‘You need to make sure she sticks to it,’ Thorne said.
‘This is your mother I’m talking about.’
‘OK, well maybe you could do a bit more cooking.’
‘I cook.’ His father sounded put out. ‘Sausage and mash or whatever. Big breakfast on a Sunday.’
‘Yeah, but something a bit healthier wouldn’t hurt now and again. The odd salad or whatever.’ Even as Thorne was suggesting it, he knew that it would hurt a good deal and that he was probably the last person from whom anyone should take nutritional advice. ‘All I’m saying.’
His father grunted. ‘Anyway, I’ll put her on. We going to be seeing you any time soon? This side of Christmas would be nice.’
Thorne began to answer, said that he’d do his best, but it all depended on . . . then he heard his dad shouting his mother’s name and knew there was little point carrying on.
‘Maureen! He’s on the phone.’
Thorne turned to the TV. Nil-nil at Villa Park and, having checked the result already, he knew he wasn’t going to be seeing goals any time soon. He looked at his watch. Grantleigh Figgis was probably being bailed at that very moment; shortly to return to a home that had been extensively ‘redecorated’ in the way that only half a dozen Scenes of Crime Officers and a full forensic team could manage.
Thorne had never been inside Figgis’s flat, but found it hard to imagine it had been a tasteful picture of order and calm before it had been turned upside down. Not too many junkies lived in show-homes.
‘Hello, love . . .’
He chatted happily to his mother for a few minutes, content to put heroin addicts and missing children to the back of his mind for as long as he could manage. He asked her what the doctor had said and she told him she was fine. She said that if anything was responsible for putting her blood pressure up it was his father and that there was no way on God’s green earth she was going to eat bloody rabbit food three times a day.
She was always keen to talk about eating.
‘Have you got plenty in?’
‘I’m not going to starve, Mum.’
‘Plenty of stuff in the freezer, I mean.’
‘Yes—’
‘You can’t live on takeaways.’
Thorne did not want to tell her that most of the stuff she’d brought round and put in the freezer for him the week after Jan had left was still there. Shepherd’s pies and casseroles, an enormous moussaka her friend Arianna had made. He said, ‘I’m fine, I promise.’
‘So, have you seen her then?’
‘Who?
‘Jan. Who else would I be talking about?’
His mother was as socially awkward as his father was, but in a rather different way. She was hard-wired to broach subjects that should by rights have been off-limits, to say the unsayable; to tell someone that they’d put on weight while all those around her were talking about kids or dogs or weather.
‘We’ve talked,’ Thorne said. ‘Well, we’ve exchanged messages. But I haven’t seen her for a while.’
It wasn’t strictly true. He’d seen her coming out of the lecturer’s house early one morning. On several mornings, in fact, watching her from his car parked on a side street opposite. She’d looked tired, he’d thought – his mother would have told her as much to her face – and he’d spent the drive back to Highbury imagining each and every gymnastic thing she might have been doing the night before to wear herself out.
‘Well you should,’ his mother said. ‘Get all this squared away.’
‘Yeah, I will,’ Thorne said. ‘Just got a lot on at the minute, with work.’
‘I know, love.’ She let out a long, rattly sigh. ‘I suppose that means we won’t be seeing you for a while?’
‘I was telling Dad, I’m going to try and get over as soon as I can.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said. ‘I’ll cook you something nice and maybe you can spend the night.’
Thorne’s pager sounded on the table next to the TV. He got up to look and told his mother that he needed to go, that it was a work thing.
‘Make sure you bring back all my bowls and casserole dishes.’
‘I will—’
‘When you come over.’
‘OK, I’ll call at the weekend.’
She said, ‘You stay safe.’
As soon as he’d hung up, Thorne rang through to the incident room and a sergeant on the night team told him that Catrin Coyne was trying to get hold of him. She’d left several messages.
‘Right.’ Thorne remembered how angry the woman had been when he’d called her the night before. The dressing-down she’d given him, after they’d arrested Figgis.
