Thorne glanced at Hendricks. He’d been watching too. Thorne took a deep breath and turned back to the girl.
Conflicting emotions.
He felt revulsion at the sight of the body, anger at the waste. Sympathy for the relatives, and terror at the thought of having to confront them, their rage and grief.
But he also felt the buzz.
The rush of the crime scene. The first crime scene. The thing that might smash the investigation wide open might be under their noses, waiting, asking to be found.
If it was there, he’d find it.
Her body . . .
There were leaves in her long brown hair. Her eyes were open. Thorne could see that she had a nice figure. He tried to get the thought out of his mind.
‘He’s always taken a bit of time before, a’n’t he?’ mused Hendricks. ‘Nice and easy. Taken the trouble to lay them down like they’d stroked out watching telly or cooking dinner. He didn’t really seem to care this time. Bit of a rush job.’
Thorne looked at him, asking the question.
‘An hour or two at the most. She’s not even cold yet.’
Thorne bent down and took the girl’s hand. Hendricks pulled off his showercap then snapped off his rubber gloves, releasing a small puff of talcum powder. As Thorne leaned forward to close the girl’s eyes, the hum of the generator filled his head. Hendricks’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.
‘I can still smell the carbolic.’
Anne Coburn sat in the dark room at the end of a horrible day that by rights should have ended three hours earlier. The papers were forever banging on about the intolerable hours worked by junior doctors but senior ones didn’t exactly have it easy. A meeting with the administrator that should have taken an hour, and lasted three, had given her a headache that was only just starting to abate. It had raged through two lectures, a consultation round, an argument with the registrar and a mountain of paperwork. And David was still on the warpath . . .
She sat back in the chair and massaged her temples. Christ, these chairs were uncomfortable. Had they been designed that way deliberately to encourage visitors to deposit their fruit and bugger off?
Maybe if David had still been at home she’d have left the paperwork, but not any more. The house would be quiet. Rachel would be tucked up in bed by now, watching some emaciated drug casualty with too much eyeliner prancing about on MTV.
She thought about her daughter for a while.
They hadn’t been getting on very well recently. The GCSEs had put them both under a lot of strain. Rachel was just letting off steam, that was all, having slogged her guts out. Anne had decided to buy her a present when she got her results, to say well done for working so hard. A new computer, maybe. She thought about getting it now instead.
And then she thought about Tom Thorne.
She looked at the flowers he’d brought with him and smiled as she remembered his apology to Alison for . . . what was the word he’d used? Humming. She’d thought he’d smelt good. She thought he smelt honest. He wasn’t a hard man to find attractive. She probably had a few years on him, but knew instinctively that he wasn’t the type that would be bothered by that. He was chunky. No . . . solid. He looked like he’d been round the block a few times. He was the sort of man to whom she’d found herself drawn since things had begun to fizzle out with David – many years ago, if she was being honest with herself.
It was odd that there was more grey in Thorne’s hair on the left-hand side. She’d always liked brown eyes as well.
Anne was suddenly aware that she was voicing her thoughts. These late-night conversations with Alison were becoming routine. Nurses were used to discovering her wittering away in the middle of the night. She had begun to look forward to talking to Alison. Engaging with Alison’s brain was vital as part of her treatment but Anne found it therapeutic too. It was strange and exciting to be able to speak your mind and not be . . . judged. It was confession without the spooky stuff. Perhaps somewhere Alison was judging her. She was probably full of opinions – ‘Sod the crusty copper! Find yourself a tasty young medical student!’
One day Anne would find out exactly what Alison had been thinking. Right now, the hum of the machinery was making her sleepy. She stood up, reached across and gently squeezed the lubrication drops into Alison’s eyes before taping them shut for the night. She took off her jacket, scrunched it up and put it beneath her head as she sat down again. She closed her eyes, whispered goodnight to Alison and was immediately asleep.
