Norman had led out an impressive looking party, consisting of Jesmond, Brigstocke, a young DC acting as Family Liaison, and Mrs Vincent. After the predictable rhetoric from Jesmond, Norman introduced Rosemary Vincent. She was in her early fifties, tall and slightly awkward, with a face that had probably been open and easy to read until two days ago, when it had become the mirror of emotions that were alien to it.
The scalding in the belly, the scab to be picked at. Rage and guilt . . .
She spoke movingly of her only daughter, clutching Miriam’s picture and trying not to break down as she remembered their last conversation – a row about her not coming home. Thorne stood at the back of the room, behind the journalists, away from the cameras, unable to take his eyes off this woman. He had seen people in the same situation a hundred times, but rarely had he seen the freshly dead part of them so clearly. It was there in every nervous smile, every pull at the hair and quiver of the lip. He winced when she spoke about the grief that the parents of the other victim must be feeling. He felt the shame, like a cold hand at his throat, when she sent them her love and support, when she sympathised with their pain; an agony so crippling that they hadn’t felt able to come along themselves . . .
Thorne had made a promise to himself then that, whatever happened, when it was all over he would visit Rosemary Vincent and tell her the truth, and explain why he had done what he had done.
That night, he watched the highlights of the press conference on half a dozen different channels and felt the fingers at his throat every time.
He was just about ready for bed when the phone rang.
‘Yeah . . .’
‘Tom? Is that Tom?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Eileen, love. Your dad’s sister.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Sorry if it’s a bit late, but we were watching a film. You know, waiting for it to finish.’
‘It’s fine . . .’ Thorne had actually been carrying a half-empty wine bottle and dirty glass back to the kitchen when the phone went. Now, he sat down on the sofa, stuck the bottle between his knees and yanked out the cork again.
‘So how are you, love?’ She spoke as if he was ill, or a little slow.
Thorne was about to fill his glass when he decided that, actually, he was in no mood to have this conversation. He knew what she wanted and he couldn’t be arsed waiting for her to say it. Christ, how long had it been since he’d seen this woman? It was certainly before Jan had left. A funeral, but he couldn’t remember whose. Maybe one of Eileen’s husband’s parents . . .
‘Listen, Auntie Eileen—’
‘I was sorry to hear about you and your wife . . .’
So Thorne poured the wine and made the tedious small talk, and waited for her to get to the point; to say what she’d obviously called to say. He’d warned his dad against ringing her, silly old bastard. Now it was going to be embarrassing. He started prompting her, getting tetchier, waiting to hear that she was ever so sorry but she really couldn’t have Jim at Christmas. She had a houseful after all, and there wasn’t the room to put him up and maybe if he’d given her a bit more notice . . .
Stuff you, Thorne thought. We’ll be fine, the two of us . . .
‘So we’ve talked about it and decided that your dad’s coming to us this year.’
Thorne held the wine glass halfway between his knee and his mouth. He knew he’d heard correctly, but couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Sorry? But . . .’
‘If you drop him at Victoria, we’ll pick him up at the other end.’
Thorne felt himself starting to redden a little. ‘Listen, maybe I’d better have a word with dad . . .’
‘Don’t worry, it’s all been organised, love.’
‘But you’ll have a houseful. You haven’t got the room . . .’
‘We’ll be fine. Look, we’d love to have him and I dare say it’ll be a bit of a break for you.’
Then five minutes more of this and that, until Thorne heard the call-waiting signal on the line and dropped a hint. Auntie Eileen took it, announcing that now it was past her bedtime and telling Thorne how lovely it would be to see him sometime, too . . .
Thorne had told Phil Hendricks the whole thing before he’d really had a chance to decide how he felt about it. It was probably rash of Hendricks to make the invitation and Thorne couldn’t decide whether it was stupidity or desperation that made him accept, but either way, two days later, here he was . . .
Christmas Eve. Playing gooseberry. Sitting in a pub and not listening.
