Lazybones

mouth quickly, knowing that his appetite was about to disappear.

Hendricks was calling from Westminster mortuary. 'Pretty quick,' he said. He sounded extremely chipper. 'You've got to bloody admit…'

'Why do you always manage to do this when I'm eating lunch?

Couldn't you have left it another hour?'

'Sod that, mate, there's money at stake. Right, you ready? I'm going for time of death at somewhere around quarter to three in the morning.'

Bollocks: Thorne stared out of the window at a row of low, grey buildings on the other side of the M1. He didn't know if the window was dirty or if that was just Hendon. 'This had better be worth a tenner. Go on…'

'Right, how d'you want it? Medical jargon, layman's terms, or pathology-made-easy for thick-as-shit coppers?'

'That's cost you half the tenner. Get on with it…'

'Hendricks spoke about death and its intimacies with considerably less passion than he demonstrated for Arsenal FC. Being a Mancunian who didn't support the dreaded Man United was far from being the only V-sign he stuck up at convention. There were the clothes in varying shades of black, the shaved head, the ludicrous number of earrings. There were the mysterious piercings, one for each new boyfriend… He might have spoken dispassionately, almost matter-of-factly, but Thorne knew how much Phil Hendricks cared about the dead. How hard he listened to their bodies when they spoke to him. When they gave up their secrets.

'Asphyxia due to ligature strangulation,' Hendricks said. 'Plus, I think it happened on the floor. He had carpet burns on both knees. I think the killer put the body on the bed afterwards. Posed it.'

'Right…'

'Unfortunately, I still can't tell for sure whether or not he was strangled before, after or during the sodomy.'

'So, you're not perfect, then?'

'I know one thing. Whoever did it has a big future in gay porn. Our killer's hung like a donkey. He did quite a bit of damage up there…'

Thorne knew he'd been right to get rid of the sandwich. He'd lost count of the conversations like this he'd had with Hendricks over the years. His head was used to them, but his stomach still found them tricky.

Thorne called it the H-plan diet…

'What about secretions?'

'Sorry, mate, bugger all. Only thing up there that shouldn't have been was a trace of spermicidal lubricant from the condom he was wearing. He was careful, in every sense…'

Thorne sighed. 'Where's Holland? He still with you?'

'No chance, mate. He shot away first chance he had. Why did you send him down anyway? Actually, I'm hurt you didn't want to watch me work.. '

These conversations, the ones that followed bodies, always ended on something light-hearted. Football, pisstakes, anything…

'DC Holland hasn't seen you work nearly enough though, Phil,'

Thorne said. 'It still gives him the heebies. I'm doing him a favour, toughening him up…'

Hendricks laughed. 'Right…'

Right, Thorne thought. He knew very well that when it came to slabs and scalpels you never toughened up. You just pretended you had…

Standing in the Incident Room, preparing to brief the team, Thorne felt, as he often did on these occasions, like a teacher who was feared but not particularly liked. The slightly psychotic PE teacher. These thirty or so people in front of him – detectives, uniformed officers, civilian and auxiliary staff-might just as well have been children. There were as many different types as could be found sitting in any draughty school hall in London, even as Thorne was speaking. There were those who appeared to be listening intently but would have to check with colleagues later to find out exactly what they were supposed to be doing. Some, on the other hand, would be over-keen, asking questions and nodding eagerly, with every intention of doing as little as possible when the time came. There were the bullies and the picked-upon. The swots and the morons.

The Metropolitan Police Service. Service, note, with the emphasis on caring and efficiency. Thorne knew very well that most of the people in the room, himself on some occasions included, were happier back when they were a force.

One to be reckoned with.

It was four days since that first post-mortem conversation with Hendricks and if the pathologist had been quick, the team at Forensic Science Services had outdone him. Seventy-two hours for DNA results was really going some, especially when the crime scene was as much of a DNA nightmare as that hotel room had been. One notch up from a doss-house, it had yielded hair and skin samples from upwards of a dozen individuals, male and female. Then there were the cats and dogs and at least two other animal species as yet unidentified. And yet, incredibly, they'd found a match.

They were no nearer finding the killer, of course, but now they were at least certain who his victim had been. The dead man's DNA had been on file, for a very good reason.

Thorne cleared his throat, got a bit of hush. 'Douglas Andrew Remfry, thirty-six years of age, was released from Derby prison ten days ago, having served seven years of a twelve-year sentence for the rapes of three young women. We're putting together an accurate picture of his movements since then, but so far it locks like a pretty consistent shuttle between pub, betting shop, and the house in New Cross where he was living with his mother and her…?' Thorne looked across at Russell Brigstocke who held up three fingers. He turned back to the room. 'Her third husband. We'll hopefully have a lot more in terms of Remfry's movements and so on later today. DC's Holland and Stone are there at the moment with a search warrant. Mrs. Remfry was somewhat less than co-operative…'

An acnefied trainee detective near the front shook his head, his face screwed up in distaste for this woman he'd never met. Thorne gave him a good, hard stare. 'She's just lost a son,' he said. Thorne let his words hang there for a few seconds before continuing. 'If the landlady is to be believed, Remfry, unless his killer happens also to be his double, booked the room himself. He didn't feel the need to give a name, but he was happy enough to hand over the cash. We need to find out why. Why was he so keen to go to that hotel? Who was he meeting…?'

Thorne, in spite of himself, was smiling slightly as he recalled the interview with the hotel's formidable owner – a bottle-blonde with a face like Joe Bugner and a sixty-fags-a-day rasp.

'And who pays for the replacement of those sheets?' she'd asked.

'All them pillows and blankets that this nutter nicked? They were one hundred per cent cotton, none of 'em was cheap…' Thorne had nodded, pretended to write something down, wondering if her memory was as good as her capacity to talk utter shite with a straight face. 'And the stains on the mattress. Where do I get the money to get that lot cleaned?'

I'll see if I can find you a form to fill in,' Thorne said, thinking, Will I fuck, you hatchet-faced old mare…

In the Incident Room, the trainee detective Thorne had stared at before poked a single finger up. Thorne nodded.

'Are we looking at the prison angle, sir? Someone Remfry was in Derby with, maybe. Someone he got on the wrong side of…'

'Someone he got up the backside o02 The comment came from a mustached DC sitting off to Thorne's left towards the back of the room. Thorne did not know the man. He'd been brought in, like many in the room, from different squads to make up the numbers. His 'back side' comment got a big laugh. Thorne manufactured a chuckle.

'We're looking at that. Remfry's sexual preference was certainly for women before he got put away…'

'Some of them develop a taste for it inside, though, don't they?'

This time the laugh from his mates felt forced. Thorne allowed it to die away, let his voice drop a little to regain attention and control.

'Most of you lot are going to be tracing the most likely group of suspects we've got at the moment…'

The trainee nodded knowingly. One of the swots. He thought this was some kind of conversation. 'The male relatives of Remfry's rape victims.'

'Right,' Thorne said. 'Husbands, boyfriends, brothers. Sod it, fathers at a push. I want them all found, interviewed and eliminated. With a bit of luck we might eliminate all of them except one. DI Kitson has drawn up a