By seven thirty the next morning the body had been formally identified. Helen Doyle’s parents had rung to report that she hadn’t come home at about the same time as George Hammond was watching her tumble over the railings into Queens Wood. Within hours of that first concerned phone call, Thorne was leaning against a wall, watching them walk slowly down the corridor, away from the mortuary. Michael Doyle sobbed. His wife, Eileen, stared grimly into the distance and squeezed her husband’s arm. Her high heels click-clacked all the way down the stone steps as they walked outside, to be greeted by the dazzling, crisp and completely ordinary dawn of their first day without a daughter.
Now Thorne stood with his back to a different wall. Dead Helen had taken her place alongside the others. She hadn’t spoken up yet but it was only a matter of time. Now, forty or so officers of assorted rank, together with auxiliaries and civilian staff, sat waiting for Thorne to speak to them. As ever, he felt like the badly dressed deputy headmaster of a run-down comprehensive. His audience exchanged bored pleasantries or swapped laddish insults. The few women on the team sat together, deflecting the casual sexism of colleagues for whom ‘harass’ was still two words. The wisps of smoke from a dozen or more cigarettes curled up towards the strip-lights. Thorne might as well have been back on twenty a day.
‘The body of Helen Doyle was discovered this morning in Queens Wood in Highgate at just after one thirty a.m. She was last seen leaving the Marlborough Arms on Holloway Road at eleven fifteen. The post-mortem is being carried out this morning but for now we’re working on the assumption that she was killed by the same man responsible for the deaths of Christine Owen, Madeleine Vickery and Susan Carlish . . .’
The dead girls: ‘Oh, come on, Tommy. You know it was him.’
‘. . . as well as the attempted murder of Alison Willetts.’
But it wasn’t attempted murder, was it? The killer was actually attempting to do something else. Thorne didn’t know the word for it. They’d probably have to invent one if they ever caught him. He cleared his throat and ploughed on.
‘George Hammond, who discovered the body, has given us a vague description of a man seen removing the body from his car and dumping it at the scene. Six feet one or two, medium build. Dark hair possibly. Glasses maybe. The car is a blue or possibly a black saloon, no make or model as yet. The victim was abducted at some point on her journey from the pub to her home on Windsor Road, which is no more than half a mile away, sometime between eleven fifteen and eleven thirty. Nobody’s reported seeing anything but somebody did. I’d like them found, please. Let’s get a make on that car and a decent description . . .’
Thorne paused. He could see one or two officers exchanging glances. It had taken him less than a minute to impart the essential information, the paltry scraps of fact that were supposed to shift the operation up a gear.
Frank Keable stood up. ‘I don’t really need to tell you, but the usual press blackout, please.’ The media hadn’t got hold of the killings, not as the work of one man at any rate. The fact that the murders hadn’t been concentrated in one area and had been so well disguised had made it hard for them. It had taken the police long enough to put it together themselves. Still, Thorne was surprised: Backhand had been up and running for weeks now and they usually had sources within most high-level operations. In time there would be a leak and then the usual buck-passi
ng would begin. The tabloids would come up with a lurid nickname for the killer, publicity-hungry politicians would bleat about law and order, and Keable would give him a speech about ‘pressure being brought to bear’. But so far so good.
Keable nodded at Thorne. He was free to continue.
‘Helen Doyle was eighteen years old . . .’ He stopped and watched his colleagues nod with due disgust. He had not paused for effect. He was feeling the knot in his stomach tighten, slippery and undoable.
Helen was not much older than Calvert’s eldest.
‘Unlike the other victims she was not attacked in her home. It’s a fair bet he didn’t do it on the street and the method of killing would suggest that he couldn’t do it in a car. So where did he take her?’ Thorne talked some more. The usual stuff. Obviously they were still waiting on the results from the forensic team. These were the first real tests they’d been able to carry out and he was hopeful. They should all be hopeful. This might be the breakthrough. It was time to pull their fingers out. They were going to get him. Come on, lads . . .
