Sleepyhead

at sixty. Tom Thorne had never kept his head down in his life. Perhaps he was just.., losing it. He'd been on the beer when Holland had called, no question about it. As the ambulance had taken him away from his flat four days earlier, delirious, and Holland had done his best to clear up, he realised that Thorne didn't consider himself better than anyone else. Not Keable or Tughan or ex-Detective Sergeant Brian Holland, four years dead. He was just a different sort of copper. A different sort of man. Maybe the sort of man whose approval meant something. If Holland could get that and still play it safe, then maybe that would be the way to go.

He took out his phone again. If Sophie was still up he'd grab them a curry on the way home. He let it ring four times and hung up. Finally the lift arrived and he stepped inside, knowing deep down-that, in the coming days and weeks, playing it safe would not really be an option.

'Frank?'

'What is it, Tom?'

'Bishop drives a Volvo.'

'Right…'

'A dark blue Volvo sedan. I didn't put it in my initial report but there was one parked outside his house.'

'It's in Nick Tughan's report.'

'Tughan knew?'

'I told you, he's already looked into all that.'

'All that!'

'Can we talk about this in the morning?'

'And the calls tonight don't make a difference?'

'It's one more thing in the plus column, but there are still too many minuses.'

'You've spent too long talking to Tughan…'

'Goodnight, Thorne…'

'I'm making a formal request to be taken off this case, sir.'

'We'll definitely talk about this in the morning…'

'Anne? It's Tom Thorne. Sorry, did I…?'

'Hello?'

'I'll call you tomorrow.'

'It's OK – funny, I was angry about Rachel being on the phone a minute ago. Is it a minute ago? I must have gone out like a light.'

'Rachel's on the phone? I'm-'

'On her mobile. Hate the whole idea of it, really, but…'

'It's a safety thing.'

'Umm.'

'I was just wondering about Alison, really.., and obviously how are you?'

'Alison's… hang on, let's get sat up. That's better… Alison's making progress, slowly. I don't want to bring the occupational therapist back just yet, but things are moving. And I'm fine.., thanks.'

'I'd like to see her. To see how she's getting on. You said about her communicating more.'

'She is, but it's just not.., reliable, I suppose. I'm putting together a system, which will probably be a complete disaster but anyway… How's the head?'

'So, what do you think? Can I come in and see you?'

'Her or me? You said-'

'Sorry?'

'Both of us… yep. What about Friday?'

'Fine.'

'I'm up to my eyes in it at the minute.'

'I know… That's great. I'm sorry for ringing so late. I've had.., just…'

'A couple of drinks?'

'I've had all sorts of things.'

'Sounds interesting.'

'Not really. I'll let you get back to sleep…'

Past midnight. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair with an unpronounceable Swedish name and rearranging his life. Or screwing it up completely. Why did he only ever feel like he was achieving anything if he was pissing someone else off?. He was the loudmouth in the pub quiz shouting at the question master until he's proved wrong. He was the irate driver effing and blinding until the other driver points to the sign showing who has right of way. He was the stupid copper who couldn't conceive of being wrong. The idiot whose feelings were written all over his face. That face sent messages. It whispered, 'You're making a mistake.' It murmured, 'I'm right.' It screamed, 'I know.' It had got backs up for as long as he could remember. It had alienated colleagues and wound up superior officers.

It had told Francis Calvert to kill children. There was one can of beer left. He put his favourite track from the George Jones album back on and turned it up. Jones's duet with Elvis Costello…

' There's a stranger in the house no one will ever see.., but everybody says he looks like me.'

He'd have to play it carefully with Keable. However much he discredited Thorne's theories about Jeremy Bishop, Keable knew that the killer and Thorne had a connection. That first note had been written before Thorne had even met Bishop. There was a link. The killer wanted Thorne close. So, whatever Thorne did, he knew that Keable would be watching. The truth was that Thorne didn't really know what he was going to do and, more disturbingly, he had no idea what Bishop was going to do either. How would he react to Thorne leaving the case?

Would he be… insulted? Would he do something to demand the attention he thought he deserved?

Thorne tried not to think about those things that might make him bitterly regret what he had chosen to do. He told himself that he'd been given very little choice. They wouldn't listen. Worse, they were judging him. Putting it down to Calvert. Fifteen years, and still he was tainted, any instinct called an obsession. Every observation, every thought weighed up and judged and found wanting. He couldn't bear that judgment any longer. He didn't need the judgment of the living.

He was being judged every day by the dead.

He needed to be outside an operation that was stifling him. He had to get out and make things happen. While he dicked about following leads and smiling the right smiles, Jeremy Bishop was making a fool of him.

It was time to turn things round.

He had to go to bed. The following morning was not going to be pleasant and he'd need to be as sharp as he could be. But he still needed to make one more call. He got up and went to the mantelpiece for his address book. He couldn't remember the numbers of many pornographers offhand.

I'm glad Anne's spending more time with me again. I'd sort of started thinking that she'd moved on a bit, that the novelty had maybe worn off. I wouldn't have blamed her, but I can't believe she's got many like me. She told me her workload had built up and that the administrator was an arsehole, so fair enough. Mind you, if I don't start making some progress I might find myself out on my ear. Somebody's bound to need the bed.

We've pretty much got 'yes' and 'no' sussed, and 'in pain' is one of my specialities, but blinking is hardly Esperanto. One for yes and two for no is all very well in theory but it's the control that's letting me down. And the gaps between the blinks are all over the shop. I try to blink twice but it's hard for Anne to know if I'm saying 'no' or saying 'yes, yes'. There's a lot of 'Is that a yes, Alison? No? Is that a no, then?' We're like a pair of comical foreigners on Benny Hill. This chicken is rubbery, Dad used to piss himself at that. Mum was never much for comedy shows, but he loved it. Maybe the old sod just fancied the women in bikinis. I caught Mum watching one of the videos a couple of weeks after my dad died. She must have got it out of the video shop. I was doing my NVQ's, I think, and I cane back from college early one day. She was sitting there watching this sad old fat bloke chasing these dolly-birds round and round a garden and crying her eyes out.

Tim had better buck up his sodding ideas as well. He just sits there holding my hand. I know he can't come much in the daytime because of work but he should make more of an effort in the evenings. I don't know anything. He doesn't tell me. What's happening on Brookside? Is he still playing football on Sundays? Has he put that shower curtain up yet? If Dad was here he'd kick him up the arse.

He's stupid, really, because the weight's dropping off me and if everything else is knackered then there's