Free Die of Shame by Mark Billingham Page B

no question about that. He thinks back to the session, his discomfort during the discussion about money. It was more than just the awkwardness he always feels when clients try to elicit personal information. They had touched a nerve, the five of them sitting in that conservatory paid for by his wife. The
house
largely paid for by his wife. He enjoys his work, values it, but he does not like being supported.
    He particularly dislikes being reminded of the fact.
    Some nice, ulcerating shame of his own.
    ‘Get in touch with them then,’ Nina says, whenever he mentions the radio show. ‘Send a CV instead of moaning to me about it. You need to push yourself a bit more.’
    She’s always telling him that he isn’t pushy enough, that he should ‘sell’ himself more and that it all comes from spending too much time listening to other people. He knows she’s got a point. Trouble is, somewhere in whatever she’s telling him, however encouraging she might sound, he can always detect a seed of doubt. Some sharp and tiny seed he imagines she’s taking great care to plant, and nurture. If the subject of his past life ever comes up – if he happens to mention an old song of his, or a gig he once played – Nina always seems to find a way to pour cold water on it.
    A few months ago, a singer he had worked with years before – who had supported him at a handful of shows – was playing at the Hammersmith Apollo. Tony had suggested to Nina that they go along, told her he was sure he could organise tickets and backstage passes. She had sounded keen, but only for a day or two.
    ‘Wouldn’t it be a bit… embarrassing though?’ she had asked eventually. Her hand on his arm. ‘Afterwards, I mean. Eventually, he’s bound to ask you what you’re doing now.’
    He’d gone on his own in the end and enjoyed it. Paid for his ticket like everyone else and come straight home afterwards.
    The radio host gives out the number for the phone-in again and Tony reminds himself that he needs to talk to Heather about the messages. He had been about to put it into his notes, but had stopped himself when it occurred to him that Nina might look at what was on his computer from time to time.
    You know exactly who I’m talking about
…
 
    He’s probably being stupid. Because he’s becoming convinced, more so by the day, that his wife doesn’t really care a great deal.
    The one who looks like a boy.
 
    Thinking back on their conversation in the kitchen a week before, it seems obvious to him that Nina was amusing herself. The pained accusations and the fake jealousy.
    When a caller starts ranting about how the Polish have taken over Earls Court, Tony leans across and turns the radio off. Without being aware of it, his fingers begin tapping at the edge of his desk in time with the beat from Emma’s room above him. He looks up and sees the central light fitting moving gently over his head. A month ago it was reggae, which he could just about cope with, but this is mechanistic, ceaseless. It’s like a furiously racing heartbeat and the smell tells him that his daughter’s heart is almost certainly keeping time with it.
    Thumping against her skinny chest, up to twice as fast as normal.
    Tony gets up and opens his door, breathes it in. The same burned sweetness that was once the way his own world smelled. Him and his friends and every place they went. On his clothes, in his hair.
    Now, it just smells like waste.

… NOW
     
    Once Tanner had introduced herself and Chall, the man who had answered her knock drew the grey front door a fraction closer to himself. Narrowed the gap. It was the way many people would behave with Jehovah’s Witnesses or salesmen, but in Tanner’s experience it was not the normal reaction to a pair of amiable-looking police officers. In certain areas of London after dark perhaps, but not usually in the middle of the day and rarely on the doorstep of a house like this.
    ‘Mr De Silva?’
    ‘Yeah…’
    Tanner held up a