‘She sounded like she’d had a drink,’ the sergeant said.
When Catrin answered the phone a few minutes later, Thorne could hear at once what the man had been talking about.
‘I need to see you.’ Before Thorne could respond, she said it again, more slowly, as though she wasn’t sure she’d said it right the first time.
‘OK,’ Thorne said. Whatever she wanted to see him about, she didn’t sound angry.
‘Can you come over first thing in the morning?’
‘Is everything all right?’
It took her long enough to answer for Thorne to start thinking that she’d wandered away from the phone to fetch herself another drink, or even fallen asleep.
Finally, she said, ‘Thing is, I haven’t been completely honest.’
Cat was woken an hour or so later by a soft, persistent knocking. She swung her legs off the sofa and blundered out into the hall, dry-mouthed and groggy. The man at the door looked every bit as terrible as she felt, but she sobered up quickly enough to push the door quickly back towards him, those all-important few inches, to make it clear there would be no invitation to come inside.
The hostile reaction – she’d heard herself say ‘No’ as she’d wrapped both hands around the edge of the door and shoved – had been instinctive, but Cat was still a little alarmed by how unfamiliar it was.
How unlike her.
Figgis took a step back and said her name.
‘It’s late,’ she said.
‘I know.’ Figgis shoved one hand into the pocket of his jacket, clawed the fingers of the other through his hair, as though there were things in it that were making him uncomfortable. ‘They’ve only just let me come home.’
‘You probably shouldn’t be here,’ Cat said. ‘Here, I mean.’
She stared at him, while he looked at the wall to the side of the door, at the letter box, at his shoes. Someone was shouting on the floor above and the lift clanked and growled as it passed them on its way down.
He said, ‘I’m really sorry about Kieron.’
Cat said nothing because there was nothing to say.
‘I didn’t do anything.’ Figgis lifted a foot off the ground, as though to take a step towards the door, then planted it slowly back where it was.
He looked like a big lost bird, Cat thought.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘I’m tired, Grant.’ She leaned her head against the edge of the door, moved forward with it. ‘I’m so fucking tired.’
Now, it was really kicking off on the floor above. Someone was a selfish wanker and someone else was telling both of them to keep it down.
Just before she closed the door, Cat said, ‘You look like shit, by the way.’
TWENTY-THREE
Kieron thinks his dad looks like a soldier.
It’s hard to remember exactly what he looks like, it’s been so long, but he remembers how strong his dad is. He remembers how easily his dad can lift him up, like he hardly weighs anything, and when he closes his eyes to try and see his dad’s face, he thinks he had a beard like someone he saw on TV once, in a programme about the army his mum was watching.
A soldier with a scraggly beard, who was brave and good at fighting.
It was ages ago when he first met his dad, and ages and ages since he last saw him. He remembers how excit
ed he was, that first time. His mum had been telling him for weeks that his dad was coming back. She knew exactly which day the job he’d been doing was going to finish. She put up balloons and everything. There was a big party and his dad got a bit drunk which was really funny, even though his dad looked really sad after everyone had left.
Kieron tried not to cry when his dad had to go off to do his job again, because his mum told him to try and be a big boy, even though she cried a lot. He could hear her through the wall of his bedroom. She doesn’t know exactly when he’ll be back this time, though. She says it depends on all sorts of different things; that it’s complicated.
He’ll be amazed at how tall you are, she always tells him that. He won’t hardly be able to believe it. What a big strong lad you’ve become.
He says he can’t wait to see you.
Kieron knows that’s true, because his mum shows him those bits in his dad’s letters, but Kieron thinks his dad probably won’t be that surprised at how much he’s grown, because his mum’s been sending photos. Loads and loads of photos . . .
Now, Kieron’s starting to think that because there’s no definite time for his dad to come back, because it’s complicated, that maybe his dad will be coming here instead of going home. Coming here specially, to take him away from the man upstairs.
