There had been lies told in that pub, of course. Or at least a few half-truths, but that was the man he had become. As much point fighting this new nature of his as there would be the grey in his beard or the loss of hearing in one ear.
A losing battle.
He did not drink simply because his faith had gone. He drank because he needed to and, right this minute, he needed to drink more than he had in a long time. Tom Thorne had probably worked that out, because he wasn’t a stupid man, like so many of them. Even if he had failed to solve Meena’s murder four years before.
Was he really as close to doing so now as he’d suggested? There was confidence, certainly. Another thing Govinder had lost.
What was this new evidence the police had found? This progress?
He walked across to the wardrobe and reached inside for his copy of the Guru Granth Sahib.
One more thing he had lied about.
He carefully removed the holy book from its silk wrapping and carried it across to the small, cushioned altar he had built beneath the window. He laid it beneath the canopy, then sat down to take off his shoes.
Ten minutes later, having washed, he sat clutching his chain of steel mala beads and began to pray.
TWENTY-FIVE
More often than not, Alfie was the reason Thorne and Helen stopped arguing. His simple demand for attention would tend to defuse tense situations, making them realise that what they were fighting about was unimportant, or, at the very least, could be put on hold.
It wasn’t usually Alfie that started the row.
Close to bedtime, he had been sitting with Thorne on the sofa, happily hypnotised by a Peppa Pig DVD. Thorne was quietly succumbing to the charms of the winsome porker himself. Already a lot more relaxed than he’d been when he’d come home, he was looking forward to an evening of slobbing out with Helen; to some comfort food and TV, and, if at all possible, staying on that sofa until he was forcibly removed.
To not thinking about woodland, or darkened dead ends; the bodies waiting and the two men for whom these were workplaces.
It was a perfectly good plan, but it had all unravelled very quickly when Helen told Alfie it was time for bed and her three-year-old son had calmly glanced up and told her to ‘fuck off’.
There had been some angry words exchanged before Helen had picked her son up and moved towards the bedroom. She had pointedly – and somewhat ludicrously – suggested that Alfie had not heard those words from her. Thorne had tried to make light of it, insisted she was over-reacting, but Helen was not to be appeased. The bemused child in her arms had waved on his way out of the room, looking from Thorne to his mother as though trying to work out what all the shouting was about.
It had not helped that Thorne’s first instinct had been to laugh.
Now he awaited Helen’s return, and with the imminent resumption of hostilities those thoughts and images he had felt able to escape for a while had begun to creep back into his mind.
She was a good girl.
I’d rather be ignored than controlled.
They killed Susan, but it was me they were after.
‘Sorry, Tom, that was daft.’
Thorne looked up and was pleased to see that Helen was smiling. He nodded and said, ‘Too right it was. I mean for a kick-off you swear like a bloody docker.’
‘No, I mean being bothered about it at all.’ She walked across and sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘Fucking stupid.’
‘See what I mean?’ He laughed again when Helen flicked two fingers at him. ‘Anyway, the average child starts swearing at four. So Alfie’s above average.’
‘Or below. Depends how you look at it.’
‘I don’t trust people who never swear,’ Thorne said. ‘Always makes me think there’s all sorts of dark stuff going on in their heads.’
Helen looked away, nodding.
‘And there’s plenty of kids with worse things in their heads than that. I mean, it’s just a word.’
‘Yeah.’ Helen reached for the remote and turned Alfie’s DVD off, though Thorne had barely registered the fact that it was still playing. ‘Sorry, though, I shouldn’t have gone off at you about it.’
‘I’ll get over it.’
‘Shitty job on at the moment.’
‘OK.’ Thorne waited. They were all shitty in Helen’s line of work, so this one must have been particularly bad. He wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk about it or not, if he really wanted to hear it, but the tone of his response had left the door open. Just an inch or two. ‘Sounds like someone needs wine.’
Helen shook her head then stood up. ‘Chocolate.’
Within thirty seconds she was back on the sofa next to Thorne and making short work of a large bag of Maltesers. Thorne watched; the closed eyes, the sighs and hums of contentment.
‘Be honest. Is that better than sex?’
‘It lasts longer,’ she said.
‘Only because it’s a big bag.’
Helen polished off the rest of the chocolate. She dropped the empty bag on the floor and sat back. ‘The best thing about having children is that you can buy stuff like this and kid yourself it’s for them.’
‘You serious? Alfie would never eat anything like that.’
‘I know. What’s wrong with him?’ Helen shook her head, though she was of course delighted that, unlike most kids his age, her son had never shown any interest in sweets or chocolate bars. He’d spat out chunks of Dairy Milk on more than one occasion, preferring to snack on slices of cucumber and celery, and he was currently getting through a large jar of olives every few days. ‘I mean, I know there’s some doubt about who his dad was, but sometimes I watch him stuffing raw carrots into his mouth and I wonder who his bloody mother is.’
Thorne tried not to look shocked. Helen rarely talked about the uncertainty over the identity of Alfie’s father, and he could not remember her ever joking about it. ‘Maybe you just ate too many Walnut Whips when you were pregnant.’
