Thorne shrugged. It sounded as if Jeffries came from the same place that shat out Chief Superintendent Trevor Jesmond. 'I'm listening.'
Brigstocke glanced down at the piece of paper on his desk, speed read a section out loud. '"Individuals with computer access to the system are based at the main HQ building as well as the twelve regional offices nationwide - London, Yorkshire, the Midlands etc.
Thorne groaned. 'We're talking hundreds of people...'
'Thousands. Checking them all out would be a major drain on manpower, even if I had it.'
Thorne nodded. 'Right. So even if that were to prove fruitful, it wouldn't be proving very fruitful very bloody quickly.' He picked up his empty tea cup from Brigstocke's desk, spun round on his chair, and took aim at the wastepaper basket in the corner.
'No,' Brigstocke said.
The paper cup missed by more than a foot. Thorne spun around again. 'What about somebody hacking into the system?'
'Bloody hell, thousands of suspects is bad enough, now you want millions...'
'I don't want them, but if the system isn't secure...'
'If that system isn't secure, a lot of people are going to get their arses severely kicked. The IIS has information on the whereabouts of every prisoner in the country, terrorists included. There's all sorts of stuff on there. If it turns out that somebody's been able to break into it, for whatever reason... Jesus, they'll be talking about Douglas Remfry in Parliament.'
'They're looking into it though?" Thorne asked.
'As far as I know...'
'They've got things that tell them, haven't they? If they've been hacked. Like alarms. If somebody's been trying to break into the system?'
'Don't ask me,' Brigstocke said. 'I can barely send a fucking e mail...'
Not long ago even doing that would have been beyond Thorne, but he'd made an effort and was starting to get to grips with the technology. He'd even bought a computer to use at home. He hadn't used it very much, yet.
'So, one thing's a drain on manpower, the other's politically sensitive. Has Commander Jeffries got any suggestions as to what we can do?'
Brigstocke took off his glasses, wiped the sweat from the frames with a handkerchief and put them back. 'No, but I have. I think there are other ways that the killer could have got the information he needed about Remfry.'
'Go on...
'What about if he got it from the victim's family? Gets his mum's name out of the phone book, rings up and says he's an old friend who wants to visit...' Thorne nodded. It was possible. 'Once he finds out where Remfry is and when he's coming out, he starts sending the letters...'
'He gets everything from Remfry's mother?'
'Remfry's mother ... maybe one of the prison staff. I just think there are other things we could be looking at...'
'What's the motive, Russell?' Still the big question. 'Why was Remfry killed?'
Brigstocke puffed out his cheeks, leaned back in his chair. 'Fucked if I know. Got to be worth talking to Mrs. Remfry again though...'
Thorne couldn't see it, and yet there was something in what Brigstocke had said. Something that had caused Thorne's heart to beat faster, just for a second; but, like the face of someone in a dream, like an object he ought to recognise, glimpsed from an unfamiliar angle; it had faded away before he could see it for what it was. He was still trying to work it out when he spoke. 'I'm chasing something else up. Something with the photos...'
Brigstocke leaned forward, raised an eyebrow. I'll tell you if it comes to anything,' Thorne said. He looked at his watch. 'Fuck, I'm going to be late...'
As he was standing up, the phone began to ring in his office next door...
Holland's mobile had rung just as he was heading across to the pub, for what Was becoming something of a regular lunchtime pint. Andy Stone had given him that look. The one he'd been getting from a few of the lads, whenever the mobile rang, and they saw his face as HOME came up on caller ID.
'Shit,' Holland said.
Stone took a few steps towards the pub doorway and stopped. 'Shall I get you one in, Dave?'
Holland pressed a button on the phone and brought it to his ear. After a few seconds he caught Stone's eye and shook his head. Sophie was still crying when he walked through the door twenty minutes later.
'What's the matter?' He wrapped his arms around her, knowing what the answer would be.
'Nothing,' she said. 'I'm sorry ... I know I shouldn't call.' The words sputtered into his collar between sobs.
'It's OK. Look, I've only got about a quarter of an hour, but we can have a quick bit of lunch together. I'll go back when you're feeling calmer.'
