Mark Billingham - Death Message

The professional frying pan and the domestic fire.

While he had been charging around gay clubs, there had been a double shooting in Tottenham. The estate on which two young black men had died had long been considered a no-go area, and, reading the story, Thorne decided that these latest events were hardly likely to turn it into a tourist hot-spot.

The train from Pimlico had been almost empty, but he’d changed on to a packed Northern Line train at Stockwell, and he could barely read the paper without elbowing his neighbour in the ribs.

He looked at the front-page story again.

A brutal event, and simple; drugs-related almost certainly. Reading, he realised just how much he yearned for something bog-standard, where there were no difficult choices to make. He wanted this one done with. There were cases, just a few, that had marked him, inside and out, but he couldn’t remember one that had left him feeling so out of control.

He had no idea where it – where he – was heading.

Looking up from the paper, he caught the man opposite staring; watched his eyes flick quickly up to the adverts above his head, then drop to the paperback on his knees.

On Tube trains, everyone was looking at someone else. It didn’t matter where you were sitting, on which side. You would never be able to see what was coming.

Holland’s girlfriend, Sophie, didn’t quite throw Thorne’s car keys at him when she opened the door, but she looked as though she’d have liked to. Thorne said hello, then sorry, and stepped inside. It was the warmest greeting he was likely to receive that day.

‘I was just going to nip to the shops,’ Sophie said when she and Thorne walked into the living room. ‘Do you want anything?’

Holland glanced up from the sofa. He looked as though he’d had about as much sleep as Thorne had managed. He shook his head; he and Thorne both well aware that Sophie would just be killing time until she was sure that Thorne had left. A while back, Thorne had contemplated calling her, maybe coming round one day when Holland wasn’t there, to try to sort out whatever was between them. But he’d done nothing, and now things were pretty much set in stone.

‘You could pick up some kidney beans if you want. I might do us a chilli later on,’ Holland said.

When she’d gone, Holland made tea.

‘Thanks for last night,’ Thorne said.

‘I should think so, too. That car’s a nightmare to drive.’

‘I didn’t mean the car.’

Holland looked at him through the steam from his tea. ‘What happened?’

Thorne filled him in: everything from when he’d left him in the rain with the BMW, up to, but not including, the point when he had got back to Louise’s flat and faced the music. Holland smirked, reminded Thorne of the moment when he’d taken control of the microphone in Beware and started shouting. ‘I reckon you’re a natural,’ he said. ‘Just need to get you a baseball cap or something…’

Thorne laughed, feeling like he hadn’t done so for a while.

‘You could still go to Brigstocke,’ Holland said.

‘No…’

‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ Thorne was already shaking his head, but Holland ploughed on. ‘You could set up another divert, from the prepay phone you’re using to talk to Brooks, back to your original mobile. Dump the prepay, and nobody need ever know about the calls. Your word against Brooks’, if it ever comes to it.’

‘Not going to happen.’

‘So just come clean. The guvnor’s a mate of yours, isn’t he?’

‘He’s in enough shit of his own already. Whatever it is, if he comes out of it, he’ll be trying to keep his nose as clean as possible.’ Thorne could see that Holland was trying to think of another way out. ‘Don’t worry about it, Dave.’

Holland’s daughter Chloe wandered in from the next room with a fist full of coloured pens. She looked like a little version of Sophie. Thorne had bought birthday presents for the first couple of years, but had missed the last one, a few months before.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘This is Tom,’ Holland said. ‘He’s been here before.’

Chloe had already moved on. She sat down on the floor and pulled a colouring book from a low table. Thorne and Holland drank their tea and watched her work, her lips pursed in concentration. Thorne asked her what she was drawing.

‘Sky,’ she said.

Nice and simple.

‘Still thinking about leaving London?’ Thorne asked.

Holland raised his arms, inviting Thorne to look around. ‘We’ll have to go somewhere,’ he said.

The first-floor flat had always been cramped, but with toys scattered about the floor and a pushchair in the hall, Thorne could see how badly Holland and his family needed more space. Still, he wondered if the move might be a step towards Holland getting out of the Job altogether. He knew that his girlfriend was encouraging him to look at other options.

‘I think Sophie fancies going back to work,’ Holland said. He shrugged. ‘Nothing’s really been decided at the moment.’

Thorne couldn’t remember what it was that Sophie had done before she’d had Chloe. He didn’t bother to ask. ‘Be good if you didn’t go too far,’ he said.

Chloe brought the colouring book across to show her father. Thorne enjoyed the way Holland’s hand drifted to his daughter’s head, how the little girl’s arm slid easily around his neck as they looked at the picture together.

He felt envious.

‘Now I’m going to draw a shark,’ she said. ‘And me killing it.’ She scrawled for another few minutes, then dragged a small plastic chair across to the television and sat with the remote on her knees.

When Holland got up to fetch the keys to the BMW, he said: ‘What did Brooks sound like when you spoke to him?’

Thorne remembered the tiredness in the man’s voice, but knew that wasn’t what Holland was asking. ‘Like he didn’t care.’

‘About getting caught?’

‘About anything.’

‘That’s bad news.’

‘For someone,’ Thorne said.

Louise had still not got out of bed by the time Thorne got back, and they’d exchanged no more than a handful of words when she’d finally emerged just before eleven. Had the sofa been OK for his back? Fine. Did he fancy a cooked breakfast? That sounded great, if it wasn’t too much trouble. She’d taken tea back to the bedroom, come out dressed fifteen minutes later, and announced that she was going to the shop to get a few things.

‘I could have picked some stuff up when I went over to Dave’s,’ Thorne said, as she was heading out.

Louise closed the door. He didn’t know whether she’d heard him.

When Hendricks came out of the spare room a little later, he was wearing Thorne’s old dressing-gown and muttering about how good the bacon smelled. Thorne was relieved to see that he looked a little sheepish. Hendricks picked up one of the tabloid magazines, seeming content to hide behind it for a while, but instead he carried it through to the kitchen when Louise called him.

Thorne could hear them talking in whispers as he sat trying, and failing, to read the report of Spurs’ goalless draw at Manchester City. After ten minutes, he shouted through, asking Louise if she needed any help.

‘We’re fine,’ she said.

Bacon, sausage, eggs and beans; toast and fresh coffee. Sunlight washing the table and something innocuous on the radio in the kitchen. Thorne finished first and sat watching Louise and Hendricks eat; listened to them making small talk.

Try as he might, he couldn’t hold his tongue for very long. ‘Obviously, you both think you’ve got some right to be pissed off with me.’

They looked up as if they’d only just noticed he was there. ‘What do you think?’ Louise asked.