Muldoon had spent the morning in bed. Another dingy room in yet another crappy hotel. He had seen little point in going anywhere, but, after a few hours, boredom had got the better of him and he’d called Riaz to see what he was up to. Riaz had got up bright and early, he had told him, and headed into the centre of town to do a spot of shopping.
Just a regular tourist.
‘What the hell are we doing?’ Muldoon asked now.
‘I told you. We’re waiting. We have to wait.’
‘Yeah, and I told you, didn’t I? That whole arson business was a waste of time.’
‘You made your feelings very clear,’ Riaz said.
‘And I was right, wasn’t I?’
Riaz said nothing.
‘I said it was all too bloody complicated, didn’t I? Too fancy. I mean, smoke alarms, for Christ’s sake. What’s wrong with a gun or a knife… a hammer or whatever? We were inside, weren’t we? We could have just waited for her, done it there and then.’
‘That’s not what was wanted,’ Riaz said.
‘You saying he specifically asked for a fire?’
Riaz nodded. ‘He wanted her to burn. He wanted it to be slow.’
Muldoon shrugged, like that was fair enough. ‘OK, so what now?’
‘We have to wait. How many times do I need to tell you?’
‘Yeah, I understand, but why do we have to hang around here? I mean it’s not like we can get to her now, is it? They’re not stupid; there’ll be coppers all over the bloody place. Can’t we go home and wait?’
Riaz shook his head. ‘I think it’s best if we stay where we are.’
‘Come on, I could go home and sit on my arse there. I could be back here in an hour.’
‘Until I hear otherwise, we’re still working.’
Muldoon grunted his disgust and looked at Riaz, watched him close his eyes; bored, or just enjoying the late September sunshine.
Muldoon lived on a modern estate just outside Guildford, which suited him very nicely. It was quiet, anonymous, within easy reach of several major motorways and only twenty-five miles from Gatwick airport. But he had no idea where Riaz called home, not really. It was always Riaz who organised the jobs, then made the call. Pack your bags, we’re going to Istanbul, Karachi, Leicester or wherever. As to where he went when a job was finished, Muldoon had an idea there was a place somewhere in the north, and he had once let something slip about a flat in Islamabad. To be fair, there was no point either of them putting down roots anywhere, not when they both travelled so much, but it might have been nice if they’d talked about it once in a while. It wasn’t like they’d be having one another over for cosy dinners or what have you, but it came to something when he didn’t even know where his partner lived or who he lived with.
Muldoon was very happy living on his own, as long as there were some serviceable pubs around and a decent internet connection when he needed company, but he didn’t know about Riaz. Anything was possible, of course, but it was hard to picture him with a wife and a couple of sprogs running around. I mean, how much of a family man could anyone be when they’d done their own sister in?
‘When are we getting paid?’
‘That’s still being discussed,’ Riaz said.
‘Come on, we did what we were told. It’s not our fault if she’s still walking around.’
‘I don’t think she’ll be walking anywhere for a while,’ Riaz said.
Once each of them had completed his task at the front and back doors of Nicola Tanner’s house, they had sat in Riaz’s car to watch and wait. After twenty minutes or so they had seen the fire engine arrive and then, eventually, the stretcher being carried round from the back of the building.
‘Tell him I’m not very happy,’ Muldoon said. ‘When you speak to him. Right? Tell him I want paying.’
‘I’ll pass it on.’
‘Actually, why don’t I tell him myself? About time I had a word, I reckon.’
‘That’s not how it works,’ Riaz said.
‘No?’
‘You know it isn’t. He talks to me and I talk to you.’
‘Yeah, well maybe we should change the way it works.’
‘I don’t think so.’
That was what Riaz did, whenever Muldoon raised an objection to something or tried to suggest a different way of doing a job. He would close the subject down. Nice and friendly, nice and polite. ‘I don’t think so’, or ‘I’ll bear it in mind’, or ‘Let’s come back to that another time’.
