Lazybones by Mark Billingham

occasional frosty silences that followed a pilfered yogurt or a dress borrowed without asking, the two of them got on pretty well. Eve knew that Denise could be quite controlling, but then she also knew there were occasions when she herself needed to be controlled. She tended to be more than a little disorganized, and though Den could be Mother Hen–ish at times, it was nice to feel looked after. The endless list making could get wearing, but there was always food in the fridge and they never ran out of toilet roll!
    She dropped her bag on the kitchen table and flicked on the kettle. “Oi, Hollins, you old slapper, you want tea?” Almost before she’d finished shouting she remembered that Denise was going straight out from work, meeting Ben in the pub next to her office. Denise had called the shop at lunchtime, told her she wouldn’t be home for dinner, asked her if she fancied joining them.
    Eve walked through to her bedroom to put on a fresh T-shirt while she was waiting for the kettle to boil. No, she’d stay in, veg out in front of the TV with a bottle of very cold white wine. She couldn’t be bothered to change and go out. It was sticky outside and uncomfortable. She’d feel dirty by the time she got there. The pub would be loud and smoky and she’d only feel like a third wheel anyway. Denise and Ben were very touchy-feely…
    She stared at herself in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door, striking a pose in bra and pants. She saw herself smiling as she thought again about the policeman who had answered the phone a week before. Impossible to picture from just the voice, of course, but she’d tried anyway and was pretty keen on what she’d come up with. She was fairly sure that, crime scene or no crime scene, he’d been flirting with her on the phone, and she knew full well that she’d been flirting right back. Or had she been the one to start it?
    She pulled on a white, FCUK T-shirt and went back into the kitchen to make her tea.
    They’d sent a car around the day after she’d called, to collect the cassette from her answering machine. She told the two officers that she’d have been more than happy to bring it into the station, but, understandably, they seemed eager to take it with them.
    Walking around the flat opening windows, she debated whether a week was quite long enough. She couldn’t decide whether she should just turn up, or if it might be better to call. The last thing she wanted was to look pushy. She had every right of course, being involved, to see what was going on. It was only natural that she should be a bit curious after the business with the phone call, wasn’t it? Surely, going along to inquire if there had been any progress in the case was no more than any other concerned citizen would do.
    She suddenly realized that, wandering around the flat, she’d put her tea down and couldn’t remember where. Screw it, the kitchen was close and she knew exactly where the fridge was.
    Opening the wine, she wondered if Detective Inspector Thorne was one of those funny blokes who got put off by women who appeared a bit keen.
    Maybe she’d leave it another day or two…
    Â 
    The evening was ridiculously warm.
    Elvis, Thorne’s emotionally disturbed cat, looked uncomfortable, following him from room to room, yowling like she was asking to be shaved. Thorne got sweaty, cooking and eating cheese on toast, wearing an open Hawaiian shirt and a pair of shorts he’d bought during a short-lived dalliance with a nearby gym.
    Thorne lay on the sofa and watched a film. He turned the sound on the TV down and looked at the pictures with the radio on. He flicked through the music section in the previous week’s edition of Time Out, trying to find the band with the most ridiculous name. Finally, just before midnight, his empties cleared away and nothing else to do that might put it off any longer, he reached for the