Mark Billingham - Lazybones

'Tom?'

'Sorry…' He blinked the pictures away. 'You said something about Saturday. In your message…'

'I know you're probably working late.'

'No, I'm not, for once. I'm signed out for most of the day. Unless something comes up.' An urgent meeting, a new lead, another body. 'So, should be fine…'

'It's not a big deal, but it's Denise's birthday, so her and me and Ben are going to be in the pub Saturday night. That's it, really. Just come along if you fancy it.'

'What, a double date?'

'No. I just thought you might prefer it. No pressure…'

'Pressure?'

'Well, you have been sort of… blowing hot and cold…'

'Sorry…'

There was a pause. Thorne caught sight of the owner again, throwing up his hands. He heard Eve move the receiver from one ear to the other.

'Look, I'm sorry too,' she said. 'I didn't want to get into this on e phone. Let's just have a drink on Saturday. Take it from there.'

"

'That sounds good. I'll have something to show you as well.'

Thorne enjoyed listening to the laugh that he hadn't heard in a while. He pictured the gap in the teeth. 'Cut out the dirty talk,' she said. 'And go and get something to eat…'

A few minutes later, ten minutes since he'd first arrived outside the restaurant, and Thorne was still trying to decide what to do. There was stuff in the fridge he could eat. Should eat… He pushed open the door, the smell of the Indian food just too good to resist. His friend, the owner, had already opened a bottle of Kingfisher.

'Who are you rooting for this afternoon then, Dave?'

Holland looked up from his desk to see DS Sam Karim beaming down at him. 'Sorry…?'

'The Charity Shield. Who d'you Want to win it?'

Holland nodded. The traditional game on the eve of the season proper. Last year's FA Cup winners versus the Premiership champions.

'Whichever team isn't Manchester United,' Holland said.

'Suit yourself, mate, we'll still walk it. I fancy us for the league again as well.'

'I don't understand, Sam. You're from Hounslow, aren't you?'

Karim wandered away, still smiling. 'You're just jealous…'

Holland picked up the phone again and dialed. He didn't actually care one way or the other about football. Virtually everything he knew or understood about the game had been encapsulated in that fifteen second conversation.

The line was still engaged. He hung up and looked back at his notes. Since Joanne Lesser had e-mailed the information across the day before, Holland had been working through the list of names pretty solidly. He was getting there, but it had been frustrating. Despite his bravado with Andy Stone, simply getting hold of people was sometimes tricky, even if the people themselves had no reason whatsoever to make it difficult.

The Foley children had spent the six months after the death of their parents in short-term foster care. Then, in January 1977, they'd begun the first of half a dozen long-term placements. There were still two sets of foster parents Holland had yet to speak to, but from the conversations he'd already had, a pattern had emerged. In almost every instance, the children had appeared to settle quite quickly, but had gradually become sullen and disruptive, especially in families where there were existing children. Those Holland spoke to admitted that it had been difficult, but also thought that it was understandable, considering what the children had been through. Mark and Sarah were basically nice kids, but had withdrawn, spending more and more time alone, trying to shut out everybody around them…

It was all interesting enough, but Holland was still not convinced that any of it would prove to be of any use. He had not yet spoken to the most recent set of foster parents and that might at least turn up something they could work with. Brigstocke was mooting the idea of getting photos of the Foley children, digitally ageing them, and circulating the resulting images. It seemed a decent enough idea. The Nobles, who had cared for the children up to the beginning of 1984, were due back from Majorca later that day, and were likely to have the most recent pictures…

Holland reached for the phone. The number for the Lloyds, the third set of foster parents, was still busy. The instant he put the phone down, it began to ring.

It was Thorne.

'Fancy a drink tonight?' he said.

'Why not?' As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Holland knew exactly why not, as he felt instantly guilty. He knew, on a Saturday night especially, he should talk to Sophie first He also knew very well that she would smile and say she didn't mind. 'Where are we going?'

'Bar in Hackney,' Thorne said.

Holland could picture himself picking up his jacket and turning for the door, catching a glimpse as the film of tears formed in a moment across Sophie's eyes. He could already hear the bang of the door as he pulled it shut behind him, and feel each heavy step down towards the street like a low punch.

'What time?' Holland said.

'About half eight. Why don't I pick you up?'

'Eh? Kentish Town to the Elephant and then back up to Hackney?

That's miles out of your way…'

'I don't mind.'

'I'll just get the tube up to Bethnal Green and walk.'

'No, it's fine, really…'

'What's this bar called? I'll meet you there.'

Thorne's tone of voice told him that there was little point in arguing. I'll be round at eight-thirty, Dave…'

Thorne had rung the bell then walked back to strike the appropriate pose. By the time Holland emerged from his flat, Thorne was leaning on the car, grinning, like some sixties motor show model gone very much to seed.

'Right,' Holland said. 'So the insurance money came through, then?'

'Not yet, but it will. I borrowed a bit from the bank.' Holland stood, hands in pockets, looking extremely unsure. 'It's a BMW,' Thorne added, just in case Holland was in any doubt.

'It's a very old BMW…'

'It's a classic. This is a three-litre CSi. These are vintage cars, mate.'

'It's yellow.'

'It's pulsar yellow.'

'Pardon me.' Holland began a slow walk around the car. To Thorne, he looked like he was examining a freshly discovered corpse.

Thorne pointed in through the car window. 'It's got leather seats…'

Holland was at the back of the car. He looked at the registration plate. 'P? When's that…?'

'There's a CD player mounted in the boot. Holds ten CDs…'

'What year is it?'

Thorne knew there was no way to make it sound good. '1975…'

Holland laughed. 'Christ, it's almost as old as I am.'

'There's only fifty-eight thousand miles on it…'

'You've gone mental. Did you have it checked for rust?'

'Yeah, I had a look. Seems fine…'

'Underneath, I mean. Did you get it jacked up?'

'It was restored four years ago and the bloke told me it's only done ten thousand miles since the engine was rebuilt.'

'How much did you pay for it?'

'The clutch is virtually brand new.., or it might be the gearbox. One of them's new, anyway…'

'Five grand?' Thorne said nothing. 'More? Bloody hell, there's q,) way you'll get anywhere near that for the Mondeo…' "

'It's a present, all right? I've got fuck all else to spend money on.'

'You don't know anything about old cars. You could have got something nearly new for the same money, something nice like that hire-car you had. This'll cost you a fortune in the long run…'

'It's gorgeous, though, don't you think?' Thorne took a tissue from his pocket and began polishing the badge on the car's bonnet. Holland shrugged, opened the car door. 'Doesn't matter when you're sitting on the hard shoulder, does it?'

Thorne stomped sulkily round to the driver's side of the car. 'I've a good mind to make you walk to fucking Hackney now. Miserable sod…'