Free TT13 Time of Death by Mark Billingham

the media line; just another interested observer, alongside those locals who had braved the cold weather instead of simply watching it at home on one of the rolling news channels.
    ‘Bloody daft, all this. All these people …’
    Thorne had found himself standing next to the same old man with the terrier who had spoken to Helen outside the Bates house. ‘So, why are you here?’ he asked.
    The old man looked at him as though the question were ridiculous. ‘Got to walk the dog.’
    Thorne turned side on to the old man and took out his phone.
    ‘Bit ghoulish though, wouldn’t you say?’
    With no way of knowing that he was a police officer, Thorne had to presume that the old man had him marked down as one of the ghouls. He heard him hawk spit up into his mouth.
    ‘Won’t hear anything we don’t already know, I don’t suppose. They won’t be answering any questions.’
    The expert opinion, casually rendered, suggested that it was not the first such event the old man had attended in the past few weeks. Clearly, his dog needed a lot of walking. ‘So, what is it you think you know?’ Thorne asked him. The dog was sniffing at his shin.
    ‘He took those girls, didn’t he? Bates.’ He spat the name out, pulling the dog back towards him. ‘They’re still looking for them, because he won’t tell anyone where they are. That sort never do though, do they?’ He pointed, his hand shaking slightly, towards the cameras ahead of him. ‘They want all this carry-on, don’t they? They want to be famous.’
    Thorne said nothing, though he could not deny that he’d come across a few of that sort. One man, especially. He held his breath as the roar of waves crashing against rocks rose suddenly above the low chatter of those around him. The scream of seabirds and the feel of something obscene between his fingers.
    ‘We get a few visitors here.’ The old man appeared not to care that the conversation had become a monologue. ‘To see the abbey and what have you … they’ll be coming because of all this, now. Guided tours, I shouldn’t wonder, to see where it happened. Not that some of the shopkeepers will be complaining. The restaurants.’
    Thorne moved away. Dialling Helen’s number, he walked back out on to the pavement.
    ‘It’s me,’ he said, when Helen answered. ‘Everything OK?’
    Helen said that everything was fine.
    Thorne told her where he was, stepped back as a white vanrounded the corner quickly and tore through a large puddle in the road.
    ‘Yeah, we’re about to watch it,’ Helen said.
    ‘How’s it going?’
    ‘Yeah …’
    Thorne understood that Helen could not speak freely, so he didn’t push it. He asked when she wanted him to come and pick her up.
    ‘About half an hour?’ She sounded tired, ready to call it a day.
    The lamps were coming on behind him, so Thorne walked back into the car park. ‘I’ll see you in a bit,’ he said.
    Flanked by several officers and civilian staff, the Assistant Chief Constable for Warwickshire walked briskly out through the doors to the Memorial Hall. He was around the same age as Cornish; younger than Thorne. He was tall and skinny, an imposing and authoritative figure in his best dress uniform, though the cap was perhaps a little large for his head. As he took a notebook from his pocket, a smartly dressed young woman stepped ahead of him.
    ‘Assistant Chief Constable Harris will now make a short statement, after which I’m afraid there will not be time to take any questions.’ There were immediate grumblings, but the media liaison officer simply raised a well-practised hand. ‘In an investigation of this nature, I’m sure you will appreciate that time is of the essence. So, thanks for your understanding.’
    She smiled and stepped back, nodded to the ACC.
    Harris glanced down at his notebook, then addressed the gathering without needing to look at it again.
    ‘We are continuing to question a forty-three-year-old local man, in connection with the