Free Good as Dead by Mark Billingham Page B

medication.’ McCarthy smiled sadly. ‘Right about the time I was rolling out of bed at home and coming downstairs to put the kettle on.’ He swallowed. ‘Looking forward to the day.’
    ‘That was your first mistake,’ Thorne said.
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I stopped looking forward to work years ago.’ He leaned forward, mock-conspiratorial. ‘You should always assume that things are going to be really bad . That way, even if it’s just an averagely shitty day, you feel like you’ve had a result.’
    McCarthy’s gaze drifted towards the large window that looked out on to the corridor. He smiled weakly, but looked as confused as he did upset. ‘I said all this a fortnight ago at the inquest,’ he said. ‘Told them what had happened.’
    Thorne shrugged. ‘Another set of papers I haven’t seen.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘A … situation has developed very suddenly, which means that we’re looking at Amin’s death again.’ Thorne let that hang for a second or two. ‘That I am. Starting pretty much from scratch, I’m afraid.’
    McCarthy sat back, thinking, then raised his arms. ‘Right, well I’m still none the wiser, but if there’s anything I can do … ’
    Thorne stood up. ‘A guided tour would be very helpful,’ he said.
    McCarthy said that would not be a problem, so Thorne walked out on to the ward, waiting by the door for a few moments while the doctor grabbed his jacket.
    Waiting, and thinking that for once he knew what might be causing that tickle in the soft hairs at the back of his neck; that something McCarthy had told him would need looking at more closely.
    ‘All set?’ McCarthy said, closing the door to his office behind him.
    ‘Absolutely.’
    Thinking that six o’clock in the morning was a very strange time to kill yourself.
    Gavin Slater did not seem inclined to let Holland and Kitson into his house. He had glowered at their warrant cards and drawn the front door a little closer towards him. From inside came the sounds of a television at high volume and somewhere upstairs a woman was shouting, raising her voice above the barking of a dog.
    Holland and Kitson were not overly keen on going inside themselves.
    ‘You may or may not know that Amin Akhtar died two months ago,’ Holland said.
    Slater blinked, then smiled. ‘I didn’t, but thanks. Not too often you lot knock on my door with good news.’
    ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’
    Slater laughed. ‘Right, like where I was when it happened? Was I breaking into whatever prison the little shitbag ended up in, something like that?’
    ‘Something like that,’ Kitson said.
    ‘So what happened?’ Slater sniffed. ‘Somebody take a knife to him or what?’
    ‘We’re not at liberty to reveal the circumstances—’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ Slater began to pick away at a patch of paint that was peeling from his front door. ‘Just let me know when you’ve got a name, so I can send him a box of chocolates or something.’
    ‘Maybe you can help us with that,’ Holland said.
    Slater laughed again. Inside, the woman was screaming at the dog to shut up.
    Kitson brushed away a sliver of white paint that had blown on to her jacket. ‘So you’re not exactly heartbroken that Amin is dead then?’
    Slater turned and studied her for a few moments. ‘The Met really is taking on the brightest and the best, isn’t it?’ He looked away and up towards the main road where heavy traffic was pouring east towards the Angel and west towards King’s Cross. A few streets from where, just over a year before, his eldest son had been fatally stabbed with his own knife by Amin Akhtar.
    ‘You still in touch with either of the boys who were involved in the incident with Lee?’ Kitson asked.
    ‘The “incident”?’
    ‘Yes or no?’
    ‘Not seen them since Lee’s funeral.’
    ‘You sure about that?’
    ‘They helped to carry his coffin, them and a few of Lee’s other mates.’ Slater narrowed his eyes at Kitson. ‘You