Kitson glanced back across at the two students, who were still watching from the other side of the Holloway Road. They both looked as though they would happily rip her head off.
… I was sitting in the park in the middle of the night, getting rained on, and thinking what a soft piece of shite I am. That I can get rid of everyone I blame for what happened, and feel next to nothing, but that I don’t have enough bottle to kill myself. It was my first thought back inside, when I got the news. Taking a blade to myself, I mean, and I’ll admit that it was a relief when I started to think about making other people pay instead. Once I had that, I didn’t have to think too hard about topping myself any more; facing up to the fact that I didn’t have the bottle to go through with it.
It might help if I believed in something, I suppose. In fucking anything. If I thought there was even a chance I might see you both again afterwards. I know this much, if I believed in God or whatever else to begin with, I certainly wouldn’t any more…
And look, I know this is never going to happen, not now anyway, but I’ve started to imagine what it might be like to be with someone else one day. To have another kid, even. Christ, I’m so sorry, baby, I can’t stop those stupid things popping into my head. I think about the sex, and going on holidays and Christ knows what, and the rows me and this woman would have. How she’d always be jealous of you, feel like she was competing with a dead woman, whatever. I imagine her flying off the handle big time, and saying something about you or cutting up an old picture, stuff like that. And then I’d just fucking lose it and want to hurt her. End up boozing, probably, messing up everybody’s life.
See? I’ve got far too much time to think about this sort of shit. All the time when I’m not writing letters to a ghost.
I was thinking, though. If it ever did happen, if someone else came along, I mean. Would you leave me then? Would that be when I lost you and Robbie for good? Thing is, I know you’d want me to be happy, to move on, but it’s really not on the cards.
Happy means forgetting…
Thorne stared at the last line for a few seconds, then slipped the photocopy of the letter back into his desk drawer with the others. He nodded to Sam Karim as the DS passed his office door, then sat back and slurped his tea, and thought about the terrible power of grief.
He understood what drove Marcus Brooks. The impulse. Looking again at the newest picture of the man, the one based on the description given by the security guard, he was starting to see behind it. To connect with someone anaesthetised by loss; aloof from the basic pain and pleasure of everyday life. Someone astonished all the time by their own capacity to walk, or to dress themselves, and functioning for no other reason than to hunt down those who had smashed their life into pieces and scattered them.
When that trainee DC had eventually grasped the nature of the letters Thorne had discovered in Hammersmith, he had rolled his eyes and said something about Brooks ‘losing it’. It was an understandable reaction, and Thorne had smiled and nodded. Had suppressed an urge to give the bumptious little prick a slap.
When I’m not writing letters to a ghost…
Thorne had done something similar; had spoken to his father for a while after the old man had died. Actually, his father had been the one doing the talking, but Thorne knew well enough that it amounted to the same thing.
It took a second to say ‘good-bye’, and a lifetime.
He looked up as Kitson bustled in, tossing her coat across the back of a chair, rattling on about how students looked even younger than policemen nowadays.
‘You should chuck the job in,’ Thorne said. ‘Go back to college as a mature student. Don’t you fancy three years of drinking and sleeping with eighteen-year-olds? Thinking about it, I’ll come with you…’
Kitson told him about her meeting with Harika Kemal. The name of the man she’d identified as her boyfriend’s killer.
‘How does she know for sure?’ Thorne asked. ‘She said before she didn’t see it happen.’
‘I’m not sure about that any more.’
‘Going to be iffy without a witness.’
‘I’ll worry about that later.’
‘Did she say why her brother did it?’
‘I wasn’t getting that out of her without thumbscrews,’ Kitson said.
‘There must be some knocking around somewhere.’
Kitson rummaged in her bag and took out a small jar. ‘Hakan runs a dry cleaner’s on Green Lanes.’ She pursed her lips, ran a dab of balm across each. ‘Up near Finsbury Park…’
Thorne knew that many businesses in that area paid local drug gangs for protection; that some operated as fronts for the dealers and heroin traffickers. Restaurants, minicab firms, supermarkets. He wondered if Hakan Kemal might be laundering more than shirts and blouses.
