‘How can she have been there that long though?’
‘Well, other than being certain she was buried some time before we nicked Bates, we can’t really be sure how long she was there, can we?’
‘That’s what I’m talking about,’ Thorne said.
Cornish talked across him. ‘We can be a bit more confident about how long she’d been dead for.’
Cornish’s demeanour was still cheerful enough, but Thorne could sense an irritation being held in check, over and above the fact that the DI was busy, or trying hard to appear so. It was understandable. Thorne had yet to make his suspicions clear, but his questions implied a scepticism that would have been unwelcome at almost any stage of the investigation into Stephen Bates. Today of all days, he was well and truly spoiling the party.
He decided to rein himself in a little. ‘Yeah, I gather it was in a bit of a state.’
Cornish nodded. You know what it’s like, we’ve both seen them.
‘Jessica, right?’
Cornish nodded again. ‘We couldn’t have a formal ID because there was no way I was going to let her parents see her like that. There was a bracelet they were able to identify. Rest is down to dental records, which we should have back later today.’
‘I was told she was burned too.’
Cornish did not seem overly concerned about who might have done the telling. He had clearly become as used to the leaking and the jungle drums as Thorne had. ‘Not completely, but enough to get rid of his DNA. Bates knew what he was doing.’
Thorne nodded, thinking that you’d have to be fairly dim not to know that burning would be a handy way to destroy evidence. ‘Left a fag-end behind though, right?’
‘Right. Caught in the plastic.’ There was a little curiosity now, a narrowing of the eyes, but Cornish kept it in check. ‘We got a ninety-five per cent match on that before close of play yesterday. Be a hundred by the time the lab boys have finished.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’
‘They always do something stupid, right?’
‘Like the porn on his hard drive,’ Thorne said.
Cornish grunted and moved behind his desk to look for something in one of the drawers. Busy, busy, busy. There was a burst of laughter from the incident room. A cheer.
‘Nasty stuff?’
‘It’s all nasty.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Thorne said.
‘Bates likes teenage girls.’
‘Or women who look like teenage girls.’
Cornish stopped and smiled, took another drag. ‘Listen, the man himself is due in court in an hour, so some of us need to get a shift on.’
‘Sorry,’ Thorne said. He stepped back towards the door, giving Cornish space to go about his business.
‘No worries. Any other time, you know . . . ’
‘What you were saying before. About the time of death?’
Cornish took a second to focus. ‘The entomologist is still working on his report, but there was no shortage of bugs and beetles.’ Another beep and he snatched up his phone again; a few swipes and stabs at the screen. ‘We’re talking weeks.’
‘Killed her just after he took her then.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Looks?’
‘I’m not an idiot,’ Cornish said. ‘I mean I do realise she was dead well before she went into that bag or the bag went into that hole in the woods. Blowflies don’t burrow through two feet of soil to infest a body, do they? They’re flies, not moles . . . there’s a clue in the name. There weren’t holes in the bin-liner.’
‘So what did he do with her after he killed her?’
Cornish looked up. ‘Well, eventually, he buried her.’
Thorne cocked his head, said nothing.
Cornish stared just long enough to make it clear that a line was being drawn. He dropped his e-cig into the top pocket of his jacket and said, ‘Right then.’ He picked up his case and fastened it as he moved towards the door. ‘Look, it’s all extra. Stuff like his dodgy browsing history. It’s icing on the cake, right? We’ve got a body, we’ve got his DNA, we know he lied about the girls being in his car. A jury is not going to take very long, put it that way.’
‘So, he’s stuffed.’
‘Comprehensively.’
‘You’ve done a good job,’ Thorne said. ‘Wish they were all that easy.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have said it was “easy”, but it’s definitely not a case we need any help with. See what I’m saying?’ Cornish opened the door and waited for Thorne to leave ahead of him. ‘How’s your other half doing with Bates’ wife?’
Thorne looked at him. At that moment, Helen was on her way to the magistrates’ court too, with Linda Bates. She and Thorne had arranged to meet for lunch in the centre of Nuneaton as soon as they were both free.
‘She’s doing OK.’
‘That’s good.’
‘A shoulder to cry on, you know?’
‘Poor cow.’ Cornish blinked at Thorne. ‘Linda Bates.’
‘Listen, would you mind if I had a quick look at the file?’
Cornish pulled the door to his office closed and studied Thorne for a second or two. He patted his top pocket. ‘Like I said, we don’t really need any . . . input, so is there a good reason why you’d want to do that?’
Thorne watched a young woman walking towards them. ‘Not really.’
‘Just as a professional courtesy, kind of thing, right?’ Cornish spoke calmly enough, but made it obvious that he believed both ‘professional’ and ‘courtesy’ to be words that Thorne was, at best, no more than dimly acquainted with.
The woman, who was wearing jeans and a tailored leather jacket touched Cornish on the shoulder and said, ‘Have fun, boss.’
