TT13 Time of Death by Mark Billingham Read Free Book Online

obvious to him that the whole place was rather better equipped than the incident room he was used to at home. The computers seemed newer, the whiteboards somehow whiter.
    The place did not feel quite as tired.
    It was probably just a question of funding, of a more efficient distribution of available funds. Or perhaps the place just saw a lot less action. Waiting for Cornish to arrive though, Thorne could not help asking himself how much of it was down to the drive and energy of the people working here. Were some of those he worked with at home just burned out, or going through the motions these days? He wondered if the day would come whenhe would be guilty of ‘phoning it in’ and if it did, would anyone tell him. Holland? Probably not. Hendricks …?
    Yeah, he thought that Phil Hendricks would.
    Cornish was easy enough to spot. The one being collared by a member of his team the moment he walked in, staring across while the man who was waiting to see him was helpfully pointed out.
    Thorne stood up and Cornish beckoned him over; waved him into an office.
    ‘You had coffee? I’m always gasping after a couple of hours in the bin …’
    Cornish was a few years younger than Thorne and if there was any grey in his hair he had covered it up skilfully. He was compact and wiry, like a flyweight. In his smart suit and rimless glasses, Thorne thought that he looked like an accountant, albeit one who might knock you out if you questioned his calculations.
    As soon as he had sat down behind a cluttered desk, Cornish said, ‘What took you so long?’
    Thorne took the chair that had been offered. ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr Bond!’ Cornish took an e-cigarette from his pocket and puffed on it theatrically.
    Sophie Carson had clearly given her boss a complete report on the visitors from London.
    ‘No big deal,’ Cornish said. ‘We’ve got a few like you round here. Can’t take a day off.’
    ‘I’m just killing time,’ Thorne said.
    ‘Course you are.’
    ‘Don’t know what else to tell you.’ Thorne laughed, but the remarks had hit home. Was that what he had become? ‘Job-pissed’ was what they called the type Cornish was talking about, what Thorne called them too. It was usually aimed at those who played everything by the book, who would rather die than deviatefrom procedure. Thorne knew that wasn’t him, but he was clearly finding it hard to leave the job behind. Perhaps being ‘job-pissed’ wasn’t the issue. Maybe it was just a question of what your tipple was.
    Some people could only get pissed on the hard stuff.
    Thorne pointed to the e-cigarette as Cornish took another hit. ‘What are those things like?’
    ‘Bloody gorgeous when you’re not allowed the real ones.’ Cornish leaned across and passed it over for Thorne to examine.
    ‘It’s heavy,’ Thorne said.
    ‘The Federation’s trying to get them banned in police buildings.’ He leaned forward again to take it back. ‘But right now …’ he took another drag, blew out the smoke or steam or whatever it was, ‘it’s absolute bliss, mate. You a smoker?’
    ‘Was.’
    ‘You should try one of these.’
    ‘Can’t risk it,’ Thorne said. ‘A few days on those, I’ll be in the garden first thing in the morning with a packet of Silk Cut.’
    ‘Addictive personality.’
    ‘Probably,’ Thorne said. He glanced around. Even the office was nicer than the one he shared most of the time. There was a window, for a start. He sniffed, caught a hint of aftershave that he guessed had not been purchased at the market. ‘So, how’s the search going?’
    ‘It’s a bloody nightmare, mate,’ Cornish said. ‘The flooding means we can’t search as thoroughly as we’d like in some areas. Can’t search at all in a few. River’s so fast, it’s hard for the divers. We’ve got the fire brigade helping us out with specialist equipment, but we’re still stretched when it comes to manpower. This weather makes it all more of a pain in the