Helen was staring ahead, her face creased in confusion. As though she were a little appalled at her own comment. She said, ‘This bloody job’s messing with my head.’
‘I’d worry if it didn’t,’ Thorne said.
That door creaked further open.
She inched across, leaned into him. ‘Two brothers, fourteen and twelve. Nothing that I haven’t seen plenty of times before… strange behaviour at school and with other kids. Trouble sleeping, outbursts of violence, being inappropriately and overtly sexual. Like I said, the usual stuff.’
‘The father?’
‘Well it’s always where they start. I’m waiting on the full report from Social Services, but yeah, probably.’
‘So, what’s…’
Thorne felt her stiffen slightly. ‘I don’t know. I think not being sure why this one’s bothering me so much is getting to me every bit as much as the case itself.’
‘It happens,’ Thorne said. ‘Certain cases. Sometimes you never work out why.’
‘I saw the videos… the initial interviews with Social Services, and it’s just something about those two kids. A look on their faces. In their eyes, you know?’
‘Yeah.’ Sometimes Thorne believed that having a decent idea about how killers felt, what drove them to do what they did, was what made him good at what he did. Better than some others, anyway. It was nothing mysterious, just how his brain was wired; the way some people were good at doing crosswords or had great hand-eye co-ordination.
But he hadn’t had to kill anyone to acquire that… insight. There hadn’t been a price.
‘I’m probably being stupid,’ Helen said. ‘Maybe I just need a break.’
‘Well, if you ask me, you need a break anyway.’ Thorne rubbed her shoulder. ‘Polesford was meant to be the break.’
Thorne had known since then that his partner understood what the victims she worked for were going through because she’d been where they were. Plenty of her colleagues had compassion, some had empathy, but Helen knew better than most what
such children lived with every day. The things they felt and the things they carried around in their heads.
Terror, rage, bad memories.
‘We should try and get away,’ he said. ‘Soon.’
Helen nodded.
There were plenty of things worse than words.
TWENTY-SIX
Sarah Webster could just as easily have told them that, after she’d finished college for the day, she was going into the West End for dinner with Leonardo DiCaprio. The Ivy or somewhere like that, then a limo back to his hotel afterwards. Her parents would have paid about as much attention. As little attention. As it was, she was happy enough heading for the pub with some of the people on her course, a kebab or some chips on the way to the bus stop at the end of the night. Not her proper mates, but they were nice enough, a good laugh, and it killed a few hours before she would eventually have to go home.
They’d be in bed by then, with any luck, and would still be by the time she had to leave for college the next morning. If she was unlucky, they’d be crashed out in the front room, off their faces with the TV still blaring. Then it would be Sarah’s job to get them upstairs. Try and clean up a little. Empty cans into bin bags, a roll of kitchen towel for whatever they’d spilled, just so the place wouldn’t stink quite so much when she was having her breakfast.
Toast and white cider.
On the bus home, she sat on the top deck same as always and plugged in her earbuds. Just her and a couple half asleep up the front, a group of Asian lads messing around on the back seat. She liked being high up and staring in through the windows of the houses they passed. If lights were still on, she might catch glimpses of people doing stuff. Watching TV together or saying goodnight then going upstairs like normal people, without falling over or being sick on the landing and laughing about it.
Telling her to chill out like they were the teenagers. Taking the piss. Leaving the bedroom door open and not caring that she could hear them doing it.
He wasn’t actually her dad, just the bloke who’d moved in after her real dad had left, and it was him who’d kicked everything up a notch as far as the boozing went. The stupid, strong stuff. Her mum had always liked a drink same as anyone else, but it had never been about getting off her face. These days, it was hard to have a proper conversation.
Sarah couldn’t remember the last time they’d really talked.
Behind her, the lads at the back were laughing and taking selfies. She turned the music down on her phone and thought she heard some comment about girls with short hair. She didn’t turn round, but she thought they might be taking pictures of her, too.
She was wishing she hadn’t bothered with that kebab.
The taste was rank in her mouth.
They’d talked about Amaya a bit in the pub. Most of them being nice, saying how awful it was and raising a glass to her. One of the boys Sarah didn’t know that well had drunk too much and said he thought Amaya had secretly fancied him, that she hadn’t really been as shy as she pretended. Sarah had told him to shut up. Told him that Amaya would never have been that desperate. The others had laughed, but she was thinking about that phone call from Amaya’s father the morning after she’d gone missing. Screaming abuse so loud that Sarah could hear from across the room and her mother in tears, telling this stranger on the phone she didn’t understand. The hangover, crippling.
She got off the bus and began to walk.
A few minutes to think about what might be waiting for her. To hope her luck would hold.
One of these days she’d get home to find the place on fire.
There was time for one or two more lighted windows, but there wasn’t much to see. A couple of shapes, curtains being drawn. She was still enjoying the music and it wasn’t until she turned a corner that she became aware that the boys from the bus were behind her.
Four of them, hoods up.
She took her earbuds out.
Fifty yards further on the street narrowed and she had her keys out, but by the time she knew they were following her, by the time she turned and saw them running, it was too late.