Kitson had obviously been thinking along the same lines. ‘Maybe S &O had it right all along, and it was gang-related.’
‘Not the smoothest hitman I’ve ever come across,’ Thorne said, ‘but what do I know?’
Kitson was happy to agree on both counts.
Thorne looked across at her, deadpan: ‘Have you ever seen a film called Shy and Shaven…?’
He was trying to give an accurate description of the smell in Davey Tindall’s office when his mobile rang. He looked at the caller display, thought about dropping the call, but felt immediately guilty. Sighing, he hit the green button.
‘Tom?’
‘Hello, Auntie Eileen, I was going to call you tonight.’
‘Sorry if you’re busy, love. I don’t like to phone when you’re at work.’
‘It’s OK…’
‘Only I’m trying to get numbers organised for Christmas, you know?’
‘Right.’ It was the conversation Thorne knew had been coming. He winced inwardly at the thought of that technician listening in his cupboard; pissing himself.
‘Obviously it’d be smashing to see you, love. We’ve asked Victor if he’d like to come over for Christmas lunch.’
‘That’s good of you,’ Thorne said. Eileen, his father’s sister, had semi-adopted the old man who had been her brother’s only friend in the last year of his life. ‘I’m sure he’ll like that.’
There was a long sigh. ‘Poor old bugger…’
Thorne wasn’t certain if she was talking about Victor or his father.
‘So, anyway, you have a think about it,’ Eileen said. ‘Only I’d hate to think you were sitting on your own, like you were last year.’
In fact, Thorne had spent the previous Christmas – the first since his father had died – with Hendricks and his then boyfriend, Brendan. Now that the boot was on the other foot, and Hendricks was the single one, Thorne had been wondering if he should offer to return the favour.
‘The first few Christmases are always the worst, love. That’s why I thought you might want family around.’
‘OK, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome to bring your new girlfriend, of course…’
Louise had already raised the idea of spending Christmas with her parents, which was problematic in itself. At the time, Thorne had attempted that trickiest of manoeuvres – appearing keen while hedging his bets – and he knew it hadn’t gone down too well. They’d agreed to talk about it properly later, which was another conversation he wasn’t much looking forward to. He’d never met Louise’s parents, but her father had been in the army and Thorne had already formed a daunting mental image of the man. He wasn’t sure he fancied a Christmas Day spent listening to war stories, or a long walk with the family dog after lunch. Much as he wanted to spend the time with Louise, he was starting to think that getting pissed with Hendricks and watching The Great Escape sounded pretty good. He needed to check and see who Spurs were playing on Boxing Day, come to that.
‘Everything’s up in the air, to be honest,’ he said. ‘They don’t sort the work rotas out until the last minute and even then, you know, if we catch a big job…’
‘That doesn’t matter. You turn up
on the day and we’ll cope.’
‘I don’t want to mess you about.’
‘Don’t be silly, love. You know I always get too much in anyway.’
‘I can’t hear you very well, Eileen.’
‘Tom?’
‘Sorry… the signal’s terrible in here…’
‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll try you again next week-’
When Thorne put the phone away and looked up, Kitson was staring at him. She shook her head, and he couldn’t tell if she was shocked or impressed.
‘You are a frighteningly good liar,’ she said.
TWENTY-TWO
‘It’s better than digging a ditch.’
In his more lucid moments, Thorne’s father had been fond of trotting that old saw out, whenever Thorne had moaned about his particular lot being a far from happy one. There had been plenty of occasions when Thorne would have swapped places with any ditch-digger alive, but he knew what the old man had meant.
It was usually just a question of perspective.
