Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

He'd actually been glad of the extra work. He'd needed something to focus his mind a little for the past few days. He'd been struggling to adjust, to adapt to the new way of things.

Palmer was gone: it was just him again.

However much he'd wanted to be in control, to be the one to change things, he couldn't be too angry about what had happened. Palmer was always going to be taken out of circulation after this last murder, and that, after all, had been his choice. He had decided to kill Bowles. Just when he'd been getting into Thorne's little game, enjoying it even, it had become necessary to change direction and now he had to live with the repercussions.

Back on his own. He liked it like that, yes, but still, he'd have to find some other way now to up the ante. He couldn't bear to be bored, to be still. Stillness meant sinking, and he'd do anything to avoid that. He needed to find the next thing quickly, the something, the new thing, the bright spot on the horizon. He'd found it with Palmer, but now, with him out of the picture, he'd need to find some different way to jack up the rush a little. While he waited for inspiration, he got his head down at work.

Work, work, work, home, chat, dinner with Caz, and then an hour or two next to the radio with a bottle of wine, enjoying the wit and wisdom of the country's more opinionated insomniacs. Later, he might wake Caz up and luck her. Stick it in and move it around, while he closed his eyes and thought about Bowles's brain like undercooked porridge, or the nice neat hole in the student's head, or perhaps the way the woman with the little boy had stiffened when he put his hand over her mouth.

While the kettle boiled, he thought about Thorne. He wondered how the Detective Inspector relaxed after a tough day. After a tough few days. It couldn't get harder than a fresh body could it? The body of someone he'd connected with. How quickly did a man like Thorne get over that, especially when it was.., unnecessary?

Who did he talk to about those things? Family? Friends? He was suddenly hugely amused by the idea of turning on his radio and hearing Thorne himself phoning in.

' We're going to Tom in London, who has a problem. How can we help you Tom?'

Then that voice, recognisably London. A little rough around the edges, just like the man himself. Deep and impressive, certainly. Soothing or stentorian, depending on his mood, or the impression he was trying to create. Tonight though, the voice a little higher, nervous, a catch in it…

' Well, Bob, it's a bit embarrassing.'

' Tom, are you a first time caller?'

' Yes, I am, sorry…'

'Just relax, you're among friends.'

'The thing is, I was wondering if any of your listeners might be able to help me. I'm trying to catch a multiple murderer you see, and it isn't going at all well…'

He picked up his steaming mug of tea and carried it back into the sitting room, still chuckling to himself. On the radio, a new caller was broadcasting to the nation. Not Thorne of course, but he sounded equally interesting.

Leonard from Cheshire: 'This bloke who was battered last week, this teacher? They say on the news it was that pair, the ones who've been doing all these murders, but I reckon it was just some little bastard, pardon my French, what hadn't done his homework. I mean it could have been, couldn't it, you know what they're like now in some of these schools…?'

He was laughing so much, he had to hold on to his tea with both hands.

When Thorne arrived at work the next morning, the last thing he was mentally prepared for was a bust up with Steve Norman. The press officer, on the other hand, who was waiting for Thorne in his office, seemed well up for it.

'You've made us all look very stupid, Thorne.'

Thorne cocked his head and crossed to his desk, thinking, how hard can that be?

Norman followed him, standing at his shoulder as Thorne, without looking at them, picked up a pile of reports from his desk. 'Alienated most of your fellow officers already, now you're making a pretty good job of pissing the rest of us off as well.'

Thorne carried the sheaf of papers across to the window and began pretending to read them. He wasn't sure why Norman was here and why he was in such a bad mood, but he really wanted him to leave and guessed that it might be a good idea if when he did, it wasn't with a broken nose or any teeth missing.

He dropped the paperwork down onto the window ledge and turned to face him, trying his damnedest to look tired rather than angry. 'What's your problem, Norman?'

'No problem. I just wanted you to be aware just how much trouble you've caused. We worked our bollocks off, liaising with the press, getting close to the journos…'

'That must have been hard. All that expense account wine to get down your necks…'

Norman laughed in mock confusion. 'Sorry, don't you remember whose idea this was? An idea which, for the record, most of us thought was half-arsed at the time.' Thorne shrugged. He hadn't forgotten.

'Yeah, well this time it was people like me at the sharp end of it. You wanted false stories planted in the press, you needed a lie perpetrated and we did it. Brilliantly. Now, it's all gone tits up because you were wrong, and we've got to sort the mess out.'

'Let me get this straight,' Thorne said, starting to fray a little round the edges. 'You're shouting your mouth off, because basically, you've got to do your job.'

'I'm not…'

Thorne took a step closer to him. 'Well, why don't you shut up and go and do it?'

Norman showed no inclination to retreat. He raised a finger, jabbed it towards Thorne's chest. 'I will, and you'd better be bloody thankful that someone round here's good at their job. I might, might, just be able to put things right with the press. I might be able to get this operation out of the mess it's in with half a decent reputation left.' He turned away and strolled towards the door, stopped when he got there. 'When I say this operation, I'm not including you of course. You're already down the shitter and there's no way to get you out again…'

Thorne laughed, moved to the chair behind his desk. 'Listen Norman, I'm busy, and if you're just going to stand there stating the obvious…'

Norman opened the door. 'Later, Thorne…'

Thorne spoke calmly, straightening things on his desk, lining up the pens. 'Oh, just to let you know, if you point that finger at me again, I'll break it. Fair enough?'

Norman turned around. Thorne saw the colour rise to his cheeks and was quietly delighted to see a little of the cockiness disappear from around the eyes. They looked at one another, unblinking, for a few slow seconds.

'There's a theoretical equation of ranks between officers and civilian staff. Did you know that, Thorne?' Thorne did, but said nothing. 'It's a courtesy thing really, but most people tend to observe it. A press officer on my team equates with a Detective Inspector such as yourself. I'm a senior press officer, which if I'm not wrong, and I'm not… equates to a DCI

– the rank immediately superior to yours. Are you listening, Thorne?'

Thorne looked up, the desk nice and tidy, the eyes nice and dead.

'Like you said, it's theoretical. Now fuck off.'

Norman did as he was bid, and was replaced almost immediately by a far friendlier face. Holland leaned against the doorframe and watched Norman as he made his way across the incident room.

'Cheer me up,' Thorne said. 'Tell me the Desk of Doom has got him, gouged a big hole in his leg. Better yet, taken one of his bollocks off.'

'Sorry, no luck. You padded it with all that paper anyway.' Thorne grunted. He'd completely forgotten doing it. 'What was all that about?'

Holland asked. 'I could hear it from next door) Thorne got up and walked across to join Holland in the doorway.