Lazybones by Mark Billingham

Thorne opened his wallet, dropped fifteen pounds on top of the bill. “Forty-two. Forty-three in…fuck, in ten days.”
    She clipped up a few stray hairs that had tumbled loose. “I won’t say that you don’t look it, because that always sounds so false, but looking at you, I’d say that they were forty-three pretty interesting years.”
    Thorne nodded. “I’m not going to argue, but just so you know…I don’t mind about the sounding-false thing.”
    She smiled, put on a pair of small almond-shaped sunglasses. “Forty, then. Late thirties at a push.”
    Thorne stood up, pulling his leather jacket from the chair behind him. “I’ll settle for that…”
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    Back at the shop they swapped business cards, shook hands, and stood together, a little awkwardly, in the doorway. Thorne looked around. “Maybe I should get a plant or something…”
    Eve bent down and picked up what looked like a miniature metal bucket. A cactuslike plant sprouted from a layer of smooth white pebbles. She handed it to him. “Do you like this?”
    Thorne was far from sure. “What do I owe you?”
    â€œNothing. It’s an early birthday present.”
    He studied it from every angle. “Right. Thanks…”
    â€œIt’s an aloe vera plant.”
    Thorne nodded. Over her shoulder, he could see Keith watching them closely from behind the counter. “So I should be all right for shampoo…”
    â€œThere’s a gel in the leaves, very good for cuts and scrapes.”
    Thorne looked at the fierce-looking spikes growing along the edges of the plant’s sword-shaped leaves. “That’ll come in handy.”
    They stepped out onto the pavement, the slight awkwardness returning. Thorne noticed a silver scooter parked by the side of the shop—one of the latest Vespas, based on the classic design. He nodded toward it. “Yours?”
    She shook her head. “God, no. That’s Keith’s.” She pointed to the other side of the road. “That’s me over there…”
    Thorne looked across the road at the grubby white van behind which he’d parked the Mondeo. The name of the shop was painted on its side, in the same creeping-ivy design as was on the shopfront.
    â€œThe name certainly fits,” he said.
    She laughed. “Right. Like being an undertaker called De’Ath. What else could I do? Flowers are the only thing I can think of that bloom…”
    Thorne could think of several other things, but he shook his head, not wanting to say anything that might spoil a nice afternoon. “No, you’re right,” he said.
    Thinking…
    Bruises. Tumors. Bloodstains…
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    For the fourth time in the last hour, Welch was answering the same stupid set of questions.
    â€œDate of birth?”
    Maybe the officers just passed the list among themselves. You’d have thought that at least one of them could have come up with something more interesting…
    â€œMother’s maiden name?”
    But no. Same tired old teasers designed to catch out the impostor. The process had gone unchanged for many years, but these days they really weren’t taking any chances. Not since the incident a couple of months earlier. A couple of Pakistanis in a prison up north had swapped places on release day and the silly bastards had let the wrong one out. Several guards had blown their pensions that day and, once the jungle drums had finished beating, given every con in the country a fucking good laugh…
    â€œDo you have any tattoos?”
    â€œCan I ask the audience?”
    â€œYou want to be a smart-arse, Welch, we can start the whole thing over again…”
    Welch smiled and answered the questions. He wasn’t going to do anything silly at this stage of the game. Each door he walked through, each successfully completed series of questions, each tick on a chart took him one step