She started to run herself, moved the front door key in her hand, enough to take an eye out.
She had seen it on a cop show once.
She ran, but they were much too fast and she didn’t have her trainers on.
Not going to happen, not here, they’re not stupid.
There are houses, she thought; she could hear cars. There were still lights on.
She shouted and turned to face them and smelled grease on the hand that was pressed across her face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
They’d stayed in better hotels, but this was the second night, so they would probably be checking out later anyway. Never in the same place more than a couple of days, that was the rule. Never anywhere flashy, either. Same with hire cars, clothes, all of it. Nothing that was going to attract any attention.
Shame, because who didn’t like a bit of luxury? Especially when you could afford it.
It was one of those cheapskate, help-yourself breakfast buffets, with slices of white bread that you put on to that belt contraption to toast. Horrible orange juice in a big carafe thing with a tap, mini boxes of Corn Flakes and Rice Krispies.
Muldoon was hungry, though.
He carried three slices of toast, some jam and a few bits of cheese over to his table, then went back to get coffee and biscuits. Whacked another slice of bread on the belt for good measure. Once everything was laid out, he got stuck in and tried to ignore the tinny jazz that whoever ran this poxy chain had chosen to give their guests a nice, relaxing start to their day.
If relaxed meant wanting to tear the manager’s head off.
He leaned back, chewing, and looked across at Riaz eating his own breakfast at a table in the far corner.
Yoghurt and a bit of fruit, for God’s sake. His own teabag, some herbal shit he always carried with him.
Head down over the newspaper he’d ordered the night before.
They had not fallen out, nothing like that, but it was always the same if they had an early start. If they were eating somewhere like this. His partner was not exactly chatty at the best of times, but first thing he preferred his own company, which Muldoon thought was fair enough. Nobody needed a gobshite like him firing questions across the table before they’d woken up properly, did they? Riaz was not a morning person, he’d told Muldoon, and he liked a bit of space at the start of the day.
It was nothing personal.
Miserable cunt…
Muldoon wasn’t sure what sort of place they would be moving to. Riaz always made those arrangements, which was fine, because organisation had never really been Muldoon’s strong point. Bits of paper to lose. Somewhere a bit nicer, with any luck. It would still be somewhere in town though, Muldoon knew that much. They still had plenty of work to do.
Riaz looked up and saw Muldoon looking. Muldoon nodded. Riaz nodded back and went back to his paper.
Muldoon started slathering butter on a second piece of toast.
Seemed like they were in demand right now, in London at least. Regular boom industry, it felt like. Always the same, Muldoon thought. Feast or bloody famine. Obviously they’d had to stick around until the thing with those two kids was finished, but now there was another job to do and, who knew, there was every chance something else might come along before they had to move on. Probably be Turkey or Pakistan, he reckoned – they’d done plenty over there the last few years – but it would be nice to stay in the UK for a while, at least. The food, the language, all that. Maybe something up north, or in the Midlands. Those were where the jobs usually came from.
Birmingham, Bradford. A few nice paydays up there in the past.
When he’d finished eating and found himself tapping his spoon on the table in time with the foul music, Muldoon got up and ambled across to his partner’s table. A quick chat wouldn’t hurt. Get the lie of the land.
Riaz sighed and looked up; folded his paper and waited.
<
br /> ‘So, what’s on today, boss?’ Riaz wasn’t his boss, it was just a word and Muldoon knew that it irritated the Asian for some reason. Which was why he said it.
‘We watch the house again.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Get a sense of the routine, the timings. Do it properly.’
‘Oh, I’m all for that,’ Muldoon said.
‘I’m very glad you agree.’
‘Proper, but not… overdoing it. Like you said.’
‘Bring a magazine or something, so you won’t get bored.’
‘So I won’t start annoying you with my stupid chatter, you mean? Getting on your nerves?’ Muldoon reached across and picked up the empty plastic pot. ‘How was your yoghurt, by the way?’
‘I’ll bring a magazine,’ Riaz said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The crisp packet had been lying in the footwell of Tanner’s car for several weeks. Normally it would have been removed immediately, of course, with a good deal of huffing and a telling-off for the individual who had left it there. Lovely as her partner had been, she was never much of a one for tidiness. Up to you if your own car’s a bloody pigsty, but don’t throw your rubbish away in mine. The packet – and a half-empty water bottle behind the seat – had been left the day her car had been borrowed, so Tanner was happy to let them sit there for a while.
Not happy, perhaps…
A reminder of Susan, obviously, and of her own guilt. A reminder why she was parked at the end of a side street, watching a convenience store in East Barnet.
Tanner had said something about the car, about not pranging it, the last time she’d seen her. A few words, only half tongue-in-cheek, before Susan had climbed in and driven off, grinning, to school on that final morning.
Never anything profound, was it? Never anything important.
That final conversation.
It hadn’t been an argument, which was something to be grateful for, though there had been plenty of those in the weeks beforehand.
The drinking, the treatment she wasn’t sticking with, the usual stuff.
So, it could have been a lot worse, but that didn’t make Tanner feel any less wretched. Her precious bloody car, for pity’s sake.
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