Their Little Secret

by Mark Billingham

  Heather pushed the trolley forward another couple of feet, then stopped again when Sarah stepped in front of it.

  ‘Why don’t we just go and grab a coffee?’ Sarah said. ‘Like we used to. I can give you the whole bizarre story, then maybe we can go to the police together. Just half an hour, OK?’

  She glanced away for a few seconds, just long enough for another expression to set itself. A familiar mask. Stoic, in spite of everything, the hint of a trembling lip.

  See how brave I am? You don’t know the half of it …

  Then she bit off another chunk of chocolate, like it was the only comfort she could get.

  ‘So, where’s your car …?’

  PART THREE

  Seagulls and Swans

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Things were moving towards a decidedly un-glorious conclusion for at least one glory-hunter Thorne could name.

  This is turning into one of those …

  It’s what Colin Hatter had said just a few days after Kevin Deane had been murdered and Thorne had known very well what he’d meant, what he’d been afraid of, even with the investigation at such an early stage. Now, almost a month on from the murder of Gemma Maxwell, though the work ethic of the DI from Kent and Essex was suspect to say the least, Thorne was finding it hard to argue with the man’s instincts.

  One of those cases already being shunted backwards, as other, somewhat more straightforward murders had been committed and now demanded attention.

  One of those cases which, despite a good deal of information about both guilty parties and enough forensic evidence to convict should they ever be brought into custody, had continued to frustrate the team’s best efforts. That would probably frustrate those of others who might one day decide to take another look at it, long after Thorne and Tanner had handed in their warrant cards.

  One of those cases which, even then, Thorne would drift off to sleep fretting about.

  Thorne glanced up from his desk, from the telephone unit authorisation form he was dutifully completing with about the same enthusiasm he might have felt were he writing a cheque to the Inland Revenue or signing away a kidney. The view from his office was marginally more pleasant than it had been a few weeks before, even if that wasn’t saying a great deal. February had given way to March. Thorne was happy enough to leave the scarf and gloves at home, but could not help thinking that, though the world around him was changing by the day, no such transformation was noticeable as far as his domestic situation was concerned.

  Nothing had … blossomed.

  Nothing had so much as come into bud.

  Spring might well have sprung outside his sodding window, Thorne thought, but his life outside the Job – Helen, Alfie, his living arrangements – continued to feel both stagnant and uncertain at the same time.

  His life, his case, all of it.

  Limbo had no respect for the calendar …

  And Thorne was not the only one who was growing weary of it.

  ‘You’re like a broken bloody record,’ Hendricks had said a few nights before. ‘You need to stop moaning about it and do something.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Anything. Shit, or get off the pot.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Seriously, mate, it’s starting to do my head in. You’re like somebody who goes out in the rain without an umbrella and then moans about getting wet.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ Thorne had said.

  ‘I’m saying, it’s not like you didn’t have a choice, or like you don’t still have one. Do you want to get back with Helen or not?’

  ‘What’s it matter?’

  ‘Are you not listening to me?’

  ‘She’s clearly made her mind up, so—’

  ‘Christ almighty.’ Hendricks had sounded sincerely irritated. ‘What do you want?’

  Maybe, Thorne thought now – as he had then – he knew exactly what he wanted but felt it would be easier to wait around and let someone else make the decision for him. Or perhaps he still nursed hopes but kept them to himself for fear they would soon be dashed anyway. Or it might just be that he was failing to act decisively because he was genuinely undecided, in which case the best – or at any rate the least-worst – option was to do nothing.

  He changed his mind about it a dozen times a day.

  Thorne had never had much truck with mediums, any of that nonsense, but maybe Tarot cards might help? Or he could try to get a number for Mystic Meg, if she was still knocking around. He could always call Helen and see if she’d agree to settle things the same way he and Tanner had done, the night before he’d been to see Andrew Ruston.

  Toss you for it …

  He had just gone back to the authorisation form which, in strict accordance with RIPA regulations, was the first of three he would need to complete before they could access the phone records of a suspected rapist, when Tanner herself walked into his office.

  Breezed in.

  A sheet of paper in her hand. An expression Thorne couldn’t quite read, but which made it clear he could forget about paperwork for a while.

  She didn’t bother sitting down.

  ‘Missing Persons Unit in Enfield got in touch.’

  ‘Right …?’ Thorne leaned back and waited.

  ‘Woman drove to the supermarket yesterday morning and never came back,’ Tanner said. ‘Husband’s been trying to call her, but the phone’s switched off.’

  ‘Domestic?’

  ‘Not according to him. Worried sick, apparently.’

  ‘Run off with a fancy man?’

  ‘Or woman.’ Still that expression, as if Tanner was holding something back.

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘Well, we know she left the supermarket in it, but that’s where it gets interesting—’

  ‘Sorry, but what’s any of this got to do with us?’

  ‘Plenty, I reckon,’ Tanner said. ‘Unless you believe in ridiculous coincidences. Which I don’t.’ She held up the sheet of paper. ‘Mind you, we might not have picked up on this at all if it wasn’t for one sharp-eyed DC on that Missing Persons Unit. She was doing background checks on the MisPers … filling in the forms, whatever, and the name of the school rang a bell.’