‘Tom? For fuck’s sake . . .’
Thorne felt as if he were emerging at speed from a long, long tunnel. Gold, silver and red coming into focus. Cheap decorations, catching the light, dangling from fake wooden beams. He blinked. ‘Sorry Phil. Is it my round, mate?’
Hendricks stared at him. ‘Hello! Brendan’s up there, getting them in. You haven’t heard a word, have you?’
Thorne downed the last of his pint. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘So? What d’you reckon?’
Thorne puffed out his cheeks, just needing a second or two. He began to recall bits of a one-sided conversation. Brendan and Phil were an item again. Yes, that was it. Hendricks wanted to know whether taking Mr Didn’t-Turn-Out-To-Be-A-Bastard-After-All back was a good idea.
‘What’s definitely not a good idea,’ Thorne said finally, ‘is having me dossing on your sofa like a spare prick at a wedding.’
Hendricks sighed. ‘Look, we’ve been through this. It’s not a big deal.’
Thorne looked around. The place was packed. It was hard to make themselves heard over the hubbub and the loud Christmas music. Slade, Wizzard, Mud. Utterly predictable and hugely reassuring. He glanced towards the bar where Brendan was handing over money for the drinks. ‘Have you asked him?’
‘It’s fuck all to do with him. I’m not daft anyway – I know he’s only back because he can’t face being at home. His mum and dad don’t know he’s gay and he’s got nowhere else to go . . .’
‘None of us is exactly spoilt for choice.’
‘Don’t go on about it, all right? You’re staying. It’s either you for Christmas or some old tramp from outside the soup kitchen.’
Thorne grinned. ‘Wouldn’t the smell bother you?’
Hendricks gleefully supplied the punchline. ‘I’m sure you can clean yourself up.’
They were still laughing as Brendan arrived with the drinks, but as soon as he put the glasses down on the table, Thorne was out of his seat and pulling on his jacket.
‘Listen, I’m going to get out of your way . . .’
Brendan held up Thorne’s new pint. He looked pissed off and was about to say something, but Hendricks put a hand on his arm to stop him. He knew there was little point in arguing.
‘See you later, yeah?’
Thorne said nothing. He squeezed round the table, put a hand on Brendan’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about the beer . . .’
‘Tomorrow for lunch, then?’ Hendricks asked.
Thorne nodded, but knew instantly that his friend could tell he didn’t mean it. He took the hand from Brendan’s shoulder and held it out towards Hendricks. ‘Have a good one, Phil.’
Hendricks stood, took the hand and pulled Thorne into a slightly awkward hug.
‘You too. Now, fuck off . . .’
So, Thorne did.
TWELVE
A DC answered the door and Thorne held up his warrant card. If the officer, who was ginger, pudgy and only an inch or so above minimum height, could smell the beer on Thorne’s breath, his face wasn’t letting it show. It showed only the same blank truculence that Thorne had seen on the faces of the two muppets in the car outside.
Parents coming . . . the cottage . . . the kid’s first Christmas . . .
‘I’ll not be long.’ Thorne nodded back over his shoulder towards the chair in the hallway. The officer stepped outside and sat down, muttering and disgruntled. Thorne shut the front door behind him. He probably had smelt the booze. It didn’t matter.
Thorne noticed a copy of the Sun on the table just inside the door. He opened the door and offered it to the constable who took it with a grunt. Fuck you, Thorne thought, pulling the door shut again.
He turned and walked through into the living room. Palmer stepped out of the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. He had evidently not heard the knock on the door and started slightly when he saw Thorne.
They looked at one another for a few seconds. Then Palmer spoke, his voice deep and slightly nasal. ‘Has something . . . ?’ Thorne shook his head.
Palmer held up his mug, the steam fogging his glasses for a second or two. ‘Can I get you one?’
Thorne said nothing, walked across to where the computer sat on a small desk near the window. It was logged on to a server twenty-four hours a day. The second Nicklin got in touch, they’d know about it.
