Free TT13 Time of Death by Mark Billingham Page A

abduction of Poppy Johnston and the disappearance of Jessica Toms. As far as that investigation goes, all possible efforts are being made to ascertain their whereabouts and we remain hopeful of a positive outcome. Furtherinformation will be made available as and when it becomes appropriate to do so, but until then I can assure you that we are doing everything we can. We are giving this case the highest priority. Once again, I’m grateful to the residents of Polesford for their continued support and their co-operation in this matter. Thank you …’
    Short and sweet. The media liaison officer looked pleased.
    The instant the ACC stepped back, the questions that he would not have time to answer began to be asked; shouted.
    ‘Can you confirm that the man you’ve arrested is Stephen Bates?’
    ‘Do you think the girls are still alive?’
    ‘What’s Bates saying to you …?’
    They were still shouting as the ACC and his entourage disappeared back inside the Memorial Hall, and they were still filming. Footage of the police refusing to answer questions was always nice to have.
    Thorne watched the crowd begin to disperse as soon as the doors had closed. The lamps were switched off. Journalists and cameramen climbed into vans or headed away quickly in search of the nearest pub.
    The old man and his dog walked past him. ‘Told you,’ the old man said. ‘Bloody waste of time.’
    Thorne turned and moved off in the other direction and found himself walking alongside one of the reporters who had been firing questions at him earlier, when he had left the house in which Linda and her family were holed up. The man had a recorder slung over his shoulder. He detached the microphone as he walked, wound the lead around it and shoved it into a rucksack.
    He nodded to Thorne. ‘What did you make of that?’
    Thorne could not be certain that he had been recognised. The reporter did not seem to be paying a great deal of attention tohim, professional or otherwise, and to all intents and purposes he was simply making conversation.
    Thorne had nothing to say, one way or the other.
    ‘Like the man said, you’ve got to stay hopeful, right?’ The reporter heaved his rucksack on to his shoulder. ‘That’s the line most of tomorrow’s papers are going to be taking, anyway. That’s the big headline.’ He raised a hand as if to write it in the air. ‘
Keep hoping
…’
    Thorne jogged across the road and away in the other direction.
    Walking towards the supermarket, where he’d left the car, he was thinking about those flowers propped against the gates of St Mary’s school, some of the messages he’d seen.
    Words that had faded, or run in the rain.
    PRAYING FOR YOU .
    ALL OUR THOUGHTS WHEREVER YOU ARE .
    OUR LITTLE ANGELS .
    The implication was clear enough, and sobering.
    Hope was all well and good.

THIRTEEN
    Helen said, ‘We didn’t exactly have a lot of choice.’
    Thorne grimaced. ‘I’m starting to miss that hotel. Will we have our own bathroom?’
    ‘You’re welcome to sleep in the bloody car.’
    With help from her sister, Helen had arranged to stay with a woman called Paula Hitchman, who lived on the outskirts of town, close to where housing gave way to farm and field. Paula had gone to the same school as Helen and Linda, but was two years younger, and though Helen vaguely remembered her, it was Jenny that she had been friends with. On the phone that morning, an enthusiastic Paula had said that she and her boyfriend would be working late, but that Helen and Thorne were welcome to get there whenever they fancied and make themselves at home. She told Helen that she would leave a key for them.
    ‘Good of her,’ Helen said. ‘Considering it was Jenny she was mates with.’
    ‘Your sister had friends?’ Thorne asked.
    ‘She was nicer when she was a kid.’
    ‘I should hope so.’
    ‘We were close, believe it or not.’
    ‘So what happened?’
    ‘You get older, don’t you?’ Helen looked at her feet. ‘You grow