Sleepyhead

'Sorry, mate?'

'Doesn't matter.'

He'd waited a day before talking to Frank Keable. Stepping into the DCI's office he'd been thoroughly prepared to outline his suspicions – the details that pointed towards Bishop. Ten minutes later he'd walked out feeling like he'd just left Hendon.

'I have to be honest, Tom. No, he doesn't have a rock solid alibi but…'

'Not for any of the murders, sir. I checked with-'

'But all you've got is a lot Of stuff that, well, it doesn't rule him out, and what about the description? Two of the witnesses say he's early-to mid-thirties.'

'The height's right, Frank, and Bishop looks a lot younger than he is.'

It was at that point that Thorne had become aware that it was all starting to sound unconvincing. He decided to stop before he said something that might make him look vaguely desperate. 'And he's a doctor. And I don't really… like him very much…'

The same night he'd walked into his flat and heard a woman's voice coming from the living room.

'… at the office. God, I hate these things – sorry. Anyway, please give me a call, I'm very excited about it.'

He grinned. How could a woman who probed about in people's brains be so out of her depth with an answering machine?

He found it endearing, then knew that she'd think he was being patronising. He picked up.

'Tom?'

What was she asking? 'Is that Tom?' Or 'Is it OK if I call you Tom?' Either way his answer was the same.

'Yes. Hi…'

'This is Anne Coburn – sorry, I was just waffling away. I tried to get you at the office, I hope you don't mind.'

He'd written his home number on the back of the card he'd given her. He threw his coat on to the sofa and dragged the phone over to the chair. 'No, that's fine. I've just this second walked in the door. So, what are you excited about?'

'Sorry?'

'You said you were excited. I heard it on the machine as I was coming in.'

'Oh, right. It's Alison. I think she's really starting to communicate.'

He was bending to retrieve the half-empty bottle of wine by the side of the chair but instantly sat up again. 'What?

That's fantastic.'

'Listen, I do mean starting, and I have to say there are people who aren't quite as convinced as me that the movements aren't involuntary but I think you should see it.'

'Yes, of course…'

'He's killed another girl, hasn't he?'

Thorne leaned back in the chair. He wedged the phone between ear and shoulder and started to pour himself a hefty glass of wine. Had it made the papers? He hadn't seen anything. Even if it had, there was no link to the other killings. So how did she…?

Bishop. He'd obviously told her they'd been round. And just how much had she told him about the other killings?

He'd need to ask her about that, tactfully.

'Look, I understand if you don't want to discuss it. Tom?'

'No, I was just thinking about something. Yes. We've found another body.'

It was her turn to pause. 'I know I said that Alison wouldn't be giving you any statements and she won't, I mean not in any conventional sense, but perhaps… Listen, I don't want to raise any false hopes.'

'You think she might be able to respond to questions?'

'Not just yet, but I think so, yes. Simple ones. Yes and no. We could work out a system maybe. Sorry, I'm waffling again. Obviously we need to talk about it but I just wanted to let you know…'

'I'm glad you did.'

And then she invited him to dinner.

He proffered the plastic bag containing a butte of his favourite red wine as soon as she opened the door.

'Thanks, but there was no need.',

'Don't get excited, it's only a plastic bag.'

She laughed and stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek. Her perfume was lovely. She was wearing a rust coloured sleeveless top, cream linen trousers and training shoes. He was struck, not unpleasantly as it happened, by the fact that she was an inch or two taller than he was. He was used to that. He felt like he was going to enjoy himself. His good mood evaporated in an instant as he glanced over her shoulder and saw a man in the kitchen at the other end of the hall.

Jeremy Bishop was leaning against the worktop, opening a bottle of champagne.

Anne stepped aside to usher Thorne in and caught his look. 'Sorry,' she mouthed, shrugging.

As Thorne removed his leather jacket and made approving noises about the original coving, he was wondering what she meant. Sorry? She couldn't possibly have any idea what he really thought about Bishop, so what was she sorry for? As he walked towards the kitchen he came to the heartening conclusion that she was sorry they weren't going to be alone. Bishop held out a hand, smiling at him. Thorne smiled back. Sorry? Thinking about it, he wasn't sure that he was sorry at all.

'Perfect timing, Detective Inspector.' Bishop offered him a glass of champagne. Thorne felt a chill pass through him as he took it. Bishop looked thoroughly at home, moving easily around a kitchen with which he was obviously familiar. He wore pressed chinos and a collarless shirt. Silk by the look of it. He probably called it a blouse. Thorne felt instantly overdressed in his tie, and instinctively reached up to undo the top button of his shirt, which he definitely called a shirt.

Bishop drained his glass. 'Has the hernia been giving you any more trouble?'

'Sorry?'

'It came to me just after you and your constable left. Come on – don't tell me it hasn't been driving you mad as well. Your hernia op last year… I was your gas man.'

Without waiting for a response – he would have been waiting for some time – he turned to Anne. 'I've given your sauce a stir, Jimmy, and I'm off to the loo.' He handed Anne his glass and moved past Thorne towards the stairs. They stood in silence until they heard the bathroom door close.

'Is this awkward for you, Tom? Tell me if it is.'

'Why should it be?'

'I didn't invite him.'

Some good news. Thorne smiled graciously. 'It's fine.'

'I had no idea he was coming. He just dropped by and it would have been rude not to ask him to stay. I know you've questioned him, which is bloody ridiculous…'

Thorne took a sip of champagne. It wasn't a drink he was fond of.

'So?'

'So what?'

'So is it awkward?'

Awkward was putting it mildly. Thorne couldn't recall the last time he'd had a cosy dinner with a prime suspect. He remembered the scene in Keable's office. Make that his prime suspect.

Still, it might be interesting. He already knew the basic facts. The two children, the wife who'd died. But there was no question that it would be valuable to get another… slant on things. Anne was looking intently at him. He hadn't answered her question. So he asked one instead:

'Jimmy?'

'A nickname from med-school days. James Coburn. You know, The Magnificent Seven. He was the one with the knives.'

'Right. Was he any good with scalpels?'

She laughed. 'Whatever misguided reasons you had to question Jeremy, I can fully understand that this might be putting you in a compromising position, but there are two very good reasons why you should stay and have dinner.'

Thorne had no intention of going anywhere, but was perfectly happy to let her persuade him. 'One, I would very much like it if you did, and two, I make the finest spaghetti carbonara in North London.'

Dinner was fantastic. It was certainly the best meal Thorne had eaten in a while, but that was to damn it with faint praise. That his eating habits had become a trifle sloppy had been brought home to him on receipt of his BT family and friends list. They might just as well have sent an embossed calling card saying, 'You Sad Bastard'. Thorne's ten most frequently dialed numbers had not exactly been what he'd call kith and kin. He could only hope and pray that he didn't win the holiday. Two weeks in Lanzarote with the manager of the Bengal Lancer and a posse of spotty pizza-delivery boys on mopeds was hardly a prospect that appealed.