“Where are you?” Eve asked.
“Just heading home, trying to decide what to do about dinner.”
“Stressful day?”
Maybe she’d heard it in his voice. He laughed. “I’m thinking about chucking it all in, becoming a florist.”
“Bloom and Thorne sounds good…”
“Actually, no, I don’t think I could stand the early mornings.”
“You lazy bastard…”
And the sights, the sounds, the smells of Thorne’s dream came straight back to him. He shivered, though it was warm enough to be walking around with his jacket thrown across his arm…
“Tom?”
“Sorry…” He blinked the pictures away. “You said something about Saturday. In your message…”
“I know you’re probably working late.”
“No, I’m not, for once. I’m signed out for most of the day. Unless something comes up.” An urgent meeting, a new lead, another body. “So, should be fine…”
“It’s not a big deal, but it’s Denise’s birthday, so her and me and Ben are going to be in the pub Saturday night. That’s it, really. Just come along if you fancy it.”
“What, a double date?”
“No. I just thought you might prefer it. No pressure…”
“Pressure?”
“Well, you have been sort of…blowing hot and cold…”
“Sorry…”
There was a pause. Thorne caught sight of the owner again, throwing up his hands. He heard Eve move the receiver from one ear to the other.
“Look, I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I didn’t want to get into this on the phone. Let’s just have a drink on Saturday. Take it from there.”
“That sounds good. I’ll have something to show you as well.”
Thorne enjoyed listening to the laugh that he hadn’t heard in a while. He pictured the gap in the teeth. “Cut out the dirty talk,” she said. “And go and get something to eat…”
A few minutes later, ten minutes since he’d first arrived outside the restaurant, and Thorne was still trying to decide what to do. There was stuff in the fridge he could eat. Should eat…
He pushed open the door, the smell of the Indian food just too good to resist. His friend, the owner, had already opened a bottle of Kingfisher.
TWENTY-ONE
“Who are you rooting for this afternoon then, Dave?”
Holland looked up from his desk to see DS Sam Karim beaming down at him. “Sorry…?”
“The Charity Shield. Who d’you want to win it?”
Holland nodded. The traditional game on the eve of the season proper. Last year’s FA Cup winners versus the Premiership champions.
“Whichever team isn’t Manchester United,” Holland said.
“Suit yourself, mate, we’ll still win it easily. I fancy us for the league again as well.”
“I don’t understand, Sam. You’re from Hounslow, aren’t you?”
Karim wandered away, still smiling. “You’re just jealous…”
Holland picked up the phone again and dialed. He didn’t actually care one way or the other about football. Virtually everything he knew or understood about the game had been encapsulated in that fifteen-second conversation.
The line was still engaged. He hung up and looked back at his notes. Since Joanne Lesser had e-mailed the information across the day before, Holland had been working through the list of names pretty solidly. He was getting there, but it had been frustrating. Despite his bravado with Andy Stone, simply getting hold of people was sometimes tricky, even if the people themselves had no reason whatsoever to make it difficult.
The Foley children had spent the six months after the death of their parents in short-term foster care. Then, in January 1977, they’d begun the first of half a dozen long-term placements. There were still two sets of foster parents Holland had yet to speak to, but from the conversations he’d already had, a pattern had emerged. In almost every instance, the children had appeared to settle quite quickly, but had gradually become sullen and disruptive, especially in families where there were existing children. Those Holland spoke to admitted that it had been difficult, but also thought that it was understandable, considering what the children had been through. Mark and Sarah were basically nice kids, but had withdrawn, spending more and more time alone, trying to shut out everybody around them…
It was all interesting enough, but Holland was still not convinced that any of it would prove to be of any use. He had not yet spoken to the most recent set of foster parents, and that might at least turn up something they could work with. Brigstocke was entertaining the idea of getting photos of the Foley children, digitally aging them, and circulating the resulting images. It seemed a decent enough idea. The Nobles, who had cared for the children up to the beginning of 1984, were due back from Majorca later that day, and were likely to have the most recent pictures…
Holland reached for the phone. The number for the Lloyds, the third set of foster parents, was still busy. The instant he put the phone down, it began to ring.
