Mark Billingham: Scaredy cat

Nearly a month since he'd walked back up that long drive, wondering idly what might have happened to his car.

How long it would take to scrub blood off asphalt… Palmer had known exactly what he was doing, when he'd pointed that gun. Thorne should have seen it coming earlier – when Palmer had been so keen to tell him where the gun had come from. A last attempt at a good gesture, before the most desperate one of all. Was suicide, which is what it was, the act of a coward or a brave man? Thorne thought, in the end, that Palmer had done what he did, not out of self-disgust, but simply because he knew, emotionally at least, that he would never survive prison.

The school's former Head of English, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff. Of far stranger stuff.

Andrew Cookson would do very nicely. While the true-crime cash ins were being scribbled, he would carve out a niche for himself in Belmarsh or Broadmoor. Number one nutter in the nick. Fear was all important in prison. In a place where getting through a day unscathed was hard enough, robbers and rapists would probably scare just as easily as Martin Palmer had done.

Palmer, scared stiff all his life, whose one act of anything like bravery had gone so tragically wrong.

The words of the speech, the platitudes that had rattled around in his head that day, were close enough to those that were needed. To those that were eventually used.

'All of those who worked with her, of whatever rank, will miss her dedication and good humour…'

The faces of Lionel and Rebecca McEvoy had joined those of Robert and Mary Enright, Rosemary Vincent and Leslie Bowles. The flaking portraits of those that had lived to bury their children. Leslie Bowles had put it simplest, and best. It never stops. Never.

'By the way,' Hendricks said. 'If Brendan rings, I'm not here…'

Thorne turned and stared at the scruffy article sprawled on the sofa, at the open and expectant face of the man who had performed the post-mortem on Sarah McEvoy.

Who afterwards had somehow managed to misplace the toxicology report.

'Oi… I'm not here. If he rings. Is that OK?'

'I see another piercing coming,' Thorne said. 'What's happened now?'

Hendricks swung his feet on to the floor and sat up. 'You remember when I thought he was freaked out by the job, yeah? Well, it turns out he actually quite likes it.'

'So?'

'So, now I'm the one that's a bit freaked out…'

'You're never happy.'

Then what about you?'

Thorne stood and strolled towards the kitchen to get a couple more beers. 'I'm fine.'

Hendricks leaned back grinning, his hands behind his head. 'Yeah, well, so you should be. Fantastic mate like me, beer, Spurs one-nil up away from home. It doesn't get much better than this really, does it?'

With his back to him, Hendricks had no way of knowing if Thorne was smiling as he spoke.

'Christ, I sincerely hope so…'

23, Dyer Close

Kings Heath

Birmingham

B14 3EX

West Midlands

28 February 2002

Dear Inspector Thorne,

I know it's taken a while to drop you a line, but I'm sure you appreciate that there's a lot going on and that it's been quite difficult for us since the arrest.

We were very sorry to hear about Detective Sergeant McEvoy. She must have been about the same age as Carol. Please pass on our condolences to her family.

Charlie is really starting to do well now. He's settled in very well at school and is sleeping a lot better. The child psychologist is very pleased with him. My wife thought you'd like to know.

The real reason I was writing, was to say a belated 'thank you' for the tool set you sent Charlie at Christmas. It was thoughtful. I hope you don't mind, but we didn't tell him that the present came from you. We're not sure if he remembers you anyway and we thought it best, considering, to just tell him it was from us. I'm sure you understand.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Enright