Mark Billingham: Sleepyhead

'I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm sure you understand. I can't really-'

'I know him,' she said. 'I know him extremely well.'

Thorne hovered in the doorway. This was starting to get awkward. Procedure dictated that he leave straight away and send someone back to get a statement. He waited for her to continue.

'Yes, he certainly worked in Leicester, but there's no way he'd have anything to do with stealing drugs.'

'Doctor-'

'And he's got something of a cast-iron alibi as far as Alison Willetts is concerned.'

Thorne shut the door. He was listening.

'Jeremy Bishop was the anaesthetist on call at the Royal London A and E the night Alison was brought in. He treated her. Do you remember? I told you I knew him. He told me about the Midazolam.'

Thorne blinked slowly. Dead Susan. Dead Christine. Dead Madeleine.

'Come on, Tommy, you must have something to go on?'

He opened his eyes. She was shaking her head. She'd seen the date on the piece of paper. 'I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, but much as you dislike Detective Constable Holland…'

Thorne opened his mouth and closed it again.

'… it's a waste of time to send him to Leicester. The man you're looking for is certainly clever, but there's no guarantee he ever worked at Leicester Royal Infirmary.'

Thorne dropped his bag and sat down again. 'Why am I starting to feel like Dr Watson?'

'August the first is rotation day. Normally it would be a reasonable assumption that in order to steal a large quantity of drugs from a hospital you'd have to work there. Yes, hospital staff are overstretched and occasionally inefficient, but as far as dangerous drugs are concerned there is a procedure in place.'

Thorne's favourite word again.

'But on rotation day, things can get a bit lax. I've worked in hospitals where you could walk out pushing a bed and carrying a kidney machine on August the first. I'm sorry, but whoever took these drugs could have come from anywhere.'

Susan. Christine. Madeleine. 'Something, 7bmmy. A lead. Something…'

Thorne took out his phone to call Tughan back. It was Helen Doyle's first round of drinks, but already she was worrying about how much she'd spent. A few designer bottles and a couple of rum and Cokes and it was three times what she earned in an hour.

Sod it. It was Nita's birthday and she didn't do this very often.

She loaded the drinks on to a tray and looked across to where her mates were sitting at a corner table. She'd known three of them since school and the other two for almost that long. The pub wasn't busy and the few people in there were probably pissed off with the noise they were making. On cue the gang began to laugh, Jo's high-pitched cackle the loudest of all. Probably another one of Andrea's filthy jokes…

Helen walked slowly back to the table, the other girls cheering when she put the tray down and diving on to their drinks as if they were the first of the night.

'Didn't you get any crisps?'

'Forgot, sorry…'

'Dizzy bitch.'

'Tell her the joke…'

'How much fucking ice has he put in here?'

Helen took a swig and looked at the label on the bottle. It didn't actually say what was in it. She'd got through plenty already. Hooch, Metz, Breezers. She was never really sure what she was drinking, what the booze was, but she liked the colours and she felt fashionable with the slim, cold bottle in her hand. Sophisticated. Nita drained half of her rum and Coke. Jo emptied the remains of a pint of lager and belched loudly.

'What do you drink those for? It's like pop!'

Helen felt herself blush. 'I like the taste.'

'It's not supposed to taste nice, that's the point.'

Nita and Linzi laughed. Helen shrugged and took another swig. Andrea nudged her. 'Like you know what!'

There was a groan. Jo stuck two fingers down her throat. Helen knew what they were talking about, but part of her wished they wouldn't. Sex was pretty much all Andrea ever talked about.

'Tell us how big his cock was again, Jo.'

The stripper gram had been Andrea's idea and Nita had seemed to like it. Helen thought he was really fit, all covered in oil, and he made her go very red, but the poem about Nita hadn't been that good. She could tell that he'd been as embarrassed as her when Jo grabbed his crotch, and for a second he'd looked really upset. Then he'd smiled and grabbed his clothes from off the floor while everybody whistled and cheered. Helen had whistled and cheered too, but she wished she'd been a bit more pissed.

'Big enough!'

'More than a mouthful's a waste.'

Helen leaned across to Linzi. 'How's work?'

She was probably closest to Linzi, but they hadn't spoken properly all night.

'Shit. I'm going to chuck it in… do some temping or something.'

'Right.'

Helen loved her job. The money was poor, but the people were nice and even though she had to give her mum and dad a bit, it was still cheap living at home. She couldn't see the sense in moving out, not until she met someone. What was the point in renting a gritty flat like Jo or Nita? Andrea still lived at home anyway. God knows where she was having all that sex she was always on about…

'Let Me Entertain You' came on the jukebox. It was one of her favourite songs. She nodded her head to the rhythm and sang the words quietly to herself. She remembered a fifth-form disco, and a boy with an earring and sad brown eyes and cider on his breath. When the chorus came, the rest of the girls joined in and Helen shut up. The bell rang and the barman shouted something incomprehensible. Andrea and Jo were all for another round. Helen grinned but she knew she should be getting back. She would feel bad in the morning and her dad would be waiting up for her. She was starting to feel woozy and knew that she should have gone home and had her tea before she came out. She could have changed too. She felt frumpy and self-conscious in her black work skirt and sensible blouse. She'd grab a bag of chips on the way home. And a piece of fish for her dad.

Andrea stood up and announced that they'd all put in for one more. Helen cheered along with the rest of them, drained the bottle and reached into her purse for a couple of pound coins.

Thorne sat with his eyes shut listening to Johnny Cash. He rolled his head around on his neck, enjoying every crack of cartilage. Now the Man in Black with the dark, dangerous voice was insisting that he was going to break out of his rusty cage. Thorne opened his eyes and looked around at his neat, comfortable flat – not a cage, exactly, but he knew what Johnny was talking about.

The one-bedroom garden flat was undeniably small, but easily maintained and close enough to the busy Kentish Town Road to ensure that he never ran out of milk or tea. Or wine. The couple in the flat upstairs were quiet and never bothered him. He'd lived here less than six months after finally selling the house in Highbury, but he already knew every inch of the place. He'd furnished the entire flat during one wretched Sunday at IKEA, spent the next three weeks putting the stuff together and the succeeding four months wishing he hadn't bothered.

He couldn't say he'd been unhappy since Jan had left.

Christ, they'd been divorced for three years and she'd been gone nearly five, but still, everything just felt.., out of kilter. He'd thought that moving out of the house they'd shared and into this bright new flat would change things. He'd been optimistic. However close to him the objects around him were, he had no real.., connection to any of them. It was functional. He could be out of his chair and in his bed in a matter of seconds but the bed was too new and, tragically, as yet unchristened.

He felt like a faceless businessman in a numberless hotel room.

Perhaps it would have been better if Jan had gone because of the job. He'd seen it often enough and it was the stuff of interminable TV cop shows – copper's wife can't stand playing second fiddle to the job, blah, blah, blah. Jan had never been an ordinary copper's wife and she'd left for her own reasons. The only job involved in the whole messy business was the one she'd been on every Wednesday afternoon with the lecturer from her creative-writing course. Until he'd caught them at it. In the middle of the day with the curtains drawn.