Love Like Blood

by Mark Billingham

  ‘The people I’ve been working to protect have traditional lives and traditional values. The most important thing is that the family is one unit.’ He held up a finger. ‘One unit… one entity, and when someone in that family breaks a rule, the family itself has broken a rule. Is that really so hard to understand? If the part of the family that’s rotten is not dealt with, that rot will spread and then the community can’t protect you. It won’t protect you. Everyone in that family is guilty, can’t you see that? As far as the community is concerned they are all liars, thieves, whatever… until they take steps against the person who is responsible for it.

  ‘The men and women who come to me love their children. Course they do, every bit as much as anyone else. But they have other children who need to be protected and they can never really be safe unless the ones who break the rules are made to pay. It’s important to remember that these people have raised their children, taken care of them. They brought them into the world, so it’s their right to take measures when they have no other choice.

  ‘Respect is important, and you hold on to it by weeding out those who are misled. Those who choose to ignore the rules about how to behave, how to dress, who they are supposed have children with. Nothing is more important than dealing with dishonour in the right way.

  ‘Cutting out the rot…’

  Thorne watched Ravi Bannerjee sink slowly back and stretch out his arms, seemingly pleased with himself. He glanced across and saw that the boy’s father had turned to stare, slack-jawed, at his son.

  It was easy enough, easy and pleasant, to imagine the boy’s face opening up beneath his fists; a blow for each of the victims and for those left mourning them, until there wasn’t much of a face left.

  Easy enough.

  He said, ‘What’s important is that I know what murder is. The fact that there are officers in the street outside and a few more waiting at the end of your lovely garden.’ Thorne smiled and got to his feet. ‘And that there are handcuffs in my pocket.’

  PART FOUR

  SOMETHING BRIGHT

  SEVENTY-THREE

  ‘So, good news on Ilyas Nazir,’ Tanner said. ‘The CPS thinks there’s enough to make a case for conspiracy.’

  Thorne almost dropped the phone. ‘How come you’re hearing this before I am?’

  ‘Would you believe, Soran Hassani?’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Oh, he’s my best mate all of a sudden. Sucking up, in case I decide to go back to Honour Crimes when I’m fit again. And there’s a spot on the team for you too, if you want one.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘He wanted me to tell you what a great job you did.’

  ‘Yeah, well tell him I’m sorry for being such a… troublemaker.’

  ‘I think a troublemaker’s exactly what he’s looking for.’

  ‘You think you will?’ Thorne asked. ‘Go back there?’

  ‘Not in a million years. But it’s fun to let him think that I might.’

  Thorne could hear the glee in Tanner’s voice, even though she was talking quietly, so as not to be overheard. She had been staying with her brother for almost a week since leaving hospital, and the help from her sister-in-law that was gratefully received for the first day or two had now started to become a major source of irritation. ‘She follows me from room to room,’ Tanner had told him. ‘It’s getting on my tits, to be honest. I think I’d rather be at home on my own. I’m like lightning on these crutches and I can always shuffle up the stairs on my arse.’

  ‘Thank you for that lovely image,’ Thorne had said.

  Nazir, the go-between, had been the toughest nut to crack in terms of formulating charges that might stick, and there were still the other go-betweens to track down; those with connections to the Sikh and Hindu communities. The rest was looking straightforward enough, though the sheer number of suspects involved at different levels of the inquiry had meant a division of the caseloads between units. Hassani had taken charge of putting together the case against Ravi Bannerjee and would do the same with the man known to Muldoon only as Riaz, if and when he was taken into custody. Thorne had laid claim to those involved in the Shah and Azim murders and, of course, to the Meena Athwal case, which had been his to begin with.

  Three days before, breaking it all down for Nicola Tanner had not only meant shocking her with the identity of the broker, but admitting to more than a few mistakes.

  ‘We were wrong about Kamal’s family being in on it,’ he told her. ‘It was all Haroon Shah and his father. They wanted Kamal killed as well as Amaya, because he was the one she was planning to run off with. They paid for both.’

