Having already consumed far more than he should have, and unable to get up and join in even if he’d wanted to, Thorne sat at one of the large round tables with Tanner and Treasure, picking at leftover chocolates and watching those even drunker than he was throwing themselves around the packed dance floor. Ties had been loosened, jackets and heels removed. The singing got even louder suddenly and a flurry of arms punched the air as the chorus of ‘Sex On Fire’ kicked in.
Thorne sang along tunelessly.
It was his first gay wedding, but aside from a welcome absence of awkwardly posed photographs, a cake with Catwoman and Batgirl figures perched on top and a predictably filthy speech from Treasure, it was much the same as any other he’d attended over the years. Someone had thrown up in the Gents and he’d already seen a woman crying on the stairs. He was fully expecting one of the children to slide across the dance floor on their knees at any moment, and having met Treasure’s brother and his mates he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a fight come chucking-out time.
Treasure leaned into him and together they stared across at the woman she had just married, dancing; screaming with excitement as the DJ mixed into a Black Eyed Peas track. She had barely left the floor for the last hour, since she and Treasure had kicked proceedings off, smooching to ‘At Last’ by Etta James and reducing a good many of their friends and family to tears.
‘Done all right for myself, don’t you reckon?’
Thorne looked at her. A tailored black-and-white pinstripe suit, her wife’s initials freshly inked on her wrist and a grin that had not slipped from her face all day. ‘Yeah, she’s gorgeous,’ he said.
‘You’re gorgeous, too,’ Tanner said.
Treasure’s grin got even wider.
‘So, I can only presume you’ve got something on her… or maybe you’re secretly hugely wealthy.’ Thorne leaned away, bracing himself for the inevitable punch. Instead, Treasure pulled him back towards her and kissed him on the cheek.
‘As it’s you, I don’t mind if you think about her every once in a while. You know, when you’re knocking one out.’ She nodded, winked. ‘I mean, obviously you’ll have to use your left hand.’
Thorne looked down at the palm of his right hand. The scar was still evident, though it had already begun to fade a little and there would still be plenty of physio to do before he got full movement back. Next to him, Tanner adjusted the stylish black trilby she’d chosen for the event. Beneath it, Thorne knew, her hair was growing back; still fuzzy to the touch, though it would soon be long enough to hide her own scars.
‘I think I’ll manage,’ he said.
It had been three weeks since the incident at the flat in Wood Green. A death that had inevitably required investigating, but had not necessitated the involvement of Internal Affairs. A search of Graham French’s flat above the salon in Wembley had turned up more than enough evidence to prove that the dead man had been responsible for five murders and that more had been planned. They had also been able to establish that, before being sent to prison, French had been involved in a brief relationship with Sandra Cook, the book-keeper at Made In Heaven. Though there was no reason to suspect that the woman had any knowledge of his activities, she had almost certainly given French enough information about the website to convince him it was ideal for his purposes.
The final piece of the puzzle.
A case closed.
Despite the fervour with which Tanner had thrown herself back into it, there had been no such progress on the Jandali investigation. No fresh leads on the man in the motorbike helmet who had killed Adnan Jandali, Kieran Sykes and Frances Coombs, or rather, no fresh leads that had led to anyone who wasn’t inexplicably struck dumb when questioned. A police officer suspended pending further investigation after a serious breach of security at Long Barrow Manor. A cigarette containing liquid Spice laced with rat poison, and a girl believed to be the daughter of Frances Coombs being sought in connection with an attempt on the life of Andrew Evans.
A man who would not be reunited with his pregnant wife any time soon.
And two more Spice-related deaths in the last week.
‘Who wants another drink?’ Treasure stood up, dancing on the spot.
‘I’m good,’ Thorne said.
Tanner shook her head.
When Treasure had moved away towards the bar, Thorne said, ‘Nice day.’
‘First in a while,’ Tanner said.
They had made separate statements at the time, of course, but had not spoken since that ambulance had arrived; not about what had really happened. What had been done to make it look like something else.
‘All good?’
‘Fine.’
‘Sure?’ As was standard practice, both had been offered counselling after the event. Each had declined the offer, though Thorne had been quietly hoping Tanner might see the benefit in it.
She had rather more to live with than he did.
