Sleepyhead

Bishop's hands tightened around his mug. Wondering what to say next. Thorne saved him the trouble. 'I think your father's overreacting somewhat.'

'He doesn't even know I'm here.'

Right. No. Course not.

'He got these phone calls.'

'When?'

'Last night. In the middle of the night. Four or five, one after the other. He phoned me up in a right panic.'

'What sort of phone calls?'

'You tell me.'

The cockiness had started to return. He needed slapping down harder. 'Listen, I questioned your father as part of an investigation that I'm no longer even part of, all right?' As Bishop's mouth fell open, Thorne felt a twinge of something approaching sympathy. 'Now tell me about the phone calls.'

'Like I said, in the middle of the night. He could hear somebody there. Whoever it was had withheld their number and that was it. One after the other. He's upset no, he's frightened. He's fucking shit-scared.'

I seriously doubt it.

'So what are you going to do about it?' Bishop was starting to sound genuinely angry.

'I'll tell you what I told him about the photographer. I'll look into it. That's the best I can do.'

'Are you seeing Anne Coburn?'

It was Thorne's turn to be genuinely angry. 'Behave yourself, James…'

'Seeing as you're off the investigation it could be that, though, couldn't it?'

'What?' Thorne took a deep breath. Trying not to lose it, knowing it was the father, not the son, he needed to save it for.

'If you and Anne were.., you know.., it would be a reason to get at my father.'

Thorne stood up and moved towards Bishop. He saw the slightest flinch, but only shook his head and reached for the empty coffee cup.

'As far as I can remember, Dr Coburn, as your godmother, was responsible for your spiritual well-being. Looking at you, she's obviously failed miserably but that is, I believe, where your relationship with her ends. You probably got a silver christening spoon and the odd birthday present, but who she's sleeping with is not part of the deal.'

Bishop nodded, impressed. Then he broke into a grin.

'So you are, then?'

Thorne smiled as he carried the empty mugs through to the kitchen. 'What do you do, James, when you're not worrying about your father?'

Bishop moved aimlessly around the living room. He stopped to study the pile of CDs.. 'I always worry about my father. We're very close. Are you and yours not, then?'

Thorne grimaced. 'Well?'

'I move about a lot. Bit of writing. Tried being an actor. Anything that pays the rent, I suppose.'

Thorne was starting to feel that he understood this young man. Not that he understood many of them any more. This one wasn't quite the good-for-nothing he'd thought Anne had described. Beneath the attempts at nonconformity there was almost certainly an inherited conventionality, which he was trying desperately to escape. Which was why he was trying to escape. He was misguided for sure, but essentially harmless. James Bishop had no idea of the poisonous gene pool in which he was splashing around. He could piss in the water as much as he liked, but in all the ways that didn't matter, the poor sod was his father's son.

'Did you study?'

'I wasted a couple of years at college, yeah. I'm not the ivory-tower type.'

Thorne came back into the living room and picked up his jacket. 'Tower Records type, though?'

'Oh, yeah…' Bishop self-consciously fingered the T-shirt that carried the shop's logo. 'I'm working there at the moment.'

Thorne gestured towards the hallway. It was time to go. Bishop moved quickly towards the front door, in no hurry to hang about.

'Well, maybe I'll see you in there,' said Thorne. 'What's your country section like?'

Bishop laughed. 'Fuck should I know?'

Thorne opened the front door. It was starting to rain.

'Stupid question. What – you more into ambient?

Trance? Speed-garage? Could you get me a discount on the new Groove rider twelve-inch?'

Bishop looked at him.

Thorne pulled the door shut. 'You've had quite a few surprises this morning, haven't you?'

Margaret Byrne lived on the ground floor of a small terraced house in Tulse Hill. She was not what Holland and Tughan had been expecting. A plain and prematurely grey-haired woman, she was probably in her late forties and considerably overweight. Tughan could not conceal his surprise as she peered round her front door at them, one foot held in place against the jamb to prevent a large ginger cat escaping. Once the IDs, which she'd asked to see, had been produced, she. was happy to invite them in. She insisted on making them tea, leaving Tughan and Holland to negotiate a route round at least three more large cats before arriving at comfortable chairs in her front room. Holland was thinking it, but it was Tughan that said it.

'This place fucking stinks,' he hissed, before adding drily, 'No wonder he changed his mind and pissed off.'

After the tea, and a good selection of biscuits, had appeared, Holland sat back, as he'd been instructed to do, and let Tughan run things.

'So you live alone then, Margaret?'

She pulled a face. 'I hate Margaret. Can we stick to Maggie?'

Holland smiled, thinking, Go on, don't make it easy for him.

'Sorry. Maggie…'

'My husband left a couple of years ago. Don't know why I call him that, he could never be arsed to marry me, but anyway…'

'No children?'

She wrapped her grey cardigan tight across her chest.

'Got a daughter. She's twenty-three, lives in Edinburgh, and I haven't got the first idea where her father is.'

She took another biscuit and began stroking the black and-white cat that had jumped on to her lap. She muttered to it softly and it settled down. Holland thought she was a bit like his mum. He hadn't seen her for ages. Maybe he'd talk to Sophie about asking her down to stay for a bit.

'Right, tell us about the man with the champagne, Maggie.'

'Didn't you write it down when I phoned up?'

Holland smiled. Tughan didn't.

'We just need a few more details, that's all.'

'Well, it was about eight o'clock, I think. I answered the door and this bloke was standing there waving a bottle about. He asked me if this was where Jenny was having a party?'

'Have you got a neighbour called Jenny?'

'I don't think so. He said he was sure he'd got the right address and we had a bit of a laugh about something or other and he started being a bit naughty, you know, saying how it was a shame to waste a bottle of champagne. He was flirting… I think he was a bit tipsy.'

'You said when you called that you could give us a very good description.'

'Did I? Oh, bloody hell. Right, well he was tall, definitely over six feet, glasses, and very well dressed. He had a very nice suit on, you know, expensive…'

'Colour?'

'Blue, I think. Dark blue.'

Holland was jotting it all down and keeping his mouth shut like a good boy.

'Go on, Maggie.'

'He had short, grayish hair…'

'Grayish?'

'Yeah, you know, not silver, just graying, but he wasn't that old, I don't think. Well, not as old as me at any rate.'

'How old?'

'Thirty-six… thirty-seven? I've always been rubbish at that. Well, I think most people are, aren't they?' She turned and looked at Holland. 'How old d'you reckon I am?'

Holland could feel the colour coming to his cheeks. Why the hell had she asked him? 'Oh… I don't know… Thirty-nine?'

She smiled, acknowledging the kindness of the lie. 'I'm forty-three, and I know I look older.'

Tughan, anxious to get back on track, cleared his throat. The cat, startled, shot off Margaret Byrne's lap and flew out of the door. This, in turn, made Tughan jump, which Holland would later remember as the only amusing thing about the entire interview.