Sleepyhead

'How long is this going to take?'

It wasn't going to take very long at all. As Bishop had started speaking, he had proffered his left hand in return for Holland's. They'd shaken, and with a quick downward glance, Holland had got what he'd come for. What Thorne had sent him for.

No wedding ring.

I've been reading a lot. The same page usually, over and over again, but what the hell? Early on, there was a bit of a scramble to find some interesting reading matter and while they were looking, to sort of test out their new-fangled device, the occupational therapist gave me some official hospital literature to read.

Yawn…

Well, that's what I thought until I started reading. Fascinating stuff. This is a quote, and I can remember it very accurately having stared at it for twenty minutes: 'The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, incorporating the Institute of Neurology, is a unique resource for teaching, training and research in neurology and the neurosciences. The work of academic staff and their research is closely integrated with the hospital's care of its patients." Well, that all seems clear enough to me. The 'care' bit is very much an afterthought, you know, tagged on at the end when somebody remembered that it was supposed to be a hospital. The rest seems to be all about research and training and, frankly, they can just fuck right off.

I'm a patient. Trust me, I'd really rather not be here at all, but if I am then my job description is 'patient mate. I'm nobody's resource. Nobody's fucking teaching aid.

'Let's have a look at this poor young woman here, utterly buggered thanks to brainstem trauma. Can you try and blink for us, dear?'

No thanks.

All right, I'm being a bit over the top but when I first read that I was really upset. I lay awake all night wondering if anybody here was making any effort at all to help me get better. I'm still wondering.

Am I more use to them the way I am?

SEVENTEEN

Keable and Tughan had questions ready, and Thorne had plenty of answers. First, there was the small matter of another complaint from Jeremy Bishop.

'He claims there was somebody watching his house on Saturday evening.' Keable looked at Thorne. Thorne shrugged and turned to Holland innocently.

'Did he say anything about this to you last night?'

Tughan spoke before Holland had a chance to answer.

'You are on such thin ice, Thorne.'

Thorne smiled. He was feeling elated and no amount of sniping from Nick Tughan was going to alter his mood. One day soon they would have it all out. For now, he was best ignored.

Tughan was seated in a chair against the wall beneath the calendar, and Holland stood with his back to the door. The office felt crowded. Thorne placed both hands on Keable's desk and leaned down to him. 'So what are we going to do, Frank?'

Keable slid his chair away from the desk, retreating. He held up a hand. 'First we're going to think about what we've really got here. How on earth can she be sure the ring isn't her mother's?'

'She's sure.'

Tughan snorted. 'She lives in Edinburgh, she never saw her mother, for fuck's sake. The ring could be anyone's. Who knows how many men she had round there?'

Holland spoke quietly. 'I don't think Margaret Byrne had any men. Sir.'

Tughan turned round and glared. Holland refused to look away.

'SOC got no prints off the body…'

Thorne slammed a hand down on the desk. 'If SOC hadn't fucked up and catalogued a vital piece of evidence as one of the victim's possessions we wouldn't even be here. This would be over by now.'

'No prints on the body, Tom. The killer wore gloves, so how the hell does he lose a ring?'

Thorne took a deep breath. Answer the question. Nice and calm. 'I think he put the gloves on once she was unconscious. Surgical gloves. He put them on to handle the scalpel. To make his incision. The ring could have come off anytime before then. There was obviously some sort of struggle.'

Keable looked over at Tughan, who shook his head.

'What does Bishop say?'

Holland stepped forward, placed a hand on the back of Tughan's chair. Spoke over his head. 'He claims to have lost it a few weeks ago.'

Tughan was still shaking his head. Not having any of it.

'How do you "lose" a wedding ring?' He began twisting his own. 'I couldn't get this fucker off even if I wanted to.'

Holland had answers as well as Thorne. 'His comes off quite easily, he told me. He takes it off at work. Takes all his jewelry off. Claims somebody took it out of his locker.'

Keable seized on this. 'Anything else taken?'

'His wallet and a watch. A Tag Heuer.'

'Did he report it?'

'No point. He says stuff goes missing from lockers all the time.'

Thorne's eyes flicked from one face to the other. Holland was doing well. Keable would not go for this without facts. He needed a weight of facts in support, and Holland was supplying them.

'When was this?'

'Nearly three weeks ago. The eleventh.'

Keable nodded. 'The day before Margaret Byrne was killed.'

Thorne said nothing. The day he'd conned the lift into town. Bishop had been wearing the ring then. Letting Keable make the decision. It was important he felt that it was his. He was still nodding.

'What do you want, Tom?'

'I want a warrant.'

Tughan stood quickly, his chair shooting back behind him. Keable raised a hand. 'Let's get this ring down here first, and over to the forensic boys. We'll talk about warrants if and when. Nick, get on the phone to Lothian and Borders. I want it driven down here. Understand?'

Tughan was first out of the door. Holland held it open for him. As Thorne went to follow, Keable stopped him.

'There's a press conference scheduled for midday, Tom. I'd like you on the platform, please.'

Keable's tone implied that he would brook no arguments. He wasn't going to get any. The adrenaline was pumping round Thorne's body. He was high as a kite. He'd have happily agreed to appear on Stars In Their Eyes. Thorne…

Walking into the operations room. Avoiding eye-contact with nobody. Acknowledging the kind words and approving looks. Putting a hand on Dave Holland's arm and savouring the smile he gets in return. Relishing the scowl on the face of Nick Tughan as the Irishman runs fingers through his thin blond hair and grabs at the phone. And enjoying the relief in the voices of the girls.

'It's going to be over soon, isn't it?'

' Tommy? Is this it?'

' You going to get him, Tommy?'

' Get the fucker…'

Christine, Madeleine, Susan. And Helen at the end. Spitting out enough hope for all of them. It was a hope he was no longer afraid of dashing.

' Yes, I'm going to get him. Very soon.'

And somewhere in the background, the laughter of Leonie Holden.

He watched it twice. He watched it on each edition of the lunchtime news, BBC and ITV. Both times he was entranced. Both times he laughed out loud, and applauded at the end.

He was in a much better mood anyway. Things were looking up and the despondency of the day before – it had been a dreadful day – had evaporated with one small snippet of news. It was a little overdue, but more than welcome. He still had no great urge to try the procedure again, but it seemed as if things might work out as planned after all.

Commander Sincere, Detective Chief Inspector Eyebrows… and Tom Thorne. He'd cheered when Thorne had been introduced, finally, to the nation. So everything was hunky-dory again, was it? Tom was back on the team.

The commander spoke about 'new leads and exciting new avenues of investigation'. And about time too! That said, they were still keen to hear from anyone who could supply even a partial number-plate on the blue Volvo, and they were still showing that bloody awful e-fib courtesy of some blind passer-by on the night he'd taken Helen Doyle. Margaret Byrne would have come up with something far more accurate…