Because she deserved to hear it.
She had such a lovely smile.
They’d opted for the Skoda Thorne had been driving and were halfway back to Colindale when Tanner took the call.
Before then, there hadn’t been a great deal said, the mood predictably subdued, Tanner making sporadic, if unsuccessful, efforts to lift Thorne’s spirits.
‘Nobody ever thought we’d crack it first time,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘They’ve got to let us run it again, surely.’ She leaned back and turned her head towards the passenger window. ‘They’re not going to put that much work into setting all this up, then just pull it because we didn’t get a result straight away.’
Thorne said nothing, swallowed down garlic and onions. Acid. He knew exactly what the result would be.
An urgent inquiry. The brass, blowing hard.
‘Could have been worse,’ Tanner said.
Thorne looked at her.
‘You know it could.’
Tanner was right, but that didn’t mean he particularly felt like acknowledging it. When that many officers were involved, when pursuit vehicles and weapons were deployed, the smallest mistake could prove horribly costly: he’d seen it happen. Could cost lives, careers.
‘No shots fired. No harm done.’
‘Oh yeah, it was textbook.’ Thorne stared ahead, the low drone of the engine moving through him, white line after white line sucked beneath the wheels. The terror and confusion on that man’s face and in the old lady’s voice as she called his name. ‘Full marks all round, definitely. Everyone did their job, whole thing went like clockwork, and if the object of the exercise had been to waste a shedload of time and put the wind up some accountant from Acton bringing his mum a birthday present we’d all be heroes. As it is…’
‘What did Russell say?’
‘That,’ Thorne said. ‘More or less. He got a bit more worked up when he started talking about the conversation he’d need to have with Trevor Jesmond, but that’s fair enough.’
Tanner shook her head. ‘He won’t throw us under the bus. He’s part of this.’
‘Well, he’s wishing he wasn’t.’
‘He got a free curry out of it.’ Then Tanner’s phone rang, and, for her at least, an evening which they would all be doing their best to forget got substantially worse.
Thorne heard most of it, so didn’t need to ask too many questions when the call ended. ‘Doesn’t sound good,’ he said.
Tanner was looking out of the window again. ‘Coombs is dead, and one of the officers who was with her is in surgery.’
‘Fuck.’
‘A motorbike.’ She slipped her phone back into her handbag. ‘I should get down to the Whittington.’
‘What good’s that going to do?’ Thorne asked. ‘I mean, if they’re operating —’
‘And I need to call Andrew Evans. Give him the bad news.’
‘Really?’ Thorne still found it hard to understand the sympathy Tanner appeared to feel for the man at Long Barrow Manor. As though she owed him something.
He put his foot down and moved into the outside lane. They said nothing for half a minute. He could sense that, next to him, Tanner was still processing the information and struggling to plan a useful route forward; buzzing with the compulsion to do something and infuriated at not having the first idea what that should be.
Thorne was somewhat less conflicted.
He was exhausted, with little beyond sleep to look forward to, at the arse-end of an hour which had seen two separate operations turn spectacularly to shit.
He had no desire to go home.
‘Why don’t we just go back to your place?’ he said. ‘Open whatever the hell you can lay your hands on and get thoroughly hammered? Seriously, I can’t think of a better idea.’
Tanner closed her eyes for a few seconds, as though she was thinking about it. Her hand drummed against her thigh.
She said, ‘Drop me off at the hospital.’
PART FOUR
THE NECESSARY STEPS
SIXTY-EIGHT
Thorne decided that it was because of what had happened the previous weekend: the operations in Watford, Bromley and Hayes, the modus operandi of a killer they had tried to draw out, yet were no closer to catching. It almost certainly explained why he was sitting in a bar in Camden, studying the woman he was drinking with and asking himself whether – if he was single and they were meeting in very different circumstances – this could feasibly have been a date that might lead somewhere.
Did they have much in common? Well, one thing, definitely.
Was the conversation interesting? It would end up being… memorable, he’d have put money on it.
Did he find her attractive?
He told himself to stop being ridiculous.
The dating connection did not however explain the singularly more inappropriate thoughts he’d briefly entertained weeks before, sitting in that wine bar with Melita Perera. Why he’d been hoping the psychiatrist might call to see how the case was progressing. Why he’d considered calling her again and suggesting that they catch up over yet another drink. Or dinner.
The fact that neither call had taken place was probably for the best.
In the same way it was best to avoid picking at scabs or biting into mouth ulcers, Thorne was trying not to think too much about soulmates or romantic meetings. Besides which, the woman on the other side of the table was his girlfriend’s sister.
‘Helen said that things were a bit tricky at work,’ Jenny said. ‘For you, I mean.’
‘Did she?’ Thorne hoped the smile was convincing. It seemed as though his attempts to put the case out of his mind, even temporarily, were doomed to failure.
‘This big case you’re working?’
‘Right.’
‘Nothing specific, obviously.’