It was Thorne.
“Fancy a drink tonight?” he said.
“Why not?” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Holland knew exactly why not, as he felt instantly guilty. He knew, on a Saturday night especially, he should talk to Sophie first. He also knew very well that she would smile and say she didn’t mind. “Where are we going?”
“Bar in Hackney,” Thorne said.
Holland could picture himself picking up his jacket and turning for the door, catching a glimpse as the film of tears formed in a moment across Sophie’s eyes. He could already hear the bang of the door as he pulled it shut behind him, and feel each heavy step down toward the street like a low punch.
“What time?” Holland said.
“About half eight. Why don’t I pick you up?”
“Eh? Kentish Town to the Elephant and then back up to Hackney? That’s miles out of your way…”
“I don’t mind.”
“I’ll just get the tube up to Bethnal Green and walk.”
“No, it’s fine, really…”
“What’s this bar called? I’ll meet you there.”
Thorne’s tone of voice told him that there was little point in arguing. “I’ll be round at eight-thirty, Dave…”
Thorne had rung the bell, then walked back to strike the appropriate pose. By the time Holland emerged from his flat, Thorne was leaning on the car, grinning, like some sixties motor-show model gone very much to seed.
“Right,” Holland said. “So the insurance money came through, then?”
“Not yet, but it will. I borrowed a bit from the bank.” Holland stood, hands in pockets, looking extremely unsure. “It’s a BMW,” Thorne added, just in case Holland was in any doubt.
“It’s a very old BMW…”
“It’s a classic. This is a three-liter CSi. These are vintage cars, mate.”
“It’s yellow.”
“It’s pulsar yellow.”
“Pardon me.” Holland began a slow walk around the car. To Thorne, he looked like he was examining a freshly discovered corpse.
Thorne pointed in through the car window. “It’s got leather seats…”
Holland was at the back of the car. He looked at the registration plate. “P? When’s that…?”
“There’s a CD player mounted in the boot. Holds ten CDs…”
“What year is it?”
Thorne knew there was no way to make it sound good. “Nineteen seventy-five…”
Holland laughed. “Christ, it’s almost as old as I am.”
“There’s only fifty-eight thousand miles on it…”
“You’ve gone mental. Did you have it checked for rust?”
“Yeah, I had a look. Seems fine…”
“Underneath, I mean. Did you get it jacked up?”
“It was restored four years ago and the bloke told me it’s only done ten thousand miles since the engine was rebuilt.”
“H
ow much did you pay for it?”
“The clutch is virtually brand-new…or it might be the gearbox. One of them’s new, anyway…”
“Five grand?” Thorne said nothing. “More? Bloody hell, there’s no way you’ll get anywhere near that for the Mondeo…”
“It’s a present, all right? I’ve got fuck all else to spend money on.”
“You don’t know anything about old cars. You could have got something nearly new for the same money, something nice like that hire car you had. This’ll cost you a fortune in the long run…”
“It’s gorgeous, though, don’t you think?” Thorne took a tissue from his pocket and began polishing the badge on the car’s bonnet.
Holland shrugged, opened the car door. “Doesn’t matter when you’re sitting on the hard shoulder, does it?”
Thorne stomped sulkily round to the driver’s side of the car. “I’ve a good mind to make you walk to fucking Hackney now. Miserable bastard…”
“I’m just trying to be practical. What happens when the big end goes on the way to a murder scene?”
Thorne dropped down into the leather seat, turned to Holland, who was sinking into his. “Next time, I’ll ask Trevor Jesmond if he fancies a drink…”
An hour later, Thorne’s mood had improved significantly. Once the introductions had been made, Eve and the others had rushed straight out to look at the car and everyone agreed that it was gorgeous. It didn’t stop Holland from looking for an ally a little later on while the girls were getting a round in.
