Free The Dying Hours by Mark Billingham

do
anything
. You know that better than anyone.’
    Thorne shook his head, but he knew that his friend had a point. How often had he really known what was going on inside the head of a killer? Whenever some mild-mannered quantity surveyor butchered his wife and kids there were always friends and neighbours queuing up to tell people what a ‘perfect’ family they were. How it was the last thing anyone had expected. Was it really any different with loved ones? Had Thorne ever known what was going on inside his own parents’ heads? He’d certainly made a right royal balls-up of trying to figure Louise out and she would probably say the same thing about herself.
    ‘Sorry, mate, but it’s not enough,’ Hendricks said. ‘Thinking they “weren’t the type” to kill themselves counts for sod all.’
    ‘OK, but you can’t argue with the facts and figures.’ Thorne reached down, produced more papers. ‘I’ve looked into this and the numbers just don’t stack up. There’s only four hundred and something suicides in London every year and the majority of those are a lot younger than the people we’re talking about here. Agreed?’
    Hendricks shrugged a ‘maybe’.
    ‘Now… you get into the over seventy-fives and it’s more like two hundred a year,
nationwide
. Women, it’s less than half that.’ He stabbed at the files on the table. ‘There’s two women in
there
, for God’s sake.’
    Hendricks thought about it. ‘Sorry, but I don’t think those figures are quite as impressive as you think they are.’
    ‘
What?
’
    ‘Look, I do know about this stuff.’
    ‘Come on, Phil.’
    Hendricks held his hands up. ‘All right, let’s be generous and call this a “cluster”. I don’t think it is for one minute, but even if it was, sometimes there’s just no explanation for these things. Remember a few years back? Twenty people killed themselves in one year, all under twenty-five, all in the same small town in south Wales. Now,
that
was a cluster, but nobody’s any the wiser about why it happened.’ He gathered up the files, squared them off. ‘There’s nothing… sinister about it. Or about this.’ He handed the files over. ‘There’s no bogeyman, mate.’
    Thorne took the papers and shoved them hard back into his bag. He picked up his glass and sat back.
    Hendricks grinned. ‘Look at you though.’
    ‘What?’ Thorne said.
    ‘With your “theories” and your actual “research”. You’re more of a detective now than when you
were
one.’ He picked up his beer bottle, prepared to empty it. ‘Sodding Inspector Morse! Have you started listening to opera and doing crosswords an’ all?’
    Thorne looked at him; blinked slowly then swallowed fast.
    ‘Mind you, opera would definitely be preferable to your bloody cowboy music. Lonesome bloody whippoorwills or whatever.’ Hendricks saw Thorne’s expression. ‘What?’
    ‘What you said before.’
    ‘What, about opera?’
    ‘No…’ Thorne was already reaching for his phone.
    Hendricks shook his head. ‘You’ve lost me, mate.’
    ‘Drink up,’ Thorne said.
    ‘It’s a bit early to eat, isn’t it?’
    Thorne ignored him. He was looking through his list of recently dialled calls. Searching for a grieving son’s number.

ELEVEN
    A hundred yards or so from his front door – walking as quickly as he was able in an effort to prevent his dinner going cold – Alan Herbert decided that when a trip to the fish and chip shop was the highlight of your day, things could definitely be better.
    Sundays were always, well…
Sundays
, but even so.
    The day had not panned out quite the way it was supposed to. He hadn’t planned on dozing away most of his afternoon for a kick-off. Waking up with a crick in his neck and drool on the front of his sweater, surprised to see that it was already dark outside. He had never intended to spend the majority of his waking hours slumped in front of the television, eking out the Sunday paper and using what little energy