‘Nobody’s arguing,’ Thorne said.
‘So.’ She reached for her glass. ‘There you are then.’
Watching her drink, Thorne decided to keep her company and lifted the bottle. ‘And you’re jealous of Helen being happy because you’re not?’
She stared at him. ‘Hello? Have you met my husband?’
Thorne laughed, because she was inviting him to. Tedious Tim. A man whose soliloquies about the delights of angling or detailed descriptions of car maintenance could render most people comatose within moments and whom Thorne had rarely seen without a golfing sweater. More important, Thorne could not recall ever witnessing a tender or solicitous gesture, or even a kind word from a man who played the put-upon husband in public, but almost certainly insisted on being deferred to behind closed doors.
It was hard to see how the woman who was married to him could have been even close to happy. And it explained the drinking.
‘So, why don’t you leave? Or get him to leave?’
She shrugged. ‘Usual stuff. Kids. Settling for what you’ve got because you’re too scared to make that jump.’
‘Still.’
‘I know. You’re right.’
‘Talk to somebody. Talk to Helen.’
She scoffed. ‘That’d be a bit rich, don’t you think? Asking my sister for help with my shitty relationship after I’ve been doing everything I can to sabotage her good ones?’
Thorne did not know what else to say. The limits of his marital advice had already been stretched. He stole a look at his watch and saw that he needed to leave. ‘Listen, I’ve got to shoot off.’
Jenny nodded.
‘But thanks for coming… and thanks for clearing everything up. First decent result I’ve had in a while.’ He looked at her, worried for a moment that, considering what she had just confessed, he might have sounded insensitive. She did not seem offended.
‘Don’t tell Helen,’ she said. ‘I want to tell her myself. Say sorry.’
Thorne nodded and reached for the leather jacket that was draped across the chair. He said, ‘I’d wondered if it was anything to do with what happened in Polesford. The stuff with you and Helen.’
She let out a long breath and stared down at the table. ‘That makes it all so much worse, doesn’t it? Everything she did back then, protecting me from… all that, and I behave like this.’ The glass was in her hand again. ‘Like a complete bitch.’
‘You’re not,’ Thorne said, but she wasn’t listening, her head back as she polished off what was left of the wine.
Thorne left a twenty pound note on the table and walked away towards the exit. He turned at the door to see Jenny waving at the waiter. She didn’t look happy, far from it, but seemed content enough, in the circumstances, to sit there and drink away what was left of the afternoon.
SEVENTY-ONE
Tanner sat motionless on a chair, her back to the fireplace; knees together and arms held stiff at her sides, eyes fixed on the man sitting directly opposite her a few feet away. She tried to blink as little as possible. She forced herself to stay looking at his face and not to let her eyes drop, not even for a moment, to the weapon in his right hand.
She did not want to show fear.
She understood – or hoped she understood – enough about the man who had killed Alice Matthews, Patricia Somersby and the others to know that weakness was what he thrived on; that need, of any sort, was what marked someone out as a potential victim.
She knew what provoked this man to kill.
And now, for all the good it was likely to do her, she knew what his name was.
Graham French, who Tanner had last seen waving from the door of his overpriced beauty salon, leaned slowly left and right, studying her. ‘I meant what I said.’ He nodded, confident in his expert appraisal. ‘Sorry to say this, but you looked a bit… frumpy, if I’m honest. In those pictures you posted on the website, or someone posted for you, I should say. Obviously your hair’s looking a lot better now – he said immodestly – but you just seemed as if you couldn’t really be bothered, and trust me, I looked at those photographs a lot. I mean, what sort of smile was that? Hardly much of an advertisement if you were looking for a match. Mind you, that was never really the idea, was it?’ He shook his head, as though amused. ‘I have a sneaking suspicion it was me whose eye you were trying to catch.’ He tut-tutted, enjoying himself. ‘Didn’t say anything about being devious in that blurb of yours, and that’s just dishonest! More than one bogus date that night, I’m guessing, because there were a couple of other matches that didn’t smell right.’