“Come on, Ben, wouldn’t you have gone for something a bit newer?”
“Sorry, I think it’s great,” Jameson said. “I’ve got a BMW myself…”
Thorne held his bottle up in salute, threw Holland a sarcastic smile. “See?”
“Tom says you make films.”
“Corporate videos, mostly.”
“Well, you must be doing pretty well. BMW…”
“It’s okay, but I’m trying to get something of my own off the ground. Something I’ve written…”
Holland nodded. “That’s hard, I suppose?”
“It’s just a question of money. I need to do a bit more top-end work for Sony or Deutsche Bank and make a few less crappy training videos.”
“What are you doing at the moment?” Thorne said.
Jameson took a swig from a bottle of Budvar. “Oh, it’s riveting stuff right now. An ongoing local authority gig and some adverts for QVC.”
Thorne grabbed some crisps from an open bag in front of him. “Oh, so they’re your fault, are they?”
“Sorry,” Jameson said, smiling, holding up his hands.
Holland smirked at Thorne. “I didn’t have you down as a fan of the shopping channel.”
“I have cable TV for the football, obviously.” Thorne shoved the crisps into his mouth, wiped his fingers. “But when I’ve got nothing better to do late at night, I like to watch some failed actor with an orange face try and sell me cleaning equipment, yes.”
The three sat in silence for a while. Thorne looked out of the window and across to where he’d parked the car. Holland sipped his pint, nodded his head to the low-level Coldplay track, while Jameson looked eagerly across to where Denise and Eve were standing at the bar.
The car was safe and still looking good. Thorne turned back and stared around. It was a newish but already quietly trendy gastro-pub. Eve had said there was a decent restaurant in a room out the back, but Thorne was happy enough where they were, with Belgian lager on draft and olives in bowls on the bar. They sat in a corner, around a scarred, refectory-type table in an assortment of chairs. Thorne had bagged a battered but comfortable leather armchair, and was doing his best to keep a similar one next to him free for Eve.
Though the place was popular, the bar itself was not crowded. Most people seemed eager to take advantage of the warm night and had gathered around the few tables on the pavement outside. The bar wasn’t air-conditioned, but fans were spinning around overhead and the beer—as much as Thorne was allowing himself to drink—was cold.
The car was partly responsible for his mood, but Thorne was feeling as genuinely relaxed as he had for quite some while.
Eve and Denise came back with more beers and a bottle of wine and gently took the piss out of Holland, Thorne, and Jameson, for no better reason than that they were blokes. The men, for all their protestations and denials, enjoyed every minute of it, Thorne especially relishing the sort of attention he hadn’t enjoyed for a very long time.
They talked about football and television and house prices. And inevitably, work.
“Come on, then, Dave,” Denise said. “Tell us about this nutter you’re after, the one who was on Eve’s answering machine…”
Eve tried to interrupt. “Den…” She turned to Thorne. “Sorry…”
Thorne shrugged, not caring. “It’s fine.”
“Well, yes, he’s a nutter,” Holland said. “And yes, we’re after him. Still after him.”
“He sounds twisted,” Jameson said. “Fascinating, though…”
Denise leaned forward toward Holland. “You know there’s people like that around, ’course you do. When you’ve got a connection with one of them, though, however tenuous, it’s freaky.”
“Don’t worry,” Holland said. “You’re not his type.”
“I know. He hunts men, doesn’t he? Men who’ve hurt women…”
There was a short but noticeably uncomfortable silence, which Denise broke as if it had never happened.
“People are always going to be fascinated by this sort of stuff, though, aren’t they? It’s a bit ghoulish, I suppose, but it’s a damn sight more interesting than computers…”
Thorne took this as the cue to retell, for Holland’s benefit, his joke about what a PC “going down” meant in their line of work. The others laughed graciously, and Denise and Ben carried on chatting to Holland about the job. Whether they liked him or were just trying to make sure he didn’t feel like a third wheel, it gave Thorne the chance to talk to Eve.
