Bloodline by Mark Billingham Page B

room without at least one drink inside them, they moved straight from the sumptuous reception area into what passed for a bar.
    It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock but the place - half a dozen tables and some artificial plants - was virtually empty. Two middle-aged men in suits were huddled at a table by the door and a woman in her early thirties sat at one end of the bar, flicking through a magazine. There was no sign of any staff.
    â€˜Joint’s jumping,’ Holland said.
    After a few minutes, a balding bundle of fun in a plum-coloured waistcoat materialised behind the bar and Thorne bought the drinks: a glass of Blossom Hill for himself and a pint of Stella for Holland. He asked about ordering some sandwiches and was told that the kitchen was short staffed. They carried their drinks to a table in the corner, Thorne grabbing half-eaten bowls of peanuts from the three adjacent tables before he sat down.
    â€˜They’re covered in piss,’ Holland said.
    Thorne already had a mouthful of nuts and was brushing the salt from his hands. He looked across and grunted, ‘What?’
    Holland nodded down at the bowl. ‘From people who go to the bog and don’t wash their hands. I saw a thing on Oprah where they did these tests and found traces of piss in bowls of peanuts and pretzels, stuff they leave out on bars.’
    Thorne shrugged. ‘I’m hungry.’
    Holland helped himself to a handful. ‘Just telling you,’ he said.
    The piped music had changed to what was probably Michael Bolton, but could also have been a large animal in great pain. The wine went down easily enough, though, and Thorne enjoyed the banter when Holland commented on the fact that he was drinking rosé. Thorne informed him that Louise had started buying it, that according to an article he’d seen, it was now extremely trendy.
    â€˜Extremely gay,’ Holland said.
    Thorne might have said something about that kind of comment upsetting Phil Hendricks, were it not exactly what Hendricks would have said himself. Instead, he pushed his empty glass across the table and reminded Holland it was his round. A few minutes later, Holland returned from the bar with another glass of wine, half a lager and four packets of piss-free crisps.
    â€˜Don’t you feel a bit guilty?’ Holland asked. ‘About Paice, I mean. He obviously didn’t know about the Garvey thing.’
    â€˜I don’t know about “obviously”.’
    â€˜Did you see his face?’
    Thorne took a few seconds. ‘Maybe he and his new girlfriend cooked that story up.’
    â€˜Why would they do that?’
    â€˜Buggered if I know.’
    â€˜Well, they deserve Oscars if they did.’ Holland downed what was left of his pint and poured the half into the empty glass. ‘Anyway, who says she’s his girlfriend?’
    â€˜It was the first thing I thought, I suppose,’ Thorne said. ‘As soon as I walked in.’
    Holland shook his head. ‘Never occurred to me. Some people have got nasty, suspicious minds.’
    â€˜Difficult not to.’
    â€˜That make you a good copper, you reckon?’ Holland smiled, but it didn’t sound as though he was joking. ‘Or a bad one?’
    â€˜Probably just one who’s been doing it too long,’ Thorne said.
    Holland leaned forward to see if there were any crisps left, but all the packets were empty. ‘So, how long was it before you stopped giving people the benefit of the doubt?’ he asked.
    â€˜That’s the jury’s job, not mine,’ Thorne said.
    â€˜Seriously.’
    â€˜I don’t think I ever did . . . ever do .’ Thorne took a mouthful of wine. It was a little sweeter than the one Louise bought from Sainsbury’s. ‘If you start off assuming that everyone’s a twat, you’re unlikely to be disappointed. ’ He glanced towards the bar and saw the woman looking in their direction. He smiled, then