  Tanner said, ‘In that case, we probably owe Kamal Azim’s parents a visit.’

  Thorne nodded slowly and felt the solid knot of shame in his chest tighten a little. As far as Kamal’s family went, he had got it badly wrong. It wasn’t the first time, of course, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t help him sleep any more easily. Yes, he had believed that Hamid Azim had paid to have his son killed, had treated him the way he did because he believed it, but it was no excuse, and now Thorne was the only one feeling guilty.

  ‘I’ll go and see them when we find Kamal’s body.’ Fighting for his life, Muldoon had not been able to give Thorne any more than the vaguest location of Kamal’s burial site. A team was searching several acres of wasteland between the M1 and the Great North Way. When Kamal’s body was found, Thorne would visit Hamid Azim and his wife himself to deliver the death message.

  ‘I mean, we should apologise for what you did to that poor man’s T-shirts for a start.’

  Thorne had laughed along with her and tried not to look too shocked, thinking that bereavement and a near-death experience seemed to have given free rein to a pitch-black sense of humour he had not known was there.

  In truth, he had further penance of his own to pay.

  ‘And I was wrong about Meena Athwal,’ he said. ‘It was the mother who arranged the killing, not the father. She’s dead now, so…’

  ‘Have you been to see him yet?’

  ‘No.’

  They’d been sitting in her brother’s front room. Tanner’s legs were still heavily plastered and resting on what Phil Hendricks always called a ‘massive pouf’ and she had leaned across to whisper that ‘Nurse Nosy’ – who had already provided them with tea and Jaffa Cakes – was almost certainly earwigging just outside the door.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll get round to it,’ Tanner had said. ‘It’s been a hectic few days, right?’

  Now, talking to Tanner on the phone and listening to Helen murmuring to Alfie in the bedroom, Thorne was still trying his best not to dwell on the conversation he had yet to have with Govinder Athwal. The one about the dead wife to whom he had been so devoted being responsible for the murder of his daughter.

  Another mistake, another in a catalogue. Thorne could always tell himself that the final result justified the stupid assumptions and excused his treatment of a man already destroyed by grief. If he was pushed, he could probably make a convincing case for behaviour which, in retrospect, had been profoundly unfair.

  But it wouldn’t make him feel any better.

  He leaned back against the kitchen worktop. ‘Oh, there is another bit of good news. Faruk Shah’s a stubborn sod, saying bugger all, but Haroon’s being pretty talkative. So, on top of all the other stuff, I think I can get him to cough to Sarah Webster’s rape. Give us those lads’ names.’

  Thorne heard relief in Tanner’s noisy exhalation.

  ‘Can I tell her?’ she asked. ‘When you get the names?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Something to look forward to.’ She moaned and swore again under her breath; shifting position, Thorne guessed. ‘OK, so is that it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Thorne said. ‘That’s about all, I think.’

  All except the one thing he had chosen not to tell her; that he would probably never tell her or anybody else.

  The tr
uth about Martin Muldoon’s final moments.

  He had told Tanner the same thing he’d told Brigstocke, Hassani and the rest of them. That he’d told Charita Desai when she’d finally come running out of the woods a minute or so after Muldoon had died, and the paramedics who’d arrived shortly after that.

  Muldoon had expressly told him not to call for medical assistance. He had known it was too late by then and was far keener to have his confession recorded while he still had the chance. By the time that confession had been taken and Thorne had tried to call an ambulance, the battery on his phone had died.

  Unlucky, but at least Muldoon had died having told the truth.

  Even if the Nicola Tanner Thorne had worked with for the previous month or so had not been quite the stickler for procedure that her reputation would suggest, that was the only version of events Thorne had been prepared to share with her.

  There had been a look between them, once he’d told her. Nothing overt, but a look that was held a few seconds longer than it might otherwise have been.