The house-to-house was allocated. There was talk of a television reconstruction. Then chairs were scraped back, sandwiches ordered, and Frank Keable was summoned to the office of the detective superintendent.
‘What’s the point? He knows I’ll have sod all to tell him until this afternoon.’
‘Maybe he just wants to share a power breakfast with you. Mind you, you’ve already had yours.’ Thorne pointed at the ketchup stain on Keable’s shirt.
‘Bollocks.’ He spat on a finger and tried to rub out the bright red splodge.
‘He got it wrong again last night and he doesn’t like it,’ Thorne said.
Keable looked up at him, still rubbing, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief.
‘The way he dumped the girl’s body so quickly. He just wanted shot of her, Frank. He thought he’d cracked it after Alison and when he botched it again I think it really pissed him off. He’s getting impatient. And he’s getting arrogant. He took a big risk snatching this one off the street. These women, these girls, are just bodies to him, dead or alive. He’s just carrying out a procedure on them and I think he blames them when he gets it wrong. There’s no real violence, but he’s angry.’
‘If he’s in such a hurry to get rid of them, what’s the washing all about?’
‘I don’t know. It’s . . . medical.’
‘The fucker probably scrubs up.’ Keable snorted. Thorne stared over his head. ‘Oh, come on, Tom. Listen, isn’t this what we want? If he’s getting impatient or whatever, he’s far more likely to screw up somewhere and give us what we need to get him.’
‘Or just start killing faster. It’s been twenty-two days since Alison Willetts was attacked. Susan Carlish was six weeks before that . . .’
Keable stroked the top of his head. ‘I know, Tom.’ It was a declaration of efficiency, a statement of competence, but Thorne saw something else: a quiet instruction to calm down. A warning. So often he glimpsed the same thing concealed behind a gentle enquiry or a concerned stare. He’d see it most, of course, when there was a suspect. Any suspect. It scalded him, but he understood. The Calvert case was part of a shared history. Folklore almost, like Sutcliffe. A guilt they all inherited at some level or other. But he’d been part of it and they hadn’t. He’d been . . . in amongst it.
Keable turned and marched away towards the lift. A car would be waiting to take him across town for the meeting. He pressed the button to go down and turned back to Thorne. ‘Let me know as soon as Hendricks gets in touch.’
Thorne watched Keable get into the lift and each shrugged their way through the fifteen seconds of dead time waiting for the doors to close. Keable would tell the chief superintendent that while they were obviously waiting on the results of all the tests, there was the distinct possibility of a breakthrough. Somebody must have seen the killer taking the girl. This was definitely the break in the case that they needed.
Thorne wondered if they would bother broaching the subject that had hung in the air since the note was discovered on his car. It might have been saying ‘come and get me’, and dumping Helen Doyle’s body so clumsily may well have been a taunt, but one thing was obvious: the killer was no longer bothering to disguise what he was doing because he knew they were on to him. If knowing the police had put it together was making him careless, then Thorne was happy that he knew. What really bothered him was how.
Why can’t they fucking well fix this? They can stick a human ear on a mouse and clone a fucking sheep. They clone sheep, for Christ’s sake, which is the most pointless thing ever since how the bloody hell are you supposed to tell when every sheep looks like every other sodding sheep and there’s NOTHING REALLY WRONG WITH ME!
Nothing really . . . wrong.
A stroke. It sounds so soothing, so gentle. I don’t feel like I’ve been stroked by anything. I feel like I’ve been hit with a jackhammer. My nan had a stroke, but she could talk afterwards. Her voice was slurred and the drugs made her go a bit funny. Up to then she’d just wittered on about . . . you know, old people’s stuff. She never went as far as telling complete strangers how old she was at bus stops, but you know the sort of thing. The drugs they put her on turned her into a geriatric performance poet. She’d lie there ranting about how motorbikes were driving through the ward at night and how the nurses all wanted to have sex with her. Honestly, it was hysterical – she was eighty-six! But at least she could make herself understood. This man gave me a stroke. Anne told me what he did. Twisted some artery and gave me a stroke. Why can’t they just untwist it, then? There must be specialists or something. I’m lying here screaming and shouting, and the nurses wander past and coo at me like I’m taking a lazy afternoon nap in the sun. They must have finished all the tests by now. They must know that I’m still in here, still talking to myself, ranting and raving. It’s doing my head in! See? I’ve still got a sense of humour, for fuck’s sake.
