Mark Billingham - Good as Dead

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 9780748120482

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 Mark Billingham

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

The DI Tom Thorne series

SLEEPYHEAD

SCAREDY CAT

LAZYBONES

THE BURNING GIRL

LIFELESS

BURIED

DEATH MESSAGE

BLOODLINE

FROM THE DEAD

Other fiction

IN THE DARK

www.markbillingham.com

To David Morrissey and Jolyon Symonds.

For bringing Thorne to the screen so brilliantly.

Chewing gum and chocolate, maybe a bottle of water on those hens teeth days when the sun was shining. A paper for the journey into work and half a minute of meaningless chat while she was waiting for her change.

Nothing there worth dying for.

Helen Weeks would tell herself much the same thing many times before it was over. In the hours spent staring at the small black hole from which death could emerge in less time than it took for her heart to beat. Or stop beating. In those slow-motion moments of terror that measured out each day and in the sleepless nights that followed. While the man who might kill her at any moment was shouting at himself just a few feet away, or crying in the next room.

It is not my time to die.

Or my babys time to lose his mother

The chewing gum was a habitual thing, something to do and to help her stay off the cigarettes shed given up two years before when shed become pregnant. A newspaper ensured she would not have to look at the people sitting opposite her on the train, presuming she was lucky enough to get a seat and did not find herself pressed up against some lard-arse in a cheap suit who bought his aftershave from Poundstretcher. The chocolate was an addiction, pure and simple. One that had made the struggle to lose weight since her son was born no more than partially successful. She would try and eke it out; a chunk or two around eleven with a coffee, another after lunch and the rest as a treat at the end of the day. That was always the plan, but it was usually gone before shed so much as logged on at her desk or, if the case she was working on was particularly unpleasant, by the time her train had finished its four-minute journey to Streatham station.

There were a lot of unpleasant cases.

She collected her paper from the rack near the door of the newsagents, and by the time she reached the counter Mr Akhtar had already picked out her usual chewing gum and chocolate bar of choice. He smiled and brandished them as she approached.

Same as always. Their private joke.

How is the little one? he asked.

Mr Akhtar was a short, prematurely balding man who almost always had a smile on his face. He rarely wore anything other than dark trousers, a white shirt and a cardigan, though that might be blue or brown. Helen thought he was probably younger than he looked, but put him somewhere in his mid-fifties.

Hes good, Helen said. She was aware of the customer she had seen browsing through the magazines on her way in, moving up to stand behind her. The man tall, black, thirties had been looking up at some of the covers in the top shelfs gentlemans interest section and had quickly dropped his eyes down to the lifestyle and motoring mags when hed seen Helen come in. Yeah, hes good.

Mr Akhtar smiled and nodded and handed over the chewing gum and chocolate. Hard work though, yes?

Helen rolled her eyes and said, Sometimes.

Actually, Alfie was way better than good. He was indescribably brilliant. She grinned, thinking about her one-year-old son babbling happily as she had walked him to the childminder half an hour before. He was happy almost all of the time, as far as she could tell, but he certainly let her know when he wasnt. He had Pauls temper, Helen had decided, as well as his eyes.

Or was she kidding herself?

Worth it though, yes?

Definitely, she said.

Trust me, it gets harder.

Oh, dont tell me that. Laughing, Helen handed over two pound coins and waited for the forty-three pence she was given back every morning. As Mr Akhtar was digging her change from the till, she heard the bell on the door. She saw him glance up and heard the voices, braying and fearless, as a group of lads came into the shop.

She looked round. Three of them: one black, two white. All full of themselves.

Here you are, Mr Akhtar said. He held out Helens change, but his eyes were on the three boys, and his voice was a little smaller than it had been a few seconds earlier. Before Helen turned back to him, she watched the boys amble across to the tall fridge and open the door, laughing and cursing.

Enjoying the attention of an audience, Helen thought.

Looks like it might be nice today.

Thats good, Mr Akhtar said. Still quiet, looking towards the fridge.

Wont last. Helen put the coins into her purse and folded the newspaper into her bag. She heard the man behind her exhale loudly, clearly impatient to be served. She had just opened her mouth to say see you tomorrow when Mr Akhtar leaned towards her and whispered, nodding towards the three boys.

I hate those bastards, he hissed.

Helen looked round again. They were rooting around inside the fridge, pulling out cans, then putting them back again. Laughing and pushing each other. One, who must have grabbed a paper on the way in, was leaning against a display of greeting cards, rifling through the pages.

The man standing behind Helen muttered, Christs sake. She could not be sure if it was frustration at being made to wait or irritation at the behaviour of the boys at the fridge.

Hey, Mr Akhtar said.

Helen turned back to the till, then heard the hiss of a can being opened and saw Mr Akhtars expression darken suddenly.

Hey!

Another hiss, and now two boys were swigging from cans of Coke, while the third tossed the remains of his newspaper away and reached into the fridge for one of his own.

You pay for those, Mr Akhtar shouted.

I forgot my wallet, one of the boys said. The other two laughed, touched their fists together.

The white boy who had been reading the newspaper drained his can and crushed it. What are you going to do if we dont? He held his arms out wide in challenge. Blow yourself up or something?

You need to pay.

Helen looked at Mr Akhtar. She could see the muscles working in his jaw, his arms stiff at his sides, his fists clenched. She took a small step to her right, moved into his eyeline, and shook her head.

Leave it.

Get out of my shop, Mr Akhtar shouted.

The white boys eyes looked small and dead as he dropped his empty can and walked slowly towards the till. One hand slid fast into the pocket of his hooded top. Make us, he said. Behind him, his friends dropped their own cans, sending Coke fizzing across the floor of the shop.

Sorry, one of them said.

Suddenly, Helen had no spit in her mouth. She eased her hand into her bag and closed her fingers around the wallet that held both her Oyster and warrant cards. It was bravado, no more than that, she was almost certain. One flash of her ID and a few strong words and the gobby little sods would be out of there in a shot.