On the Victoria Line rumbling south, Thorne had kept his head buried in the paper. He’d stared at the same page for twenty minutes, the story and the pictures becoming meaningless, and decided that he was better off than some. Even allowing for the situation he’d got himself into – ‘sticky’ or ‘career-threatening’ depending on his mood – he knew that life could be a damn sight worse.
And was for a great many people.
Russell Brigstocke, slowly collapsing beneath the weight of whatever he was keeping to himself; Harika Kemal, who was paying for giving it up; the families of Raymond Tucker, Ricky Hodson and Martin Cowans; Anne Skinner and her daughter…
And Marcus Brooks. Whether or not he spent it in a prison cell, Thorne guessed that the man responsible for most of the misery would probably suffer the most wretched Christmas of all.
It was a thin line, Thorne knew that; between counting your blessings and using the distress of others as a sticking plaster. But whichever side of the line he was on, he wasn’t alone in being altered. He knew that the things they saw and did every day affected how those he worked with behaved when they clocked off.
There were nights when Dave Holland got in and held his daughter that little bit tighter. When Phil Hendricks couldn’t get his hands clean enough. Hours when Louise had clung to Thorne, sweating and near to tears, after the only way she’d been able to get a traumatic day out of her system had been to come home and fuck his brains out. Drink, sex, jokes…
Coping mechanisms.
Thorne also knew very well that whatever you used to change the way you felt, it was only temporary. That you’d be back again the next day, moving through it and trying to keep clean; picking up dark bits on the soles of your shoes.
Digging in the shittiest ditch of all.
He stepped off the train smiling, thinking that, towards the end, his old man would not have bothered with homilies at all and would just have called him a moaning little fucker. He walked up and on to the street, checked his watch. It was a little after six-thirty, but in a city where the ‘rush hour’ was nearer three, the pavement was still thick with people hurrying to get home.
Thorne joined them.
There was someone he had to see first, just for a few minutes, but he would be keen to get back to Louise’s place as quickly as he could after that.
Part of him was hoping she’d had a traumatic day.
He’d arranged the meeting in an upmarket coffee bar behind Pimlico station. The sort of place with a loyal clientele of locals that clung on in one of the few streets in the city that didn’t have a Starbucks every twenty yards.
Thorne was a little taken aback to see Rawlings stand up when he walked in; almost as though they were on a date and he were trying to appear gentlemanly. Rawlings had an empty cup in front of him, so Thorne asked if he wanted another. Rawlings said he’d been hoping they might be going on to the pub opposite. Thorne told him he was pushed for time, and went to fetch his drink.
‘Why here?’ Rawlings asked when Thorne came back to the table.
Thorne spooned up the froth from his coffee. ‘You said anywhere that suited me.’
‘I just wondered. It’s not a problem.’
‘I’m stopping with a friend round the corner,’ Thorne said. Rawlings waited, but Thorne wasn’t about to say any more.
He was cagey enough when it came to discussing his private life with those he worked with every day. Kitson knew what was happening, more or less, and Holland, but Thorne wasn’t comfortable with the idea of too many people knowing his business. It was why he hated the thought of someone listening in on his phone conversations, whether he was talking dirty on chat lines or ordering pizza.
There were still gags and gossip, of course, however much he tried to keep a lid on it. Andy Stone had cut out a magazine article and put it on Thorne’s desk: a company that specialised in ‘unusual’ gifts and ‘once in a lifetime’ events was offering a service whereby women paid to be ‘kidnapped’. Anyone who fancied it, and was willing to cough up several hundred pounds, would be snatched from the street and bundled into a van. Their partner, who was tipped off as to their whereabouts, would then get to play the hero and rescue them. According to the company responsible, the excitement of this ‘uniquely thrilling’ scenario could reinvigorate the most mundane of love lives.
Stone had waited until he was sure Thorne had seen it. ‘Thought you might be interested. You and your missus, a bit of role-play, whatever.’
‘Why don’t you try playing the role of someone doing his job?’ Thorne had said.