  Thorne was thankful that had been as far as it went.

  A few minutes after Thorne had hung up, Helen emerged from the now silent bedroom. She smiled, her fingers crossed, and went straight to the fridge in search of wine.

  ‘We should celebrate,’ she said.

  ‘I thought we did.’ That morning, they had each downed half a glass of Prosecco, topped up with orange juice. Breakfast, once Thorne had finally come home; Alfie smearing porridge across the table and Muldoon’s blood still tacky on the tips of Thorne’s shoes.

  ‘Not properly.’ Helen was pouring the wine. ‘And anyway, I’m talking about my case.’

  ‘The brothers?’

  She handed Thorne his glass and raised her own. ‘Finally cracked it.’

  ‘Oh… I’d been meaning to ask how it was going. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. You’ve had a pretty full-on week.’

  ‘Still.’

  It was more or less what Tanner had said a few minutes earlier on the phone.

  No excuse.

  ‘So, come on then.’ They carried their drinks across to the sofa and sat down. ‘Was it the dad?’

  ‘Nope.’ Helen shook her head, pleased with herself, as though Thorne had just fallen for a trick question.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘You’re never going to get it.’

  ‘Was it… someone off a popular seventies TV show?’

  ‘It was the older brother.’

  ‘What?’

  Helen nodded. ‘The fourteen-year-old is our abuser. Turns out he’s been abusing his younger brother for years, making him do all sorts. A couple of local cats had their heads cut off, a few mysterious fires, and we’ve just started to dig up some very nasty stuff with girls on the same estate. The twelve-year-old was so petrified of him, he’d go along with whatever his brother wanted.’

  Thorne puffed out his cheeks. ‘So, why does a fourteen-year-old kid start behaving like that? I mean, something must have happened to him.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘No evidence to suggest that so far, and trust me I’m looking. Maybe that’s just how he is.’ She looked at Thorne. ‘I swear to God, he is a seriously messed up boy.’

  ‘So how did you work it out?’

  ‘I didn’t. I mean, I said I cracked it… but in the end he just decided to tell us. Came out with it yesterday afternoon, like it was something that had slipped his mind. Like he just got… bored.’ She let out a long breath, downed what was left of her wine, then stood up to fetch some more. She turned at the fridge. ‘What was the name of the school that Tanner’s girlfriend worked at? The one where you went for that memorial thing?’

  Thorne told her.

  ‘Thought so.’ Helen poured herself another glass. ‘Same one those boys go to. Well went to, anyway.’

  Thorne said, ‘Oh, right,’ while his hand was slowly moving up to brush at a familiar tickle at the nape of his neck. Spidery legs creeping across the soft hairs...

  Remembering a picture.

  Thinking about a clumsy scatter of painted freckles, and white spots on an oatmeal carpet. Thinking about the one thing Martin Muldoon had not confessed to.

  ‘What’s the boy’s name?’

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  However Ryan Smedley had appeared when he’d let Helen know exactly what he’d been up to at home, he now seemed anything but bored. He looked excited. Sitting up good and straight in the plastic chair; wide-eyed, drumming his hands against the edge of the table, as if he was itching to get started.

  Thorne guessed that the boy enjoyed being the centre of attention.

  He now had plenty of it.

  The interview room was certainly as crowded as Thorne could remember, but it was usually the way with underage suspects. There were necessary procedures to follow. There were crucial requirements in regard to legality and pastoral care. Nobody could afford to take chances when the person you believed to be a murderer hadn’t started shaving yet.

  Under normal circumstances, Thorne might have had a DC in tow, but today he had asked Yvonne Kitson to sit in with him. He didn’t doubt that a certain morbid curiosity had played a part in her instant agreement, but it didn’t hurt to have a DI as experienced as she was alongside him. Across from them, the social worker Helen had been working with on the abuse case was sipping from a bottle of water, in attendance as appropriate adult, while the solicitor hired by the family took a notebook and pens from his briefcase, doing his best to look as though he’d handled dozens of cases as notable as this before.

