Mark Billingham - From the Dead

'You don't need to prove anything.'

'I know.'

'To yourself or your mother. Or me.'

'It's about feeling something. Making a difference or whatever. God, why do I always sound so wanky when I'm talking to you?'

'Look, I'm not going to tell you that you're wrong – or stupid – for wanting any of that. It's probably what I wanted, once upon a time.'

She looked at him. 'You told me you weren't… hardened. The other day, when-'

'I'm not,' Thorne said. 'Not that.'

Anna waited.

Thorne decided to try another tack. 'OK, forget how dangerous all this is. Forget that Langford has already had three people killed. At least three. Forget that he's clearly willing to do whatever it takes to hold on to the life he's carved out for himself. I've told you all that until I'm blue in the face and it's obviously not working.'

Anna smiled. 'Fine. I've forgotten it already.'

Thorne looked hard at her. Made sure she knew he was serious. 'Listen, whether you're trying to catch men who are cheating on their wives or trying to find Donna Langford's daughter, you're slopping around in other people's misery and you can't just wash it off. Do you understand?'

She nodded.

'When there's a murder, when there's someone out there I need to find, I have to switch off. I'm disgusted by it, by what's been done, but I can't afford to have feelings towards whoever it is I'm trying to catch. I can't afford to hate the person I'm after. I mean, I don't love him either, but I have to at least try and understand him. So I can get him. Afterwards, it's different…' His voice had dropped and he could see Anna straining to hear above the wind blowing across the water. He cleared his throat. 'Afterwards, in the interview room, across the courtroom or whatever, I'm… hateful.' He saw the confusion on Anna's face and shook his head. 'That's not the right word. I'm not sure if there is a word. I'm… full of hate…'

He wrapped his fingers tight around the edge of the bench, then moved them away when he felt the small clods of dried chewing gum underneath.

'There's a man called Adam Chambers. The case I was working on before.'

'I know,' Anna said. 'I read up on it.'

Thorne nodded. 'So. Just the thought of him out there, or Langford, or a dozen others who are walking around because they got lucky or someone screwed up. I imagine them sitting in the pub, watching TV like the people in those flats we passed, sleeping. I remember the things they did and I'm full of it. Full to the fucking brim with hate.' He conjured a half-smile, then an unconvincing laugh to go with it. 'And I hate it.'

They both stared ahead for half a minute, legs stretched out in front of them, hands pushed into jacket pockets. The temperature was dropping and there was more rain in the air.

'Look, I'm not saying I want to be your shadow or anything,' Anna said.

'That's a relief.'

She moved a little closer to him. 'Seriously, I'm not expecting an access-all-areas pass and a promise that I can be there when you make an arrest.'

'Good, because you wouldn't get it.'

'Just keep me informed, OK?'

Thorne turned to her. He could see that this was as big a concession as she was prepared to make.

'I'd rather hear what's going on from you than from Jesmond.'

'Fair enough,' Thorne said.

'I've got a feeling I wouldn't get the full story from your boss. He sounds a bit slimy.'

Thorne said, 'More than a bit,' and looked out at the river. In one way at least she showed remarkably good judgement. But he still felt uneasy about the situation.

Perhaps he was just unused to giving so much of himself away.

He stared at the shifting, black water, at the lights moving slowly in both directions under Vauxhall Bridge, and for the second time that day, he wondered if life would be easier aboard one of those boats. He could turn his face to the wind and empty his mind of all this. The notion was just as incongruous as it had been earlier, staring down from the briefing room at SOCA, not least because Thorne was anything but a natural when it came to the water. He had first learned that as an eight-year-old on a mackerel-fishing trip with his father, when he had thrown up ten minutes out of Brixham harbour. Since then, anything but a millpond would have his guts churning, make him crave solid earth beneath his feet. Yet he still loved the idea of boats, of drifting away on one, however disappointing the reality always proved to be.

Like so many other things in his life, it was a good idea on paper.

He let his head fall back, felt the first spatters of drizzle on his face, but it was not unpleasant.

'We should probably go,' Anna said.

'Right.'

'I should let you get back to… Sorry, I still don't know her name.'

Like so many other things…

'Louise,' Thorne said.

Walking back, they talked easily, taking their time as the streets narrowed and grew quieter. They argued about football when it emerged that Anna was a closet Match of the Day viewer. Like far too many Londoners, she was a Manchester United supporter, but Thorne tried not to take it too hard.

'Could be worse,' he told her. 'Could have been Chelsea.'

Their pace slowed even further when they reached Louise's road, walking back towards the flat at a fraction of the speed they had left it.

'Sorry for being such a nightmare,' she said.

'I'll get over it,' Thorne said.

Halfway along the street, a pizza-delivery scooter beetled past, its engine whining like a swarm of angry wasps.

'Bloody hairdryer on wheels.' Thorne spoke without thinking. It was something his father used to say.

Anna laughed. 'Pizza sounds good, though. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut.'

The rain was coming down far heavier now, and they were no more than half a minute from Louise's flat. Thorne thought about asking her inside and cooking her something. 'Do you want me to call you a cab?' he asked.

'It's fine. I can jump on the tube.'

Thorne watched the scooter reach the end of the road, turn around and start moving back the way it had come. He reached out instinctively towards Anna. 'You sure?' He kept one eye on the scooter. He had presumed that the driver could not find the right address, but there was no attempt to look for house numbers.

'Honestly, it's not a problem.'

Thorne felt a tingle build and spread at the nape of his neck. 'Let's get inside.'

The scooter slowed, wobbling a little as it edged towards the pavement; as Thorne moved his hand to the small of Anna's back and pushed.

' What? ' she said.

The man on the scooter, his face obscured by a blacked-out visor, was now steering with one hand, and without needing to see what was in the hand that was hidden by the fuel tank, Thorne urged Anna forward. ' Move! '

The rider raised the gun and Anna shouted, took hold of Thorne's arm and told him to watch out. Thorne half shoved, half dragged her the last few feet until they were level with the low railings that ran along the front of the building, Louise's door was still ten feet below them as the first shot was fired.

Just a pop, no louder than the scooter backfiring.

Anna said, 'Christ,' then spoke Thorne's name as the scooter accelerated, a few more seconds of wasp-whine, until it was all but level with them. There was no time to move those last few feet to where the steps wound down from the pavement and, in the end, Thorne could do nothing but push himself against her; pressing her back against the railings, feeling the tremble take hold in his arms and legs, and the rain running down his neck.

He heard his own name screamed again as he turned to see the gun come up a second time.