The baby was three months away. It was easy enough to put these weekly collapses down to hormones, but he knew that there was much more going on. He knew how frightened she was. Frightened that he would make a choice between her and the job. That he would think she was forcing him to make a choice. That the baby would not be enough to make him choose her.
He understood because he was twice as scared. They sat on the sofa and cuddled until she grew quiet. He whispered and squeezed, feeling the bump against his leg that was the child inside her, staring across the living room and watching the minutes go by on the video recorder display.
'Thorne.'
'This is Eve Bloom...'
It took him a second to place the name, the voice. To put the two of them together. 'Oh... hello. Sorry, I was miles away. Already thinking about lunch.'
'Is this not a good time? Because...'
'It's fine. What can I do for you?'
'Just being nosey, if I'm honest. Wondered how it was all going. Stupid really, when I haven't the faintest idea what it actually is. Just, you know, curious as to whether that tape you took away has helped you.., solve.., it!'
He remembered hearing the amusement in her voice before. The phone in that hotel room, pressed tight to his ear. Happy to hear it this time.
'Fine, but I have to be somewhere about ten minutes ago, so...'
'That's OK, I didn't really mean now anyway...'
'Sorry?'
'What about lunch on Saturday? You can ask me a few pointless questions about answering machines, claim that I'm still helping you with your inquiries and stick it all on expenses. Twelve-thirty any good...?'
He hung up a few minutes later, just as Yvonne Kitson strolled back into the office. 'What on earth are you grinning about?' she said.
'Forget it, Mr. Thorne. No fucking way am I eating duck's feet.'
The fact that Dennis Bethell was built like a brick shithouse, and had a voice like a chorus girl on helium, made most things he said sound vaguely ludicrous, but this was up there with the best of them...
It had been Thorne's idea. The last time they'd met had been in a pub and the voice, as it often did, had caused something of a scene. A sedate lunch sounded like a better idea and Thorne was fond of this place. The New Moon in the heart of Chinatown served the best dim sum in town. Thorne loved the ritual every bit as much as the food. He enjoyed watching the grumpy-looking old women as they wheeled their trolleys around the place. He liked stopping them, asking them to lift the lids; making his selections.
Thorne had had to explain the system to Bethell, who'd been sitting in a corner looking very confused when he got there. He was twenty minutes late, but Bethell hadn't been difficult to find. He was six feet three with the build of a WWF wrestler, spiky peroxide hair and a great deal of gold jewelry. Spotting him in a restaurant where the clientele was almost entirely Chinese was not exactly taxing. Today, Bethell was wearing camouflage combats and a bright blue T-shirt stretched across his enormous chest, bearing the slogan BITCH.
'Shark's fin soup and all that, fine. Duck's feet? That's horrible...'
'Relax, Kodak,' Thorne had said. He smiled at the old woman as she lifted another bamboo lid. 'I'll order for you...'
They'd chatted for a while, Thorne putting his man at ease but also enjoying the to and fro of it. He was comfortable in these place
s, around the likes of Dennis Bethell.
Thorne popped a wafer-wrapped prawn into his mouth and slid the photograph of Jane Foley across the table. Bethell wiped soy sauce from his fingers with a napkin and picked it up..
'Nice,' he said. 'Very nice...'
Thorne knew that Bethell would be talking about the picture itself. The composition, the lighting. As a hardened pornographer, he was way past appreciation of the models themselves.
'I knew you'd like it,' Thorne said.
'I do. It's very tasty. Who took it?'
'Well, do you know what, Kodak? I said to myself that if anybody could find out for me, it would be you...'
A bit more chat. Business, Bethell said, was booming. Though the dotcom filth merchants had once threatened the likes of him, Bethell was delighted to report that his work was more in demand than ever. Thumbnails from his legendary 1983 'Barnyard' series of pictures were being eagerly downloaded, having acquired almost legendary status among smut surfers...
