Sleepyhead [Hardcover]

The art of inducing fear in a reader via the printed page is a speciality of only a few skilled craftsmen. Mark Billingham is such an author, and Sleepy Head is such a book. The blurb on the jacket warns that we are in for a disturbing experience and that is precisely what we get: "He doesn't want you alive. He doesn't want you dead. He wants you somewhere in between".

The killer who Billingham's protagonist Tom Thorne is up against is a particularly creepy specimen: he has savagely killed three victims but his fourth, although alive, is perhaps not so fortunate. She has undergone a deliberately induced stroke and although all her senses are intact, she is totally unable to move or communicate. This hideous condition, called Locked-in Syndrome is, however, quite possibly the killer's first miscalculation ... or is it? Soon the dogged Thorne (given to distrusting his own abilities) is playing a cat-and-mouse game with a psychopathic killer. And the brilliant and sadistic killer is just as interested in leading Thorne a merry dance as he is in fulfilling his degraded obsessions.

All characterisations here are spot-on, even the killer (although one wonders just how many more hyper-intelligent psychopaths readers will be prepared to take) while the British setting is handled with intelligence, the horrific set pieces with real élan:

His head moved up, through the hole and into bright white light. He blinked quickly to adjust and opened his eyes. Thorne's last thought, before his body turned ice cold and began to shake quietly, was that he'd been right to be afraid...

--Barry Forshaw

"Night, night sleepyhead" - a soothing reminder of childhood bedtime. But not here. Here, it is the prelude to an unspeakable horror which, if the perpetrator gets it right, leaves the victim alive but no longer in control or, if wrong, leaves the victim dead and the killer full of anger at his failing. This first crime novel from best-selling author Mark Billingham, introduces renegade cop, DI Tom Thorne and his sidekick DC David Holland. Thorne is taunted by the ghosts of those recently killed and, following his gut instinct, turns his back on standard police procedures to go it alone, putting himself and those closest to him in danger. Now the killer wants him. Thorne is the one who's attention he is after and whose intelligence he respects. As Thorne's personal life becomes inextricably linked to the murder hunt, the pressure mounts and the tension builds till the cataclysmic finale. Flicking between narratives of Thorne, the killer and the prone, surviving victim, Billingham holds the attention throughout and demonstrates his skill at writing a tight, fast-paced and increasingly horrific plot. This is an excellent novel showing all the signs of a talent that will become a major force in crime fiction. - Lucy Watson

A terrifically stylish debut novel. (INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY )

Extremely capable and unsettling. (LITERARY REVIEW )

A cunning variation on the serial-murder theme. (SUNDAY TELEGRAPH )

Mark Billingham is one of my favourite new authors. Highly recommended. (Harlan Coben )

He doesn't want you alive. He doesn't want you dead. He wants you somewhere in between ...

It's rare for a young woman to die from a stroke and when three such deaths occur in short order it starts to look like an epidemic. Then a sharp pathologist notices traces of benzodiazepine in one of the victim's blood samples and just traceable damage to the ligaments in her neck, and their cause of death is changed from 'natural' to murder.

The police aren't making much progress in their hunt for the killer until he appears to make a mistake: Alison Willetts is found alive and D.I. Tom Thorne believes the murderer has made a mistake, which ought to allow them to get on his tracks. But it was the others who were his mistakes: he doesn't want to take life, he just wants to put people into a state where they cannot move, cannot talk, cannot do anything but think.

When Thorne, helped by the neurologist looking after Alison, starts to realise what he is up against he knows the case is not going to be solved by normal methods - before he can find out who did it he has to understand why he's doing it.

A WOMAN UNLUCKY TO BE ALIVE

Alison Willetts has survived a stroke, deliberately induced by a skilful manipulation of pressure points on the head and neck. She can see, hear and feel but she is completely unable to move or communicate. In leaving Alison Willetts alive, the police believe the killer's made his first mistake.

A KILLER UNLIKE ANY OTHER

Then DI Tom Thorne discovers the horrifying truth: it isn't Alison who is the mistake, it's the three women already dead.

A COP'S WORST NIGHTMARE

Thorne must find a killer whose agenda is disturbingly unique, and Alison, the one person who holds the key to the killer's identity, is unable to say anything . . .

'If you haven't yet come across DI Thorne, treat yourself. You won't be disappointed'

Sunday Express

Mark Billingham is a stand-up comedian, appearing regularly at the Comedy Store. He has also written drama for children's television, including Knight School which won the Royal Television Society Award for best children's drama.

She was slumped, her back against his legs, buttocks pressing down on her heels and knuckles lying against the polished wooden floorboards. He stood behind her, both hands on the back of her neck, readying himself. He glanced around the room. Everything was in place. The equipment laid out within easy reach. Her mouth fell open and a wet gurgling noise came out. He tightened his grip, ever so slightly, on her neck. There was really no point in trying to talk and, besides, he’d heard quite enough from her already. An hour and a half earlier, he’d watched as the group of girls had begun to thin out. A couple had wandered off towards the tube and a couple more to the bus stop. One tottered off down the Holloway Road. Local, he guessed. Perhaps she’d like to join him for a drink. He’d taken a left turn and driven the car round the block, emerging on to the main road twenty yards or so ahead of her. He’d waited at the junction until she was a few feet away then got out of the car.