Thorne nodded. He knew Helen would never discuss the details of a case with her sister, but he was nevertheless irritated that she’d even mentioned it. An intrusion on private grief.
The fallout from the failed operation a week before could not have been much worse. Tanner had hoped that the financial investment already made might have merited the continuation of the operation, but Thorne had not underestimated the alacrity with which the likes of Trevor Jesmond moved to distance themselves from anything even remotely tainted. Easier to get out now, before any more money was wasted, then line up those who could easily be blamed for the cost incurred thus far, and swiftly punish them.
The buck passed, the arses at Scotland Yard covered.
An inquiry had quickly been launched into the fiasco in Watford and, if that weren’t enough for the likes of Thorne and Brigstocke to worry about, there was the small matter of the case being brought against the Met by Brian Mulhearne for the mental anguish caused to himself and his aged mother.
Thorne had been assigned other cases to be getting on with. He had been shunted unceremoniously into a dull and dusty operational corner, where he couldn’t do any damage. Where all he could do was sit and wait for the axe to fall; trying to pretend he didn’t care, while meetings were held in those brightly lit conference rooms and jokes about a new job selling fruit and veg were not quite so funny any more.
He said, ‘I don’t really want to talk about work.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Jenny reached for a glass of wine, her second in ten minutes.
Thorne looked at her. She was attractive – there was no harm in acknowledging that, was there? – but she couldn’t hold a candle to her elder sister. ‘It’s not the reason I called.’
The half-empty wine glass was placed carefully back on the table. ‘Yes, I was wondering when we’d get to that.’ She sat up straight, concerned suddenly. ‘Helen’s all right, isn’t she?’
‘Helen’s fine,’ Thorne said. ‘No thanks to you.’
‘Sorry?’
Thorne took a second or two. This was the speech he’d been running through in his mind since he’d called Helen�
��s sister from work two days before; had rehearsed on the drive up from Tulse Hill, having told Helen he was meeting Phil Hendricks. ‘For whatever reason, you’ve clearly got a major problem with me. I really couldn’t care less about that, but it’s making a problem for us. For me and Helen, and I’m sick of it. Whenever she sees you or you call, you bitch about me to her… I’m too old or I’m too miserable, she can do better, whatever it is —’
Jenny cut him off. ‘Is this how you interview suspects, Tom?’ There was an attempt at lightness, but she could not look at him. ‘You sit them down and give them the hard-man act? I’ve seen all that nice copper/nasty copper stuff on TV, and there’s no need to guess which one you are, is there?’
Thorne was determined to finish, to say his piece. ‘Look, I’ve had enough, simple as that. Helen loves you, course she does, but I don’t. Truth is, I probably dislike you every bit as much as you dislike me, but we need to sort this out for everyone’s sake. Because I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to let you drive a wedge between us, so it would really help me if you said what the hell I’ve done to piss you off and why you’ve got such a stick up your arse.’
Jenny tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and reached for the wine again.
‘Is it just because I’m a copper?’
She shook her head.
‘You think Helen would be better off with a nice sales rep or a teacher or something?’
‘No…’
‘Because the way I hear it, you weren’t any different when she was with Paul.’
‘I liked Paul.’
‘Really?’
‘And I don’t dislike you.’
‘So I’m just imagining it, yeah? Like I must have imagined that stupid smile on your face when you tried to talk about how “tricky” things were for me at work. Like you weren’t enjoying it.’
Helen’s sister shook her head. She downed the contents of her glass, then looked at Thorne good and hard for the first time in several minutes. She said, ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘Am I? Because —’
‘I’m jealous, OK?’ She caught the eye of a waiter and held up her empty glass to let him know she wanted another. She leaned forward and tried to smile. ‘Happy now? I’m jealous of Helen.’
SIXTY-NINE
Tanner drove past Turnpike Lane tube station, heading north towards Wood Green. She glanced at the clock on the dash and saw that she was going to be late for the appointment. She winced. Punctuality was something that she normally set a good deal of store by, was part and parcel of an ordered, tidy life, but for once her irritation was no more than momentary, because the truth was she didn’t much care.
There were far more important things to worry about than downsizing.
The Jandali/Sykes case had stalled, perhaps permanently. Frances Coombs had been their only direct link to the men responsible for the murders of the refugee and the drug dealer, and, now that she had been eliminated, Tanner had no idea where to go next, how to pick up the thread.
Meanwhile, Andrew Evans was in limbo.
Tanner remembered the long silence when she’d called Long Barrow Manor to break the news about what had happened to the Duchess. The anger and then the resignation when he’d finally spoken and her own hollow attempts at reassurance.
‘We start again,’ she’d said. ‘We’ll find someone who’s willing to talk.’
‘Oh, yeah. Because after the Duchess got a bullet in her head they’ll be queuing up, won’t they?’
Tanner had said nothing, because she’d known he was right.