Dennis Bethell's high-quality wank-mag work had been getting men off for about as long as Thorne had been on the job. From slightly saucy to graphic glamour spreads, Bethell was a dab hand at anything that involved a lens and nipples. He was harmless enough and had been a reliable snout for a good many years. Thorne had come to regard him as one of the city's great eccentrics. A pumped-up East End vaudevillian with a hair-trigger temper, a talent for making girls take their clothes off and his own catchphrase, 'Nothing with children.
'So, come on, then,' Thorne said. 'Is it professional or not?'
Bethell peered at the image, held it up to the light, sucked his teeth.
'Yeah, maybe...'
'Not good enough, Kodak.' Thorne raised a finger to attract the attention of the woman behind the small bar. He held up his empty bottle of Tsing Tao, ordering another.
'It's complicated,' Bethell said. 'These days there's a huge market for professionally taken stuff that's made to look like it was snapped by an amateur. Like it's a picture of someone's girlfriend. See what I mean?
The whole readers' wives thing. Especially with this sort of stuff.'
'What sort of stuff?.'
'This S & M stuff. Handcuffs and whips and chains. Fetishism.'
Bethell held up the picture which Thorne had looked at a hundred and more times. He looked at it again. This one had been taken from above, the woman flat on her face, hands bound behind her back. The hood tied at the bottom this time, like a noose.
'You ever do this sort of thing?' Thorne asked. By now Bethell had a mouthful of minced crab dumpling. He answered cautiously, as if he thought the question was meant to catch him out somehow. 'Yeah, I have done. Plenty of these pervy mags around. My stuff's better than this, though...'
'Naturally. Listen, if this is a professional job, can you find out who took it?'
'I could ask around, I suppose, but...'
'What about where the film was developed?'
'Waste of time. Unless the bloke's a moron, he'd have done it himself. Digital camera, straight to his PC. Piece of piss...'
'Find out what you can, then. I want to know who the model is and who paid for the shoot.'
Bethell looked pained. 'Oh be fair, Mr. Thorne. A bit of info is all well and good, but that's like doing your job for you. Like being a bloody detective.'
The waitress delivering Thorne's beer sniggered at Bethell's despairing squeak and hurried away. Thankfully Bethell didn't catch it.
'Think of it as another string to your bow, Kodak. You might fancy a change of career. The force is always on the lookout for eager young lads like yourself...'
'You can be a right sod sometimes, Mr. Thorne...'
Thorne leaned across the table and held a chopstick inches away from Bethell's face. 'Yes I can, and just to prove it, if you don't make a decent fist of this for me, I will come round to your dwelling slash business premises, take your zoomiest zoom lens and stick it so far up your arse, you'll be taking pictures of your large intestine with it. Pass the prawn crackers, will you...?'
Bethell sulked for a few minutes. Then he picked up the photograph and slid it into the pocket of his combat trousers.
'You really should try ore of these duck's feet, Kodak,' Thorne said.
'Did you know, they can actually make you swim faster?'
Bethell's eyes widened. 'Are you winding me up, Mr. Thorne...?'
Welch was standing, waiting in the doorway when Caldicott appeared at the other end of the landing with the mail trolley. As it got closer, agonisingly slowly, stopping at almost every door, it became clear that Caldicott's face still hadn't healed properly. One side, from mouth to forehead, was shiny, like it was slick with sweat, and the colour of something that might have been skinned. Against the raw, weeping red, the lines of tiny white rings stood out clearly, the ones on what was left of his lips looking like a row of cold sores...
The mail trolley squeaked that little bit nearer. Caldicott grinning as best he could, the mail round a nice cushy number. A sweetener from the caring sharing screws on the VP wing, after the weeks spent in hospital.
A couple of morons from B-wing had caught him in the laundry room. They shouldn't have been anywhere near the place by rights, should have been banged up, but someone, somewhere, had turned a blind eye. Left a door open.
One of Caldicott's women had actually been a girl. A fourteen year-old. Caldicott had told Welch, sworn to him that he thought she was older, that he wasn't into meat that tender. Surely, Caldicott pleaded, surely he must be able to understand. He must have been in a similar position. I mean, come on, some of the girls around these days! Welch had admitted that, yes, he knew what Caldicott meant and he had been there himself, several times, and he mentally thanked his lucky stars that the girl he'd been caught for had been over sixteen, if not by a great deal. Caldicott had probably told them as well, the animals down in the laundry room. He'd have pleaded, told them that he thought the girl was older, but they wouldn't have been interested in that kind of bollocks from a nonce. These were men who dealt in facts.