  ‘The school?’ Thorne sat forward fast as Tanner passed the sheet of paper across the desk. He looked down and saw the name of the woman who had been reported missing. ‘Holy fuck.’

  ‘Exactly. And it gets better … well, worse, I should say.’ Tanner turned towards the door. ‘Come and have a look …’

  Thorne stood up and followed Tanner out into the incident room. He rubbed at the back of his neck – that feeling like a spider creeping slowly across it – as Tanner pulled up a chair for him, then sat down in front of a computer she was already logged in to. He waited while she called up the piece of CCTV footage that the Enfield MisPers team had acquired and sent over ten minutes earlier.

  ‘Here we go …’

  Thorne leaned forward and watched a woman he recognised as Heather Turnbull push a shopping trolley towards a dark Audi, open the boot and begin unloading bags. Behind her, another woman waited, her face all but hidden by long, blonde hair. Then, just a glimpse as she turned for a second or two, eating something.

  ‘Sarah, you reckon?’

  Thorne peered at the picture. ‘Maybe. A wig, or she’s dyed her hair.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Tanner said.

  The footage ran on. Heather closed the boot and walked around to the driver’s door. The women spoke to one another across the roof before getting into the car and, a few moments later, the Audi reversed out of its parking space and moved towards the car park exit.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Thorne said. ‘What the hell’s she doing? Heather Turnbull, I mean. If she knows where Sarah is, why didn’t she call us?’

  ‘Maybe she never got the chance.’

  Thorne’s eyes did not leave the screen. Tanner had rewound the clip, begun to run it again. ‘Does she look like she’s being coerced to you?’<
br />
  ‘Nothing obvious,’ Tanner said. ‘But with everything we already know about Sarah, don’t you think she’s perfectly capable of scaring the crap out of someone without needing a weapon? Making them do what she wants?’

  When the Audi left the frame again, Thorne said, ‘Do we know where it went?’

  ‘ANPR picked it up a few minutes later on a couple of neighbouring streets, but no sign of it after that. Maybe Sarah was telling her where to go, staying off the major roads to avoid the cameras.’

  Thorne sat back, processing it all. ‘Did she come back for her own car?’

  Tanner shook her head as she closed the file down. ‘No vehicles left in the supermarket car park by the end of the day. Which means she walked there or took the bus. Either way, it’s like we thought.’

  ‘She has to live locally.’

  ‘More importantly, she’s still here.’

  Thorne stood up. He needed to gather the team together, brief them on this new development. Perhaps Hatter had been wrong after all and they could switch off the gas under that back burner. ‘We need to get this clip out there as soon as,’ he said. ‘Focus on those few frames when we get a decent look at her. Someone must be able to put a name to the face.’

  ‘Way ahead of you,’ Tanner said, smiling. ‘As always. They’re running it on London Tonight … tonight.’

  ‘Nice one,’ Thorne said. ‘Oh, and let me know the name of that officer in Enfield, because we owe her a serious drink.’

  ‘DC Andrea Marcou,’ Tanner said. ‘I’ll text you her number and she’s already said, “thank you”. She’d prefer something fizzy, obviously, but she’ll settle for prosecco if you’re strapped.’

  Thorne took a few steps back towards his office, then stopped and turned; his arm outstretched, the fist clenched. ‘Fuck it, things are looking up.’

  It was clear from Tanner’s face that she could not quite match Thorne’s enthusiasm.

  She said, ‘I wish I thought Heather Turnbull felt the same way.’

  FIFTY-SIX

  ‘Why now, though?’ Conrad raised himself up in bed and watched Sarah rushing around, making preparations. When she failed to answer, he asked the question again.

  ‘I realised you were right,’ she said. ‘That’s all. It just took me a while to figure it out.’ She stopped what she was doing, turned to look at him. ‘And to be honest, I could really do with a hand.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but—’

  ‘This was your idea.’

  He rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m still not feeling great, is the truth.’

  ‘I know.’ She moved to the bed, leaned across to kiss his forehead and run a hand through his hair, which was damp with sweat. ‘I’m sorry you’re feeling so rough.’ She moved away again, went back to work. ‘You should really go to the doctor, I told you.’

  ‘Yeah, and I told you.’ He was starting to sound a little grumpy. Sarah put it down to the fact that he wasn’t feeling well. ‘You move around as much as I do, you can’t really have a doctor. Different names, right? I’m still registered back in the Midlands, far as I know.’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘Look, it’s just a bug. Probably a twenty-four-hour thing.’

  ‘Hope so,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot to do.’ The truth was that, much as she hated to see him in pain, it hadn’t done any harm that Conrad had spent most of the day in bed. That he’d been sound asleep when the early evening news had been on. ‘So, why I don’t I nip and get you something to settle your stomach? Chemist’s open until nine.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Conrad said. ‘I just need to get a bit more sleep.’

  She stepped back to the foot of the bed. ‘Well, I suppose I can get most of it done myself, if I have to. You haven’t got much, anyway.’

  ‘Just another hour or two,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘OK, my love, get your head down and I’ll carry on downstairs.’

