Lazybones by Mark Billingham Page B

ratchets.
    â€œSort that Doctor Who thing out for me, will you, son?”
    Thorne swallowed hard. “I’ll ask around and call you tomorrow. Okay?”
    â€œThanks…”
    â€œAnd listen, Dad, dig out that navy suit. I’m sure it’s not wool.”
    â€œOh shit, you never said anything about a suit…”
    Â 
    December 22, 1975
    They were both in the kitchen. A few feet apart, and nowhere near each other.
    Just a couple of days till Christmas, and from the radio on the windowsill the traditional songs did a good job of filling the silences. Seasonal stuff from Sinatra or Elvis mixed in with the more recent Christmas hits from Slade and Wizzard. That awful Queen song looked like it was going to be the Christmas Number One. He didn’t like it much anyway but he knew that he’d never be able to hear it again without thinking about her. About her body, before and after. Her face and how it must have looked, Franklin pushing her down among the cardboard boxes…
    She stood with her back to him, washing up at the sink. He sat at the table and looked at the Daily Mirror. The newsprint, the soapsuds, the absurdly cheery DJ—things to look at and listen to as, separately, they both went over and over it. Remembering what had happened at the station that morning.
    Thinking about the police officer, pacing around the Interview Room, winking at the WPC in the corner, leaning down on the desk and shouting.
    He thought about the copper’s face. The smile that felt like a slap.
    She was thinking about the way he’d smelled.
    â€œRight,” the officer had said. “Let’s go over it again.” And then, afterward, he’d said it again. And again. Shaking his head indulgently when she’d finally broken down, beckoning the WPC, who strolled across, pulling a tissue from the sleeve of her uniform. A minute or two, a glass of water, and then they were back into it. The detective sergeant marching around the place, as if in all his years of training he’d never learned the difference between victim and criminal.
    He’d done nothing, said nothing. Wanted to, but thought better of it. Instead, he’d sat and watched and listened to his wife crying and thought stupid thoughts, like why, when it was so cold, when he was buttoned up in his heaviest coat, was the bastard detective sergeant in shirtsleeves? Rings of sweat beneath both beefy arms.
    Now there was a choir singing on the radio…
    He stood up and walked slowly toward the sink, stopping when he was within touching distance of her. He could see something stiffen around her shoulders as he drew close.
    â€œYou need to forget everything he said, okay? That sergeant. He was just going over it to get everything straight. Making sure. Doing his job. He knows it’ll be worse than that on the day. He knows how hard the defense lawyer’s going to be. I suppose he’s just preparing us for it, you know? If we go through it now, maybe it won’t be so hard in court.” He took another step and he was standing right behind her. Her head was perfectly still. He couldn’t tell what she was looking at, but all the while her hands remained busy in the white plastic washing-up bowl…
    â€œTell you what,” he said. “Let’s just get throughChristmas, shall we, love? It’s not just for us after all, is it? New year soon, and then we can just keep our heads down, and get on with 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.
    â€œSay again, love.”
    â€œThat 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