Fuck’s sake…
It drove Muldoon mental, but he knew there was no point forcing the issue. All he could do was seethe quietly, store up the frustration and maybe take some of it out on the next girl he bought for a couple of hours.
He stared at a young woman sitting a few feet away until she got up and moved. He narrowed his eyes at a passing teenager. He cursed under his breath, said, ‘What are we supposed to do?’
Riaz waved lazily in the direction of Trafalgar Square. ‘The National Gallery’s that way. You could go and look at the pictures.’
‘Oh right, yeah. Then maybe I could go to the zoo or catch a movie.’
‘Why not?’
Muldoon swore again then fell into a sulky silence. After half a minute or so, he suddenly lunged for the plastic bag at Riaz’s feet. Riaz moved quickly to stop him but Muldoon wrestled the bag from his grasp.
He pulled out the book Riaz had been reading. ‘Right, what have we got here, then?’ He grinned when he saw the cover, sniggered as he read the blurb on the back. ‘Romance? Ah, that’s lovely.’
Riaz snatched his book back, cobra-quick. ‘I’m amazed you could read it.’
Muldoon smiled and stretched out his legs and watched as a grown man on a scooter almost collided with a couple coming the other way. He pointed, laughing, said, ‘See that daft bastard,’ but when he looked, Riaz was already on his feet.
The Irishman watched him until he was out of sight, then got up and walked away in the opposite direction.
FIFTY-TWO
It was not as if Thorne had been expecting a branch of Tesco, but he was nevertheless surprised by the limited options on offer at the hospital shop, and it took him ten minutes of careful browsing before he eventually found something he thought Tanner might actually appreciate.
He had already brought in cards, of course – one from Helen and himself and a somewhat saucy offering from Phil Hendricks – but now he wanted to take something in that would prove he had at least thought about an appropriate gift. There were flowers for sale, of course, though nothing more exciting than the bunches you could pick up at the petrol station opposite, and he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to leave those in Tanner’s room anyway. There was a carousel of paperback thrillers and chick-lit. There were plenty of sweets, chocolates and teddy bears wearing ‘Get Well Soon’ badges, but little else besides.
Nothing that would be any less pointless a gesture than Chall’s rotting fruit.
Paying for his purchase, Thorne wondered if perhaps there were only so many things that patients ever wanted – even those that weren’t heavily sedated – beyond toiletries and the like, which their nearest and dearest could always bring from home. Thorne thought back a couple of years, to a week he had spent in hospital with a gunshot wound; tried to remember if there had been anything at that time he had been desperate for someone to bring in. With alcohol and pornography frowned upon even in the most progressive hospitals, he had spent the majority of his time awake with headphones on, listening to music. Hendricks had brought some Johnny Cash CDs in, cracking predictable jokes about country music and mercy killing. Helen had made him a couple of compilations.
There were a few CDs for sale in the shop, but Tanner had already made it clear that music was not exactly one of her passions, so that was never going to be an option.
What had she called it? Background noise.
Thorne smiled, remembering, and on his way to the till he had glanced at some of the musical delights on offe
r. Michael Bublé, Little Mix, Gary Barlow. He had to concede that, in certain instances, Tanner had a point.
Coming out of the lift on the second floor, he saw the doctor he had spoken to on his first visit and hurried over. She told him she was on her way to the ITU, so he walked with her.
‘No change,’ she said. ‘But that’s hardly surprising since she’s still under heavy sedation.’
‘Probably for the best,’ Thorne said.
‘Absolutely.’
‘She’s a pain in the arse when she’s awake.’
The doctor blinked, stared at him.
‘Sorry.’ Thorne felt himself begin to redden. ‘Stupid joke. I get a bit nervous around… you know.’
‘Women?’
‘Doctors,’ Thorne said.
Now the doctor was smiling. ‘Anyway, the good news is that I’ve finally managed to schedule a date for the surgery.’
‘That’s great,’ Thorne said.