‘Excuse me . . . sorry . . . but I seem to be horribly lost.’ Slurring the words ever so slightly. Just the right side of pissed. And so well-spoken. ‘Where are you trying to get to?’ Wary. Quite right too. But nothing to worry about here. Just a tipsy hooray lost on the wrong side of the Archway roundabout. Taking off his glasses, looking like he’s having trouble focusing . . . ‘Hampstead . . . sorry . . . had a bit too much . . . Shouldn’t be driving, tell you the truth.’ ‘That’s OK, mate. Hammered meself as it goes . . .’ ‘Been clubbing?’ ‘No, just in the pub – mate’s birthday . . . really brilliant.’ Good. He was glad she was happy. All the more to want to live for. So . . . ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a nightcap?’ Reaching through the car window and producing it with a flourish. ‘Blimey, what are you celebrating?’ Christ, what was it with these girls and a bottle of fizz? Like a hypnotist’s gold watch. ‘Just pinched it from a party.’ Then the giggle. ‘One for the road?’ About half an hour. Thirty minutes of meaningless semi-literate yammering until she’d started to go. She was full of herself. Nita’s boyfriend . . . Linzi’s problems at work . . . a couple of dirty jokes. He’d smiled and nodded and laughed, and tried to imagine how he could possibly have been less interested. Then the nodding-dog head and the sitcom slurring, and it was time for the innocuous-looking man to tip his paralytic girlfriend into the back of his car and take her back to his place. Then he’d made the phone call, and put her in position. And now Helen wasn’t quite so gobby. Again the gurgling, from somewhere deep down and desperate. ‘Ssh, Helen, just relax. It won’t take long.’ He positioned his thumbs, one at either side of the bony bump at the base of the skull and felt for the muscle, talking her through it . . . ‘Feel these two pieces of muscle, Helen?’ She groaned. ‘The sternocleidomastoid. I know, stupidly long word, don’t worry. These muscles reach all the way down to your collar-bone. Now what I’m after is underneath . . .’ He gasped as he found it. ‘There.’ Slowly he wrapped his fingers, one at a time around the carotid artery and began to press. He closed his eyes and mentally counted off the seconds. Two minutes would do it. He felt something like a shudder run through her body and up through the thin surgical gloves into his fingers. He nodded respectfully, admiring the Herculean effort that even so tiny a movement must have taken. He began to think about her body and about how he might have touched it. She was his to do with as he pleased. He could have slipped his hands from her head and slid them straight down the front of her and beneath her shirt in a second. He could turn her round and penetrate her mouth, pushing himself across her teeth. But he wouldn’t. He’d thought about it with the others too, but this was not about sex. After considering such things at length he’d decided that his was a normal and healthy impulse. Wouldn’t any man feel the same things with a woman at his mercy? So easily available? Of course. But it was not a good idea. He did not want them . . . classifying this as a sex crime. That would be easy, would throw them too far off the scent. And he knew all about DNA. A growl came from somewhere deep in Helen’s throat. She could feel everything, was aware of everything and still she fought it. ‘Not long now . . . Please be quiet.’ He became aware of a drumming noise and, without moving his head, glanced down to where her fingers were beating spastically against the floorboards. Adrenaline staging a hopeless rearguard action against the drug. She might make it, he thought, she wants to live so much. One minute forty-five seconds. His fingers locked in position, he leaned down, his lips on her ear, whispering: ‘Night-night, Sleepyhead . . .’ She stopped breathing. Now was the critical time. His movements needed to be swift and precise. He eased the pressure on the artery and pushed her head roughly forward until chin was touching chest. He let it rest there for a few seconds before whipping it back the same way so that he was staring down at her face. Her eyes were open, her jaw slack, spittle running down her chin. He dismissed the urge to kiss her and moved her head back into the central position. Back into neutral. Then he took a firm grip and entwined his fingers in her long brown hair before twisting the head back over the left shoulder. And holding it. Then the right shoulder. Each twist splitting the inside of the vertebral artery. Now it was up to her. He laid her down gently and placed her body in the recovery position. He was sweating heavily. He reached for a glass of cold water and sat down on the chair to watch her. To wait for her to breathe. His mind was empty as he focused, unblinking, on her face and chest. The breaths would be short and shallow, and he watched and willed the smallest movement. Every few seconds he leaned forward and felt for a pulse. Helen’s body was unmoving. He reached for the bag and mask. It was time to intervene. Ten minutes of frantic squeezing, shouting at her: ‘Come on, Helen, help me!’ Screaming into her face. ‘I need you to be strong.’ She wasn’t strong enough. He slumped back into the chair, out of breath. He looked down at the lifeless body. A button was missing from her shirt. He looked across at the plain black shoes, neatly placed one next to the other by her side. The small pile of jewellery in a stainless-steel dish next to them. Cheap bracelets and big, ugly earrings. He mourned her and hated her. He needed to move. Now it was just about disposal. Quick and easy. He began to strip her.