Free Lazybones by Mark Billingham Page A

questions about answering machines, claim that I’m still helping you with your inquiries, and stick it all on expenses. Twelve-thirty any good…?”
    He hung up a few minutes later, just as Yvonne Kitsonstrolled back into the office. “What on earth are you grinning about?” she said.
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    â€œForget it, Mr. Thorne. No fucking way am I eating duck’s feet.”
    The fact that Dennis Bethell was built like a brick shithouse and had a voice like a chorus girl on helium made most things he said sound vaguely ludicrous, but this was up there with the best of them…
    It had been Thorne’s idea. The last time they’d met had been in a pub and the voice, as it often did, had caused something of a scene. A sedate lunch sounded like a better idea and Thorne was fond of this place. The New Moon in the heart of Chinatown served the best dim sum in town. Thorne loved the ritual every bit as much as the food. He enjoyed watching the grumpy-looking old women as they wheeled their trolleys around the place. He liked stopping them, asking them to lift the lids, making his selections.
    Thorne had had to explain the system to Bethell, who’d been sitting in a corner looking very confused when he got there. He was twenty minutes late, but Bethell hadn’t been difficult to find. He was six feet three with the build of a WWE wrestler, spiky peroxide hair, and a great deal of gold jewelry. Spotting him in a restaurant where the clientele was almost entirely Chinese was not exactly taxing.
    Today, Bethell was wearing camouflage combats and a bright blue T-shirt stretched across his enormous chest, bearing the slogan BITCH .
    â€œShark’s fin soup and all that, fine. Duck’s feet ? That’s horrible…”
    â€œRelax, Kodak,” Thorne had said. He smiled at the old woman as she lifted another bamboo lid. “I’ll order for you…”
    They’d chatted for a while, Thorne putting his man atease but also enjoying the to and fro of it. He was comfortable in these places, around the likes of Dennis Bethell.
    Thorne popped a wafer-wrapped prawn into his mouth and slid the photograph of Jane Foley across the table. Bethell wiped soy sauce from his fingers with a napkin and picked it up.
    â€œNice,” he said. “Very nice…”
    Thorne knew that Bethell would be talking about the picture itself. The composition, the lighting. As a hardened pornographer, he was way past appreciation of the models themselves.
    â€œI knew you’d like it,” Thorne said.
    â€œI do. It’s very tasty. Who took it?”
    â€œWell, do you know what, Kodak? I said to myself that if anybody could find out for me, it would be you…”
    A bit more chat. Business, Bethell said, was booming. Though the dot-com filth merchants had once threatened the likes of him, Bethell was delighted to report that his work was more in demand than ever. Thumbnails from his legendary 1983 “Barnyard” series of pictures were being eagerly downloaded, having acquired almost legendary status among smut surfers…
    Dennis Bethell’s high-quality porno work had been getting men off for about as long as Thorne had been on the job. From slightly saucy to graphic glamour spreads, Bethell was a deft hand at anything that involved a lens and nipples. He was harmless enough and had been a reliable informant for a good many years. Thorne had come to regard him as one of the city’s great eccentrics. A pumped-up East End vaudevillian with a hair-trigger temper, a talent for making girls take their clothes off, and his own catchphrase, “Nothing with children!”
    â€œSo, come on, then,” Thorne said. “Is it professional or not?”
    Bethell peered at the image, held it up to the light, sucked his teeth. “Yeah, maybe…”
    â€œNot good enough, Kodak.” Thorne raised a finger to attract the attention of the woman behind the small bar. He