Thorne stared at the screensaver – a series of multicoloured clocks which swam about, bouncing all over the screen, buzzing and ticking, chiming on the hour. He leaned forwards and moved the mouse so that the clocks disappeared. He pulled the chair away from the desk, turned it round so that it faced into the room and sat down.
He hadn’t taken his jacket off.
‘What d’you do? Surf the Net? Chat? Play Scrabble on it?’
Palmer sat straight-backed on the sofa. He held his mug of tea in two hands against his chest. ‘Yes. The Net. Sometimes.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Well, with a police officer in constant attendance, I’m hardly likely to spend the hours of darkness trawling through porn sites, am I?’
‘But if you were on your own?’ Thorne asked, quickly.
Palmer stared down into his tea. ‘I see. What would a filthy degenerate seek out? Well, I’d be looking for something perverse, almost certainly. You know, sick.’ He looked up and across at Thorne. His head was tipped slightly back, his nose wrinkling slightly to stop his glasses sliding off. ‘Bodies perhaps. Autopsy photographs, they’re out there if you know where to look.’ He started to talk faster, his voice getting louder, his breathing harsh and faintly wheezy; the best impression he could do, he could give, of excitement. ‘Perhaps even a video or two, with sound if at all possible to pick up the noise . . . the howl of the buzz saw. You know the sort of thing, danger and dissection, the usual saucy mix for the pathetic, the sexually dysfunctional—’
‘Stop.’
Palmer had. Thorne silently admonished himself. He should never have got into this. At best, it was prurient. At worst, it smacked of the kind of cheap psychology that was also to be found on the bits of paper which would spill from crackers round lunch tables the following day. He glanced across at Palmer who clutched his tea and stared straight ahead. Thorne couldn’t quite read the expression. Sad? No, disappointed.
The screensaver had kicked in again, and the growing silence was now broken only by a series of distant, electronic ticks.
‘I might go out tomorrow,’ Palmer said suddenly. He turned to look at Thorne, his upper body leaning forward, his face now keen and animated. ‘Just for a walk, get a bit of air. Going a bit bonkers in here . . .’
Thorne snorted. Palmer started to nod thoughtfully even though it was strangely comic. ‘I know, I’d better get used to it. Won’t be many creature comforts when all this is over. Actually . . .’
He stood up quickly. Reflexively. Thorne did the same. Palmer looked over at him, nervous. ‘I’ve got some cans of beer in the kitchen.’ He took a step forwards, then stopped. ‘Have one. You could have one.’
Thorne nodded without thinking and Palmer was away towards the kitchen. ‘It’s bitter, I think. Is that all right?’ Thorne said nothing, sat back down again.
He looked around the room. As usual, there was nothing out of place. The layout was simple, the furnishings modern and functional. The first time Thorne had walked into the place, he’d been reminded of somewhere, and then after a few minutes had shivered slightly as he’d realised that the flat was like his own. A few more books and plants maybe, an absence of family photos or souvenirs. Little evidence of a life lived with much enthusiasm. There was nothing homely . . .
Through the open kitchen door, Thorne could see Palmer moving around, hear him getting glasses from a cupboard and rinsing them out. He was a big man; a man that lumbered and loomed and yet he was oddly graceful. Considering his height and weight, he had very small hands and feet, and looked on occasion as if he must surely tumble forwards on to his pale, fleshy face.
These were observations Thorne had made in the beginning when they’d spent many hours going over it all. Getting the story. Then they’d spent days and days planning, working out how they could make it work; giving Palmer a last taste of freedom so that Nicklin might . . . might show his hand. All those hours in overheated interview rooms and yet they had never talked, not really.
Thorne thought about this now, as he sat in Palmer’s living room, not with any sense of regret – he had no desire to get to know this man – it was just interesting, that was all, considering where they were.
And still he had that lingering sense that Palmer was holding something back. Saving something up . . .