I was right about Anne and the copper. Thorne. I’ve met women like Anne before. Always go for the two types of men – the ones that spark something off in their brains or the ones that get it going in their knickers. A man who does both? Forget it. I think it’s fairly obvious which category her ex falls into. Time to ring in the changes. So the copper’s luck’s in, if you ask me.
I reckon I might have to stick to the brainboxes from now on.
Tim just sat by the bed this morning and held my hand. He doesn’t even bother talking to me any more.
FIVE
Thorne sat perched on the edge of Tughan’s desk in the open-plan operations room. As Tughan’s hands manoeuvred his mouse and flew across his keyboard, Thorne could almost see the Irishman’s back stiffen. He knew he was annoying him.
‘Isn’t there something you should be doing, Tom?’
Phil Hendricks had worked through the night, and even before Keable had settled down to coffee and croissants with the chief superintendent, Thorne had received the information he’d wanted. Helen Doyle had been heavily drugged with Midazolam and had died as a result of a stroke. In spite of the body’s location and the apparent break with his routine, there was no doubt that she had been the killer’s fifth victim. That was pretty much all they knew, other than that Forensics had gathered some fibres from Helen Doyle’s skirt and blouse. Thorne got straight on the phone.
‘Any joy on these fibres?’
‘Give us a bloody chance.’
‘All right, just give me your best bloody guess, then.’
‘Carpet fibres, probably from the boot of the car.’
‘Can you get a make?’
‘Where do you think this is? Quantico?’
‘Where?’
‘Forget it. Look, we’ll get on to it. Something to match it to would help . . .’
The change in the pattern bothered Thorne, but they were left trying to a
nswer the same questions. How had he talked his way into these women’s houses and perhaps, in Helen Doyle’s case, talked her into getting into his car? Helen Doyle’s body, like that of Alison Willetts and Susan Carlish, was unmarked yet full of drink and drugs. The tranquilliser had to have been administered with alcohol. But how? Had the killer been watching Helen all night and spiked her drink before she left the pub? That would have been difficult – she was with a large group of friends and, besides, to have got the timing of it right would have been near impossible. How could he have known exactly when the drug would start to take effect? It was still the best guess, so Thorne had set about rounding up as many people as possible who had been in the Marlborough at the time. This, on top of the general canvassing along Helen’s route home, meant that they were going to need every extra body that Frank Keable could deliver. If he could deliver. Thorne was hopeful of finding somebody who’d seen Helen after she’d left the pub. He still couldn’t fathom why the killer was being so brazen but it made him more optimistic than he’d felt in a long time.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’
Tughan smiled a lot but his eyes were like something on a plate. He was as skinny as a whippet and fiercely intelligent, with a voice that could cut through squad-room banter like a scalpel. It was always Tughan’s thin lips Thorne imagined whispering into the mouthpiece whenever some lunatic phoned Scotland Yard with a coded warning. It wasn’t that Thorne didn’t appreciate what Tughan was capable of or what he brought to the investigation: Thorne could just about find his way into a file, if he had to, but he couldn’t type to save his life and always found himself strangely hypnotised by the screensavers. When new evidence came in, Tughan was the man to make sense of it with his collation programmes and filefinders. Thorne knew that if they’d had a Nick Tughan fifteen years earlier instead of a thousand manilla folders . . . if they’d had a Holmes computer system instead of an antiquated card index, then Calvert might not have done what he did.
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