He could lift the man up easy, Kieron thinks.
The man had come back eventually, but not with his mum like Kieron had been hoping. He’d tried his hardest but hadn’t been able to stop himself crying, however much the man told him not to.
Same thing with the food. He’d been trying to make it last when the man was away, but eventually he’d got so hungry that he’d almost finished it by the time the door opened and the man brought him some more down.
More crisps and biscuits and Coke. Chocolate.
The man told Kieron how sorry he was that he’d been gone for such a long time and that he wouldn’t do it again. It was a work thing, he said, something stupid he couldn’t get out of. The man had missed him very much, he said. He hoped Kieron had missed him, too.
Kieron said that he had, because he could tell that was what the man wanted him to say.
It made the man happy.
Same as when they went out into the woods behind the house. The man says it’s important to get some fresh air every couple of days, that it’s good to have a bit of exercise. It was almost dark when they went and really quiet, not like the woods he goes to with his mum, but he doesn’t like to think about that place any more. The man held his hand and told him there was nothing to be scared about and told him exactly which kind of owl was making the ‘to-whit-to-whoo’ noise in the trees. He said it would be silly trying to run off anywhere because there was nowhere to go, and that there was no point in shouting, because there wasn’t another house for miles and nobody could hear. Only the foxes and badgers and things. He told Kieron to try, kept saying, ‘Go on,’ and laughing about it. So Kieron had shouted as loud as he could and screamed until his throat had started to hurt.
The man had said, ‘See?’ and then they’d walked back to the house.
He doesn’t really want to do what the man says, but he knows it’s better if the man is smiling and isn’t shouting. His mum always says that if someone is doing something mean it’s best not to fight back, because that usually only makes things worse. He knows what happens when people lose their temper. He doesn’t want the man to get angry and turn the light off. He doesn’t want him to not empty the stinky bucket on purpose or take any of the food away.
He’s tired, so he lies down on the mattress.
Kieron decides that when he sees his mum, he’ll tell her that he remembered what she’d said about people being mean. He’ll tell his dad too, even though he doesn’t think his dad exactly agrees with his mum about not fighting back and all that. He was only three, or three and a half, but he remembers them arguing about it, shouting when he was upstairs. His dad telling his mum that the only way to deal with bullies was by teaching them a lesson.
Something like that.
Sticking up for yourself.
He closes his eyes and tries to imagine what his dad would say if he came into the room right then. Smashed the door open like the Incredible Hulk and ran down the stairs. It’s hard though, and Kieron cries just a bit, because he still can’t get his dad’s face right, like it’s a blurry picture on the TV.
TWENTY-FOUR
They met just after eight on Tuesday morning, at a café on the south side of the Archway roundabout; a busy little Turkish place where Thorne had eaten several times before. Thorne was hungry and ordered a Mediterranean omelette, with feta, spinach and spicy sausage. Feeling the need for a jolt of caffeine, he asked for a can of Coke to go with it.
Cat drank tea and ate toast while she told him all about a man called Dean Meade.
‘We went to the same school.’ She turned and pointed. ‘Just over there, in Hornsey. So, he’d always been a mate, sort of . . . part of the gang. We didn’t see a lot of each other for ages after we left, then hardly at all after me and Billy got together. Just in the pub now and again, sort of thing.’
‘Then you started seeing him again after Billy went inside.’
‘Not the way you mean,’ she said. ‘Yeah, I saw a bit more of Dean after Billy got sent down that first time. He’d come over to the flat for a beer and a catch-up or maybe we’d go the pictures or something. It was a bit of company, that’s all. He had a girlfriend then, anyway.’
‘So, what happened?’
Cat pushed her plate away, picked up her mug with both hands. ‘Yeah, I suppose there’d always been a spark, or whatever. We’d messed about a few times when we were kids, and he was still decent enough looking. I know it’s not much of an excuse to say I was pissed. That we were both pissed.’
‘You don’t need to make excuses to me,’ Thorne said.