‘I think I’ll probably call it a night,’ she said. Thorne moved to lay his good hand on her arm, but she was already getting to her feet; adjusting the hat again. ‘Better go and say my goodbyes.’
Thorne watched her walk away and caught the look she exchanged with Phil Hendricks as he stepped from the dance floor with Helen and Liam. Hendricks looked at Thorne as the other two peeled off towards the bar, then walked across and dropped into a chair next to him.
‘Knackered,’ he said. ‘Your missus has worn me out.’
It was the first time Thorne had seen him since Hendricks had carried out the post-mortem on Graham French. Since his report confirming that the cause of death had been major head trauma, while also pointing out that French had possessed an abnormally thin skull.
‘I don’t know where she gets the energy from.’
‘Question is…’ Hendricks leaned in, ‘is she wearing you out?’
‘I try to keep up.’
‘Seriously.’ Hendricks was amiably pissed, talking slowly, the Mancunian accent even broader than usual. ‘Nice to see you two, you know… firing on all cylinders again. No more trouble from little sister?’
‘Little sister’s behaving herself,’ Thorne said. He watched as Tanner embraced Christine Treasure at the bar, one hand pressed firmly to the trilby to hold it in place.
‘How’s Nicola doing?’ Hendricks asked.
‘Hard to tell.’
‘Well, you know her better than I do.’
‘Not sure about that.’ Thorne watched Tanner as she disappeared towards the cloakroom. ‘Do you reckon she knows?’
Hendricks appeared to sober up quickly. ‘No idea. Maybe.’
‘I saw her look at you a minute ago.’
‘Well, she’s not daft, is she?’
‘Not the way you mean it, no.’
Graham French would not be missed; there was no reason to pretend otherwise. Certainly not by the friends and families of the women he had murdered.
Alice Matthews.
Leila Fadel.
Patricia Somersby.
Annette Mangan.
Karen Butcher.
Not by their children and grandchildren.
Thorne kept telling himself that.
He emptied the bottle from which he was drinking. ‘Just out of interest, how thin was Graham French’s skull?’
A shrug. ‘No thinner than anyone else’s.’ Hendricks spoke quietly with no trace of slurring. ‘A bit thicker than normal, if anything.’
They stopped talking as Liam and Helen came back to the table with more drinks. The moment they had set them down, there was a thunderclap, and the opening strains of ‘We Found Love’ kicked in. Liam and Helen shouted and cheered, keen to get back on the floor. Hendricks jumped up, equally enthusiastic, and he and Liam hurried away to dance.
Thorne watched them go, still thinking about Nicola Tanner and the conspiracy into which he had now drawn his closest friend.
‘Come on, you.’ Helen beckoned him with a finger and a sexy smile.
Thorne shook h
is head, as though he barely had the energy to do that.
‘Surely you can manage one dance?’
He looked up at her. The repetitive thump of the bass rang through him and it felt as though his bones were rattling.
‘I’m not the man I was,’ he said.
EPILOGUE
She was always amazed at how easy it was.
Not all of them, of course. There’d been plenty who didn’t want to know, however hard she tried; whatever treats she tempted them with. But eventually she could always find one that could not resist what she had on offer. One was never going to do the trick, certainly not by the end of it, but it wasn’t like there was any shortage, was there?
Millions of them running about, sniffing and spraying.
One for every six people, she’d read that somewhere. Might even have been in one of the stories she’d read about herself. The things she’d been busy doing with her bits of chicken and dangly toys and those shears she took care to keep nice and sharp.
They’d covered it in the local paper first off, and then the nationals, for heaven’s sake. She enjoyed reading about what she’d been up to, the horrified reactions from the sad and the sickened. The pictures of the stricken owners, which was just ridiculous, and nobody getting the irony of the whole thing, because these oh-so-precious, fluffy little bastards were killing machines. Rats and mice, that was fair enough, but baby rabbits? Songbirds? Not even eating them most of the time either, just tossing the tiny corpses around like it was all fun and games.
Best of all, though, looking through the coverage, was the wit and wisdom of the crackpots; chipping in with comments and half-arsed opinions right, left and centre, because they’d seen some film or other. Because they’d read one of those stupid true-crime books and that made them an expert.
It’s what they always do.
