The Dying Hours by Mark Billingham Read Free Book Online Page A

and gave her some hastily thought out parameters.
    ‘Bloody hell, you don’t want much, do you?’
    ‘I know, and I’m sorry to be asking, but I really couldn’t think of anyone better.’ This was true, but only because her job gave her access to a wide range of both police and civil databases. All the same, Thorne was hoping that shameless flattery would do the trick.
    ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘I’m on a break, so I
might
be able to get something to you soonish.’
    ‘That would be great.’
    ‘Once I’ve finished this Kit Kat, obviously.’
    ‘Thanks, Elly,’ Thorne said.
    ‘So, how are you?’
    Thorne guessed that she was really asking if he was seeing anyone, but he did not think it would help his cause to give a straight answer. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Getting on with it.’
    ‘Not going mental, stuck down there with the Woodies?’
    ‘It’s not too bad,’ he lied.
    ‘Well, if I come up with anything, maybe you can buy me a drink to say thank you.’
    Thorne promised that he would and asked Elly to write down his private email address. The significance of Thorne not wanting her to use his @met.police address was clearly not lost on her.
    ‘Better make that dinner,’ she said.

SEVEN
    Thorne opened his eyes, and for several seconds was uncertain where he was. What manner of policeman he was. Later, he would feel more than a little guilty at the disappointment of realising he was not in his own bed. But those few precious moments before the cold wash of remembrance – what had happened to him, what he had lost – were something he would cling on to until it was all over.
    It was nearly five o’clock and Saturday was darkening beyond the bedroom window. He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. He could not hear anyone in the flat, so he reached for his phone and called Helen.
    ‘I went out for coffee with some of the other mums,’ she said.
    ‘Oh, OK.’
    ‘Did you get some sleep?’
    ‘Yeah… only just woke up.’ He wasn’t sure if Helen had stayed out to leave him undisturbed or to get away from his bad mood. Either way, he realised that he should probably be saying sorry.
    ‘I won’t be too long,’ she said. ‘Alfie’s tired.’ Thorne could hear the boy grizzling in the background. ‘Listen, I’d better go…’
    When he tossed his mobile down, Thorne noticed the laptop on the other side of the bed. He got up, pulled on a dressing gown and carried the computer through to the kitchen, remembering that it had been the noise of email arriving in his inbox that had woken him.
    He made himself some tea and went to work.
    Picking what had sounded like a reasonable time frame, he had asked Elly Kennedy to go back three months and to search for any cases in the Greater London area. He had told her to concentrate on suicide victims aged seventy and above and to look out most especially for any instances involving couples. Though she had found none that directly mirrored the Coopers, she had been able to access enough key sources to gather information on a dozen or so cases she thought Thorne might be interested in. He was looking for the relevant information in police and coroner’s reports, transcripts from the inquest where there had been one and, most importantly, statements from family members. She had sent the files across relatively quickly and it became clear that there had not been enough time to weed out every case that did not quite fit the bill.
    The attachment took almost five minutes to download.
    Thorne read carefully through all the material Elly had sent, discarding any instances where there was clear evidence of serious physical illness or depression. He also discounted those where the victim had recently lost loved ones or was living in isolation. He knew there would always be occasions where family, friends and social services had simply not paid close enough attention to suicide indicators, but he still believed that the totally unforeseen and inexplicable