Mark Billingham - Lifeless

Thorne knew, as Jesmond must have known, that, irrespective of what was said, the papers would print stories about a serial killer. It would shift copies quicker than Posh and Becks, and Fleet Street editors didn’t have any qualms about alarming anybody.

It was a phrase Thorne hated. He had caught, and not caught, a number of those who had murdered strangers, and none had borne the slightest resemblance to the creature conjured up by the words serial killer. All the men and women he’d known who had taken more than one life had done so with what they believed to be good reason. None had thought themselves superhuman, or hunted their victims when the moon was full. They had motives for what they did that had nothing to do with being locked in a cellar when they were children, or made to dress up in their mother’s clothes…

“As always, we are seeking the cooperation of the public in helping to put an end to these appalling attacks.”

The appeal was textbook stuff. Jesmond gave out the salient facts, insisted that anyone with information, anyone who was in the vicinity, had a duty to come forward. It would, more than likely, prove useless. There can’t have been many people hanging around in dark alleyways in the dead of night, and if there had been, it was unlikely, for one reason or another, that any of them would want to come forward. Still, it had to be done, and it had to be specific: dates and times and localities. The last thing they needed was a bland, generalized plea that gave out the wrong message.

We haven’t got the first idea who’s doing this, but somebody out there must know something. Please help us…

“We will catch this man,” Jesmond said, winding up. Public confidence was important but so was his own, and he made a point of showing it. Hearts and minds were not won by being mealymouthed. His body language and the expression on his face were determined and dynamic. Thorne could easily picture him learning how to project the image, on a weekend course at a country-house hotel. It was as though he were inviting those present to take a bloody careful note of the message, written in foot-high letters across the smart, blue Metropolitan Police backdrop: working for a safer london.

Thorne knew that it was smoke and mirrors.

The press conference was there as much as anything to project an image of confidence and efficiency, but Thorne knew that the investigation was in trouble. He knew it was easy enough to marshal resources, to gather significant numbers of officers and be gung ho about catching a killer when it was only for forty-five minutes in front of the media.

Thorne wondered how anybody was ever fooled.

He hung around in the car park, waiting for Jesmond. Trying to work out the best way of making the approach.

At the sound of the door, Thorne looked up to see two men coming out of the station. Recognizing one of them, he tried immediately to turn away without being seen, but he was a fraction too late. He had little choice but to smile and give a small nod. The man he’d been trying to avoid nodded back and Thorne was horrified to see him start to walk over, bringing with him the other man, whose face was vaguely familiar.

Steve Norman was a senior force press officer, a civilian. He was small and wiry, with a helmet of dark hair and an overinflated sense of his own importance. He and Thorne had crossed swords on a case a couple of years earlier.

“Tom…” Still six feet away from him, Norman extended a hand.

Thorne took it, remembering an ill-tempered meeting when Norman had jabbed a finger into his chest. Remembering that he’d threatened to break it…

“I hadn’t expected to see you,” Norman continued.

So, the “gardening” leave had become common knowledge. Thorne nodded back toward the main building. “Conference went well, I thought.” Norman had been heavily involved, of course. Thorne had seen him, lurking at the side of the stage looking pleased with himself. He’d stepped up at one point and whispered something to Russell Brigstocke.

Norman put a hand on his friend’s arm and looked toward Thorne. “Do you two…?”

Thorne leaned across. “Sorry, Tom Thorne.”

The man stepped smartly forward and they shook hands. He was midfortyish, taller than Thorne and Norman by six inches or more, and thickset.

“This is Alan Ward, from Sky,” Norman said. Thorne could see how much he relished making the introduction.

“Good to meet you,” Ward said. He had large, wire-framed glasses beneath a tangle of dark, curly hair that was three-quarters gray. He put his hand back into the pocket of what Thorne would have described as a denim blazer.

“You, too…”

Several typically English moments of social awkwardness followed. Thorne would have left, but for the fact that he didn’t want to seem rude and had nowhere to go. Norman and Ward, who had clearly been in midconversation, were also too polite to excuse themselves immediately. They stood and carried on talking while Thorne hovered and listened, as though the three of them were old friends.

“I can’t remember you at one of these before, Alan,” Norman said.

“It’s news, so we’re covering it.”

“Bit below your weight, though, isn’t it?”

Ward stared over Norman’s head as he spoke, looking around as if he were taking in a breathtaking view. “We aren’t bombing the shit out of anybody at the moment, thank God, so I’m just here giving the lads on the crew a bit of moral support. Keeping an eye on one or two of the newer guys.”

There was a bit of chuckling, then a pause. Thorne felt like he should say something to justify his presence. “What is it you do, then, Alan?”

Norman took great pride in answering for Ward. “Alan’s a TV reporter. He’s normally working in places a little more dangerous than Colindale.”

“Tottenham?” Thorne asked.

Ward laughed and started to speak, but again Norman was in there first. “Bosnia, Afghanistan, Northern Ireland.” Norman listed the names with great pride, and Thorne realized that he was showing off, like a kid with a new bike. That, however close a friend Ward actually was, Norman got off on knowing him.

Thorne looked at Ward and could see that he was embarrassed, that he and Norman were not really close friends at all. The glance Thorne got back, the discreet roll of the eyes, told him Ward thought Norman was every bit as much of a tit as he did. Thorne took an enormous liking to Alan Ward immediately.

Suddenly it was Thorne’s turn to feel embarrassed. “I thought you looked familiar,” he said. “I’ve just realized. I’ve seen you on the box, haven’t I?”

Norman looked like he would wet himself with excitement.

“Have you got Sky, then?” Ward said.

“I tend to use it for the football mostly, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Who are you, Arsenal?”

“God, no!”

At that moment, over Norman’s shoulder, Thorne saw Trevor Jesmond emerge. Jesmond looked across, froze, then quickly tried-as Thorne himself had done a few minutes earlier-to spin away without being spotted. Thorne raised a hand, horrified that he and Jesmond shared anything at all in common.

“Well then…” Norman said.

To the press officer’s obvious delight, Thorne said hasty good-byes. Ward shook his hand again, and gave him a business card. As Thorne walked away, the reporter said something he didn’t altogether catch about getting free tickets for matches.

He caught up with Jesmond just as the detective superintendent reached his car.

“Shouldn’t you be at Scotland Yard?”

“I was wondering if DCI Brigstocke had said anything to you, sir.”

Jesmond pressed a button on his key to unlock the car. He opened the Rover’s door and tossed his cap and briefcase onto the passenger seat.