  Like it was just another day at the office.

  Between them, Ryan Smedley tapped at the table, buzzed up and keen as mustard. He was wearing jeans and a red Gap sweatshirt. A few strands of gelled blond hair were sticking up at the back of his head. He might have been waiting to be interviewed for a Saturday job in some café or local supermarket and, watching him, Thorne was reminded of another young man who had turned out to be anything but what he’d seemed.

  What do you know about anything?

  Once the red light on the box built into the wall was glowing, Thorne ran quickly through the usual routine, the announcements and disclaimers. For the benefit of the various recordings, he spoke the names of everyone in the room and their reasons for being there, but before he had a chance to kick things off properly, Smedley was already speaking up.

  ‘So it’s on tape or whatever and it’s also being filmed?’

  ‘Correct,’ Kitson said.

  Smedley craned his head around and looked up at the camera mounted in the corner of the room. ‘Like on DVD?’

  ‘Yes, and the audio recording’s digital. It’ll be stored on a central data system and automatically burned on to a CD.’

  ‘Cool. And I can have copies, right?’

  Kitson nodded towards the social worker. ‘As soon as we’re done, Miss Anderton will sign a form on your behalf to say she’s accepting a copy of the CD, which will then be given to your solicitor. The video will be disclosed a bit later on.’

  Thorne looked at the boy. ‘OK, Ryan?’

  ‘Yeah, cool beans.’

  Thorne smiled and nodded. He said, ‘You did a picture, of Susan Best… of Miss Best. A painting.’

  ‘Yeah, at school. You know I did. You saw it.’

  Next to him, the solicitor was becoming agitated. Smedley was clearly not following his instructions, which had presumably been to say nothing at this stage. ‘I want to put on record my objections to this interview, on the grounds that, as far as I’m aware, you have no evidence whatsoever linking my client to this offence. There is no physical evidence, certainly.’

  Thorne could not really argue. Forensic evidence gathered at the crime scene over two months before had done no more than point to the presence of two intruders: patterns on the soles of two sets of shoes taken from the hall carpet. Prints had been lifted, but nothing that had matched with anything in the database. A new team would obviously fingerprint Smedley and
his brother, would take all their shoes away for examination, but Thorne doubted that any of it would ultimately prove useful. Any forensic evidence they could now look for, in a specific effort to link Ryan Smedley and his brother to Susan Best’s murder, had been destroyed in the fire at Tanner’s home.

  Thorne wasn’t overly concerned.

  If things went the way he hoped they might, even eyewitness testimony would be no more than icing on the cake.

  Kitson pointed to the red light. ‘Your objection has been noted.’

  ‘Tell me about the painting,’ Thorne said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Because I’m good at painting.’ He frowned. ‘Did you not think it was good?’

  ‘It was very good,’ Thorne said. ‘Very lifelike.’

  The boy looked pleased.

  ‘Did you like Miss Best?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘So you did the painting because you’re good at it, that’s what you’re saying? You did it because you could.’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘Is that why you do lots of things, Ryan?’

  The lawyer looked ready to speak up again, but the boy was too quick for him. ‘Why else does anyone do anything? I bet you think you’re good at what you do. I mean, you’d be an idiot if you did your job thinking you were rubbish.’

  ‘I think I’m good at my job,’ Thorne said.

  Smedley nodded, as if his point had been proved, then sat back and folded his arms. ‘I knew you were a copper, by the way. When I saw you at the school.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Well, you look like one for a start, and you obviously weren’t there because you were that other copper’s boyfriend. I knew she was the one who lived with Miss Best.’

  Thorne remembered what Smedley had said to Tanner. He remembered the headmaster’s words too.

  He’s very bright.

  ‘How did you know that Miss Best had a girlfriend?’

  ‘Because I saw her, didn’t I? Outside school.’