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Back Rabbit Hole Save as PDF
Chapters (73)
  1. Rabbit Hole
  2. Also by Mark Billingham
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Preface
  8. PART ONE
  9. ONE
  10. TWO
  11. THREE
  12. FOUR
  13. FIVE
  14. SIX
  15. SEVEN
  16. EIGHT
  17. NINE
  18. TEN
  19. ELEVEN
  20. TWELVE
  21. THIRTEEN
  22. FOURTEEN
  23. FIFTEEN
  24. SIXTEEN
  25. SEVENTEEN
  26. EIGHTEEN
  27. NINETEEN
  28. TWENTY
  29. TWENTY-ONE
  30. TWENTY-TWO
  31. TWENTY-THREE
  32. TWENTY-FOUR
  33. TWENTY-FIVE
  34. TWENTY-SIX
  35. TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. TWENTY-NINE
  38. THIRTY
  39. THIRTY-ONE
  40. THIRTY-TWO
  41. THIRTY-THREE
  42. PART TWO
  43. THIRTY-FOUR
  44. THIRTY-FIVE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. FORTY
  50. FORTY-ONE
  51. FORTY-TWO
  52. FORTY-THREE
  53. FORTY-FOUR
  54. FORTY-FIVE
  55. FORTY-SIX
  56. FORTY-SEVEN
  57. FORTY-EIGHT
  58. FORTY-NINE
  59. FIFTY
  60. FIFTY-ONE
  61. FIFTY-TWO
  62. FIFTY-THREE
  63. FIFTY-FOUR
  64. FIFTY-FIVE
  65. FIFTY-SIX
  66. FIFTY-SEVEN
  67. FIFTY-EIGHT
  68. PART THREE
  69. FIFTY-NINE
  70. SIXTY
  71. EPILOGUE
  72. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  73. Back Cover

In the interests of getting the key information across as efficiently as possible, as well as jazzing the story up a tad, I’ve decided to pretend this is a job interview. I think I can still remember what one of those is like. So, imagine that I’m dressed up to the nines, selling myself to you in pursuit of some once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity, and not just mooching about in a nuthouse, wearing tracksuit bottoms and slippers, like some saddo. Right, nuthouse. Probably not the most politically correct terminology, I accept that, even though it’s what the people in here call it.

So . . .

Acute. Psychiatric. Ward.

That better? Can we crack on? Last thing I want to do is offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities.

My name is Alice Frances Armitage. Al, sometimes. I am thirty-one years old. Average height, average weight – though I’m a bit skinnier than usual right this minute – average . . . everything. I’m a dirty-blonde, curly-haired northerner – Huddersfield, if you’re interested – something of a gobshite if my mother is to be believed, and up until several months ago I was a detective constable in north London with one of the Metropolitan Police’s homicide units.

To all intents and purposes, I still am.

By which I mean it’s something of a moot point.

By which I mean it’s . . . complicated.

The Met were very understanding about the PTSD. I mean, they have to be, considering it’s more or less an occupational hazard, but they were a little less sympathetic once the drink and drugs kicked in, despite the fact that they only kicked in at all because of the aforementioned trauma. See how tricky this is? The so-called ‘psychosis’ is a little harder to pin down in terms of the chronology. It’s all a bit . . . chicken and egg. No, I’m not daft enough to think the wine and the weed did a lot to help matters, but I’m positive that most of the strange stuff in my head was/is trauma-related and it’s far too easy to put what happened down to external and self-inflicted influences.

In a nutshell, you can’t blame it all on Merlot and skunk.

Very easy for the Met though, obviously, because that was when the sympathy and understanding went out of the window and a period of paid compassionate leave became something very different. I’m fighting it, of course, and my Federation rep thinks I’ve got an excellent chance of re­instatement once I’m out of here. Not to mention a strong case for unfair dismissal and a claim for loss of earnings that he’s bang up for chasing.

So, let The Thing and the rest of them take the piss all they like. I might not have my warrant card to hand at the moment, but, as far as I’m concerned, I am still a police officer.