Mark Billingham: Good as Dead

Whatever time it was, awake was awake and Thorne didn’t fancy himself to get to sleep again any time soon. He hadn’t been sleeping particularly well since the siege had ended. Some nights he would wake every couple of hours, his skin slick and his brain feeling as though it were about to overheat, his internal clock shot to pieces. Not that missing out on a few hours’ sleep during the night mattered a great deal at the moment.

Not when he could catch up during the day.

‘You should take the chance to get away,’ Hendricks had said. ‘Think of it like a holiday and do something you’ve always fancied.’

‘I quite fancy doing sod all, which is handy at the moment.’

‘Seriously. You could go to Nashville… ’

‘It’s suspension without pay,’ Thorne reminded him. ‘I could barely afford half a day at Southend.’

‘So, read a few books, go to a gallery or something.’

Thorne had watched a lot of daytime television.

Even before Javed Akhtar’s wife had got busy with the storeroom scissors, Thorne had known he was likely to end up facing disciplinary action of some kind. Once Prosser had bled like a stuck pig all over last week’s Daily Express and TV Quick there had been no question about it, but Thorne would almost certainly have been in big trouble anyway, just for taking him in there.

‘There was always going to be some wrist-slapping,’ Brigstocke had told him. ‘Just for the way you did it. I know it’s stupid and you didn’t have a lot of choice, and I know that his being a judge should have bugger all to do with anything, but there you go. You might still have got away with it, but chuck in this business with the warrant and you’re properly stuffed.’ Brigstocke had at least looked genuinely upset, was genuinely upset, but it had not made it any easier to hear. ‘I’ve gone out on a limb for you before, Tom, you know I have, but not this time. Nothing I can do to help you, mate.’

In the end, the illegal search of Jonathan Bridges’ flat had put the tin lid on it and by the time the dust had settled, at least three different DPS teams had worked themselves into something of a frenzy. Whatever else happened, Thorne was determined to find out which job-pissed arse-licker had grassed him up about the warrant. To make his displeasure plain and painful. He knew, were this to happen before the brass had decided his fate, that it would not be doing his cause a great deal of good, but such things could not be helped.

Might as well be hung for a sheep as a judge.

Thorne lay listening to the birds getting louder and remembering the look Antoine Daniels had given him earlier that day, hinting at a revenge of his own.

Then I’d definitely lose my nice fancy room.

Plenty of people had lost a great deal more than that.

Stephen Mitchell, Denise Mitchell, Peter Allen.

Javed Akhtar…

Akhtar had lost his son, his wife, everything he had ever worked for. Once the body had been removed and the forensic evidence gathered, a FOR SALE sign had gone up outside his shop and those dirty metal shutters had come down for the final time.

The word MURDERER now legible underneath PAKI.

One thing Thorne had decided to do with the free time so generously granted him by the Directorate of Professional Standards was try and get the flat in Kentish Town shifted. The estate agent was talking about dropping the price a little further, but Thorne wanted to try tarting the place up a bit first. A lick of paint, the smell of fresh coffee, all that. Though the change of direction job-wise would now need to be put on hold for the immediate future, or more likely would be decided for him, he could at least make an effort as far as domestic circumstances were concerned.

Not that there hadn’t already been major changes in that area.

‘Sorry, did he wake you?’

Thorne looked up to see Helen in the doorway, carrying the baby. ‘I was awake already.’

‘Do you mind if he comes in with us?’

‘Course not,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s your bed. Are you all right with that though? I mean… ’

‘Fine with me.’ She folded back the duvet and laid Alfie down. ‘I mean we’ll have to see how jealous he gets.’ She grinned as she climbed in. ‘And believe it or not, he snores.’

‘I think I can live with that.’

‘Then again, so do you.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘ And you talk in your sleep.’

‘What?’

‘Should have heard yourself the other night. “Phil, Phil… ”’

‘You’re hilarious,’ Thorne said. Thinking about it, he probably had talked a good deal about Phil Hendricks since he and Helen had begun spending time together, that friendship one of the few things in his life he could still count on. Actually, they had talked about all sorts of things this last couple of weeks, the job not included. Laughed a lot too, which never hurt. ‘I don’t though, do I?’

‘Well it’s only been four nights.’ Helen turned on to her side and looked at him. ‘Didn’t Louise ever say anything?’

Thorne shook his head.

Four nights. Many bottles of wine…

The baby had begun to grizzle a little and Helen drew him close. Thorne moved gradually across to close the gap and found himself enjoying the feel of the small warm body against his own. The hand that flopped on to his arm or the swaddled foot that dug into his ribs. ‘He’s got a decent kick on him,’ Thorne said. ‘We could do with him at Spurs.’ He turned on to his side and looked at Helen. ‘Did Paul support a team?’

Helen’s turn to shake her head.

They lay in silence for a while, but Alfie refused to settle and began to cry again. Helen said that three in a bed was a stupid idea. That she was happy to take the baby back to the spare room, so that Thorne could try and get to sleep.

‘Stay here,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s not like I’ve got anything to get up for, is it?’

‘What do you think they’ll do?’ Helen asked.

Thorne knew that the DPS had plenty of options. ‘Depends how public they want to be about it,’ he said. ‘I could always save them the trouble and knock it on the head.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘It’s good to think about doing something else every now and again,’ he said. ‘Don’t you reckon? Something nice and simple and boring.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Apparently, there’s a newsagent’s for sale just up the road.’

Helen began to giggle, and when she lifted her leg across his, Thorne reached over the baby to stroke her neck. ‘Let me take him next door,’ she said. ‘I can get him off in ten minutes and come back.’

Thorne nodded, grinning. ‘Then you can get me off,’ he said.

That was when Alfie chose to start kicking him again.