Lazybones by Mark Billingham Page A

farther away from the center of the place. One step closer to the final door.
    Answering pointless questions and signing his name over and over. Taking receipt of his travel warrant and discharge grant. Taking back his property. The battered wallet, the wristwatch, the ring of yellow metal. Always “yellow metal.” Never “gold” in case the bastards lose it…
    Then through another door and on to another guard, and all this one gets to say to him is “good-bye.”
    Welch walked away toward the gate. He moved slowly, savoring every step, seconds away from the moment when he would hear the clang of the heavy door behind him and feel the heat of the day on his face.
    And look up at a sun the color of yellow metal.
    Â 
    For Thorne and Hendricks, a Saturday night in front of the television with beer and a takeaway curry was a regular pleasure. For nine months of the year there was football to watch, to argue about. Tonight, the start of the new season still seven weeks away, they would probably watch a film. Or just sit through whatever was on until, a couple of cans in, they stopped really caring. Maybe they would just put some music on and talk.
    It was nearly nine o’clock and the light was only just starting to fade. They walked down Kentish TownRoad, away from the restaurant and back toward Thorne’s place. Both wore jeans and a T-shirt, though Thorne’s were far and away the baggier and less eye-catching. Hendricks carried a plastic bag, heavy with cans of lager, while Thorne took responsibility for the curry. The Bengal Lancer delivered, but it was a nice evening for a walk and there was the added attraction of a cold pint of Kingfisher while they’d waited, the smell coming from the kitchens sharpening the edges of their appetites.
    â€œWhy the rape?” Thorne asked suddenly.
    Hendricks nodded. “Right. Good move. Let’s get the shoptalk out of the way—you know, the rape and murder stuff—then we can relax and enjoy Casualty …”
    Thorne ignored the sarcasm. “Everything else so well planned, so meticulously done. He takes no chances. He strips the bed even after he’s killed Remfry on the floor. Takes everything away to make sure he leaves nothing of himself behind…”
    â€œNothing strange about not wanting to get caught.”
    â€œNo, but it was all so careful. Ritualized almost. Whether it happened before or after the murder, I don’t see the rape as part of that. Maybe he just snapped at some point, lost it…”
    â€œI can’t see it myself. The killer didn’t just go mental and do it without thinking. He knew what he was doing. He wore a condom, so he was still wary, still in control…”
    There were dozens of people gathered outside the Grapevine pub. They spilled across the pavement, laughing and drinking, enjoying the weather. Hendricks was forced to drop behind Thorne as they stepped into the road to skirt around the crowd.
    â€œYou think the rape wasn’t part of the plan?” Hendricks was abreast of Thorne again. “You think he just decided to do it once he’d got there?”
    â€œNo, I think he planned the whole thing. The rape just seems—”
    â€œIt was more violent than most, I agree, but rape’s hardly delicate, is it?”
    An old man waiting at a zebra crossing to cross the road caught just enough of the conversation. He jerked his head around and, ignoring the signal to cross, watched them walk away. A frustrated driver waiting at the crossing glared at the old man and leaned on his horn…
    â€œI’m not sure why it bothers me,” Thorne said. “It’s a murder investigation but it’s the rape part that feels significant…”
    â€œYou think the killer was making a point?”
    â€œDon’t you?” Hendricks shrugged and nodded, heaved the bag up, and slid a protective arm underneath. “Right,” Thorne