Free The Dying Hours by Mark Billingham Page A

he could summon up to heave himself out of his chair every hour or so to go and put the kettle on again.
    Drowning in bloody Tetley’s.
    By rights, he should have been seeing them off about now. ‘Take care’ and ‘See you soon’ and the kids waving out of the Hyundai’s back window. He should be sorting out the leftovers from their lunch; a chicken sandwich for supper, maybe.
    His son had called bright and early to let him know they wouldn’t be able to make it after all. His youngest coming down with something, so he said. Really sorry, he said, because they were all looking forward
so
much to visiting. One of the kids was always coming down with something. Almost as often as his daughter-in-law had to change her plans for the weekend at the last minute because of work, or there was a problem with the car.
    Always something.
    There were lights on in many of the front windows as he passed. Curtains were drawn or blinds were down. He walked on, wondering how many of the people behind them had spent their Sunday unconscious, drooling, drinking tea.
    Killing time.
    It might help of course if he didn’t get up so ridiculously early. There would be fewer hours to get through. He’d always thought it was stupid, the way old people did that, when the fact was that most of them had bugger all to do. All the same, there he was, dragging himself out of bed before seven most days; wide awake and dressing in the dark so as to be good and ready for a day doing nothing.
    A collar and tie, for pity’s sake.
    Down to a life wearing one sort of uniform or another, he supposed, but still…
    ‘You should see someone,’ his son had said to him on the phone a few months before.
    ‘Doctor, you mean?’
    ‘Well… or some of your old mates. Get out and about a bit more.’
    ‘I can’t be arsed.’
    Some days I can’t bring myself to turn the lights on and those trips to the kitchen feel like an assault course
…
    He had been to see the doctor.
    ‘It’s not unusual to be depressed,’ the GP had told him. ‘Given your age and circumstances.’
    ‘Depressed? Both my knees are buggered and I can’t hear for shit. I’m bloody
livid
!’
    Easier to make a joke of it, same as always.
    The hinges screamed when he pushed open his front gate and he remembered that there was oil in the garage, somewhere. It had been a long while since he’d ventured inside. He hurried up the path, stopping only to kick aside a fast-food container that some passing drunk had thrown into the garden. The smell of his haddock and chips increased his hunger, the bag warm under his arm. He’d taken the vinegar out of the cupboard before he’d left, buttered some bread.
    He had just turned the key in the lock when he heard the voice behind him.
    ‘Hello, stranger.’
    He turned, saw an old man walking up the path towards him. A cap and a long, dark coat. The face was familiar, as much as he could make out in the half-light, but Herbert couldn’t place it.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Do I…⁠?’
    ‘Yeah, been a while, mate. Definitely been a while.’ The man was walking faster, only a few feet away.
    ‘Christ,’ Herbert said, dropping his dinner as the name came to him, just a second too late.

TWELVE
    Andrew Cooper stood on the doorstep of his parents’ house and studied his visitors for a few seconds before inviting them in. He was short and stocky, a rugby player’s build, with a full head of almost entirely grey hair and blue eyes that were watery behind his glasses. He might well have resembled his father, but based on what Thorne had seen of John Cooper, it was impossible to tell.
    The son looked exhausted.
    ‘Thanks for letting us come round,’ Thorne said. ‘I know it’s a bit late.’
    ‘Glad of the break,’ Cooper said. ‘I’ve spent all day putting stuff into boxes and bin-bags.’ He nodded at nothing in particular. ‘Paula’s back at the hotel. She couldn’t face this, so…’
    ‘It’s understandable.’
    ‘I got the