‘I’m just telling you how it was,’ she said.
‘Fair enough.’
‘A few too many beers one night and we got silly, that’s all.’
‘One night? You were unlucky then.’
She blinked slowly. ‘It was a few nights. So, I was mad with Billy for being so stupid and I was miserable. I was still trying to get my head round the fact that any time I wanted to see the bloke I’d thought I was settling down with, it meant schlepping all the way down to Wandsworth prison. I was all over the place and Dean was a shoulder to cry on, I suppose.’
Thorne ate and waited.
‘Once I found out I was pregnant, I decided I’d have to come clean with Billy. I knew it wouldn’t be easy and I knew how he’d react because it was fair enough and I’d have been exactly the same . . . but he wasn’t going to be out for a while, so it seemed like the best thing to do. Then, once I told Dean and it was obvious that he wasn’t too keen on sticking around, I couldn’t see much point in telling Billy anything, except . . . he was going to be a dad.’
‘What about the dates?’
‘Well, there was only a couple of weeks in it and Kieron came a bit early anyway, so there were never any questions. All Billy cared about was having a son. So, that was it. Dean couldn’t get away fast enough, I had Kieron, then eventually, I had Billy back as well.’
‘Happy ending,’ Thorne said.
‘Happy as I was ever going to get.’
‘So, why has the charming Mr Meade decided to come back?’
Cat half-smiled at Thorne’s description, then grunted her distaste. ‘Oh, because of what’s happened to Kieron, he says. Because he cares about him . . . he’s always cared.’
Thorne pushed sausage and cheese on to his fork and lifted it. ‘Cares enough to have taken him, you think?’
‘Dean?’
‘Well, let’s say he does care. A few years go by, he sees his son growing up . . . thinks he can do a better job of raising him than you can, but knows that you’re in the way. Knows that Billy’s very much in the way, even if he isn’t around. So, maybe Dean decides h
e wants his son and does something stupid. He wouldn’t be the first absent father to snatch his child.’
Cat was shaking her head well before Thorne had finished. ‘No chance,’ she said. ‘And even if he did, which he didn’t, why come knocking on my door a couple of days later?’
Thorne chewed, well aware that, even though his line of questioning had been the obvious one to pursue once Cat had come clean, she had a good point. He swallowed. ‘You should have told us straight away.’
‘Don’t you think I know that? I almost called you half a dozen times, even before Dean showed up.’
Thorne knew why she hadn’t spoken up, of course; what she’d been afraid of. Whatever Cat chose to tell the inquiry would – theoretically – be treated in the strictest confidence, but some teams were . . . leakier than others and there could never be a cast-iron guarantee that information would not get out somewhere along the line. Cat had not wanted to risk that happening and word reaching HMP Whitehill. Whatever she had told Thorne about there never being any violence at home, it was obvious what Billy Coyne was capable of.
Who knew how a man like that would react to finding out that the child he’d believed to be his own for seven years was not?
‘Anyway, why are you even asking about Dean? What about Grant?’
‘Well, until anyone is actually charged—’
‘He came to see me last night. When he got back.’
Thorne leaned forward. ‘What did he say?’
‘What do you think he said? That it isn’t him. It was really bloody awkward.’
‘It’s a tricky situation.’
‘What, me living next door to the bloke you arrested for abducting my son? Yeah, just a bit. Going to be a bag of laughs standing next to him in the lift.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Thorne said. He knew that under normal circumstances steps would have been taken to avoid a situation that was at best uncomfortable and at worst potentially dangerous, but he understood why Boyle – however misguided his masterplan was – hadn’t chosen to take them. The last thing he wanted was to have Grantleigh Figgis stashed away in a safe house. He needed the suspect somewhere he felt relaxed, somewhere he could come and go while being watched at all times. ‘We could make sure there’s always a couple of officers outside, if it would make you feel safer.’ Like they wouldn’t be there anyway. ‘Move you somewhere, maybe.’
Cry Baby Page 11