Buried-6 by Mark Billingham Read Free Book Online Page A

Half an hour in B & Q one Saturday afternoon and a weekend of self-assembly hel had been al the time necessary to work a smal miracle on the few square feet of cracked and manky paving slabs behind his kitchen.
    ‘I wanted a bit of sympathy, obviously,’ Hendricks said. ‘I mean, that’s why I came. And beer’s always a bonus. But I hadn’t banked on double pneumonia.’
    Thorne drank the last from a can of Sainsbury’s own-label Belgian lager and looked across what any self-respecting estate agent – if that were not a contradiction in terms – would now describe as ‘a smal but wel -appointed patio area’. A couple of plants in plastic pots, a wonky barbecue on wheels, a heater on a stand.
    And a weeping pathologist . . .
    In fact, Hendricks seemed to be past the worst of it, but his bloodshot eyes stil looked as though they might brim and leak at any moment, and the tremble at the centre of his chin hadn’t quite disappeared. Thorne had seen his friend cry before, and, though it was always uncomfortable, he could never help but be struck by the painful incongruity of the spectacle.
    He knew better than anyone how strongly the Mancunian could take things to heart, yet Phil Hendricks remained – in appearance at least – an imposing, even aggressive, figure. He was a shaven-headed Goth, with dark clothes and tattoos; with rings, studs and spikes through assorted areas of flesh. Watching him in genuine distress was like seeing pensioners touch tongues, or a Hel ’s Angel cradle a mewling newborn. It was disconcerting. It was like staring at an arty postcard.
    ‘So, have I been sympathetic enough?’ Thorne asked.
    ‘Wel , not straight away, no.’
    ‘That’s because I know what a bloody drama queen you are. You turn up on the doorstep wailing and it could mean anything. I don’t know whether someone’s died, or if you’ve just lost one of your George Michael CDs.’
    Thorne got the smile he was aiming for. Hendricks was certainly no drama queen, but when he’d arrived an hour before it had taken a while for Thorne to realise how serious it was.
    Hendricks had told him that he and his boyfriend Brendan had had a major argument, that this was definitely the end, but Thorne had known both of them long enough to take such pronouncements of doom with a fistful of salt.
    Thorne’s first tactic had worked a time or two before: beer and distraction. Once the initial crying jag had abated and Thorne had got Hendricks settled down in the living room with a drink, he tried talking to him about work. Hendricks was a civilian member of Russel Brigstocke’s Major Investigation Team at Homicide Command (West), and the pathologist Thorne had worked with most regularly in recent years. He had also become a close friend; probably the only person Thorne could think of who might donate a kidney should he ever need one.
    Certainly the only one who might actual y have the odd one or two knocking around.
    Their cosy chats about death and dismemberment were often perversely enjoyable, but this was one work conversation that was never destined to go anywhere. Though the two shared plenty of ancient history, Thorne’s position on the sidelines in recent weeks meant that they hadn’t a single ongoing investigation in common. Besides, the only dead thing Hendricks had seemed keen to talk about was his own relationship. ‘It’s not like the times before,’ he’d said. ‘He real y fucking means it this time.’
    Thorne had begun to see that the situation was more serious than he’d first thought; that this was more than just a spat. He’d done his best to calm down his friend. He’d phoned out for pizza and dragged a couple of kitchen chairs into the garden.
    ‘I can’t feel my feet,’ Hendricks said.
    ‘Stop bloody moaning.’ It was chil y, no question, and Thorne had never got around to buying a gas bottle for the heater, but he was enjoying being outside. ‘I’m starting to see why Brendan’s done a