Mark Billingham: Scaredy cat

Hissing instructions, beckoning, gesturing, the teachers emptied the playground in as orderly a way as they could. Following the directives that they had been given – that were standard in such situations they were trying to do it without alarming anyone, least of all the killer they'd been told might be nearby.

He was nearer than they realised and he was alarmed. Thorne could see the hesitation, the tension in Cookson's face and in the hand that squeezed the back of Sarah McEvoy's neck.

'Please,' McEvoy said. It was more of a moan than a word.

'I think we're stuck with each other,' Thorne said. 'Half the Met is waiting for you out there. Plenty of them are armed and looking for an excuse…

Cookson shook his head, and in an instant he had brought the knife round to McEvoy's throat. Smiling, he began to move backwards, towards the centre of the playground. Thorne followed slowly, praying that what he'd just told Cookson was, or would very soon be, true. As they neared the middle of the playground, McEvoy's eyes locked on to Thorne's. He couldn't begin to guess what they were trying to tell him. Cookson stopped and took a deep breath. He adjusted his position, leaving the knife exactly where it was, the blade biting into McEvoy's neck, but moving round a little to stand next to her.

'You know I'll kill her, so why don't we stop pissing about. One way or another, I'm leaving here. If I'm in the back of a squad car, then she'll be leaving in a body bag.'

'Fuck you,' McEvoy said.

Cookson opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. 'It speaks,' he said.

'I was wondering where you'd got to. I reckon your blood must be about ninety-eight per cent Colombian.' He laughed, and McEvoy grunted as a line of blood an inch or so long sprang onto the flesh of her throat and began to drip.

'Sorry,' Cookson said. 'Accident…'

Thorne twitched and Cookson's look told him to keep very still. It told him that the next time there would be a lot more blood.

'What did you do with the boy when you killed Carol Garner?'

Thorne said. 'Did he see it happen?' Cookson narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips as if confused by the question. 'Did you make her son watch while you killed her?'

Cookson shook his head, blew out a breath through tight lips.

'Sorry, you'll have to help me. Which one was Carol Garner again?'

Thorne knew then that as things stood, none of them were likely to leave that playground alive. He was willing his feet to stay where they were, but he knew that at any moment he would fly at this man, that rage would simply stop him caring any more. He knew that McEvoy's throat would open and cover the two of them with blood as she dropped away while he and Andrew Cookson murdered each other with cuts and clutching hands on the cold asphalt… Thorne became aware of a low buzzing noise. He realised that the sound was coming out of McEvoy's mouth.

'I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…'

'McEvoy…'

Thorne's voice just seemed to activate some switch in McEvoy's brain. Now the words gushed out of her. She shook her head violently as if trying to dislodge something, shake it out of there; her neck moving back and forth across the blade of the knife, the blood running down Cookson's fingers.

'I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry…'

Thorne could have sworn that the scream that followed came from him, or was at the very least inside his head, but if it was, why was Cookson spinning round? Why was he looking so astonished…?

The figure came running from around the side of the main building, shouting and waving. Thorne blinked, looked again. The figure was waving a gun.

Martin Palmer lumbered towards them, and the things that Thorne was seeing seemed to happen in slow motion at the same time that the thoughts in his head started coming faster than he could make sense of them.

Cookson pushing McEvoy away, dropping the knife… McEvoy turning, running straight at Palmer… Cookson bringing up his hands to protect his head as the first shot rang across the playground…

As Thorne went down hard, he heard the second shot, and at the edge of his vision he saw McEvoy stumble and crash heavily to the ground. An instant before he closed his eyes, he saw the look of astonishment frozen on Cookson's face, and a look there were simply no words to describe on Martin Palmer's.

It was no more than a few moments, but when Thorne opened his eyes, it seemed to have become considerably darker. There were a few spots of sleet in the air.

Thorne raised his head. Twenty-five yards away, McEvoy lay on the floor. He had no idea where she'd been hit, how badly she was hurt. He heard her moan as she tried to move the leg that was twisted awkwardly beneath her.

She was moving at least.

Thorne slowly got to his feet. His eyes, and those of Andrew Cookson, never moved from the figure of Martin Palmer. He stood no more than a few feet from them, his head bowed, the hand that held the gun twitching spastically.

'What the fuck are you doing, Palmer?' Thorne said. Palmer looked up. His eyes seemed huge behind his glasses. The gun was smacking against his leg. 'I'm sorry.'

Behind Palmer, McEvoy cried out. Th0rne couldn't make out whether it was pain or anger.

'Sorry?' Thorne shouted. 'Fucking sorry…?'

'You're full of surprises, Martin,' Cookson said. 'I tell you to shoot someone, you throw a wobbly and run to the police…'

Palmer shook his head. 'Shut up, Stuart…'

Cookson didn't even draw breath. 'Then up you pop out of the blue, and fuck me if you don't put a bullet in one of them.'

Palmer raised the gun and pointed it at Cookson's chest. 'I told you to shut up.'

'Not deliberately, of course. I think we know who the bullets were meant for.' He nodded his head towards McEvoy. 'She was just a lucky accident.'

Thorne looked at Cookson, no more than two paces away, and promised himself that whatever else happened, he was going to hurt him.

A noise came up from Palmer's throat, a low growl which erupted out of his mouth as a roar. His knuckles were white against the grip of the gun, his finger twitching against the trigger. He nodded once, twice. Those little nods. Urging himself to do it, telling himself to shoot. Cookson looked unconcerned. 'I always had to get you riled up, didn't I?' he said. 'Do you remember? There was a small window of opportunity if I was going to get you to do something, because you never held it together for very long. So, what's got you so excited now? Specifically?' He asked the question casually, as if checking some trivial fact. 'Was it Karen?'

Palmer swallowed hard. He brought his left hand up to steady the gun.

'Yes, of course it was.' Cookson smiled. 'Was is right, isn't it, Martin? You've lost it already. You want to kill me, but whatever made you brave enough to actually try has vanished, hasn't it? Run out of you like watery shit. Now you're just scared again…'

Thorne looked at McEvoy. She was getting harder to make out clearly. The clouds were lower now, and blacker. The light was dirty, diffuse. The whole scene seemed lit by a thousand dusty, forty-watt light bulbs.

He had to make a move. 'I need to get to my officer,' he said. Palmer didn't appear to be listening. Thorne took a step forwards, and in a second the gun was leveled at him.

'No!' Palmer shouted.

Thorne was genuinely surprised. 'What are you playing at, Martin?'

Palmer said nothing. He looked lost. Lost, confused, and with a gun pointing at Thorne's belly.

Thorne tried to keep his voice low and even. 'There are armed officers watching us right now. They're slightly better at this than you are. Do you understand, Martin?'

Palmer nodded slowly.

Thorne knew damn well that there was nobody watching them – not yet. If the Armed Response team had been there, then Palmer would not be standing and pointing a gun. He would almost certainly be dead by now.