‘Holiday reading,’ Thorne said.
He dragged the contents of two thick manila folders out and laid them on the empty desk Cornish had pointed him towards. As he organised them, Thorne was aware that he was being watched by several of Cornish’s team, who made no attempt to disguise the fact.
He looked up and caught the eye of the woman he had seen ten minutes earlier outside Cornish’s office. He smiled at her. An older man at a desk opposite was staring; nose like an old spud, twisting an elastic band around his fingers. Thorne gave him a smile too. He said, ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of some tea?’ and the man slowly turned back to whatever it was he should have been doing.
Any information pertaining to the Bates investigation would have been entered immediately it had been gathered on to HOLMES – the home office large computer system – but Thorne still preferred hard copy. The feel of documents, a picture you could hold up to the light. You could miss things, scrolling through pages on a screen.
A creature of habit, like Helen had suggested.
His eyes were drawn immediately to the photographs of Jessica Toms’ body.
Mush in a bin-bag . . .
Cornish had been right; the body had only been partially burned, was not blackened except where it had putrefied. The heat had been enough to open the skin, but had left enough muscle and fat to attract the insects. Thorne had seen all this before: the remains more liquid by now than solid; tissue all but gone from the head and around the natural orifices; the creamy strips of bone beginning to show through the sludge.
A couple of weeks at least.
He set the photographs aside to read through the initial reports following the abductions of Jessica Toms and Poppy Johnston. The bald facts: dates, times last seen, witness statements.
He studied the results of the search at Bates’ house and garage. The analysis of data on his mobile phone and computer, including the times he had visited websites such as Barely Legal and Teasing Teens. He looked at the report confirming a DNA match between material found in Stephen Bates’ Vauxhall Nova and samples provided b
y the parents of both missing girls.
He read through the statements given by Stephen Bates. The transcripts of several interviews. The lies, signed to. Then he looked over the interview that Bates’ wife had given the day before.
Looking at their questions, he could sense the frustration of Cornish and Sophie Carson.
It was impossible to tell if Linda Bates was covering for her husband. If she was, it was equally difficult to tell if that was because she believed him to be wholly innocent. Thorne had watched the partners of plenty of men and women they knew to be guilty as sin, lying through their teeth for no other reason than they loved them.
He would ask Helen what she thought.
Thorne stuffed the papers and printouts back into their folders and stacked them one on top of the other. He looked up and saw that once again he had the undivided attention of the man with the elastic band.
Thorne blanked him, because he didn’t feel much like smiling any more.
Then he picked up the photographs of Jessica Toms’ body again. He laid them in a line and stared at them until it began to feel indecent.
THIRTY-TWO
Stephen Bates was trending on Twitter.
Normally, Charli would have been on it like a shot. She always checked out those topics, the ones everyone was talking about; it was how she got news. Which celeb was sleeping with which other celeb. Who had done or said something stupid. Who had died.
Not this time, obviously, because she knew what it would be like. Why was she even looking? Hadn’t she told Danny not to go anywhere near this stuff?
She checked to see what people who knew her were saying instead, and immediately wished she hadn’t. There were a couple of nice messages, a #staystrong hashtag, but the rest were all about Steve. Making disgusting suggestions, asking questions she did not want to think about. Maybe there were fewer messages from those girls she had really thought of as friends because they’d been told to steer well clear by their parents. At school, there were girls who would be treated like they had the plague if they wore stupid shoes or said something to the wrong boy.
Not really much of a surprise that Charli was being treated like she was a paedo or something.
Danny came in with a bottle of Coke and a large bag of crisps. He took one look at the computer and even though Charli was at the mirror on the other side of the room, he knew that she had been on it. He was the same at home. One glance at his laptop or his phone and he knew if someone had been messing with them. He changed his password every five minutes to stop their mum looking at his messages. Charli had seen him change it once and remembered the code; logged in when he was in the toilet. There was nothing much to see, just the usual teenage boy shit. Such and such a girl was well fit and some boy was gay. School was gay. Everything was fucking gay . . .
She had told him he needed to stop using that word, that it was offensive. What if one of his friends turned out to be gay? What if he was gay? He had taken the piss, obviously. Told her she was gay.
‘What you been looking at?’ he asked.
‘I just wanted to see what people were saying.’
‘You said to ignore it.’
‘I’m just bored.’
‘Yeah, when are they going to let us go out?’
Charli turned from the mirror, carried on teasing at her hair. ‘You want to go out?’
Danny shrugged. ‘See my mates.’
‘Everyone’s going to give you such a hard time.’
‘Let them try it.’
Charli wanted to run across and hug him right then, but knew that he wouldn’t let her. ‘Whatever happens, we might have to move, you know that, right?’
‘That’s not fair,’ Danny said. ‘I’m not moving anywhere.’
‘We might not have any choice. It’s what’s safest for us.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘For Mum, too.’
