Lazy Bones by Mark Billingham Page B
Authors: Mark Billingham
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological fiction, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Mystery Fiction, Police, Police Procedural, Serial Murders, Rapists, Thorne; Tom (Fictitious character), Police - Great Britain, Rapists - Crimes against
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the time off work, but the sick pay wasn't going to last for ever and she was contributing nothing and now the debts were growing as thick and fast as the suspicion. Mushrooming, like the doubts that sprouted in every damp, dark corner of their lives; had been, ever since that moment when the foreman of the jury had stood and cleared his throat.
He walked into the bedroom, feeling the carpet crunch beneath his feet. He glanced down at a dozen, distorted reflections of himself in the shards of broken mirror, then across to where she lay, no more than a lump beneath the blankets. He turned and walked back the way he'd come. Back across the creaky floorboard.
In the bathroom, he skidded in the puddles of ivory face-cream. He
88
stepped across the piss-coloured slicks of perfume. He kicked away the broken bottles into every corner.
So much that was designed to smel al uring, desirable, mingled unnat ztral y on floor and wal s, making him heave...
He moved across to the sink, afraid he would retch. He found it fil ed with the contents of the cabinet that stood empty above it.
Blusher and lipstick and eye-shadow ground into the porcelain. Moisturiser clogging the plughole like poisonous waste.
Powder and shampoo and bath oil, thrown and poured and sprinkled. The edges of her fancy soaps blunted against the wal s. Dents in the plasterboard, pink as babies, blue as bruises.
The mirror cracked, and spattered with nail varnish, red as arterial spray...
He ran a tap into the perfumed swamp, splashed water on to his face. He looked around at her handprints in talcum, the fingertrails dragged through brightly coloured body lotion. Hints of herself left behind in everything she was trying to discard.
She'd been fine until they'd found her out, hadn't she? Fine with he knowledge of what she'd done as long as it stayed just between her and Franklin. Now the guilt was eating at her, wasn't it? Sending her fucking
mental or making her pretend that she was, it didn't real y matter which.
Half a minute later he was walking back down the stairs, thinking, She
lied, she lied, she lied, she lied...
She. Lied.
89
SEVEN
Thorne might wel have gone right off Eve Bloom had she been a morning person - one of those deeply annoying types who is always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed whatever the ungodly hour. As it was, he was relieved to find her wedged into a quiet corner, clutching a poly srene cup fil ed with seriously strong tea, and grimacing at nothing in particular. She clearly felt as much like a warmed-up bag of shit as he did...
Thorne cranked his face into action and forced a smile. 'And there I was, thinking that you'd be ful of the joys of it.' She stared at him, said nothing. 'Fired up by the noise and the colour, intoxicated by the
sweet smel of a mil ion flowers...'
She scowled. 'Bol ocks.'
Thorne shivered slightly and rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket. It might have been the hottest summer for a good few years, but at this time in the morning it was stil distinctly bloody nippy. 'Like that then?' he said. 'Floristry losing its appeal, is it?'
She took a noisy slurp of tea. 'Some aspects get ever so slightly on my tits, yes . . .'
90
They stepped back as a trol ey piled high with long, multicoloured boxes came past. The porter behind it winked at Eve, laughed when she gave him the finger.
'You know you want me, Evie,' he shouted, wheeling the trol ey away.
She turned back to Thorne. 'So, you love everything about your job, do you?'
'No, not everything. I'm not big on post-mortems or armed sieges.
Or team-building seminars...'
'There you go, then...'
'Most of the time though, I think I love it...'
There was the first hint of a smile. She was starting to enjoy their double act. 'Sounds to me like maybe you love it, but you're not in love with it...'
'Right.' Thorne nodded. 'Problems with commitment.'
She blew on to the tea, her pale face deadpan. 'Typical bloke,' she said. Then she
He walked into the bedroom, feeling the carpet crunch beneath his feet. He glanced down at a dozen, distorted reflections of himself in the shards of broken mirror, then across to where she lay, no more than a lump beneath the blankets. He turned and walked back the way he'd come. Back across the creaky floorboard.
In the bathroom, he skidded in the puddles of ivory face-cream. He
88
stepped across the piss-coloured slicks of perfume. He kicked away the broken bottles into every corner.
So much that was designed to smel al uring, desirable, mingled unnat ztral y on floor and wal s, making him heave...
He moved across to the sink, afraid he would retch. He found it fil ed with the contents of the cabinet that stood empty above it.
Blusher and lipstick and eye-shadow ground into the porcelain. Moisturiser clogging the plughole like poisonous waste.
Powder and shampoo and bath oil, thrown and poured and sprinkled. The edges of her fancy soaps blunted against the wal s. Dents in the plasterboard, pink as babies, blue as bruises.
The mirror cracked, and spattered with nail varnish, red as arterial spray...
He ran a tap into the perfumed swamp, splashed water on to his face. He looked around at her handprints in talcum, the fingertrails dragged through brightly coloured body lotion. Hints of herself left behind in everything she was trying to discard.
She'd been fine until they'd found her out, hadn't she? Fine with he knowledge of what she'd done as long as it stayed just between her and Franklin. Now the guilt was eating at her, wasn't it? Sending her fucking
mental or making her pretend that she was, it didn't real y matter which.
Half a minute later he was walking back down the stairs, thinking, She
lied, she lied, she lied, she lied...
She. Lied.
89
SEVEN
Thorne might wel have gone right off Eve Bloom had she been a morning person - one of those deeply annoying types who is always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed whatever the ungodly hour. As it was, he was relieved to find her wedged into a quiet corner, clutching a poly srene cup fil ed with seriously strong tea, and grimacing at nothing in particular. She clearly felt as much like a warmed-up bag of shit as he did...
Thorne cranked his face into action and forced a smile. 'And there I was, thinking that you'd be ful of the joys of it.' She stared at him, said nothing. 'Fired up by the noise and the colour, intoxicated by the
sweet smel of a mil ion flowers...'
She scowled. 'Bol ocks.'
Thorne shivered slightly and rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket. It might have been the hottest summer for a good few years, but at this time in the morning it was stil distinctly bloody nippy. 'Like that then?' he said. 'Floristry losing its appeal, is it?'
She took a noisy slurp of tea. 'Some aspects get ever so slightly on my tits, yes . . .'
90
They stepped back as a trol ey piled high with long, multicoloured boxes came past. The porter behind it winked at Eve, laughed when she gave him the finger.
'You know you want me, Evie,' he shouted, wheeling the trol ey away.
She turned back to Thorne. 'So, you love everything about your job, do you?'
'No, not everything. I'm not big on post-mortems or armed sieges.
Or team-building seminars...'
'There you go, then...'
'Most of the time though, I think I love it...'
There was the first hint of a smile. She was starting to enjoy their double act. 'Sounds to me like maybe you love it, but you're not in love with it...'
'Right.' Thorne nodded. 'Problems with commitment.'
She blew on to the tea, her pale face deadpan. 'Typical bloke,' she said. Then she
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