Bloodline by Mark Billingham Page A

to know what it was like . I mean, what did they think it was like?’ She was talking to Holland and Thorne as much as to Paice now, tearing pieces of the label from her beer bottle, balling them up in her palm. ‘She used to get pestered by people writing books about it and making TV documentaries. There was even one bloke she used to go out with who she reckoned . . . got off on it. Sickos, you know? So, a few years ago she just decided she’d had enough. Changed her name, moved to a different side of the city and never talked about it to anyone. I’d known Cath since we were at school, but I was the only one she still spoke to who knew what had happened when she was a kid. Apart from me, nobody had a clue. Nobody at work. Not Jamie.’
    Thorne looked at Paice. ‘How long had the two of you been together?’
    Paice looked shell-shocked. ‘A year and a half.’ He moved the bottle towards his mouth, stared at it. ‘Christ . . .’
    â€˜Why “Burke”,’ Holland asked.
    Turner lobbed the rolled-up pieces of the label into a wicker wastepaper basket in the corner. ‘It was her mum’s maiden name,’ she said. ‘She never really had anything of her mum’s after she died. Her dad drank quite a bit afterwards, and ended up flogging anything he could find to pay for it. Her mum’s name was about the only thing of hers that Cath could keep.’
    Thorne knew they were just about done. He glanced down towards his jacket, which he had dropped on to the floor by the side of the sofa. ‘How old was she when it happened?’
    â€˜Eleven,’ Turner said. ‘Our first year at big school.’ She closed her eyes for five seconds . . . ten, then stood up and moved back to her own chair. ‘It really messed her up. For ever , you know?’
    â€˜The drugs, right?’
    â€˜Well, who wouldn’t?’
    Reaching for the jacket, Thorne saw the eyes of the man in the armchair drift down to his feet and knew that Jamie Paice had been more than happy to keep his girlfriend company; to get out of it with her on whatever pills Catherine had managed to smuggle out of the hospital.
    â€˜Garvey killed Catherine’s mum while she was sunbathing,’ Turner said. ‘Climbed over a fence and battered her to death in broad daylight. ’ She looked at what was left in her bottle, then finished it quickly. ‘Catherine found her in the garden when she came home from school.’
Fifteen minutes later, a mile or so from the M1, Holland said, ‘Should be back by midnight with a bit of luck.’
    â€˜I think it’s probably best if we stay over,’ Thorne said.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Have a couple of drinks, get our heads down, then head back first thing.’
    Holland looked less than thrilled. ‘I didn’t warn Sophie.’
    â€˜Well, we’re both in the same boat.’ Thorne slowed down and began studying the road-signs. ‘We passed a place on the way in. Be handy for the motorway in the morning.’
    â€˜Shit . . . I haven’t got any overnight stuff.’
    â€˜We can get you a toothbrush from somewhere,’ Thorne said. ‘And don’t tell me you’ve never worn the same pair of pants two days running. ’
    â€˜It’s mad though,’ Holland said. ‘We’re only an hour and a bit away from home.’
    â€˜I’m tired.’
    â€˜I’m happy to drive, if you want to sleep.’
    â€˜I want to stay over,’ Thorne said.
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    It was somewhere between a Travelodge and a borstal, with wood-effect plastic on every available surface, pan-pipe music coming from speakers too high up to rip off the wall and a worrying smell in the lobby. They checked in fast and tried not to breathe too much. Thorne did his best to be pleasant and jokey, failing to elicit a smile from the woman behind the desk, then as neither he nor Holland could face seeing his