‘Well, not entirely. It’s three days away, but obviously we’ll keep her nicely drugged up until then. The main thing is, she’s in no danger.’
Thorne nodded, thinking about the reason why there was a police officer posted outside Tanner’s door, which was when he heard the sound of a commotion around the next corner, precisely where that officer was supposed to be.
Before the doctor could react, Thorne was running, and he rounded the corner to see two people he recognised having a stand-up row with a uniformed PC. He slowed to a quick walk, keen to listen.
‘It’s ridiculous, completely ridiculous.’ Arman Bannerjee was shouting and waving an enormous bunch of flowers around. ‘I’ve taken time out of a busy day to come here, and now I’m being treated like a criminal.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ the officer said.
‘Just because you say “sir” doesn’t mean you’re showing us any respect.’ Bannerjee’s son, Ravi, stood just behind his father, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie. ‘You get that, officer?’
‘Respect’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘You reckon?’
The PC was on his feet and did not appear to be the least bit intimidated. He said, ‘It’s very simple. I’ve got a list and if your name isn’t on it, you don’t get to go in.’ He brandished the all-important piece of paper, then carefully folded it and put it away in his pocket.
Now only a few feet away, Thorne was pleased to see the hint of a smile on the young officer’s face. The list he had been talking about was a very short one. Thorne himself, Dipak Chall, family members… and even if the visitor was on the list, the officer on duty had been instructed to demand ID.
‘Can I help?’ Thorne sauntered up, smiling as the Bannerjees turned to look at him. He nodded to the PC. ‘I’ll take it from here.’
The officer said, ‘Sir,’ and sat down again.
‘Problem?’
‘Yes there is.’ The elder Banerjee took a breath as though to calm himself down. As though he had done all his shouting at the monkey and was now ready for a more reasonable discussion with the organ grinder. ‘As I was trying to explain to your colleague, I have simply come to visit Miss Tanner and to deliver this.’ With a crackle of cellophane, he once again held out what was certainly an impressive bouquet. ‘But it seems as though we are not permitted to do so. We are not on a list.’
Thorne nodded and smiled again, nice and reasonable. ‘The fact is that Detective Inspector Tanner is in hospital because someone tried to kill her.’
‘Yes, I know that.’ Bannerjee shook his head sadly. ‘I was extremely shocked to hear it. We all were.’
‘So, we are simply taking reasonable precautions to protect her while she recovers.’
‘Yes, I understand, but you know us.’
‘I certainly do.’
‘I think that’s the problem,’ Ravi Bannerjee said.
Thorne looked at the son. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘You think someone tried to kill her because of this honour killing business, right?’
‘I think it’s a reasonable assumption, don’t you?’
‘Not really. I mean, someone could try and kill a copper for all sorts of reasons.’ The boy was pushing twenty, perhaps older, but his demeanour was that of a typically sulky teenager. ‘They make enemies, don’t they?’
‘Nobody’s arguing with that.’
‘For whatever reason, you’ve got it into your head that these supposed honour killings might have something to do with the organisation my dad’s involved with.’
Arman Bannerjee turned to his son. ‘Please, don’t start with all that again. There’s really no need for any… confrontation.’
Ravi had not taken his eyes off Thorne. ‘So obviously he’s not going to be on this precious list of yours, is he? This list of people who can be trusted.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t get too worked up about it,’ Thorne said. ‘There’s all sorts of people who aren’t on that list. Right now, the Archbishop of Canterbury wouldn’t be able to get into that room.’
‘It’s a shame, that’s all.’ Arman Bannerjee looked down at his bouquet. ‘I come all this way in good faith to make a gesture, to show support, and the door is closed to me. A very great shame.’
‘Nice flowers,’ Thorne said.
Bannerjee nodded, sniffed at them. ‘Yes and I should point out that they are not just from me. They are also a gift from imam Mansoor and Mr Dhillon, from all our communities. We clubbed together.’
‘Three of you?’ Thorne said. ‘That’s very generous.’
‘The least we can do.’
