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By Mark Billingham

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Thorne shook his head. ' They walked on, turning left on to Aerodrome Road and falling into step within a few paces. 'I think you were right the other night,' Thorne said. 'It's somebody she knew. Not well... not necessarily, anyway. ' 'That's all he needs to be. You heard what Walker said about if it had been a different day. Sounds like whoever killed Emily had been watching, and for a while. ' 'Looks that way. ' Holland asked. Thorne looked sideways at him and Holland acknowledged the stupidity of asking the question now, when they had so little to go on.

He heard another grunt as he walked to the bread-bin, then a mumbled request for an apology as he moved to the fridge. ' He scanned the inside of the fridge, looking in vain for a yoghurt he knew had been there the day before. Kieron, the flatmate who had moved out at the end of the previous year, had a habit of polishing off the last of the communal bread, milk or whatever, as well as eating stuff that had never been his in the first place. Now Alex was shaping up to be almost as bad. But Greg was more inclined to forgive his own sister, and she did leave the bathroom smelling a lot nicer than Kieron had done.

Hendricks walked around to the passenger side and got in. He'd changed out of the protective suit and was wearing black jeans and a skinny-rib sweater over a white T-shirt. 'Just about done,' he said. Thorne grunted. ' 'Sorry... ' Thorne turned and looked. Nodded and smiled. A skein of red and blue ink was just visible above the neckline, but most of Phil Hendricks' tattoos were hidden. Much to the relief of his superiors, a good few of the piercings remained out of sight, too. Thorne was happy to have been spared the graphic details, but knew that some had been done in honour of a new boyfriend, one for each conquest.

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