He waited, but Tanner said nothing.
‘I so wish you could have been there the first time I logged in and saw your face staring back at me, the first time I read your profile. It was priceless, I promise you. Yes, a bit of a shock, obviously…’
He raised his hands and waved them in mock-terror. Tanner did not let her eyes move upwards as the weapon rose.
‘… you know, that I’d been rumbled.’ He let his arms drop down and shrugged. ‘After that, though, it was just… hilarious. The idea that you thought I could actually be fooled by any of it. By some computer tricks and a spot of dressing-up. A few coppers playing make-believe. I was actually laughing out loud, I kid you not. In fact, it was almost as much fun as thinking of you all running around like the proverbial chickens trying to find my old friend Aiden Goode. I wonder what happened to him?’ He leaned forward, as though sharing a nugget of gossip. ‘Newsflash. You were seriously wasting your time.’
He sat back and the smile slid from his face as he began to spin the scissors around his index finger.
‘Did you honestly think it would be that easy? Do you think I’m stupid?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Tanner said.
French seemed pleased that she’d finally spoken. ‘Actually… I believe you. I mean, how could anyone in their right mind think that? You don’t get to be sitting where I am, to have achieved as much as I have, without plenty going on up here.’ He tapped, once, twice, at the side of his head. ‘I’m not saying I’m Stephen Hawking or anything, but I’m not a mug.’
Tanner allowed her eyes to drift to the scissors and watched them spin. It might just give her an extra second or two, she thought, the blades being open like that. Perhaps she could get to him. To stab, he would need to move his finger, would need to close the blades and form a fist. He could easily fumble. Yes, he was probably stronger than her, but she might be able to get past him.
She scanned the room quickly, looking for something to use as a weapon.
‘I should have taken a bit more off at the front,’ he said.
Tanner looked back to him and saw where he was staring. ‘Really?’ She lifted a hand, very slowly, and moved fingers through her hair.
A sorrowful nod. ‘Stupid, because I remember thinking that at the time and I never said anything, and now look at it.’
‘It’s great,’ Tanner said.
‘Almost.’
‘I love what you did —’
‘No.’ He stopped spinning the scissors. He slipped out his finger and closed the blades. ‘It’s already getting too shaggy. Normally, I’d tell you to get it done again as soon as possible, but I can’t see much point in that, can you?’
Tanner felt something cold curling in her belly. She swallowed and said, ‘So, what happens now, Graham?’ She had been struggling to remember anything she’d learned on the three-day hostage negotiation course she’d completed a few years before. She didn’t even know that she was a hostage, she didn’t know anything… but had there been something about repeating what the hostage-taker said? Including them? She definitely remembered that using their first name whenever possible was a good way to establish trust.
French thought about her question for a few seconds. ‘Honestly? I’m not altogether sure. I mean, I’d be kidding if I didn’t say I’ve got a rough idea how things are going to pan out. For you, at any rate. But this is all a bit impulsive for me. I’m
a planner… well, you know that. Obviously, as soon as I saw you up on that website, once I’d finished laughing, I knew I’d have to change tack, but even I was surprised when I came up with this. Whatever this is. I suppose I just thought it was important for you to know how stupid you’d been.’ He jabbed at the air with the scissors to make his point. ‘To show you who you’re dealing with. You know?’
Tanner lowered her head.
Studied the weave of the nice new carpet.
‘Nicola?’
The tone of his voice, and the telltale clicking beneath it, were more than enough to bring Tanner’s head back up sharply. She could only watch as he rapidly opened and closed the blades of the scissors.
A practised, professional display.
Snip, snip…
He said, ‘Right. Let’s get busy, shall we?’