‘What do you mean, “whatever happens”?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you think is going to happen?’
‘Just saying. Either way.’
‘Is Steve going to prison?’
‘How should I know?’
Danny looked at her for a while, then flopped down on to the bed. He opened his crisps. ‘Remember that time you threw up after you’d been on that rollercoaster?’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, you do.’
‘When?’
‘When he took us to Alton Towers? Remember? When Steve took us.’
Charli shrugged. ‘So?’
‘It was your birthday and Steve said you could go anywhere you wanted, do whatever, and you said you wanted to try that new rollercoaster.’ He shoved a handful of crisps into his mouth, nodded. ‘Steve bought us massive burgers and Cokes before, remember, and then you chucked your lumps when we’d been on it and Steve and me were just pissing ourselves.’ He nodded again, stared up at the ceiling. ‘Yeah, that was ace, that was. That was an ace day . . . ’
Charli said, ‘Yeah.’ Went back to teasing her hair.
‘There’s only one fed left downstairs.’ Danny twisted the cap off the bottle. ‘The one in uniform, you know?’
‘He’s all right,’ Charli said.
‘He’s a dick.’ Danny sat up and took a swig. ‘Kept calling me “mate” and asking me what kind of music I like.’
‘He’s just trying to be nice.’
Danny glared at her. ‘He doesn’t give a shit.’
Charli remembered her brother on his first day at school. Standing in the playground in a blazer that was too big and shoes that he’d somehow managed to scuff within moments of walking through the gates. Their mum had asked her to keep an eye on him, and Charli had promised that she would, but she’d forgotten about it after the first few days. She’d been too busy with her friends, partying and playing up to the sixth-form boys and, before she knew it, Danny had been strutting up and down the corridors; a group of them with their ties undone and hands round their bollocks like a gang of toy-town drug dealers.
He never even acknowledged her if they passed.
So stupid, when she knew him better than anyone. How soft and easily swayed he was. She knew that he just wanted to play computer games with his mates all day, that he loved nothing more than curling up in his onesie to watch Monsters Inc or Frozen with a bag of chocolate éclairs.
No bad thing, she thought, that they’d never be going back to that school again.
She walked across to the window and peered out.
‘A lot less of them today.’
‘I told you,’ Danny said.
‘What?’
‘Said they’d lose interest after a while.’
Charli let the curtain fall back, straightened it. She knew that those who had left would not be away very long. She knew that they had simply gone where the action was.
There were photographers of course, but not as many at the entrance to the public gallery as Linda had expected. Helen explained that a good number would be at the other side of the building, looking for that all-important shot of the police van that was carrying Steve. They would be hoping for a gaggle of angry onlookers and plenty of shouting, and someone might even throw something at the van, which was always a result.
Helen had known reporters to hand out eggs.
These days, it was not so much of a dilemma; the need to be in two places at once. Most of the papers would pay for any half-decent shot taken on a camera-phone. Wasn’t that always the first thing members of the public reached for? In a bombed-out tube train or at the site of a house fire. The smartphones would be aloft well before anyone thought about helping the injured or calling the emergency services.
They waited in silence while visitors produced ID, then walked in; slow and calm.
Helen had already given Linda instruc
tions. ‘Don’t react,’ she had told her. ‘It’s exactly what they want. Don’t smile, because they’ll say “she looked smug” or that “she didn’t seem to care”. Don’t hide your face and whatever happens, try not to get pissed off. They’d love to see you getting angry.’
Linda had said, ‘They want to see me looking guilty.’
There were no empty chairs in the small public gallery. Members of the press were already busy with their phones and a line of court officials stood at the back, ready to step in should anyone shout or try to stand up. Helen sat to one side of Linda and a pair of uniformed police officers sat together on the other, to ensure separation between the accused’s wife and the families of Jessica Toms and Poppy Johnston.
Helen turned to look at them. The two sets of parents were easy enough to spot; hands held, breathing deeply. Based on pictures she had seen of the girls, Helen thought she could tell which set of parents was which. The woman she guessed was Jessica’s mother had the same round face as her daughter, the same colouring. Poppy’s father was tall and skinny, same as she was. The four were sitting together in a line at the front and Helen wondered if they had known each other before, if they had been friends. She wondered how the parents of the dead girl felt about those whose daughter was still only missing.
Only . . .
Sympathy? Envy? Resentment?
Helen could sense that the two couples knew she was looking at them and that they were choosing not to look back. It felt like a refusal.
For the first time since she had taken the decision to come back, she felt conflicted. Now, a few seats away from the parents of a dead girl, she could well understand the looks she was getting from Polesford residents seated nearby.
She told herself she was here for good reasons, for the right reasons.
She was reminding herself what those reasons were, when the judge entered and the court was told to rise.
It did not take long.
Once the judge was in position, the order was given to bring the defendant in. Bates was led into the dock. Linda watched him the whole time, but his eyes were fixed straight ahead.
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