Sleepyhead

'You're shattering all my illusions.'

'You've got to move with the times, haven't you? Have you seen the stuff that's out there?'

Thorne had. Plenty of it. 'And you think the stuff you do is any different?'

'I don't do anything with kids, Mr. Thorne, you know that. I won't be doing with that filth. Besides, my stuff's a bit more exclusive, I reckon. It's harder to get hold of.'

'Yeah. You've got to stand on tiptoe in the newsagent.'

Bethell looked uncomfortable. Stubbed out the fag long before it was finished. Lit another. 'Can we get this over with, Mr. Thorne?'

'Of course. I'm sorry to have kept you.'

'Listen, Mr. Thorne, I don't really hear a great deal these days. I've been getting this webcam thing off the ground and apart from that it's just the usual stuff with the models. I don't hang around as much as I did…'

The barman returned with Thorne's change. From the table behind him Thorne could hear muffled sniggering. He really hoped it wasn't aimed at the big man sitting opposite him.

Bethell mistook Thorne's silence for disappointment.

'There's a bit of drugs business I could put your way. These young girls are dropping Es and putting Charlie up their beaks like there's no tomorrow. They don't want to eat, see…'

More sniggering, and this time Bethell heard it too. Thorne turned round. Four media types. Short hair, square glasses and training shoes that probably cost more than his suit. They wouldn't look at him. He turned back round, lowering his voice as a cue for Bethell to do the same.

'I don't need information, Kodak.'

'Right.'

'I wish to avail myself of your high-quality professional services, which you will provide in return for me not sending Vice to go trampling through your darkroom.'

Bethell thought for a moment or three. 'You want me to take some photos?'

'Simple black and white portrait from as close as you can get. The subject will be unaware that he is being photographed.'

Bethell was hardly inconspicuous, but Thorne knew that the man had a great deal of experience in maintaining a low profile. In a parallel universe he might have been a highly paid paparazzo.

'No sweat, Mr. Thorne, I've got this blinding new three hundred mil Nikon zoom.'

Thorne leaned in close. 'Listen, Bethell, this is a piece of piss, all right? A simple head shot. Coming out of his house, getting into his car, it doesn't matter. Should be simple for you. No beds. No animals. No drugged-up teenage girls.'

He thought about Helen Doyle, sitting in the pub, laughing.

'I never did anything like that, Tommy. Strictly a Bacardi Breezer girl…'

He gave Bethell the address and finished his drink while the photographer enthused a little more about lenses before lumbering off towards the gents'. As he went, Bethell gave the quartet on the table behind them a good hard look.

Thorne felt pretty sure that Bethell would do a decent job for him. It wasn't just because he'd make his life hell if he didn't, he could sense that the man would take pride in the work. Not for the first time Thorne thought about how much better he functioned with professional criminals. It was a game he was good at. Even the really nasty bastards he had squared up against in his eighteen months on the Flying Squad weren't hard to figure out. Some he caught and some he didn't, but he never had to waste his time wondering why they were doing it. Money, usually. Sex, occasionally. Because they couldn't be arsed doing anything else, often. But the rules of the game were simple: stop them doing it and let somebody else work out why afterwards.

Bishop and those like him were not playing by the same rules. Thorne knew that if he was going to catch Jeremy Bishop he'd have precious little help. He knew that he had to take things carefully, a step at a time. Bethell was the first step, but after that he'd be making it up as he went along. Whatever this new game was, Bishop had a distinct advantage. Thorne was certain that the 'why' was important. The 'why' was probably crucial. But this was where he was up against it.

Thorne didn't give a shit about 'why'.

When Bethell arrived back at the table Thorne stood up and started putting on his coat. 'Are we sorted, then?'

Bethell picked up his cigarettes. 'Yeah. No point me asking how soon you want these photos, is there?'

'Not really, no.'

The laughter from behind them told Thorne that he really should get out, straight away. Bethell was already taking a step towards them.

'Something funny?'

The biggest of the four stood up and stared at Bethell through designer glasses. It was not an aggressive move so much as a reflexive one, but it didn't really matter to Bethell. The thick finger he prodded into the man's chest must have felt like a battering ram. 'Something about how highly I speak of you, was it? Go on, tell me.' Square Glasses moved to swat away the finger; Short Hair moved to protect his friend and it went off.

As Bethell swung a fist bristling with signet rings into Square Glasses' face, Thorne stepped forward and backhanded his friend across the mouth. He fell backwards across the table, the expensive training shoes sending bottles and glasses flying in all directions. It was now two on two and all over very quickly. The third man reached for a large metal ashtray but Thorne was on him in a second, bringing his forehead down across the bridge of the man's nose as casually as if he were bending to tie a shoelace.

It was only as the fourth man backed away in such a hurry as to knock a plate of vividly orange chicken tikka massala into a young woman's lap, that the screaming began in earnest. As the Australian barman hovered nervously, a fearsome-looking landlady with vanilla-coloured hair and a broken pool cue marched from behind the bar.

'Right. Call the police.'

The barman pointed an accusing finger at Thorne.

'They're already here.'

Thorne rubbed his forehead and looked around. Three men lying, kneeling, crawling across a wooden floor glittering with broken glass, blood splashing on to designer combat trousers, the horrified yet excited faces of two dozen onlookers…

He guessed that it was not the right time to mention to the landlady that Hogarth would probably have approved.

Ten minutes later Thorne and Bethell were on the pavement outside the Garrick Club. The landlady had taken a bit of mollifying and those with smashed teeth and shattered noses were predictably aggrieved until Thorne dropped the word 'cocaine' into the conversation and everything was hastily forgiven and forgotten. Bethell placed an unwelcome hand on Thorne's shoulder.

'Thanks for that, Mr. Thorne. Laying into those wankers, that was good of you.'

Thorne could feel the headache starting to kick in. 'I didn't do it for you.'

He stuck out an arm to hail a cab.

And it wasn't them I was laying into…

They waited for Alison's boyfriend to leave before they wheeled in the blackboard. Bishop thought that Anne was being a trifle over-sensitive. After all, she'd kept him well appraised of Alison's progress, hadn't she? He'd hardly be expecting her to sit up and start singing.

Anne just wanted to wait a little before she got Tim involved. If all went well then she'd want to bring him in. He'd need to work with Alison himself anyway. She just needed to know that the basic framework was right. Once they were up and running it would be second nature to all of them. She felt that not understanding exactly what her responses signified would give him a skewed idea of Alison's condition.

If he wasn't thinking it already, he would be sure he'd lost her.

The wheels squeaked as the orderly moved the black board into position at the foot of the bed. Optimistic as she was, Anne could sense the enormity of the task that lay ahead of her. Alison was twenty-four. This was her first day at kindergarten.

'I wonder what my patients would think if I suggested anaesthetizing them with a lump hammer?' Bishop sipped his coffee and stared at the blackboard.