‘Why don’t I take them and I’ll make sure they’re put in her room?’
Bannerjee nodded and handed the bouquet over.
Thorne took a sniff himself, then said, ‘Oh, now I come to think about it, Detective Inspector Tanner isn’t actually allowed flowers. Risk of infection. Sorry.’
Bannerjee stared at him, the muscles working in his jaw, as though struggling to keep his anger in check, or simply trying to decide if he should take his bouquet back again. In the end he just turned and walked away.
The boy walked slowly backwards after his father, then pointed. ‘Like I said to PC Plod.’ The finger moved to Thorne. ‘Like I said to you last time, it’s about respect.’
Thorne watched them go, then turned to the officer who had sat staring at the wall opposite throughout the exchange. ‘You married?’
The PC shook his head.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Here you go.’ Thorne thrust the flowers at him. ‘You might get your leg over tonight.’
Leaving the officer looking somewhat ridiculous, sitting and clutching the ostentatious bouquet, Thorne pushed open the door and walked into Tanner’s room. Today there was light rain spattering the window, but little else appeared to have changed. The machines still hummed and hissed and Tanner was still connected to them.
She was every bit as insensible.
He carefully removed his gift from the plastic bag he’d been given in the shop and set it down on the table next to Tanner’s bed.
Then he dropped into a chair and waited.
Just once, he thought he saw her eyelids flutter and a few moments later her mouth appeared to tighten as though something was happening in a dream of which she seriously disapproved.
A sloppily completed expenses form maybe, or a misfiled document. Thorne hoped it was something like that.
After a minute or two he heard voices outside and a few seconds later the door opened and Dipak Chall walked in.
He said, ‘I heard there was some trouble.’
‘Unwelcome visitors.’ Chall looked at him, concerned, but Thorne shook his head. He watched the DS take his jacket off and fold it across the back of a chair. ‘No big deal.’
Chall pulled a selection of magazines from the satchel he was carrying and set them down on the table next to the cards, the water jug and the gift Thorne had deposited. He carefully straightened the pile. He sa
t down and, once again, he and Thorne looked at each other across the bed, and the unconscious woman who was in it.
FIFTY-THREE
In the dream there was blood in Susan’s hair, streaked through the curls like a cheap dye job, and she had no eyes. Such horrors aside though, it was recognisably her. The tatty old sweatshirt she would put on the moment she came in from school. The freckles and the crooked smile and the gap in her teeth that she could whistle through.
If she wanted to attract someone’s attention.
If something surprised her.
If she thought Tanner was looking particularly gorgeous.
There were times when it felt to Tanner as though she were drifting in and out of consciousness, only for a moment or two perhaps, and whether it was actually happening or not she somehow understood exactly where she was. How she was. There was a memory, a dream within a dream, of the paramedic giving her something as she lay sprawled on the patio, and then being given something else once they arrived at the hospital. She’d known she was going under, had thanked God for it, and she still did, because she knew very well that, back in the land of the living, there was nothing waiting for her but pain.
In the dream, Susan spoke to her, the flames rising up around both of them and the smoke like oily hands pressed across their faces. Susan smiled and shook her head, the blood flying from her hair. She said, ‘See, Nic… this is what happens when you get a bee in your bonnet. You just need to step away sometimes, let it go. Like the song.’
That soppy Disney film they had watched a couple of Christmases before. A song Susan had sung to her many times since.
Tanner was crying and Susan told her not to, told her that none of this was her fault. Tanner knew very well that it was, but she understood that Susan would never blame her and that she would have seen the affection in her partner’s eyes had there been anything to see but blackness and blisters.
The damage they had done to her.
In the dream, there were other voices, drifting like snippets from a badly tuned radio. Names mentioned that Tanner recognised, that sparked something in her; the people she believed had brought her to this. The people who had done these things to both of them. So, when Susan began to hum that stupid song, burning, bloody and eyeless, Tanner could only shake her head, because, even in a dream, she could never let go of anything.
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