Read Online Bloodline-9 by Mark Billingham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Billingham
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another body.
SIX
Thorne picked up a takeaway from the Bengal Lancer on his way home. He hadn’t bothered phoning ahead with the order, had looked forward to the cold bottle of Kingfisher, the complimentary poppadoms and the chat with the manager while he was waiting.
Louise was slumped in front of some celebrity ice-skating programme when he got back. She seemed happy enough, a fair way into a bottle of red wine.
‘Every cloud,’ she said. She raised her glass as though she were toasting something. ‘Nice to have a drink again.’
Thorne went through to the kitchen, began dishing up the food. He shouted through to the living room, ‘You should,’ then pushed the empty cartons down into the bin.
When he turned round, Louise was standing in the doorway. ‘Should what ?’
‘Should . . . have a drink . . . if you want. Relax a bit.’
‘Get pissed, you mean?’
Thorne licked sauce off his fingers, stared at her. ‘I didn’t mean anything, Lou . . .’
She walked back into the living room and, after a moment, he fol owed her with the plates. They sat on the floor with their backs against the sofa, eating off their laps. Thorne poured himself what was left of the wine; a little over half a glass.
‘Whoever kil ed the woman in Finchley,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s done it before.’
Louise chewed for a few more seconds. ‘That Garvey thing you told me about?’
‘Wel , that girl, yeah. She’s not his first.’
‘Shit . . .’
‘Right, al I need.’
She shrugged, swal owed. ‘Might be exactly what you need.’
The food was as good as always: rogan josh and a creamy mutter paneer; mushroom bhaji, pilau rice and a peshwari nan to share. Louise ate quickly, helping herself to the lion’s share of the bread. Almost done, she moved her fork slowly through the last few grains of yel ow rice. ‘Sounds like you’re going to be busy.’
Thorne glanced across, searching in vain for something in her face that might give him a clue as to how she felt about it. He hedged his bets. ‘It’s a hel of a big team, so we’l have to see.’
‘OK . . .’
‘Listen, shal I open some more wine?’
‘I real y don’t mind.’
Thorne looked again and saw nothing to contradict what she’d said. He carried the plates back to the kitchen and fetched another bottle. They settled down on the sofa and watched TV in silence for a few minutes, Louise laughing more readily than Thorne when a former glamour model went sprawling on the ice. Once the show had finished, Thorne flicked through the channels, final y settling on a repeat of The Wild Geese , a film he had always loved. They watched Richard Burton, Roger Moore and Richard Harris charging about in the African bush, the three just about believable as ageing mercenaries.
‘I talked to Phil,’ Thorne said. ‘I meant to say.’
‘Did you tel him what happened?’
‘I didn’t have to.’ Thorne waited to see if she would pick up on it, say something about having confided in Hendricks about the pregnancy. ‘He said you should cal him, you know, if you want to talk.’
‘I spoke to him last night,’ she said.
‘Oh, right.’
‘He was real y sweet.’
On the television, Harris was begging Burton to shoot him before he was hacked to death by the enemy, but the shouting and gunfire were little more than background noise.
‘Why did you tel him you were pregnant?’ Thorne asked. ‘I thought we’d agreed to keep it a secret.’
Louise stared into her glass. ‘I knew he’d be chuffed.’
‘We decided we wouldn’t, though, just in case this happened.’
‘Right, wel , it has happened, OK? So arguing about whether I should or shouldn’t have told anyone is a bit pointless now, don’t you think?’ She shuffled along the sofa, a foot or so away from him, and lowered her voice. ‘Christ, it’s not like Phil’s going to run around announcing it.’
There were a few grains of rice and some crumbs on the carpet. Thorne inched away in the
SIX
Thorne picked up a takeaway from the Bengal Lancer on his way home. He hadn’t bothered phoning ahead with the order, had looked forward to the cold bottle of Kingfisher, the complimentary poppadoms and the chat with the manager while he was waiting.
Louise was slumped in front of some celebrity ice-skating programme when he got back. She seemed happy enough, a fair way into a bottle of red wine.
‘Every cloud,’ she said. She raised her glass as though she were toasting something. ‘Nice to have a drink again.’
Thorne went through to the kitchen, began dishing up the food. He shouted through to the living room, ‘You should,’ then pushed the empty cartons down into the bin.
When he turned round, Louise was standing in the doorway. ‘Should what ?’
‘Should . . . have a drink . . . if you want. Relax a bit.’
‘Get pissed, you mean?’
Thorne licked sauce off his fingers, stared at her. ‘I didn’t mean anything, Lou . . .’
She walked back into the living room and, after a moment, he fol owed her with the plates. They sat on the floor with their backs against the sofa, eating off their laps. Thorne poured himself what was left of the wine; a little over half a glass.
‘Whoever kil ed the woman in Finchley,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s done it before.’
Louise chewed for a few more seconds. ‘That Garvey thing you told me about?’
‘Wel , that girl, yeah. She’s not his first.’
‘Shit . . .’
‘Right, al I need.’
She shrugged, swal owed. ‘Might be exactly what you need.’
The food was as good as always: rogan josh and a creamy mutter paneer; mushroom bhaji, pilau rice and a peshwari nan to share. Louise ate quickly, helping herself to the lion’s share of the bread. Almost done, she moved her fork slowly through the last few grains of yel ow rice. ‘Sounds like you’re going to be busy.’
Thorne glanced across, searching in vain for something in her face that might give him a clue as to how she felt about it. He hedged his bets. ‘It’s a hel of a big team, so we’l have to see.’
‘OK . . .’
‘Listen, shal I open some more wine?’
‘I real y don’t mind.’
Thorne looked again and saw nothing to contradict what she’d said. He carried the plates back to the kitchen and fetched another bottle. They settled down on the sofa and watched TV in silence for a few minutes, Louise laughing more readily than Thorne when a former glamour model went sprawling on the ice. Once the show had finished, Thorne flicked through the channels, final y settling on a repeat of The Wild Geese , a film he had always loved. They watched Richard Burton, Roger Moore and Richard Harris charging about in the African bush, the three just about believable as ageing mercenaries.
‘I talked to Phil,’ Thorne said. ‘I meant to say.’
‘Did you tel him what happened?’
‘I didn’t have to.’ Thorne waited to see if she would pick up on it, say something about having confided in Hendricks about the pregnancy. ‘He said you should cal him, you know, if you want to talk.’
‘I spoke to him last night,’ she said.
‘Oh, right.’
‘He was real y sweet.’
On the television, Harris was begging Burton to shoot him before he was hacked to death by the enemy, but the shouting and gunfire were little more than background noise.
‘Why did you tel him you were pregnant?’ Thorne asked. ‘I thought we’d agreed to keep it a secret.’
Louise stared into her glass. ‘I knew he’d be chuffed.’
‘We decided we wouldn’t, though, just in case this happened.’
‘Right, wel , it has happened, OK? So arguing about whether I should or shouldn’t have told anyone is a bit pointless now, don’t you think?’ She shuffled along the sofa, a foot or so away from him, and lowered her voice. ‘Christ, it’s not like Phil’s going to run around announcing it.’
There were a few grains of rice and some crumbs on the carpet. Thorne inched away in the
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