The Dying Hours by Mark Billingham

to a whisper, the pause before the inevitable question.
    What can I do for you?
    ‘What about afterwards?’ Holland asked.
    ‘I don’t know,’ Thorne said.
    ‘Good to know you’re thinking ahead.’
    ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
    ‘It’s the
we
that’s worrying me.’
    ‘Come on, Dave…’
    Thorne waited again. Blinked away the faces of Andrew Cooper, Neil Hackett, Trevor Jesmond. Wasn’t crossing the bridge what had got him into this situation to begin with? He drummed his fingers against the edge of the table, reached for his mug and took a slurp of lukewarm tea. The low rumble of a train heading from Kentish Town to Gospel Oak rose up through the floorboards and was swiftly followed by the gentle tinkling of glasses in the kitchen cabinet. One of the reasons he’d been able to buy the flat so cheaply.
    ‘Dave…⁠?’
    He had not slept much the night before. The rush after finding Margaret Cooper’s message had only intensified as he and Hendricks had driven north again, as they had talked, argued about what to do next. Now, he could still taste the adrenalin, its metallic tang like a reminder of a heavy night’s boozing on that first morning belch. Eight o’clock on a shitty Monday and, notwithstanding the lack of sleep, he felt fresher, more awake than he had in a long time. He wanted to crack on. He wanted to be out of the door and away before any of those second thoughts Hendricks had been so insistent upon.
    ‘Let’s talk about
career
suicide,’ Hendricks had said when Thorne had dropped him off. Standing on the pavement, the thump of a bass and the shouts of late-night revellers drifting down from Camden High Street. Leaning down to stare back at Thorne through the open car door. ‘You know that’s what this is, don’t you?’
    ‘You a shrink now, as well?’
    ‘Just a mate,’ Hendricks had said.
    ‘This about the other night?’ Holland asked now. ‘You showing up at that suicide in Stanmore?’
    ‘It’s… connected, yeah.’
    ‘I think I might need a bit more than that.’
    Thorne could hear phones ringing in the background, the buzz of voices in the Murder Room. The same seductive hubbub that had made his blood pump a little quicker for so many years, that had left him feeling dizzy when he’d walked into the MIT at Lewisham.
    He glanced around his living room. He could do it from here if he had to, from one room, with one phone. Push came to shove, he could do it from his
car
.
    He gave Holland the highlights, swallowed the last of his tea.
    ‘So… say I go down there,’ Holland said. ‘I talk to whoever and it
is
part of the same thing—’
    ‘The same series of murders.’
    ‘Yeah, say it is. Then you hand this over, right? You make sure there’s a proper investigation.’
    ‘I’ll do whatever needs to be done.’
    ‘I’ve known you too long,’ Holland said.
    ‘For what?’
    ‘For that to fill me with any confidence. To be thinking anything except I should run a mile.’
    Thorne pressed the phone against his ear. Rubbed the side of his face. ‘Listen, maybe I should ask somebody else.’
    ‘Who?’ Holland asked. Spat on a whisper, the anger clear enough. ‘Who else are you going to ask?’ Now, it was Holland’s turn to wait. ‘Give me one good reason,’ he said, eventually. The anger was gone and now there was only resignation. ‘Just one.’
    Because you’re a friend? Thorne thought. No. Because you’re a good copper, because once, at least, you wanted nothing more than to be one. Maybe. Thorne remembered what Christine Treasure had said to him, the excitement she felt coming into work, and he remembered the way she had disparaged the desk-jockey detective.
    ‘What else are you going to be doing, Dave?’ he asked. ‘Watching CCTV footage for hours on end? Talking to the wankers at mobile phone companies?’
     
    When the call was finished and Holland had folded the piece of paper on which he’d scribbled the relevant