Mark Billingham: Sleepyhead

Thorne closed his eyes as the fan swung back in his direction.

'Tom, is this about the Calvert case?'

Thorne looked at the calendar. Two weeks now since they'd found Alison, and they were nowhere. Two weeks of banging their heads against a wall, and getting nothing but headaches.

Concern, or what passed for it, crept into Keable's voice. 'Cases like this, it's completely understandable…'

'Don't be silly, Frank.'

Keable leaned forward quickly. In charge. 'I'm not insensitive to… moods, Tom. This case has a taste to it. It's not in the run of things. Even I can sense it.'

Thorne laughed. Old colleagues. 'Even you, Frank?'

'I mean it, Tom.'

'Calvert is ancient history.'

'I hope so. I need you focused – and focused is not fixated.'

Keable wasn't sure but he thought that Thorne nodded. He continued as if the exchange had never happened.

'I think we'll make a case if we get him. We should be able to match up the note to the typewriter for a start.'

Keable sighed and nodded. The old-fashioned typewriter was a bit of luck, a lot easier to identify than a laser printer, but still, they needed a suspect first. He'd been in the same position plenty of times. It was hard to sound enthusiastic about evidence which was only of any use when someone was in custody. The procedure had to be followed, but at the end of the day they had to catch him first. Keable knew that procedure was his strong point. He was a good facilitator. It was this self-awareness that had allowed him to leapfrog other officers, Thorne included. It also ensured that those officers didn't resent it. He recognised the talents of others and the lack of them in himself. He was a forger of team spirit. He was well liked. He helped where he could and left the job at the office at the end of the day. He slept well and had a happy marriage – unlike other officers. Thorne included. 'He'll make a mistake, Tom. When we get a hit on a drugs theft we can start narrowing things down a bit.'

Thorne leaned in close to the tan. 'I'd like to get over to Queen Square, if that's okay. It's been a while and I'd like to see how Alison's doing.'

Keable nodded. This hadn't been his most successful attempt at one-on-one morale-building but, then, he hadn't expected a backslapping gabfest from Tom Thorne. He cleared his throat as Thorne stood up, walked to the door and then turned.

'That note was spotless, Frank. It was the shortest forensic report I've ever seen. And he doesn't wash the bodies in a ritualistic way. He's just very, very careful.'

Keable turned the fan back on himself. He was unsure exactly what Thorne expected him to say. 'I'd been wondering whether we should get the boys to chip in for some flowers or something. I mean, I thought about it but…'

Thorne nodded.

'Yes, sir, I know. It hardly seems worth it.'

'These are really lovely. It was a very nice thought.' Anne Coburn finished arranging the flowers and closed the blinds in Alison's room. The sun was streaming in through the window, causing the girl's face to flush a little.

'I meant to come in sooner, but…'

She nodded, understanding. 'You could have written a note to say congratulations, though.'

Thorne looked down at Alison and immediately understood. It was difficult to notice one less machine amid the confusion of life-preserving hardware. She was breathing. The breaths were shallow, almost tentative, but they were her own. Now a tube ran into a hole in her windpipe, covered with an oxygen mask.

'She came off the ventilator last night and we performed the tracheostomy.'

Thorne was impressed. 'Exciting night.'

'Oh, it's non-stop excitement in here. We had a small flood a while ago. Have you ever seen nurses in wellies?'

He grinned. 'I've seen the odd dodge video…'

It was the first time he'd heard her laugh: it was filthy. Thorne nodded towards the flowers, which he'd picked up at a garage on the way in. They weren't quite as lovely as Anne Coburn had said. 'I felt like such an idiot last time, you know, whispering. If she can hear I thought she must be able to smell so…'

'Oh, she'll smell these.'

Suddenly Thorne was aware again of the stickiness beneath his arms. He turned to look at Alison. 'While we're on the subject.., sorry, Alison, I must really hum.' He was embarrassed at the silence where a response should have been. He hoped he could get used to talking to this woman with a tube in her neck and another up her nose. She was unable to clear her throat. She was unable to lift the hand that lay pale and heavy on the pink flowery quilt. She was.., unable. And yet, selfishly, Thorne hoped that she thought well of him, that she liked him. He wanted to talk to her. Even now he sensed that he would need to talk to her.

'Just fill in the gaps yourself,' Coburn said. 'It's what I do. We have some cracking chats.'

The door opened and an immaculately suited middle-aged man walked in with what at first glance appeared to be candy floss on his head.

'Oh…' Thorne saw Coburn's features harden in an instant. 'David. I'm busy I'm afraid.'

They stared at each other. She broke the uncomfortable, hostile silence. 'This is Detective Inspector Thorne. David Higgins.'

The soon-to-be-ex-husband. The helpful pathologist.

'Pleased to meet you.' Thorne held out a hand, which the immaculate suit shook without looking at him – or at Alison.

'You did say that this would be a good time,' said the suit, half smiling.

He was obviously trying hard to be pleasant for Thorne's benefit but clearly it did not come naturally. On further inspection the candy floss was in reality a teased up and hair sprayed dyed vanilla quaff-a ridiculous affectation in a man who was at least fifty-five: he looked as if he'd walked off the set of Dynasty.

'Well, it would have been,' said Coburn frostily.

'My fault, Mr. Higgins,' said Thorne. 'I didn't have an appointment.'

Higgins moved towards the door, adjusting his tie.

'Well, I'd better make sure I have an appointment in future, then. I'll call you later, Anne, and we can arrange one.' He closed the door soundlessly behind him. There was a muffled exchange outside and the door was opened again by a nurse. It was time for Alison's bed bath.

Anne Coburn turned to him. 'What do you usually do for lunch?'

They sat in the back of a small sandwich bar on Southampton Row. Ham and Brie on a baguette and a mineral water. A cheese and tomato sandwich and a coffee. Two busy professionals.

'What are Alison's chances of regaining any significant…?'

'Nil, I'm afraid. I suppose it depends a little on your definition of "significant" but we have to be realistic. There have been documented cases of patients regaining enough movement to operate a sophisticated wheelchair. They're doing a lot of work in the States with computers operated by headsticks, but realistically it's a bleak prognosis.'

'Wasn't there somebody in France who dictated an entire book with an eyelash or something?'

' The Diving Bell and the Butterfly – you should read it. But it's pretty much a one-off. Alison's gaze reacts to voices and she seems to have retained the ability to blink, but whether she has any real control over it is hard to say at the moment. I can't see her giving you a statement just yet.'

'That wasn't the reason I asked about… It wasn't the only reason.' Thorne took an enormous bite of his sandwich. Anne had done most of the talking but had already finished hers. She looked at him, narrowing her eyes, her voice conspiratorial. 'Well, you've been privy to my disastrous domestic situation. What about yours?' She took a sip of mineral water and watched him chew, her eyebrows arched theatrically. She laughed as, twice, he tried to answer and, twice, had to resume his efforts to swallow the sandwich.