SEVENTY-TWO
Obviously, Thorne had not failed to notice its proximity to the Field of Dreams, but on first glance at least, he doubted this latest property would be Nicola Tanner’s cup of tea. Not that he was altogether certain what her cup of tea was. Whatever the place turned out to be like inside, he could certainly think of any number of ways he’d rather be spending a Saturday teatime.
Watching Sky Sports, sleeping, removing his eyeballs with a teaspoon…
This would be the debt paid, he decided.
Pushing through the front door as he was buzzed in, he thought about calling Helen as soon as he managed to get away, seeing if she fancied asking Jenny to babysit and going out to the pub. Or maybe they could try that new Cuban place in Herne Hill they’d spoken about. Then he remembered how he’d left Jenny, who had looked as if she wouldn’t be calling it a day any time soon, and decided they might not be leaving Alfie in the most capable of hands.
Perhaps a quiet night in with a takeaway was a better idea.
He heard Tanner call his name from the other side of a door.
He leaned against it and stepped into the room.
Froze.
Tanner was bound tight to a chair with silver duct tape. She was gasping for air. A man Thorne recognised, but could not place, stood next to her, the tip of the scissors in his hand pressed against her neck.
‘Sorry,’ Tanner said. She stared at him, helpless with fury.
Thorne said, ‘It’s all right,’ though it clearly wasn’t. Her eyes were wide and wet and her face was streaked with snot and tears. A few thin trails of blood snaked down her forehead.
And Christ… her hair.
The man pointed casually with the scissors. ‘Shut the door, will you?’
Thorne did as he was told then turned back, still struggling to take in what he was seeing.
What was this man doing? Who was he?
The man lifted a flap of duct tape and fastened it back across Tanner’s mouth, then saw where Thorne was looking. ‘Oh yes, that.’ He took half a step back to look, though he kept the scissors close to Tanner’s neck. ‘I’ve done better work, no question.’
Tanner moaned against the tape.
‘Shush,’ the man said, moving the scissors back against her flesh.
Then Thorne knew exactly who he was. The ex-con Tanner had spoken to when she was trying to track down the Duchess. Thorne had only seen a picture of the man once, passport-sized at the top of Tanner’s report.
He was the one who had told her about the cat killings at Maidstone prison and given them Aiden Goode’s name. The one who had been so very helpful.
Now it was clear why.
‘You’re the barber,’ Thorne said.
‘Hairstylist, please.’ He lifted the scissors and teased aside a strand of Tanner’s hair. What was left of it.
Thorne’s first thought had been that Tanner’s hair had been cut by a madman and now he saw that it had. There were places where it had been randomly shorn back to the skull and others where it had simply been hacked at; patches where just a few tufts or longer clumps remained. There were bald spots; pink, livid, and pitted with cuts still oozing blood.
‘Graham French.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ The man smiled. ‘And you’re the less-than-convincing landscape gardener, of course. I hope you enjoyed your meal the other night. Bit of a shame how all this has turned out, really, because the pair of you made such a lovely couple.’
Thorne said nothing, as unable to move as Tanner was.
French…
He’d seen the name before and now he realised what else he’d missed.
French had been the prisoner Aiden Goode had been heard talking to about disappearing once he’d been released. The name had been there all the time in Goode’s IIS file which Thorne had seen at Maidstone prison. Another piece of Tanner’s puzzle slotted into place. French had known exactly what Goode had got planned, his notion of disappearing, and he had almost certainly helped to arrange it when the time was right.
Taken him off the grid permanently.
It had been clear from the beginning that the killer they were after had planned things carefully, but Thorne was only now beginning to see just how far in advance those plans had been hatched.
In the same way that French had provided police with convenient suspects in the shape of the men with whom his victims had gone on their dates, he had found in Aiden Goode an ideal candidate to be the killer who was setting the whole thing up.
‘Just out of interest, did you have to pay for that meal yourself, or do you get it back on expenses?’
Thorne looked at Graham French and made a few more educated guesses.
