Lazy Bones by Mark Billingham Page B

heads down, and get on w'ith it, and wait for the trial. We could go away
    for a bit. Try and get back on an even keel maybe...' Her voice was a whisper. He couldn't make it out. 'Say again, love:
    'That policeman's aftershave,' she said. 'I thought at first it was the same as Franklin's. I thought I was going to be sick. It was so strong...'
    She began to scream the second his hand touched the back of her neck and it grew louder as she spun around, the water flying everywhere, her arm moving hard and fast, striking out instinctively, the mug in her hand smashing across his nose.
    Then she screamed at what she had done and she reached out for him and they sank down on to the linoleum, which quickly grew slippery with blood and suds.
    While the voices of young boys fil ed the kitchen, singing about hol y and
    ivy.
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    FOUR
    Back when the Peel Centre had been a centre for cadet training, Becke House had been a dormitory block. To Thorne it stil felt utilitarian, dead. He swore, on occasion, that rounding a corner, or pushing open an office door, he could catch a whiff of sweat and homesickness. :.
    No surprise when, a month or so earlier, everyone on Team 3 had got very excited at news of improved facilities and extra working space. In reality, it amounted to little more than an increased stationery budget, a reconditioned coffee machine and one more airless cubbyhole which Brigstocke had immediately commandeered. There were now three offices in the narrow corridor that ran off the major incident room. Brigstocke had the new one while Thorne shared his with Yvonne Kitson. Hol and and Stone were left with the smal est of the lot, negotiating rights to the wastepaper basket and arguing about who got the chair with the cushion.
    Thorne hated Becke House. Actual y it depressed him, sapped his energy to the point where he hadn't enough left to hate it properly. He'd heard somebody once joking about Sick Building Syndrome, but to him the place wasn't so much sick as terminal y il .
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    He'd spent the morning catching up. Sitting at his gunmetal-grey desk, sweating like a pig and reading every scrap of paperwork there was on the case. He read the post-mortem report, the forensic report,
    'his own report on the visit to Derby Prison. He read Hol and's notes on the search of Remfry's house, the interviews with relatives of the women Remfry had raped and the statements from some of the men he'd shared cel s with in three different prisons.

    Inches thick already and only one promising lead. An ex-cel mate of Remfry's had mentioned a prisoner named Gribbin, who Remfry had talked about fal ing out with, back when the pair of them were on remand in Brixton. Gribbin had been released from prison himself only four months before Remfry and had skipped parole. There was a warrant out...
    When Thorne had finished reading, he spent some time fanning his face with an empty folder. He stared at the mysterious scorch marks on the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Then he read everything again.
    When Yvonne Kitson came in, he looked up, dropped the notes down on to his desk arid gazed towards the open window.
    'I've been thinking about jumping,' he said. 'Suicide seems like quite an attractive option, and at least I'd get a breeze on the way down. What d'you reckon?'
    She laughed. 'We're only on the third floor.' Thorne shrugged. 'Where's the fan?'
    'Brigstocke's got it.'
    'Typical...' She sat down on a chair against the wal and reached into a large handbag. Thorne laughed when she pul ed out the familiar Tupperware container.
    'Wednesday, so it must be tuna,' he said.
    She peeled the lid off and took out a sandwich. 'Tuna salad, actual y, smartarse. My old man went a bit mad this morning and stuck a slice of lettuce on...'
    Thorne leaned back in his chair, tapped a plastic ruler along its arm. 'How do you do it, Yvonne?'
    She looked up, her mouth ful . 'What?'
    Stil holding the ruler, Thorne spread his arms wide, waved them
    around. 'This. Al of it. As