Free Lazybones by Mark Billingham Page B

held up his empty bottle of Tsing Tao, ordering another.
    â€œIt’s complicated,” Bethell said. “These days there’s a huge market for professionally taken stuff that’s made to look like it was snapped by an amateur. Like it’s a picture of someone’s girlfriend. See what I mean? Especially with this sort of stuff.”
    â€œWhat sort of stuff?”
    â€œThis S-and-M stuff. Handcuffs and whips and chains. Fetishism.” Bethell held up the picture that Thorne had looked at a hundred and more times. He looked at it again. This one had been taken from above, the woman flat on her face, hands bound behind her back. The hood tied at the bottom this time, like a noose.
    â€œYou ever do this sort of thing?” Thorne asked.
    By now Bethell had a mouthful of minced crab dumpling. He answered cautiously, as if he thought the question was meant to catch him out somehow. “Yeah, I have done. Plenty of these pervy mags around. My stuff’s better than this, though…”
    â€œNaturally. Listen, if this is a professional job, can you find out who took it?”
    â€œI could ask around, I suppose, but—”
    â€œWhat about where the film was developed?”
    â€œWaste of time. Unless the bloke’s a moron, he’d have done it himself. Digital camera, straight to his PC. Piece of cake…”
    â€œFind out what you can, then. I want to know who the model is and who paid for the shoot.”
    Bethell looked pained. “Oh, be fair, Mr. Thorne. A bit of info is all well and good, but that’s like doing your job for you. Like being a bloody detective.”
    The waitress delivering Thorne’s beer giggled at Bethell’s despairing squeak and hurried away. Thankfully Bethell didn’t catch it.
    â€œThink of it as another string to your bow, Kodak. You might fancy a change of career. The force is always on the lookout for eager young lads like yourself…”
    â€œYou can be a right bastard sometimes, Mr. Thorne…”
    Thorne leaned across the table and held a chopstick inches away from Bethell’s face. “Yes I can, and just to prove it, if you don’t do a decent job on this for me, I will come round to your dwelling slash business premises, take your zoomiest zoom lens, and stick it so far up your arse, you’ll be taking pictures of your large intestine with it. Pass the prawn crackers, will you…?”
    Bethell sulked for a few minutes. Then he picked up the photograph and slid it into the pocket of his combat trousers.
    â€œYou really should try one of these duck’s feet, Kodak,” Thorne said. “Did you know, they can actually make you swim faster?”
    Bethell’s eyes widened. “Are you winding me up, Mr. Thorne…?”
    Â 
    Welch was standing, waiting in the doorway, when Caldicott appeared at the other end of the landing with the mail trolley. As it got closer, agonizingly slowly, stopping at almost every door, it became clear that Caldicott’s face still hadn’t healed properly.
    One side, from mouth to forehead, was shiny, like it was slick with sweat, and the color of something that might have been skinned. Against the raw, weeping red, the lines of tiny white rings stood out clearly, the ones onwhat was left of his lips looking like a row of cold sores…
    The mail trolley squeaked that little bit nearer. Caldicott grinning as best he could, the mail round a nice cushy number. A sweetener from the caring sharing screws on the VP wing, after the weeks spent in hospital.
    A couple of morons from B-wing had caught him in the laundry room. They shouldn’t have been anywhere near the place by rights, should have been locked up, but someone somewhere had turned a blind eye. Left a door open.
    One of Caldicott’s women had actually been a girl. A fourteen-year-old. Caldicott had told Welch, sworn to him that he thought she was older, that he wasn’t into