Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

'Stop.'

Palmer had. Thorne silently admonished himself. He should never have got into this. At best, it was prurient. At worst, it smacked of the kind of cheap psychology that was also to be found on the bits of paper which would spill from crackers round lunch tables the following day. He glanced across at Palmer who clutched his tea and stared straight ahead. Thorne couldn't quite read the expression. Sad? No, disappointed.

The screensaver had kicked in again, and the growing silence was now broken only by a series of distant, electronic ticks.

'I might go out tomorrow,' Palmer said suddenly. He turned to look at Thorne, his upper body leaning forward, his face now keen and animated.

'Just for a walk, get a bit of air. Going a bit bonkers in here…'

Thorne snorted. Palmer started to nod thoughtfully even though it was strangely comic. 'I know, I'd better get used to it. Won't be many creature comforts when all this is over. Actually…'

He stood up quickly. Reflexively. Thorne did the same. Palmer looked over at him, nervous. 'I've got some cans of beer in the kitchen.'

He took a step forwards, then stopped. 'Have one. You could have one.'

Thorne nodded without thinking and Palmer was away towards the kitchen. 'It's bitter, I think. Is that all right?' Thorne said nothing, sat back down again.

He looked around the room. As usual, there was nothing out of place. The layout was simple, the furnishings modern and functional. The first time Thorne had walked into the place, he'd been reminded of somewhere, and then after a few minutes had shivered slightly as he'd realized that the flat was like his own. A few more books and plants maybe, an absence of family photos or souvenirs. Little evidence of a life lived with much enthusiasm. There was nothing homely…

Through the open kitchen door, Thorne could see Palmer moving around, hear him getting glasses from a cupboard and rinsing them out. He was a big man; a man that lumbered and loomed and yet he was oddly graceful. Considering his height and weight, he had very small hands and feet, and looked on occasion as if he must surely tumble forwards on to his pale, fleshy face. These were observations Thorne had made in the beginning when they'd spent many hours going over it all. Getting the story. Then they'd spent days and days planning, working out how they could make it work; giving Palmer a last taste of freedom so that Nicklin might.., might show his hand. All those hours in overheated interview rooms and yet they had never talked, not really. Thorne thought about this now, as he sat in Palmer's living room, not with any sense of regret – he had no desire to get to know this man – it was just interesting, that was all, considering where they were. And still he had that lingering sense that Palmer was holding something back. Saving something up…

Palmer returned with two glasses of beer, an odd look of pride on his face, as if he were delivering the heads of a pair of conquered enemies. Thorne took the glass that was offered and placed it on the floor by the side of his chair. Palmer stayed standing, staring out of the window and nodding slightly. He smiled. 'Quite lucky, actually. All these police officers everywhere, especially the one outside the door.., at least I haven't been bothered by carol singers.'

Thorne stared up at him. Palmer was wearing baggy grey tracksuit bottoms, blue moccasin-style slippers and an orange hooded top. The clothes looked cheap, not a natural fibre anywhere. And not for the first time, Thorne wondered what Palmer spent his money on. He had a good job, but his car wasn't flashy and there were no signs of extravagance.

'Where does all the money go?'

Palmer moved across to the sofa and sat down. He looked across at Thorne, squinting at him, as if trying to grasp every nuance of meaning in the question.

Thorne tried again. 'What do you spend money on?'

Palmer shook his head, shrugged. 'I save it.'

'Holidays?'

'I save it. It's all in the building society. I send some home occasionally, well I did, but my parents don't like taking it, so now I just buy them things. You know, when they need them. I bought them a new boiler a couple of months ago.' He nodded again, a series of small nods, like he gave all the time. As if he was agreeing with himself, trying to confirm something.

Thorne thought again about that first meeting, when he had spoken and shouted about a disease called bereavement and Palmer had first spoken about Nicklin. Later, he'd been taken to have his head wound stitched – Jacqui Kaye had done a fair amount of damage with that shoe – and when he'd returned he'd talked more, and with more ease, about Nicklin – the meeting in the Brasserie, the proposal, the instructions for the killings. Early on in that conversation, when they were talking about how he and Nicklin had first met, Palmer had mentioned a name. Twice, perhaps three times, a girl's name had bobbed into view. She, or at the very least, her name, had appeared briefly, like a shape dredged up; something which you could almost place, appearing just below the surface of water before disappearing back into the depths. Now, that name floated to the surface of Thorne's swampy consciousness.

'Tell me about Karen.'

Palmer took a drink. He held the beer in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing it down. 'Karen died.' More nodding. Thorne waited. 'She got into a car and died. On a sunny day, she climbed into a blue Vauxhall Cavalier – it was on the news, you can probably get the video. That was it. She was fourteen.' He downed nearly all that was left of his beer in three enormous gulps, put the almost empty glass carefully down on the floor and then looked up at Thorne. 'A blue Vauxhall Cavalier. Driven by a murderer. Like me.'

There was only one way Thorne could fill the pause that followed. He'd spoken the words aloud on a hundred different occasions. He'd felt the same sour taste of loss and longing then, hanging in the air, tart on his tongue.

'I'm sorry.'

Instinctively, he meant it. Then another instinct every bit as strong swept over him and he felt the need to qualify what he'd said.

'Not for you. For her, for her family. Not for you, Palmer.'

Then silence, and a nod or two, and the ticks and beeps from the swarm of animated clocks seemed suddenly much louder, filling the space between them.

Thorne jumped a little at the chorus of computerised chimes and turned to look at the screen. He glanced down at his watch. Midnight. Christmas day. When he looked back round, Palmer had shuffled forward to the very edge of the sofa. He was smiling awkwardly at him, holding his all but empty glass, just half a mouthful of beer in the bottom.

'Merry Christmas, Detective Inspector Thorne.'

Thorne stood up quickly, feeling as if he was going to be sick. The moment passed but he strode quickly across the room towards the door, belching the taste of vomit into his mouth and then swallowing it away again.

He opened the front door. The officer outside put down his newspaper and stood up. Thorne hovered for a second in the doorway, feeling a little woozy despite his untouched glass of beer. Behind him, in the living room, he heard the sofa creak and was aware of Palmer standing up.

'What did you come for?' Palmer asked.

Thorne beckoned the constable back inside. He leaned forward to take in a gulp of air from the hallway outside before stepping into it.

'Fuck knows…'

Palmer pressed his face against the window. Below him, Thorne emerged through the set of double doors and stood on the grass outside, breathing deeply.

He took a mouthful of beer from Thorne's glass and then another. As he drank it down, his enormous Adam's apple bobbed up and down and a little beer dribbled down his chin, and he closed his eyes to prevent the tears that were pricking at the corner of his eyes from forming.