Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

Now, he was utterly exhausted and in as foul a temper as he could remember. He obviously wasn't the only one.

'What I look like isn't really any of your business, sir.'

'What?' Thorne wasn't so wiped out that he couldn't start to get angry.

'Forget it.' McEvoy stared at him for a few seconds, her eyes cold and challenging, before spinning on her heels and marching out of the office.

'Jesus…' Thorne took a deep breath. He opened his desk drawer, stared blankly at the stapler for a moment and slammed it shut again. He picked up the paper from his desk, leaned back in his chair and read the Tourist Slaying story for the third time since getting to the office. It was predictable fare, hinting at the unspeakable horror in Room 313 while laying on the 'city no longer safe for visitors' stuff with a trowel. A smattering of gory detail, a heavy dose of outrage.

The newsprint began to dance in front of Thorne's eyes, so he closed them. It might have been a few minutes, it might have been an hour, when he heard Holland's voice.

'Sir…'

Thorne didn't open his eyes. 'If you've got fresh coffee for me, Holland, promotion's in the bag.'

'It's better than coffee.'

Thorne sat up as Holland dropped into a chair opposite him. It struck Thorne, looking at him, that maybe he'd had a rough Friday night as well.

'Margie Knight's turned up.'

It was the instant jolt of adrenaline that Thorne needed. 'Where?'

'Uniform found her last night. Noshing off some solicitor in a parked car on the Caledonian Road.'

If it was what Thorne needed, it might also be the bit of luck that the investigation needed. A simple piece of London business after dark. A wooden top with a torch, a working girl cleaning up on a Friday night and a brief who couldn't keep it in his pants. Cases had hinged on a lot less.

'Right, get her and Murrell in here today. I want pictures of this bloke on the streets as soon as possible. Let's move this thing forward, Dave.' Holland nodded and stood up. 'What's wrong with McEvoy this morning, anyway?'

Holland stopped at the door and turned. 'Sorry?'

'Somebody's rattled her bars. I made some crack about what she looked like and she bit my head off.'

'Right.' Holland looked away, shook his head thoughtfully. 'Probably just being over-sensitive. Maybe it's her…'

Thorne held up a hand to stop him. 'The mood she's in right now, Holland, if you so much as suggest that it might be her time of the month, I'm guessing she'll kill you on the spot.' Thorne was making light of it, but he sensed that it was more than just a bad mood. His original comment had been tit-for-tat, but there was no question, McEvoy did look rough.

'I'll try to find out if there's anything up with her.' Holland spoke as if Thorne had asked him to perform an autopsy.

'Are you OK, Dave?'

There was a long pause, and the few mumbled words that Holland managed before hurrying out of the office obviously did not come easily. 'Bit of trouble at home…'

Thorne had wondered about it before, but this was the first time that Holland had so much as hinted that things between him and Sophie might not be hunky-dory. His reticence told Thorne that now was probably not the time to dig any deeper. Whatever was going on, he hoped they could work it out quickly. Thorne had only met Sophie once; she had seemed nice enough.

Thorne glanced up at the clock. Nearly ten. Brigstocke was due back from a meeting with Jesmond any time, and chances were it would not have been a barrel of laughs. Thorne would bring him up to speed about last night and then give him the good news about Margie Knight's miraculous reappearance.

Take some of that pressure off.

McEvoy… Holland… Brigstocke. Thorne got up, left his office and walked across to the coffee machine, thinking that perhaps he wouldn't be the first one to crack up after all. Duddridge always waited for the customer to leave before counting the cash. It was only polite. Besides, knowing that nobody ever tried to rip him off had made him fairly relaxed about payment. People were always told gently that if their accounts weren't settled to his satisfaction, he could find them.

Use some of his own stock.

The money was all in twenties. He counted it without even looking down. He glanced around the pub which was starting to fill up with the afternoon football crowd, the lads with mullet haircuts and loafers, gathering for the last Saturday before the Christmas break. They would crowd around the big screen TV, drink themselves silly and watch the Sky coverage of the day's games, each of them putting away enough lager to pay twice over for a satellite dish at home. The money, as expected, was all there. Duddridge decided to have a celebratory drink. It had been a nice bit of business after all. A simple referral from someone he knew and a mug punter he could overcharge, one who had no idea he was paying over the odds. He pushed his way to the bar and ordered a Jack Daniels and Coke. He'd sold gear to all sorts over the years, but this one had been odd, no question about it. The bloke hadn't got a clue what it was he wanted for a start. It had all been written down for him, presumably by the bloke who'd referred him to Duddridge in the first place. He said he wanted it for protection of course, which was what they all said, trying to make out like they were just responding to the dangerous times they were living in, but just needing it quickly and not wanting to piss about with licenses and stuff. Right, and people only did smack to see what it was like, because they were writing a book about it. Thing was, with this bloke, Duddridge could almost have believed it. The fucking great idiot had looked scared to death. Most of his customers were a little nervous, but they weren't buying cornflakes, after all. The bloke who'd handed over the fistful of twenties, one of which Duddridge was now peeling off to pay for his drink, he looked like he was going to shit his pants at any moment.

Maybe he did just want it for protection, weirdo certainly didn't look like he could hurt anybody, or want to hurt anybody, at least. It always made Duddridge a little wary selling to people like that. You never knew when it might come back at you. The items he sold were completely untraceable – he had a reputation built on that – but you could never predict exactly what the people who bought them might do. A simple job was fine, they were his bread and butter. He saw himself as someone who sold quality tools to professionals. But there was no accounting for nutters.

Duddridge felt the mobile phone on his belt vibrate. Another customer. He downed his drink and began making his way through the crowd towards the doors. He pictured his last customer doing the same, just a few minutes earlier, moving awkwardly between the tables, clumsy cunt knocking over a drink, one hand flapping for the door handle, the other clutching on to his purchase for dear life. He always made a bit more dosh out of the amateurs, but he didn't really like doing business with them. You could never be certain what you were dealing with. It was always the unassuming punters, the funny-looking ones, the ones whose neighbours were always shocked and amazed.., who you saw on the news, their eyes like puddles of piss, shooting up a playground or walking calmly into McDonald's with an Uzi.

The thought reminded him. Uzis. He needed to talk to his contact in the States, see if he could get his hands on a few. 1999

He shut the door behind him, took off his jacket and slumped down behind his desk. From somewhere down the corridor he could hear raised voices, a door slamming. The temperature must have been well into the eighties; fans on all over the building, the place reeking of sweat and bad tempers. He stared out of the window, perfectly content. He had his own ways of coping with stress.