith had been restored by Mullen's honesty. Perhaps, faced with a few years' hard time, he would learn a trick or two, learn how to turn it on in the same way that Darren Ellis had. For now, there was something heartening about Mullen's answer. Something reassuring about the fact that he really and truly didn't give a toss.

There was a moment when Thorne almost liked him. The moment passed, and for a minute and more, Thorne stared into Mullen's unexcited eyes until the boy jumped up, moved quickly across the room and began banging on the door. Stone took the call, held the receiver out towards Holland. 'For you…'

As Holland walked across their small office, Stone put his hand over the receiver. 'She sounds sexy as well.'

Holland said nothing and took the phone. He'd pretty much learned to put up with Stone's arrogance, but he still got impatient with the smirks and the shrugs and the knowing looks that actually knew fuck all. Mind you, these days, he got impatient with a lot of things.

'DC Holland.'

'This is Joanne Lesser…'

'Oh, hello, Joanne.' Holland looked up to see Stone rolling his eyes and mouthing her name. Holland casually stuck up a finger.

'No luck on the actual files yet,' she said. 'I did leave a message yesterday. About some of them being moved?'

'OK. I didn't see that, but…'

'Don't worry, I'm still working on it. I found out something else, though.'

'Right…' Holland picked up a pen, began to doodle as he listened.

'A colleague on the team here reckons that the old index cards, from years back, are all piled up down in our cellar. I'll try and dig them out, presuming they haven't all gone rotten…'

'Do you think the cards for Mark and Sarah Foley will be down there?'

'That's why I rang. I don't see why not. There's probably not much information, they're just small cards, you know? The proper files are probably six inches thick…'

'What's on them?' Holland glanced up to see Stone staring across at him, interested.

'Usually just the basic stuff,' Lesser said. 'Case number, DOB's, placement dates and names of carers…'

Holland stopped doodling, wrote down 'names amp; dates'. 'That sounds great, Joanne. Really helpful…'

I'll call you when I've got the information then, shall I?'

'Can you e-mail it? Probably safer…'

When he thanked her again for her trouble, he could almost hear the blushing.

'Sounded good,' Stone said, after Holland had hung up.

'Reckons she can get us a list of all the kids' foster parents,' Holland explained. 'The dates they were placed in care…'

Stone looked thoughtful. 'Is she going to carry on looking for the full files?'

'Probably no stopping her, but I reckon these names and dates are as much as we're going to need.'

'Let me know when you get them,' Stone said. I'll give you a hand on it.'

Holland leaned back, stretched. 'Shouldn't be much to do. I think I can manage it on my own…'

'Please yourself.' Stone looked back to his computer screen, began to type.

Holland knew that it had been a fairly petty moment of self-assertion. More so, considering that he didn't really consider it to be a worthwhile line of inquiry in the first place. Thorne had got a bee in his bonnet about it, so Holland would do what needed doing, but he couldn't help thinking that they were almost certainly wasting their time. He didn't see how knowing where Mark and Sarah Foley had been twenty-five years ago was going to help them find out where they were now.

Thorne stepped out of the tube station on to Kentish Town Road. He turned for home, walking down in the direction of Camden, and the police station in which he'd encountered Noel Mullen nearly twelve hours before.

He thought about what the boy had said…

'I'm sorry I got fucking caught' .. and wondered if he'd ever make the killer of Remfry, Welch, Southern and Charlie Dodd sorry. He had a feeling that if he did catch him, it would be just about the only thing the killer would be sorry about.

Thorne was vacillating, standing on the pavement outside the Bengal Lancer, when his phone beeped. He listened to the message, then pressed the hash button to call Eve straight back. The apology wasn't the first thing he said but it was "pretty close.

'I'm sorry…'

'For what?'

'Lots of things. Not calling, for starters.'

'I know you've been bus).'

The owner of the restaurant, a man who knew Thorne very well, saw him through the window. He started waving, beckoning him inside. Thorne waved back, mouthing and pointing at the phone.

'Where are you?' Eve asked.

'Just heading home, trying to decide what to do about dinner.'

'Stressful day?'

Maybe she'd heard it in his voice. He laughed. 'I'm thinking about chucking it all in, becoming a florist.'

'Bloom and Thorne sounds good…'

'Actually, no, I don't think I could stand the early mornings.'

'You lazy bastard…'

And the sights, the sounds, the smells of Thorne's dream came straight back to him. He shivered, though it was warm enough to be walking around with his jacket thrown across his arm…