While one held Caldicott calmly by the cock and balls, the other had emptied the dryer, dropping the laundry neatly into the red plastic bucket. Then, his screams unheard or ignored, they had bent Caldicott over and forced his head and shoulders into the massive steel drum, pressing his face down on to the red-hot metal... Caldicott holding out a letter, a smile pulling the seared skin up and back across his yellowing incisors. Welch, thinking he looks like the phantom of the fucking opera, snatching the envelope and stepping quickly back behind the door...
The envelope has been opened, of course, but he's long past caring about privacy or any of that. He has a few precious minutes alone and the chance to read her letter, the last one he will be forced to read in a tiny room that stinks of his cellmate's shit. There's another photo. It's the first thing he looks for and he almost shouts out loud when he feels it tucked down between the pages of the letter itself. He pulls it out and slaps it down flat on his chest without looking. Then slowly he lifts it up, little by little, moaning out loud as he catches his first glimpse of her. The hood has gone, but this time her back is to the camera, her head lowered. Just a glimpse of shortish hair, the face hidden. She is sitting on her heels, her wrists fastened securely behind her, the shadows falling across her shoulder blades and beautiful, round arse...
The door opens and he is not alone any more. He quickly draws his knees up to hide the erection and presses the picture flat against his chest again. As his cellmate drops with a grunt on to the bed opposite, Welch is already closing his eyes, every last detail of Jane's nakedness clearly recalled and perfectly visible on the back of his eyelids.
7 MAY, 1976
'Ladies and gentlemen, you may find this surprising, but I wish, for the next few minutes, to concentrate on the evidence of a witness called by the de fence ... I invite you to consider the evidence given here by Detective Sergeant Derek Turnbull. Sergeant Turnbull's record as a police officer is exem
plary and I believe we should set great store by his testimony. We should take seriously the words we have heard him speak during this very disturbing case.
'I want you to remember these words...
'We should remember Sergeant Turnbull's words about the interviews he carried out with the woman who accuses my client of this serious offence. He spoke about the "confusion", about the "lack of focus'; he conceded under cross-examination that this woman's thinking "seemed to be all over e place". I ask you, should an incident that was, allegedly, so distressing not be easy to recall accurately? Should it not be seared into the memory? Yes, of course. And yet this woman cannot be sure about exact times. There is no consistent description of what my client was wearing at the time of the supposed attack. Just a good deal of hot air and a lot of irrelevant nonsense about aftershave . . .
'We should remember Sergeant Turnbull's words when he described the results of the physical examination. Nothing was found beneath this woman's fingernails. Nothing was found to suggest any resistance whatsoever. Sergeant Turnbull repeated to the court what she said when questioned about this fact. "I couldn't fight back," she said.
'Could not? Or did not want to?
'We should remember too, the Sergeant's words when describing the circumstances of the first interview, the first physical examination. This examination was, in his words, "'worse than useless", taking place as it did the morning after the alleged attack and after the so-called victim had showered. Remember his colleague's words when describing the dress which you have been shown as Exhibit A? "Too nice to wear to work." I put these things together, ladies and gentlemen, and I come up with an altogether different version of what happened in that stockroom in December of last year...
'Could not that dress have been torn during the frenzied, and consensual, bout of lovemaking to which my client freely admits? Could not the bruising be no more than the marks of excessive passion? Could not that shower have been taken, yes, to wash away the smell of my client, but only so as to hide the truth of her ongoing sexual relationship with him from her husband?
'I have asked you to remember the words of a police officer whose evidence was intended to damn the man I represent here today. Instead, unwittingly, I'm sure, he has done quite the opposite. I have asked you to consider these words and I can see that you are doing just that. I can see from your faces, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that these words have caused you, quite rightly, to doubt. If you doubt, as you surely must, the truth of what this woman claims to have happened, then I know that your deliberations in the jury room will be very short.
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