He’d taken the article home that night and shown it to Louise. She hadn’t seen the funny side and was all for tracking down whoever ran the company and explaining exactly what kidnap was like. Giving them a uniquely thrilling experience of their own…
‘What’s so urgent?’ Thorne asked.
Rawlings was edgy. ‘I’ve got your mate Adrian Nunn on my fucking case.’
‘He’s not my mate.’
‘I saw you talking to him at Paul’s place, the night they found the body.’
‘I talked to a lot of people.’
‘Come on, I know he’s been cosying up to you. It’s how those fuckers work, isn’t it?’
‘Shit. I thought he really wanted to be my friend.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘What do you want?’
Rawlings waved to get a waitress’s attention, asked her for an ashtray. She told him there was no smoking and he shook his head as though the world had gone mad. ‘I want to make sure I know whose side you’re on,’ he said.
Thorne gave it a second. ‘I’m Spurs, you’re Millwall, I would have thought.’
Rawlings tensed and pointed a finger, angry at Thorne’s refusal to take him seriously. But then he softened, sat back, as though he’d realised that aggression wasn’t going to get him anywhere. ‘Come on, you know the game, same as I do. It’s us and them, always has been.’
‘It’s all about which is which though, right?’ Thorne said. ‘That’s the whole point.’
Rawlings grimaced; close enough to an acknowledgement. He looked around, glared at the waitress. ‘There’s hardly any fucker in here,’ he said. ‘Why can’t I smoke?’
‘What’s Nunn been saying?’
Rawlings pulled the face most coppers reserved for paedophiles. ‘He’s slick as fuck.’
‘Slicker.’
‘He’s giving it, “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, DS Rawlings?” Which you know as well as I do means, “We’ve got you by the knackers, so tell us what we already know and save us a lot of pissing about.”’
‘So, what do they know?’
‘Fuck all. He’s fishing. Whatever they think they’ve got is obviously not enough to do anything about, so he’s trying it on.’
‘Fine, so what’s your problem?’ Thorne asked.
‘He is. Nunn. I just want him to fuck off out of my face. I’ve got half a dozen jobs on the g
o, a twat of a guvnor who wants them sorted yesterday, and I’ve still got Paul’s widow calling me every half an hour in pieces. Fair enough? I really don’t need that smarmy strip of piss on top of everything else.’
If Rawlings was half as stressed out as he appeared, Thorne thought he needed a lot more than a cigarette. ‘What makes you think I can do anything about it?’
‘You’ve been working with him, haven’t you?’
‘That’s putting it a bit strong.’
Rawlings waved his hands, impatient. ‘Whatever. You’ve got some sort of a relationship with the bloke; as much as you can have with their sort.’
‘And?’
‘And maybe you can get him to ease off or something.’
‘Now who’s not being serious?’
‘I don’t know… find out what the fuck he’s after.’
‘Nunn wouldn’t tell me what he’d had for breakfast,’ Thorne said.
Rawlings just sat there, looking gutted, waiting for Thorne to stop laughing. When Thorne caught his eye, he saw a man trying hard to work something out. Trying to work him out, certainly.
‘Sounds to me like you’re stuck with it,’ Thorne said. ‘Sod all I can do, I know that much…’
The waitress stopped on her way past the table, asked if there was anything else they wanted. Rawlings said nothing, waved his cigarette packet at her. She reddened and walked away.
‘She’s just doing her job,’ Thorne said. ‘She doesn’t need wankers like you any more than you need wankers like Adrian Nunn.’
Rawlings nodded; muttered something. When he saw Thorne downing what was left of his coffee, he leaned forward. ‘Look, here it is. I’m starting to think that Paul… might have been into a few things.’
Thorne slid the empty cup to one side. ‘What sort of things?’
Rawlings looked down at the table, took a few seconds, then looked up. Lowered his voice, said it slowly: ‘All sorts.’
‘And you reckon Nunn wants you to help him build the DPS’s case?’
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