Mark Billingham: Sleepyhead

She was very, very keen.

He was meeting her outside the Green Man as usual. It was a bit of a slog to drive all the way across the river just to turn round and drive back south again, but he'd rather do it this way than let her get on the tube or bus. He wanted to be in control of things. If she was late or missed a bus or something it could throw the timing of everything off.

When he'd told her that they would be going back to his place, he knew that she was thinking, Oh, my God, tonight's the night. He could almost smell the rush of teenage estrogen and hear the cogs in her silly little brain whirring as she tried to decide which perfume to dab between her tits and which knickers would turn him on the most.

Well, yes, it would be a night to remember for certain. Back at his place.

It might be a little crowded…

On the drive to Queen Square, Thorne didn't really need to think. He'd worked out what he was going to say to Alison Willetts. Now he just needed to be a little more relaxed in order to say it.

He popped out the Massive Attack tape and slid in Merle Haggard.

Getting relaxed enough to apologise.

' Tommy?'

' Yes, and to you too.

After circling the square for nearly ten minutes, swearing loudly, he double-parked and stuck a dog-eared piece of cardboard with 'Police Business' scrawled on it in the front window of the Mondeo.

The evening was turning chilly. He wished he'd grabbed a warmer jacket on his way out. As he walked quickly towards the hospital's main entrance, he felt the first drops of rain and remembered making this same journey in reverse two months earlier. It seemed a lot longer ago, that day in August when he'd first met Alison Willetts. He'd run through the rain towards his car and found the note. He'd begun to understand the nature of the man he was dealing with.

Today, on the same spot, with the rain starting to fall, Thorne was coming to terms with the fact that he still had no idea who that man was.

Nearly eight o'clock. The latest that Thorne had been inside the hospital. It was a very different place after dark. His steps echoed off century-old marble as he strode through the older part of the building towards the Chandler Wing. There were few people around and those he passed, nurses, cleaners, security staff, looked at him closely. They seemed to be studying his face. He'd never been aware of such scrutiny during the day. Somewhere in the distance he thought he could hear what sounded like somebody weeping softly. He stopped to listen but couldn't hear it any more.

Even the modern part of the hospital seemed spookier. The lights that normally bounced off the bleached wood in the Medical ITU reception area, had been dimmed. The only sounds were the muted tones of a faraway conversation and the low hum of distant equipment of some sort. It might have been cleaning carpets. It might have been keeping somebody alive.

He looked at the row of payphones in Reception. He'd try Anne again as soon as he'd been to see Alison. He'd forgotten to bring his mobile..

As he walked from the lift, he caught the eye of a woman in the glass-fronted office in Reception. She waved at him and he recognised her as Anne's secretary. He couldn't remember her name. He pointed at the doors and she nodded, signaling at him to go on through. He remembered the three-digit code that opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped through them into the Intensive Therapy Unit.

He let the sister on duty at the nursing station know where he was going and set off down the corridor towards Alison's room. As he walked past the other rooms he realised that he knew nothing about the people inside. He'd never spoken to Anne about her other patients. He presumed that none were suffering in quite the same way as Alison was, but that all had seen their lives changed in a few short seconds. The time it takes to trip on the stairs or miss time a tackle or lose control of a car.

The time it takes for a brain to short-circuit. He listened at the door of the room opposite Alison's. The same telltale hum of machinery from within, like the lazy throb of a dozing beehive coming slowly to life after a long winter. Whoever lay in the bed inside that room was here by accident. That was the difference.

Thorne turned and moved across to Alison's door. He knocked quietly and reached for the handle. He gasped as the door was yanked open from the inside and David Higgins all but pushed him back into the corridor.

'She's not here.' Higgins was in his face.

'What?' Thorne tried to push past him into the room.

'You're out of luck, Thorne. Sorry.'

Thorne looked at him, not understanding. Higgins began to raise his voice. 'My fucking wife. My fucking wife, who you are fucking. She. Isn't. Here.'

Thorne could smell Dutch courage.

'I'm not here to see Anne. Move out of the way.'

'Of course. Have fun.'

Higgins took a step to his left but Thorne didn't move, just looked at him. 'What does that mean?' Knowing exactly what it meant but wanting to hear him say it.

'Well, in the absence of the lovely Anne, who doesn't actually enjoy it that much anyway, you might as well… make hay with someone who really doesn't have a great deal of say in the matter. Like a blow-up doll with a pulse.'

Thorne had always thought that the accusations about his relationship with Alison were a little cheap for the killer. A little beneath him. Now he knew who had been responsible. The motivation was obvious but Thorne asked anyway. 'Why?'

Higgins swallowed, licked his lips. 'Why not?'

As his right arm bent and swung at speed, Thorne unballed his fist. A slap seemed so much more appropriate. Higgins wasn't man enough to punch.

The hard flat hand caught Higgins across the jaw and ear, sending him sprawling across the highly polished linoleum. He lay still, whimpering like a child. Without looking at him, Thorne stepped across Higgins's outstretched leg and opened the door to Alison Willetts's room.

The second he looked at her, she began to blink. Once, twice, three times. Thorne realised that she'd heard the noise from outside and was disturbed. Maybe he should call for a nurse. What had Higgins been doing in her room anyway? Probably just looking for Anne, but couldn't he have spoken to someone at reception?

Thorne's mind was racing. He needed to calm down if he was going to be able to say what he came to say. Alison was still blinking. One blink every three or four seconds.

'It's OK, Alison. Look, I'll try and keep this short. It's about what I said the other day, about being close to him, the man who did this to you…'

She was still blinking.

Please, for fuck's sake shut up, and listen. Get the board…

'What's the matter?' His eyes darted across to the blackboard, still lying against the wall and covered with a sheet. He looked back at Alison. One blink. Yes.

Yes!

He moved across the room, whipped off the sheet and dragged the blackboard to the foot of the bed. He knew roughly how the system worked. He hurried to switch off the main light and then, using the remote at the end of the bed, he raised Alison up so that she was nearly sitting. Then he picked up the pointer, switched it on and positioned the small red laser dot beneath the first letter: E. He began to move the pointer slowly along the letters. Nothing.

Starting to speed up, studying her face, watching for the smallest reaction.

Come on… come on…

Then a blink. He stopped.

'S? Was that an S, Alison?'

Yes, for Christ's sake! Of course it was! Hurry up. Move. Wait. Watch. Move. Wait. Watch. Move… Another blink. Thorne was sweating. He threw off his jacket. 'L. Yes? OK, that's S, L. Right.'

Back to the beginning again and.., a blink. No, two blinks.

'Is that a no to the E, Alison?'