Mark Billingham: Sleepyhead

'Detective Inspector Thorne. SCG West.' There was no reaction. Thorne certainly hadn't been expecting a tug on the forelock and a polite 'On your way, sir', far from it, but this was going to be a bad one.

Age-old animosities. Uniform and plainclothes. Anyone and Traffic.

'Fifty miles an hour plus, through a red light, in the pissing rain. Not clever was it?' The estuary accent trying its very best to drip with sarcasm.

'I'm in pursuit of a suspect,' said Thorne, flatly. The constable turned casually to watch the traffic disappearing into the distance and smiled, the rain dripping off the peak of his cap. Thorne tried to keep his temper. 'I was in pursuit of a suspect.'

'You were driving like a twat.'

Thorne was out of the car, the red mist ready to come down. 'Is this how you normally deal with members of the public?'

Another sly smile, another glance to his mate in the car.

'You're not public, are you?'

Thorne stood, staring straight ahead, the rain running down the back of his jacket. He thought about the killer's first note again. He thought about Anne lying across leather seats, unable to move. Bishop was probably playing classical music… Fuck, they'd probably be there by now. Jesus fucking Christ…

'Have you been drinking, sir?'

'What?' Starting to lose it.

'Simple enough question. You fuckers obviously think you're above the law'.

Thorne grabbed his jacket, spun him round, and pressed him hard against the car, sending his cap tumbling into the gutter.

From the corner of his eye, Thorne Could see the other one step out of the patrol car. Without even turning to look, he shouted through the rain, 'I'm a DI, now get back in that fucking car.'

The walrus's mate did as he was told. Thorne turned his attention back to the man himself, leaning in close, the rain beating down on the two of them, nose to nose at the side of the road. Passing cars honked their approval, the drivers of Brixton pleased. to see a copper getting what was coming to him from an innocent motorist. Thorne raised his voice just enough to make himself clearly understood over the noise of the rain, spattering off the PC's reflective plastic tabard. 'Listen, you fat, scabby arsehole, I'm getting back into my car now and driving away, and if you so much as raise an eyebrow, you'll be pissing blood for a week. That was a threat. The next bit is an order. Are you following this?'

The walrus nodded. Thorne released his grip but only slightly. 'This is an instruction, understand? Get back into your car right now and get on your radio. I want you to contact someone at Operation Backhand out of Edgware Road. You need to get hold of DC Dave Holland…'

In my dream I'm running.

It's nowhere dramatic. Not across a cornfield or through the surf on a storm-lashed beach or anything. And I'm not running towards anybody. There's nobody in the distance with arms thrown wide, aching to kiss me. Not a soldier returned from the war or a film star. Not Tim. It's just me.

Just running.

It's funny because I've always hated running, always done whatever [could to avoid it. Skinny little legs and knock knees.

I was always rubbish at any kind of sport and I'm totally unfit. Running for the bus, if I absolutely have to, is about my limit, and that will fuck me up for the rest of the day. But here I am…

I'm running, sprinting, and it feels easy.

I don't know what I'm wearing or what the weather's like. None of that seems important. I suppose the wind must be blowing in my hair but, to be honest, I don't really notice. What I do notice is the wind rushing into my open mouth and inflating my lungs. I notice my lungs pushing the air back out through my mouth.

I'm running.

I notice my legs moving me along and my arms pumping, and I notice that the muscles in my mouth are working overtime, every last fucking gorgeous one of them. Each muscle working in harmony with the others. Meshing perfectly with its neighbour. Forcing my lips to part, raising the corners of my mouth up, pushing my tongue out slightly against my top teeth. Making me smile.

I'm running away.

It was a narrow green door without a window. Easy to miss between a greengrocer's and a shoe shop in a small street behind the busy Brixton Road. Thorne couldn't see the Volvo anywhere. Maybe there was another way to get in. That would make sense, after all. A back entrance that was easier to carry bodies into unseen. Yes, and maybe he was wrong about the whole thing. Maybe it had just been coincidence that they'd seemed headed for this address and even now as Thorne was standing in the rain, staring at a narrow green door without a window, Bishop was spiriting Anne away to a place where he would never find her.

Was all this just to hurt him?

Thorne put his ear against the door and listened. Not a sound.

He was certain that Bishop had known he was being followed. Thorne had half expected the door to be open. Six inches ajar, tempting him inside. Not a trap, nothing so vulgar.

More like an invitation.

He pressed his hand against the door. It was locked. Back off now and wait for Holland to arrive with troops. It wouldn't be long, presuming those idiots in the Traffic car had done as they'd been told. Get back into his car and sit tight, that would be best.

He put the side of his head to the door again and this time added the heft of his shoulder. Not a violent movement. Just a sustained pressure, using his weight. The door gave as easily as if he'd used a key. There was barely any noise.

Ahead of him, by the light from a shop front opposite, Thorne could see a long straight hallway leading to a staircase that climbed away into darkness. Everything else looked to be on the upper levels, above the greengrocer's. He stepped smartly inside and tried to shut the door behind him. The lock wouldn't catch against the jamb where he'd forced it, so he just pushed it to. Then he turned inside and listened.

Nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the rain outside and the rumble of the traffic from the main road. He felt for a light switch and found one of those press-in jobs designed to save money. He started up the stairs.

The place was messy. Scattered about on the torn stair carpet were various bits of junk mail and unopened letters. He could smell fast food of some kind, Chinese maybe. At the top of the stairs was the kitchen. He found the light switch just as the one on the sirs popped out and the light went off.

It was poky and squalid. The brown vinyl flooring was cracked and greasy, the walls grubby and sweating. Days' worth of used tea-bags squatted in the sink like turds, and a ketchup stain ran down the side of the once white plastic swing-bin. Fast food would certainly be preferable to anything prepared in here.

Thorne backed out of the room. Another half-dozen stairs led up to the second floor. He could see a door ahead of him and two more off to the left. He moved on slowly towards the rooms on the next level, stopping and listening for a few seconds at every step. His doubts outside the front door had given way to a cold, clammy certainty that he was not alone.

It was ending. He could feel it. Somewhere in this building was the wall he would back himself against. Thorne moved forward and upward, knowing he must be getting closer to where Helen Doyle and Leonie Holden were killed. The walls of the hallway were bare and dusty, the paper peeling and dry as dead leaves. The carpet was stained and gritty. He imagined he felt it moving beneath his feet.

This was not a place anyone should be brought to die. The first door on the left opened on to a bathroom no bigger than a large cupboard. Thorne put his head round the door for a few seconds. It was enough. No fripperies. Just grimy white fittings and a bad smell.