‘Well, maybe I’ll make it home for my new kid’s first birthday.’ Tanner could hear the crack in Andrew Evans’s voice. ‘I’ll hang on to that, shall I?’
The conversation with Paula Evans had not been any easier. With the police presence outside ramped up after the Frances Coombs shooting, she and her son were now virtually detainees in their own home and the strain was clearly beginning to tell.
She had choked back tears. Said, ‘It was easier when he was in prison.’
Tears too, plenty of them – while Tanner could do no more than dig tissues out of her handbag – from the wife of the officer shot outside the Whittington Hospital; the only glimmer of good news since that awful night being his transfer from the critical care unit two days earlier.
One less worm of guilt.
The failure still weighed heavily enough though, and not just on Tanner. Chall and the rest of the team had been mooching around all week like they’d had the breath kicked out of them. As if they were marking time until something more urgent came along; a case that might actually get them a result.
Ten minutes or so later, she turned into a short road that ran parallel to White Hart Lane. She smiled. Though the Spurs ground was not quite on her doorstep, she could think of one person at least who would be happy if this turned out to be her new address. The smile quickly faded as she thought about the nightmare of parking on match days.
Tom Thorne might well end up disappointed.
The street was nice enough, though. Newer builds on one side and an older, two-storey terrace running the length of the other. A small park at one end. There was nothing to get too excited about, but the truth was that she was only really doing this to take her mind off other things. Besides, the estate agent was nice enough and had been happy to organise viewings around her shifts.
She recognised his car and pulled in behind it, then got out and stared at the house.
It sat in the middle of the terrace; in reasonable nick, Tanner thought, and painted white, which she approved of, with a small tiled canopy above the front door. Nothing screamed ‘home’ at her, but the price was right, so it was probably worth twenty minutes of her time to take a look.
She walked to the door, pressed the bell for the ground floor flat and was buzzed in. Junk mail had been piled up on a shelf above the meters and a bicycle leaned against the stairs that led up to the first floor. She peered along the hall, then decided that she’d check out the communal garden afterwards.
The door to the ground floor flat was open and she put her head round.
‘Simon?’
‘In here.’
She stepped inside and turned left into a decent-sized living room. She looked at the modern fireplace, which she immediately decided would have to be torn out, then walked through a dining area into the kitchen. The appliances were top of the range and she liked the marble worktops, but it was a little small.
‘Ms Tanner?’
‘This kitchen’s not exactly huge,’ she shouted.
‘Come and have a look at what they’ve done to the bathroom.’
The estate agent’s voice was muffled, as though he were speaking from behind a door or with his head inside a cupboard. Tanner walked back across the living room, passed what she guessed was one of the bedrooms and nudged open the door to the bathroom.
The estate agent was lying in the bath.
At least she presumed it was him. She recognised the suit, the shock of dark hair, but nothing else was normal. She struggled to take in the duct tape fastened around his hands and the pool of blood beneath his head, livid against the white enamel.
She was leaning down to look for signs of life when she heard a noise behind her and spun round to see the man who had presumably stepped out of the bedroom opposite.
He nodded past her. ‘They certainly earn their commission, don’t they?’
Tanner could only blink for a few seconds. The surge of adrenalin left her dry-mouthed and dizzy as she wrestled with the picture, willing it to make sense. She knew exactly who he was, of course, but he should not have been here.
‘What are you —?’
Then she saw what was in the man’s hand and the moment of clarity punched through the roaring in her ears. Left only terror. She understood how stupid she had been – they had all been.
The man lunged forward suddenly, his hand reaching towards Tanner’s hair. Instinctively, she r
etreated, until the backs of her legs were pressed against the bath. She tried to breathe.
He said, ‘That picture doesn’t do you justice.’
SEVENTY
Thorne sat back as the waiter opened a bottle and poured what was definitely not grape juice into a fresh wine glass. He watched Jenny take her first mouthful, shaking her head; eyes closed, as though regretting what she had said or simply steeling herself for the conversation to come. He wrapped his hands around the single bottle of beer he had been nursing since they’d arrived.
She was jealous?
This was something Hendricks had suggested once, but no more than jokingly…
He looked at her.
‘Not like that,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’re not my type, Tom.’
‘Obviously. I didn’t think that’s what you meant.’ He smiled and felt the tension diffuse a little. ‘So…?’
That strand of hair had come loose again, but she ignored it. ‘It’s not like it’s something I’m particularly proud of. I mean, I should want my sister to be happy, shouldn’t I? That’s what any normal person would want. I should be pleased that she is.’
‘Yeah, I would have thought.’
‘Right. But the truth is I’m only ever pleased up to a point, which is actually not very pleased at all.’
‘You’re jealous of Helen being happy?’
She nodded. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? I was jealous because she was happy with Paul and I suppose I’m jealous now that she’s happy with you. Don’t get me wrong, that’s still a bit of a mystery to me.’ The smile was tentative, but she appeared to be doing her best. ‘She could do better.’
The Killing Habit Page 33