Scaredy Cat by Mark Billingham Page B
Authors: Mark Billingham
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Police, England, Serial Murders
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a vague physical description, not a lot.' 'How vague?'
'Height, build, a dark car. The witness, George Hammond...'
That fucking notebook again. He wanted to ram it up the cocky little gobshite's arse.
'... was at the top of the path a hundred yards further up the main road. He thought the bloke was chucking a bag of rubbish over.'
That was what Thorne had already worked out. He must have pul ed up and heaved the body over the railings.
She might just as wel have been a bag of rubbish.
'And that's it? Heighl and build?'
'There's a bit more on the car. He says he thinks it was a nice one. Expensive.'
Thorne nodded slowly. Witnesses. Another thing he'd had to become resigned to. Even the more perceptive ones gave conflicting accounts of the same event.
'Mr Hammond's eyesight isn't bril iant, sir. He's an old man. He was only out walking his dog. We've got him in the car.'
62 MARK BILLINGHAM
'Hang about, those railings are six feet high. How big
did he say he was?'
'Six two, six three. She's not a big girl, sir.'
Thorne squinted into the lights. 'Right, I'l have a word
with the optical y chal enged Mr Hammond in a minute.
Let's get this over with.'
Phil Hendricks was crouched over the body, his ponytail secured beneath his distinctive yel ow showercap. The sci .... entists had finished their scraping and taping, and Hendricks was taking his turn. Thorne watched the al -too familiar routine as the pathologist took temperature readings and conducted what, until the body was removed, would be a cursory examination. Every minute or so he would heave himself on to his haunches with a grunt, and mumble into his smal tape-recorder. As always, each tedious detail of the entire procedure was being immortalised on film by the police cameraman. Thorne always wondered about those characters. Some of them seemed to fancy themselves as film-makers - he'd actual y had to bol lock one once for shouting, 'That's a wrap.' Some had a disturbing glint in their eye that said, 'You ought to come round to my place and have a look at some of the footage I'l be showing the lads at Christmas.' He couldn't help wondering if they were al waiting to be headhunted by some avaricious TV company eager for more mindless docusoaps. Maybe he was being too harsh. He was too harsh about Hol and as wel . Perhaps it was just the perfectly pressed chinos and loafers he didn't like. Maybe it was just that Hol and was a young DC
eager to please.
Hadn't he been like that? Fifteen years ago. Heading for a fal .
SLEEPYHEAD 63
Hendricks began to pack away his gear and looked up at Thorne. It was a look that had passed between them on many occasions. To the untrained eye this 'handing over of responsibility' might have seemed as casual as two poolplayers exchanging a cue. Pathologists were supposed to be colder than any of them but despite the Mancunian's flippant, nasal tones and dark sense of humour, Thorne knew what Hendricks was feeling. He'd watched him crying into his pint often enough. Thorne had never reciprocated.
'He's getting a tad fucking casual, if you ask me.' Hendricks began fiddling with one of his many earrings. Eight the last time Thorne had counted. The thick glasses gave him an air of studiousness but the earrings, not to mention the discreet but famous tattoos and the penchant for extravagant headgear, marked him out as unconventional to say the least. Thorne had known the gregarious goth pathologist for five years. He was ten years his junior
and horribly efficient; Thorne liked him enormously.
'I didn't, but thanks for the observation.'
'No wonder you're touchy, mate. Two-one at home to Bradford?'
'Robbed.'
'Course you were.'
Thorne's neck was stil horribly stiff. He dropped his head back and gazed up into a. clear night sky. He could make out the Plough. He always looked for it: it was the only constel ation he knew by sight. 'So, it's him, then, is it?'
'I'l know for sure by the morning. I think so. But what's she doing
'Height, build, a dark car. The witness, George Hammond...'
That fucking notebook again. He wanted to ram it up the cocky little gobshite's arse.
'... was at the top of the path a hundred yards further up the main road. He thought the bloke was chucking a bag of rubbish over.'
That was what Thorne had already worked out. He must have pul ed up and heaved the body over the railings.
She might just as wel have been a bag of rubbish.
'And that's it? Heighl and build?'
'There's a bit more on the car. He says he thinks it was a nice one. Expensive.'
Thorne nodded slowly. Witnesses. Another thing he'd had to become resigned to. Even the more perceptive ones gave conflicting accounts of the same event.
'Mr Hammond's eyesight isn't bril iant, sir. He's an old man. He was only out walking his dog. We've got him in the car.'
62 MARK BILLINGHAM
'Hang about, those railings are six feet high. How big
did he say he was?'
'Six two, six three. She's not a big girl, sir.'
Thorne squinted into the lights. 'Right, I'l have a word
with the optical y chal enged Mr Hammond in a minute.
Let's get this over with.'
Phil Hendricks was crouched over the body, his ponytail secured beneath his distinctive yel ow showercap. The sci .... entists had finished their scraping and taping, and Hendricks was taking his turn. Thorne watched the al -too familiar routine as the pathologist took temperature readings and conducted what, until the body was removed, would be a cursory examination. Every minute or so he would heave himself on to his haunches with a grunt, and mumble into his smal tape-recorder. As always, each tedious detail of the entire procedure was being immortalised on film by the police cameraman. Thorne always wondered about those characters. Some of them seemed to fancy themselves as film-makers - he'd actual y had to bol lock one once for shouting, 'That's a wrap.' Some had a disturbing glint in their eye that said, 'You ought to come round to my place and have a look at some of the footage I'l be showing the lads at Christmas.' He couldn't help wondering if they were al waiting to be headhunted by some avaricious TV company eager for more mindless docusoaps. Maybe he was being too harsh. He was too harsh about Hol and as wel . Perhaps it was just the perfectly pressed chinos and loafers he didn't like. Maybe it was just that Hol and was a young DC
eager to please.
Hadn't he been like that? Fifteen years ago. Heading for a fal .
SLEEPYHEAD 63
Hendricks began to pack away his gear and looked up at Thorne. It was a look that had passed between them on many occasions. To the untrained eye this 'handing over of responsibility' might have seemed as casual as two poolplayers exchanging a cue. Pathologists were supposed to be colder than any of them but despite the Mancunian's flippant, nasal tones and dark sense of humour, Thorne knew what Hendricks was feeling. He'd watched him crying into his pint often enough. Thorne had never reciprocated.
'He's getting a tad fucking casual, if you ask me.' Hendricks began fiddling with one of his many earrings. Eight the last time Thorne had counted. The thick glasses gave him an air of studiousness but the earrings, not to mention the discreet but famous tattoos and the penchant for extravagant headgear, marked him out as unconventional to say the least. Thorne had known the gregarious goth pathologist for five years. He was ten years his junior
and horribly efficient; Thorne liked him enormously.
'I didn't, but thanks for the observation.'
'No wonder you're touchy, mate. Two-one at home to Bradford?'
'Robbed.'
'Course you were.'
Thorne's neck was stil horribly stiff. He dropped his head back and gazed up into a. clear night sky. He could make out the Plough. He always looked for it: it was the only constel ation he knew by sight. 'So, it's him, then, is it?'
'I'l know for sure by the morning. I think so. But what's she doing
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