Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

He stuffed a fistful of peanuts into his mouth and looked around. The place was starting to fill up with those grateful to have got another Monday over with, desperate for a quick one before the struggle home on the train or the bus. Somebody had left a rolled-up copy of the Standard on the next table. He reached across for it and began idly flicking through the sports pages.

Yeah, it was a nice pub. They would grab a couple here and then head off for an Italian or something. Nothing with too much garlic. He'd done exactly the same thing with Jane on their first date, over six months before.

Jo was actually better looking than Jane, but not as much of a laugh. He missed the piss-taking with Jane, the wind-ups, the crack. He'd encouraged her to flirt with that freak in the overseas section. That had been hysterical. The pillock had fallen for it one hundred per cent. Stammering and blushing. Went fucking ballistic when he found out he'd been had. Christ though, if you couldn't have a laugh at work… He looked at his watch again. Checked his mobile for messages. Why the hell were women always so fucking late? She had been keen enough when he'd suggested meeting. He typed in a quick text message and sent it. Where r u? Probably still in the ladies back at the office, tarring herself up. On second thoughts, maybe he would end up giving her one later. Her place preferably, no reason to stay the night then…

He smiled, mentally in bed with her already, as he flipped the Standard over. He glanced down at the front page and almost choked on his peanuts.

The young student got off the bus on Kingsland High Street. From there it was only a two-minute walk up the Dalston Road to her flat. The evening was surprisingly mild. He took off his jacket as he went along and threw it across his arm. Walking quickly, looking through the windows of second-hand record shops and Greek cafes, thinking about the way she'd looked at him the night before. She'd smiled a lot, raising her eyebrows, the tip of her tongue just visible against her top teeth. She had a laugh that made people on the other side of the pub stare. They'd all been a bit the worse for wear, celebrating their team's quiz win by drinking the first prize. Then the pair of them had stood at the bus stop at Highbury Corner, talking, letting three or four buses come and go before walking home – her off towards Dalston and him, in the other direction, towards the small, damp cupboard he rented in Tufnell Park.

They'd agreed to meet for lunch today at Pizza Express. He'd slept until really late and in the end he'd had to rush to get there on time, arrived out of breath and sweating. He'd waited for over an hour. It had been a casual sort of arrangement, maybe far more casual than he remembered – he had drunk an awful lot of Guinness – but he had expected her to come. She didn't have a phone at her flat so he'd rung her mobile a couple of times during the afternoon, left messages. He was halfway through dialing her number again when he'd decided to go round. It was only ten minutes away and the bus was virtually door to door. He was sure she'd be glad to see him. Yes, they'd both had a lot of Guinness, but he was pretty sure she would be. It was a dirty white door between a shoe shop and a cut-price travel agency. Three bells, her name underneath the top one. He rang.

He put his jacket back on; she'd said she liked it last night. Looked up at the windows above him. An old man peered down at him from the first floor. Maybe they could go and have a pizza now – there were loads of places in Islington. Or they could just sit around, smoke a bit maybe, order something later. Whatever, it would just be really nice to see her.

He rang again…

'Don't let Bracher go anywhere. Just keep him there…'

Thorne and Holland had been heading south towards Blackfriars Bridge when Thorne's mobile had rung and he was informed that Sean Bracher was currently annoying the duty officers at Charing Cross, shouting about how he was one hundred and ten per cent certain, that the man in the e-fit was someone he worked with, someone from Baynham amp; Smout…

Thorne had all but yanked the wheel out of Holland's hands. The woman in Wandsworth, Jacqueline Kaye, could wait until tomorrow. This was someone who they needed to talk to right now. They'd been to the office… Jesus, even Lickwood had been to the office, and the fucker had been there all the time…

Now, Thorne was talking to a DI at Chafing Cross as well as trying to give Holland instructions on the new route they were taking.

'What's the name?' Thorne nodded solemnly as he was told, then began waving his arm in front of Holland's nose. 'Go right, we'll cut through Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

Holland smacked a palm angrily on the wheel and did as he was told, keeping one eye on Thorne, watching his reactions, desperate to be told the details.

'Has Bracher told anybody else? Anybody at work? Good…'

Thorne pointed some more, grunting into the phone, meeting Holland's sidelong glance and nodding. This was major. As the unmarked Rover roared along the Strand, Thorne began to shout into the phone, as if he was losing the signal. 'We'll be there in about ten minutes.., yes, ten.'

He punched the button to end the call and turned to Holland. 'Sean Bracher…'

Holland's phone began to ring.

'Fuck..;' Holland groped inside his jacket for the mobile.

'Bet you it's for me,' Thorne said, 'I could hear the call-waiting signal on mine…'

'River?' Holland asked, pulling out the phone. Thorne nodded. Holland answered. 'Hello? Right…' He handed the phone across.

'McEvoy.'

Five pounds to the good, a smiling Thorne took the phone. Sarah McEvoy was out of breath. She'd run to make the call.

'We've got a man fitting our description, a man named Martin Palmer…' The smile froze on Thorne's face. It was the same name he had heard a few moments before; the name Bracher had given.

'Palmer walked into West Hampstead nick half an hour ago, dropped a gun on to the desk and confessed to two murders.'

'OK, we're on our way.'

Holland grimaced, unsure which direction to head in now. Thorne pointed north. Keep going.

'Slight problem,' McEvoy said. 'West Hampstead doesn't have a custody suite.'

'Fuck.' Thorne thought fast. 'Right, Kentish Town's about the nearest. Get somebody to run him over.'

'I'll call them and get straight down there.'

'Good. We should be with you in about fifteen minutes.'

McEvoy was already there by the time Thorne and Holland arrived. The three of them stood outside the room where Martin Palmer was being held. McEvoy filled them in on the details. He had walked calmly into the station to give himself up at around about the same time that Bracher had barged into Chafing Cross, shouting his name out. Palmer hadn't been cautioned. He was there of his own volition.

Holland sat down on one of the green plastic chairs that were bolted in a row along the wall. 'He saw the picture too, must have. Knew somebody was going to recognise it. Thought he'd be doing himself a favour.' McEvoy looked across at him, nodded her agreement. Thorne stared at the door. 'Maybe…'

'Reckon he'll give up his mate?' Thorne turned and stared at McEvoy. She'd asked, knowing it was What he was thinking, watching the tension take hold as he glared at the scratched grey door, imagining the man on the other side of it.

Give up his mate…

It had been the question Thorne had been asking himself since he'd heard Palmer's name for the second time. Christ, it could be that simple. Perhaps there was a chance, if he was hit quickly, and hard.

'Is Brigstocke coming?' Holland asked.

McEvoy took a few paces back towards the main reception area, smiled politely at the small collection of gawping uniforms gathered around the desk. 'On his way.'