It’s how they always start…
Now, the forces of law and order were moving up a gear, too. Under all sorts of pressure to get a result, apparently. Well, that was fine, because it was just about time for her to stop anyway.
To stop this.
It was a shame, because she’d enjoyed being out and about. Especially this time of year, with the nights as mild as they were; blossom on her boots when she got in, and gutters free of damp, dead leaves. She enjoyed the fresh air on her face and hands as she walked the streets, though not her hands at the end, obviously, when the gardening gloves had needed to come out if she wasn’t going to get scratched to ribbons. Well, they could be put away under the stairs for a while, because she’d need to trade them in for a pair of those nice thin ones. Like the forensic bods wore on the telly. She’d best get a few, she decided, because you could get fingerprints off human flesh these days, she’d seen that somewhere; off a woman’s neck, certainly.
It was exciting, the thought of what lay ahead, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t miss being out and about after Tibbles and Smoky and Blackie and the rest of them. The long, quiet nights of walking. The thinking time. The special moments when the headlights of a passing car would pick out those telltale pinpricks of orange; on a wall or in a shop doorway. The stillness then and the breath held.
The will she/won’t she?
Here, puss-puss…
Now things would be different for a while, but that was OK, because different was good.
Spice of life, all that.
Now, it was time to take that step up.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The series of cat-killings fictionalised in this book is based on a real and disturbing case, that, at the time of writing, remains unsolved. The Metropolitan Police began their investigation in 2015, after concerns were raised by the South Norwood Animal Rescue and Liberty charity (SNARL). Originally dubbed the Croydon Cat Killer and later the M25 Cat Killer, the individual thus far responsible for the deaths of up to four hundred pet cats, as well as a large number of squirrels, rabbits and foxes, is now simply referred to as the UK Cat Killer, with offences committed as far away as Gloucestershire, the West Midlands and the Isle of Wight.
The animal charities PETA UK and Outpaced are offering a £10,000 reward for intelligence leading to an arrest and conviction. Anyone with information should call the police and quote Operation Takahe.
Further information can be found at: snarl.org.uk or on Twitter (@SNARLLondon)
Mark Billingham, January 2018
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am hugely grateful to the police officers (serving and retired) who were able to provide helpful information about Operation Takahe, and current lines of enquiry in the ongoing hunt for the UK Cat Killer. The Macdonald Triad is genuine, but the leap made by Tom Thorne as to what the other activities of this individual might be, is – thankfully – purely fictional. Thanks to the real-life Christine Treasure (cheers, Terror) for making the connections and I hope I did your wedding justice.
Thanks as usual to Wendy Lee, who misses nothing, and to Tim Marchant for sorting me out tech-wise. To Chris Brookmyre who knows far more about computer hacking than he should, to Lisa Cutts for endless patience in answering my stupid questions about police procedure and to Shappi Khorsandi for invaluable tips on Iranian daywear.
With each book I am reminded just how lucky I am to work with the amazing team at Little, Brown. Ed Wood is a remarkable editor (those lunches at Nando’s have made the book so much better) and, from first draft to bookshop, my scribblings could not be in safer or lovelier hands than those of Emma Williams, Catherine Burke, Sean Garrehy, Thalia Proctor, Tamsin Kitson, Robert Manser, Sarah Shrubb and (praise be) Laura Sherlock, who is quite simply the best publicist ever.
I am equally in debt to their opposite numbers at Grove Atlantic, US: Allison Malecha, Morgan Entrekin, Deb Seager and Justine Batchelor. Thank you, and I’ll try and keep the Cockney rhyming slang to a minimum.
Thanks, of course, to my amazing agent Sarah Lutyens and to Juliet Mahony and Francesca Davies at Lutyens & Rubinstein.
A big shout-out (don’t worry, I’m stepping back from the mic) to my fellow Fun Lovin’ Crime Writers (Val McDermid, Stuart Neville, Luca Veste, Doug Johnstone and Chris Brookmyre) who have made the last year so much more enjoyable than it might otherwise have been. Long may we continue to murder songs for fun.
The biggest thanks, as always, are due to my wife, Claire. Let me stress, again, that my registration on that dating site was done purely in the name of research. Not that anyone was interested…
The Killing Habit Page 36