  Conrad slid beneath the duvet again. ‘Probably easier without me getting under your feet, anyway,’ he said. ‘I know how much you like to be in charge.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just saying … you’re better at this stuff.’

  She let the bag she was carrying slip to the floor. She turned to stare at him. Said, ‘You think I want to do this?’

  ‘No.’ He turned on to his side. ‘Obviously, you don’t.’

  ‘You think I’m enjoying it? Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve had to do. All of it, pissed away?’

  He rolled on to his back again and looked up at her. It was hardly the first time, but still he was shocked at how quickly Sarah’s mood had turned ugly. ‘I never said that. I never said anything like that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. It’s pretty clear that you don’t give a shit about what this is doing to me, how upset I am.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Now he sounded more tired than irritated. ‘You clearly want some sort of argument, but this is hardly the time for it, not when you seem to be in such a hurry. Even if I felt well enough to argue with you … which I seriously don’t.’

  ‘Sleep well, Conrad.’

  He was shouting something about sympathy and what a terrible nurse she’d make as she marched out of the room, his final words inaudible once she’d slammed the bedroom door behind her.

  Downstairs, she sat on the sofa and tried to calm herself. She thought about stepping into the garage for a few minutes, but there was so much to do and she needed a clear head more than ever.

  Sacrifice, she told herself, kept on telling herself. In the end, it was all about sacrifice and, painful as that was, what other choice was there when you’d run out of options?

  It’s what you did for the people you loved.

  Yes, he was under the weather, but Conrad’s attitude was certainly not helping – the suspicion, the lack of support – when she was doing all this for him. Doing what he’d wanted all along. Was she the only one who cared about keeping them all safe?

  He would see that later on and of course he would apologise, but for now Sarah hadn’t got the time to dwell on his shortcomings, to feel let down as she had so many times in the past.

  She had a lot to do.

  Thorne was at home watching Come Dine With Me, wondering how far he’d get with a menu that included cheese on toast and Angel Delight, when Tanner called.

  ‘Bingo!’ she said.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit late, but there’s a place stays open just off the Holloway Road. Five hundred quid for a full house.’

  As usual, Tanner had no time for his nonsense. ‘There were a lot of calls after the piece on London Tonight,’ she said.

  Thorne sat up. Now he had no time for it, either. ‘OK …’

  ‘Plenty we can discount, as usual. Someone who reckons the woman with the blonde hair is called Magda and works in a Polish delicatessen in Balham, someone else who’s convinced she’s an actress he saw in an episode of Casualty. We’re following up on all the remotely credible ones, but there’s a few that sound interesting.’

  ‘More interesting than a woman off Casualty?’

  ‘A bloke rang in who thinks she might be his ex-wife,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Thinks?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Might be?’

  ‘It’s probably the best we’ve got so far, but he sounded pretty convincing, apparently. Said she’d changed her hair, but otherwise …’

  Having learned from painful experience, Thorne tried not to get too excited. Whether it was down to honest mistakes being made, lapses in memory or a simple desire for attention, public feedback following appeals such as this one was notoriously unreliable.

  ‘Let’s bring him in.’

  ‘He’s bringing himself in,’ Tanner said. ‘First thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Better give the late-night bingo a miss, then,’ Thorne said.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The visitors’ interview suite at Colindale station was a little nicer than one
of the more formal interview rooms at the other end of the corridor, even if the basic layout was much the same. There was still a table with two chairs either side. There were still built-in digital recording facilities – audio and video – if they were needed. It was called a suite only because the furnishings were soft and there was a hot-drinks machine in one corner which interviewees did not have to shell out to use. It was where those who were actually ‘helping with enquiries’ were usually taken, because there was a carpet that didn’t smell too awful and nobody had carved BASTERD FILTH FITTED ME UP into the tabletop.

  Peter Suzman was unaware that he had been upgraded but seemed reasonably comfortable with his surroundings. He asked them where they wanted him. He accepted the offer of coffee and sat down.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming in,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Suzman said.

  He was fifty or thereabouts, wearing a dark blazer over a cream shirt and expensive jeans that were rather too distressed for a man of his age. He still had a good head of elegantly greying hair, complemented by a few days’ worth of white stubble and nicely set off by a suntan. A smile that might easily be described as winning showed a lot of perfect-looking teeth and there were fewer lines around his eyes – or anywhere else – than might have been expected.

  Thorne was immediately curious about where the man had been on holiday while Tanner stared and found herself wondering if he’d had any work done.

  ‘Before we get any details,’ she said. ‘Can we ask how certain you are that the woman you saw on that CCTV footage is your ex-wife?’

  ‘Oh, it’s Michelle all right.’ Suzman picked up his coffee cup and leaned back. ‘I said when I called that I was fairly sure, but I’ve watched that clip a few times since then, and … I mean, she’s gone blonde for some reason, but yeah, it’s her. Either that or she’s got a double, you know?’ Tanner was about to ask something else, but Suzman carried on. ‘I clocked it that moment when she turned towards the camera for a second, when she was eating something. That would have been chocolate, almost certainly.’ He turned towards Thorne as though only a man would understand. ‘Michelle loves chocolate.’