Lazybones Read Free Page A

when he heard a phone ring, he snapped them open, convinced for a few wonderful moments that he’d woken suddenly from a bad dream.
    He turned, a little disoriented, and saw Holland standing next to the bedside table. The phone was an off-white seventies model, the dial cracked, the grimy handset visibly jumping in its cradle. Thorne was now fully alert but he was still somewhat confused. Was this a call for them? Was it police business? Or was it possible that whoever was down at what passed for a reception desk had not been told what was happening and had put a caller through from the outside? Having met one or two of the staff, Thorne could well believe that even knowing exactly what had happened, they might still be dim enough to put a call through to the occupant of Room 6. If that was the case, it would certainly be a stroke of luck…
    Thorne moved toward the ringing phone. The rest of the team stood frozen, watching him.
    The victim’s clothes—it had to be presumed they were the victim’s—lay strewn about the floor nearby. Trousers—minus their belt—and underpants were next to the chair. Shirt, crumpled into a ball. One shoe under the bed, up near the headboard. The brown corduroy jacket, slung across the back of a chair next to the bed, had contained no personal items. No wallet, no bus tickets, no crinkled photographs. Nothing that might help identify the dead man…
    Thorne did not know if the phone had already been dusted for fingerprints, and he had no time to check. He reached out to grab a plastic evidence bag from the fat, babyish SOCO and wrapped it around his hand. He held the hand up, wanting silence. He didn’t need to ask.
    He took a breath and picked up the receiver. “Hello…?”
    â€œOh…hi.” A woman’s voice.
    Thorne locked eyes with Holland. “Who did you want to speak to?” He was holding the phone an inch or so away from his ear and didn’t hear the answer properly. “Sorry, it’s not a very good line, could you speak up?”
    â€œIs that any good?”
    â€œThat’s great.” Thorne tried to sound casual. “Who do you want to speak to?”
    â€œOh…I’m not really sure, actually…”
    Thorne looked at Holland again and shook his head. Fuck. It wasn’t going to be that easy. “Who am I talking to?”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œWho are you?”
    There was a short pause before she spoke. The voice was suddenly a little tighter. Confident, though, and refined. “Listen, I don’t want to sound rude, but it was somebody there who called me. I don’t particularly want to give out—”
    â€œThis is Detective Inspector Thorne from the Serious Crime Group…”
    A pause. Then: “I thought I was calling a hotel…”
    â€œYou have called a hotel. Could you please give me your name?” He looked across at Holland, puffed out his cheeks. Holland was poised, notebook in hand, looking utterly confused.
    â€œYou could be anybody,” the woman said.
    â€œListen, if it makes you happier, I can call you back. Better still, let me give you a number to call so you can check. Ask for DCI Russell Brigstocke. And I’ll give you my mobile number…”
    â€œWhy do I need your mobile number if you’re calling me back?”
    The conversation was starting to get faintly ridiculous.Thorne thought he could detect a note of amusement, perhaps even flirtation, creeping into this woman’s voice. Pleasing as this was on an otherwise grim morning, he wasn’t really in the mood.
    â€œMadam, the phone I’m speaking on, the phone you’ve called, is located at a crime scene and I need to know why you’re calling.”
    He got the message across. The woman, though suddenly sounding a little panicky, did as she was asked.
    â€œIt was on my answering machine. I got here, I got into work this morning, and checked my