He bumped his chair up close to hers and leaned across.
“This was a good idea,” he said.
“You weren’t sure, though, were you?” She nodded toward Holland. “So you brought reinforcements along…”
“Are you pissed off?”
“I was an hour ago, yes. It’s fine, though.”
Thorne reached for his drink. “I just wanted to show him the car…”
Eve gave him a long look. It was clear that she didn’t quite believe him. “So, apart from your case getting a bit more complicated, what happened between the night you came round for dinner and now?” Thorne glanced down, swilled the beer around in his glass, said nothing. “I thought you were really keen. You said as much.”
“I was…”
“Even that night when you walked me back after we’d been in the pub you were a bit weird. Ever since you went to that wedding, in fact…”
Thorne bent his head and lowered his voice. “Look, I just go a bit mental when it looks like things might get serious. I don’t know what I want, and I start to get—”
“Serious? We haven’t even slept together yet…”
“That’s exactly what I mean. It looked like we were going to. You know, it was in the cards, so maybe I just started backing away a bit.”
“All that crap about the new bed…”
“I suppose so.”
Eve turned to look at him. She waited a second or two until he raised his head and met her stare. “So, what do you want now, Tom?”
A smile spread slowly across Thorne’s face. He leaned over, his arm dropping down into the well of Eve’s chair and slipping behind her waist. “I want to go to a hotel…”
For a moment Eve looked shocked, but then she began to smile, too. “What, tonight?”
“Why not? Shop’s shut tomorrow, isn’t it? I’ve got a nice car outside…”
Eve looked across to where Denise and Jameson were still deep in conversation with Ho
lland. “God, it’s a fantastic idea, but it’s a bit awkward. It’s Den’s birthday…”
“Pretend it’s mine.”
“I don’t know, I can’t just leave.”
“She won’t mind.”
Eve grabbed Thorne’s hand and squeezed. “Let me see what I can do…”
An hour later, as they hovered outside, saying good-byes, Eve took Thorne’s arm and spun him around. “I don’t think tonight’s a good idea.”
“Did you have a word with Denise?” He looked across to where Eve’s flatmate was kissing Holland on both cheeks. Behind them, Jameson stood waiting, hands thrust into his pockets. Denise caught Thorne’s eye and gave him an odd smile…
“Not that I’m exactly in any fit state,” Eve said. “I’d already had a bottle of red wine before you propositioned me…”
Thorne grinned. “Trust me, the drunker you are, the better it’ll seem.”
“What about next weekend? We could check into a nice hotel on the coast for a couple of nights.” She looked up at him and nodded slowly. It must have been clear from his expression. “Right, I know…”
“Sorry. Until this case is over, I can’t commit to anything like…Shit, a whole weekend away…it just isn’t going to happen.”
“It was a stupid idea…”
“It was a great idea. Let’s go out one night next week. Saturday, or before…”
“Next Saturday’s good.”
“Right…” They took a few steps along the pavement, away from the bar. “Come on, it’s still not too late. I’ll swing for a really nice hotel, honestly. West End somewhere, full English breakfast…”
She put her hands around his neck and pulled him toward her. She whispered it in his ear before she kissed him softly on the cheek. “Saturday…”
As they separated, Thorne glanced across at the others standing by the bar entrance, and saw a look of something like disgust pass across Ben Jameson’s face. Turning, Thorne saw that Jameson was watching Keith come hurrying toward the group, cradling a plastic bag.
Unable to hear quite what was said, Thorne watched as Keith delved into the bag and handed Denise something wrapped in red paper. Denise tore the package open and seemed delighted with what looked like a small, decorative box. She threw her arms around Keith’s neck, then turned to show the present to Holland and Jameson.
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