Bloodline-9 by Mark Billingham

said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Have a couple of drinks, get our heads down, then head back first thing.’
    Hol and looked less than thril ed. ‘I didn’t warn Sophie.’
    ‘Wel , 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.’
    ‘Shit . . . I haven’t got any overnight stuff.’
    ‘We can get you a toothbrush from somewhere,’ Thorne said. ‘And don’t tel me you’ve never worn the same pair of pants two days running. ’
    ‘It’s mad though,’ Hol and said. ‘We’re only an hour and a bit away from home.’
    ‘I’m tired.’
    ‘I’m happy to drive, if you want to sleep.’
    ‘I want to stay over,’ Thorne said.
    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 wal and a worrying smel 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 Hol and could face seeing his 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 virtual y 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.
    ‘Joint’s jumping,’ Hol and 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 Hil for himself and a pint of Stel a for Hol and. 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.
    ‘They’re covered in piss,’ Hol and said.
    Thorne already had a mouthful of nuts and was brushing the salt from his hands. He looked across and grunted, ‘What?’
    Hol and 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.’
    Hol and helped himself to a handful. ‘Just tel ing 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 Hol and 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.
    ‘Extremely gay,’ Hol and 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 Hol and it was his round. A few minutes later, Hol and returned from the bar with another glass of wine, half a lager and four packets of piss-free crisps.
    ‘Don’t you feel a bit guilty?’ Hol and asked. ‘About Paice, I mean. He obviously didn’t know about the Garvey thing.’
    ‘I don’t know about “obviously”.’
    ‘Did you see his face?’
    Thorne took a few seconds. ‘Maybe he and his new girlfriend cooked that story up.’
    ‘Why would they do that?’
    ‘Buggered if I know.’
    ‘Wel , they deserve Oscars if they did.’ Hol and downed what was left of his pint and poured the half into the empty glass. ‘Anyway, who says she’s his girlfriend?’
    ‘It was the first thing I thought, I suppose,’ Thorne said. ‘As soon as I