He’d done computer classes with Goode, even though he was already highly accomplished. The fraud he’d done time for had probably been computer-based. Whoever had actually butchered those cats at Maidstone, once French was out and committed to killings of his own, it had suited him to spread the word that Aiden Goode had been responsible.
As skilled at manipulating people as he was with computers.
‘The Met paid for all of it.’ Thorne looked at Tanner, saw the fear in her eyes, but also caught a glimpse of something more determined. ‘Watford and the others. I mean, obviously you’d worked all that out.’
French nodded. ‘Like I told your girlfriend, I’m not daft.’
‘Never thought you were.’
Thorne considered his initial thinking about the cat killings. He was no longer convinced the cool-down theory made any sense, but whether he’d been right or not didn’t really matter now. He was only sure that he needed to keep the man talking until he had a better idea. Any idea…
‘Tell me about the cats.’
‘What about them?’ French asked.
‘Why?’
‘Seriously? After sad little Alice and poor, desperate Leila and the rest of them? After all that and considering where we are, you want to talk about a couple of dead cats?’
‘More than a couple,’ Thorne said.
French said nothing. He cocked his head slightly, and the look of confusion that passed momentarily across his face was one Thorne would only understand much later.
‘Was it Goode? Those cats at Maidstone?’
‘Oh, probably,’ French said. ‘He was certainly capable of it. The important thing was that you believed it was and that you believed he’d moved on to rather more serious things. That you’d waste your time looking for a man you were never going to find. Mind you, he’s no more of a loss than any of those women.’
Thorne nodded, as though grateful for the information. ‘Just so you know, I am considering it.’ He took half a step towards Tanner and was relieved to see that French did not seem too concerned. He had no reason to be, those scissors still so close to Tanner’s neck as he fussed gently with her hair. ‘Where we are, I mean. And the way I see it, there’s no way this is turning out well for you.’
French peered at him. ‘For me?’
‘Well, you’re not walking out of here, are you?’ He pointed at Tanner, was sure to make eye contact. ‘You make a move to hurt my colleague, I’ll be on you.’
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‘Really?’
‘Or you could decide to try and get me out of the way first.’
‘Yes, I could.’
‘That’s definitely another way to go.’ Thorne was trying to sound unruffled, but he could barely suck up enough spit to talk. He still blamed himself for the fire that had almost cost Tanner’s life, and making the wrong call now could finish the job. ‘The Met don’t just shell out for Italian meals, you know; they pay for all sorts of stuff. Like armed combat training… how to handle frontal assaults with knives. Or scissors.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up. That’s good to know.’
‘I’m just saying, you should probably bear all that in mind. Weigh up your options and maybe think about just putting those scissors down.’
Tanner was staring hard at Thorne, but he couldn’t be sure what, if anything, she was trying to tell him.
Was he doing the right thing?
Was he pushing French too hard?
French puffed out his cheeks and took a few seconds, as though he was considering what Thorne had said. The choices available to him. He said, ‘Yeah, I can see what you’re saying and it’s tricky, no question, and I really should have thought it through a little bit more. Not like me at all, but now we’re all here I suppose I’ll have to do something. So, I reckon I should probably just pop…’ he jabbed at the air, ‘these into Detective Tanner’s neck, in and out, then take my chances with you.’
‘I would seriously advise against that,’ Thorne said.
French seemed distracted, suddenly. ‘I don’t know…’
Thorne took another half-step towards him.
‘To be honest, it’s hard to think straight when…’ he looked down at Tanner and shook his head, ‘a job’s not finished. I mean come on, it’s hardly my fault, because she never said you were coming, did she? She was being devious, again. So I had to stop before I was finished. Look at it. You can’t… I mean, I can’t leave it like that, can I?’ He moved behind Tanner and leaned down. ‘The back’s all over the place. Shapeless. Now, obviously I haven’t got a mirror, so you’ll have to trust me, but I really need to do a bit more back here.’
The Killing Habit Page 34