Palmer returned with two glasses of beer, an odd look of pride on his face, as if he were delivering the heads of a pair of conquered enemies. Thorne took the glass that was offered and placed it on the floor by the side of his chair. Palmer stayed standing, staring out of the window and nodding slightly. He smiled. ‘Quite lucky, actually. All these police officers everywhere, especially the one outside the door . . . at least I haven’t been bothered by carol singers.’
Thorne stared up at him. Palmer was wearing baggy grey tracksuit bottoms, blue moccasin-style slippers and an orange hooded top. The clothes looked cheap, not a natural fibre anywhere. And not for the first time, Thorne wondered what Palmer spent his money on. He had a good job, but his car wasn’t flashy and there were no signs of extravagance.
‘Where does all the money go?’
Palmer moved across to the sofa and sat down. He looked across at Thorne, squinting at him, as if trying to grasp every nuance of meaning in the question.
Thorne tried again. ‘What do you spend money on?’
Palmer shook his head, shrugged. ‘I save it.’
‘Holidays?’
‘I save it. It’s all in the building society. I send some home occasionally, well I did, but my parents don’t like taking it, so now I just buy them things. You know, when they need them. I bought them a new boiler a couple of months ago.’ He nodded again, a series of small nods, like he gave all the time. As if he was agreeing with himself, trying to confirm something.
Thorne thought again about that first meeting, when he had spoken and shouted about a disease called bereavement and Palmer had first spoken about Nicklin. Later, he’d been taken to have his head wound stitched – Jacqui Kaye had done a fair amount of damage with that shoe – and when he’d returned he’d talked more, and with more ease, about Nicklin – the meeting in the brasserie, the proposal, the instructions for the killings. Early on in that conversation, when they were talking about how he and Nicklin had first met, Palmer had mentioned a name. Twice, perhaps three times, a girl’s name had bobbed into view. She, or at the very least, her name, had appeared briefly, like a shape dredged up; something which you could almost place, appearing just below the surface of water before disappearing back into the depths. Now, that name floated to the surface of Thorne’s swampy consciousness.
‘Tell me about Karen.’
Palmer took a drink. He held the beer in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing it down. ‘Karen died.�
�� More nodding. Thorne waited. ‘She got into a car and died. On a sunny day, she climbed into a blue Vauxhall Cavalier – it was on the news, you can probably get the video. That was it. She was fourteen.’ He downed nearly all that was left of his beer in three enormous gulps, put the almost empty glass carefully down on the floor and then looked up at Thorne. ‘A blue Vauxhall Cavalier. Driven by a murderer. Like me.’
There was only one way Thorne could fill the pause that followed. He’d spoken the words aloud on a hundred different occasions. He’d felt the same sour taste of loss and longing then, hanging in the air, tart on his tongue.
‘I’m sorry.’
Instinctively, he meant it. Then another instinct every bit as strong swept over him and he felt the need to qualify what he’d said.
‘Not for you. For her, for her family. Not for you, Palmer.’
Then silence, and a nod or two, and the ticks and beeps from the swarm of animated clocks seemed suddenly much louder, filling the space between them.
Thorne jumped a little at the chorus of computerised chimes and turned to look at the screen. He glanced down at his watch. Midnight. Christmas day. When he looked back round, Palmer had shuffled forward to the very edge of the sofa. He was smiling awkwardly at him, holding his all but empty glass, just half a mouthful of beer in the bottom.
‘Merry Christmas, Detective Inspector Thorne.’
Thorne stood up quickly, feeling as if he was going to be sick. The moment passed but he strode quickly across the room towards the door, belching the taste of vomit into his mouth and then swallowing it away again.
He opened the front door. The officer outside put down his newspaper and stood up. Thorne hovered for a second in the doorway, feeling a little woozy despite his untouched glass of beer. Behind him, in the living room, he heard the sofa creak and was aware of Palmer standing up.
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