Death Message

The Filth never took that kind of thing into account, did they?

Someone in one of those bargain bookshops opposite the cinema, the ones with wank-mags in the basement, had spotted that the ticket office was closed for fifteen fucking minutes. Nosey cunt mentions it to someone, and word gets passed same as it always does. Next thing, one of the cousins is popping in with his smart suit on, swaggering about and wanting to know what’s been happening.

‘It was ten minutes, no more.’

‘Yeah, ten minutes when our customers went somewhere else. Ten fucking minutes too long, Davey.’

He’d told the cocky little sod he’d had the shits: an iffy vindaloo the night before; had to shut up shop and get to a chemist’s. The cousin fucks off, then an hour later the boss calls up, so he has to tell him the same story.

‘I don’t give a toss. Your dodgy guts have cost me money. Next time use a fucking bucket whatever, just don’t stop taking the tickets.’

He’d laughed and said he was sorry. Thought he’d got away with it.

Then: ‘How you getting home tonight, Davey?’

Tindall walked back along the Embankment, then crossed underneath the railway line and took out his key. He was starving; started thinking about cheese on toast when he got indoors. He’d normally have nipped across the road for a sandwich at di

He shouted a ‘hello’ when he walked through the door; made a fuss of his Jack Russell, who came skittering across the lino to meet him. He followed her back into the kitchen and slopped some food into a bowl. Then he turned the grill on and wandered upstairs to the spare room.

There was no answer when he knocked, so he stuck his head round the door.

‘Sorry, son, I thought you were out.’

‘Why d’you come in, then?’

Brooks had spoken without looking up. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone in his hand, pressing buttons. His training shoes were scuffed and dirty. There were papers scattered about on the bed, and more phones. Plastic bags against the wall containing all his clothes, a dirty mug and plate on the carpet.

Tindall stepped in and picked up the empties. ‘I’m making a bit of cheese on toast if you want some.’

Brooks said nothing for a few seconds, then looked up and stared, as if the Scotsman’s voice had just reached him.

‘Anyway, there’ll be some downstairs if you fancy it, you know? And tea.’

Tindall looked away, glancing around the room as if checking that everything were to his guest’s satisfaction, or that nothing had been damaged. The door caught as he started to pull it to; hissing against the pile of the carpet. ‘Need to get an inch shaved off this fucking door,’ he said.

Brooks was looking at his phone again, studying the screen.

‘You need to get some sleep, son…’

Tindall closed the door without waiting for a reaction, and went back downstairs to his supper and his dog.

Thorne woke with his arm stretched across the cold side of the bed where Louise should have been. He walked naked and half asleep into the kitchen. Found Louise leaning back against the worktop in a dressing-gown, hands wrapped around her favourite mug.

‘You all right?’

‘I just wanted some tea,’ she said.

Thorne peered at the digital clock on the front of the cooker. ‘At half past four?’

‘Why do you never tell me anything?’

That woke him up fast enough. Fuck, was there any way she could have found out about the contact with Marcus Brooks? He tried to hide his alarm beneath confusion and lack of sleep. He breathed hard and blinked slowly. ‘Sorry… what? Is there some conversation I’m forgetting here?’

Louise shook her head. ‘That’s the point.’

It wasn’t about Brooks. It was something more general; something she’d been saving up. He felt relieved, then irritated, then cold. His hand drifted down to cup his shrinking tackle as he turned to head for the bathroom to fetch the ratty dressing-gown.

‘Night then,’ she said.

His shoulders dropped, and he took a second. ‘What don’t I tell you?’

Her eyes rolled up, as though she had plenty to choose from. ‘All sorts.’ Then, like she’d plucked one out of the air. ‘Your father…’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘I know what happened. More or less. The fire, the fact that it might not have been an accident.’

Thorne sighed. Said it as though she might be stupid, and he was saying it for the last time. ‘There was a fire, and he died, and I don’t know, will never fucking know if the stupid fucker left the stove on, or if someone came into the house and gave him a helping hand. Is that OK?’

She nodded, meaning that it wasn’t.

‘I don’t see what else you want to know.’

‘How you feel about it.’ She put down her tea. ‘Christ, I-’

‘How do you think I feel?’

‘I’m asking.’

‘I’d’ve thought it would be fucking obvious.’

‘It isn’t.’

Thorne raised his arms in a gesture of helplessness; like maybe it was more her fault than his.

‘What about the man you think might have done it?’

Thorne shook his head, would not even say the name.

‘How do you feel about him?’

He studied his bare feet against the tiles; spoke to them. ‘I’m stark-bollock naked and I’m half asleep. I can’t even think straight. This is stupid…’

She took a step towards him, thrust her hands into the pockets of her dressing-gown. ‘We’ve been together five months and sometimes it feels like I’ve barely known you ten minutes. Five months, and the other night in bed I did something really fucking stupid. I’ve thought about it and, whatever I said, there must have been some small part of me that wanted it. Even if it was only for a few seconds.’ Her right hand came out of the dressing-gown pocket, clutched at a handful of material around her belly. ‘Some part of me wanted it, which is why I’m making tea in the middle of the night, because if I’m honest, I don’t feel like you tell me any more, really tell me any more, than you tell Phil, or Dave Holland, or the bloke you buy the fucking newspaper off in the morning.’ She stopped, and waited for Thorne to raise his head; looked for something in his face. ‘You’re right,’ she said, moving towards the door. ‘This is stupid.’

‘Can we talk about it tomorrow?’

Pushing past him, she said, ‘I’m sorry I woke you.’

TWENTY-FOUR

‘This job’s a fucking joke.’

‘You only just worked that out?’ Thorne asked.

Kitson walked past Thorne, who was waiting for toast, and dropped a herbal teabag into one of the small, metal teapots-for-one, which invariably dribbled your tea all over the table when you tried to use it. ‘A good-news, bad-news joke,’ she said. ‘A whole fucking series of them.’

Thorne reached for a foil-wrapped rectangle of butter and a sachet of jam, thinking that when Kitson was in a bad mood, she swore almost as much as Richard Rawlings did. His own language was industrial by any standards much of the time, but he’d started to notice it in others. Another hangover from his father’s final months, perhaps.

‘I take it you’ve got a joke for me, then…’

They carried their trays to a table; sat next to a group of detectives from another team who’d just come off the overnight shift. These officers ate their breakfasts in virtual silence; worn out, but relieved at having put a Friday allnighter behind them. Thorne had worked that shift enough to know that one or two would be having mixed feelings about a day ahead with their families; potentially tense and stressful after what was invariably the toughest eight hours of the week.

‘Good news: we’ve got the name of a man identified as our killer by the victim’s girlfriend.’ Kitson poured her tea. Used a paper serviette to mop up the spills. ‘Bad news: he’s disappeared.’